The Other Man: 21 Writers Speak Candidly About Sex, Love, Infidelity, & Moving On by Paul Alan Fahey

Author:Paul Alan Fahey [Fahey, Paul Alan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Biography & Autobiography, Gay & Lesbian
ISBN: 9781483970967
Google: npdqmwEACAAJ
Amazon: 1483970965
Publisher: CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
Published: 2013-04-08T12:00:00+00:00

Where Are You Going To? by Paul Alan Fahey

In the winter of 1974, fresh out of the Peace Corps, I was living alone and working in Chicago at Hull House daycare as a preschool teacher, while completing my master’s degree at night. Most of my free time I spent cruising every public men’s room in the vicinity for some romantic notion I had of finding my “heart’s desire.” I did find him—Bob, my soul mate of thirty-seven years—but that came later, after graduation from De Paul and after I’d moved back home to California. For the time being, I threw myself into the hunt for a partner with great vigor. It was the 1970’s for chrissakes, and I was gay and out. The bushes in Lincoln Park were ripe for the picking and I wasn’t planning on missing a meal.

I met Greg—that’s not his name but what I’ll call him—on one of those sweltering Chicago summer nights with not a breeze blowing and nothing but a close, sticky feeling in the air. Broadway Sam’s wouldn’t start hopping until ten at the earliest, so I walked over to the lake and sat on a chunk of concrete above the rocky beach. Not that I wasn’t intimately acquainted with every leafy tree and bush in the park, but the lake was closer to home and became my regular cruising spot.

I wasn’t there long before a slim, good-looking, black guy in a white T-shirt and cut-offs motioned to a spot next to me with a kind of “is this slab taken” gesture. I indicated it wasn’t and he sat down, took off his black and white sneakers and crossed his legs lotus style. He had this cute half white, half black mustache, and as he talked I couldn’t stop staring at him. God, he was gorgeous. We dispensed with the usual “who are you and what do you do” stuff right off and left the “what do you like” 'til later. He was a musician who played piano and sang in a local pop band. I thought it sounded glamorous and said so.

“I teach preschoolers in daycare,” I said, but my words felt flat and dull compared to his enthusiasm for his music and the excitement expressed over the band’s latest gig in Indiana. We eventually hit common ground. We both loved Stevie, Diana, and the Pointer Sisters, and we could dance all night to “Rock the Boat” by the Hues Corporation or anything disco.

We ended up in my apartment on Melrose. The bed was a mattress with a sheet and a pillow—an economy measure I’d acquired in Peace Corps days and couldn’t seem to shake. Fortunately what we liked was mutual. Lots of deep, French kissing, body massage, and sucking each other’s cock 'til the Bee Gees came home. Sexually, we fit together like a black and white sundae with hot fudge and lots of marshmallow cream.

The next day when I arrived home from work, Greg was sitting in the hallway, waiting, with a paper bag in his hand.

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