This is a story of Gay fiction. If you are offended by such, you are beneath the age of consent or it is illegal to view this sort of thing in your area, then GO AWAY...otherwise read on and enjoy.
This work has a poor man's copyright, please don't post this to other sites without the authors permission.
This story came to me while sitting in an airport trying to remember who a certain handsome set of twins were that sat across from me. I must admit I drooled; they model for CK, "I think..."
Dante--
I knew him, but couldn't place him. Since receiving Chemotherapy I just didn't have the memory I once had. My physician called it "Chemo brain", how charming. In reality it was an annoying cognitive disability, I had trouble recalling the simplest information at times, and yet at other times I could remember the most obscure fact about an Artist's life or particular work. It made me almost regret having survived the cancer. I own a fine art gallery, actually two galleries, one in Manhattan and one in San Diego. That's what brings me to my present predicament.
I'm sitting in the concourse at Heathrow, waiting for my Air Canada flight back to Toronto where I'll connect to New York, I was passing the time with the latest issue of American Art Review, noting my advertisement and also reading the article on Sargent, when a slight disturbance to my left caught my attention. A rather tall man with striking features and spiked auburn hair is having a heated conversation on his cell phone. I know I know him, but can't place him. I start running through my regular client list but he doesn't seem to fit there. He appears in his thirties, no wedding ring, trendy clothing...hum, perhaps he's an Artist. I run that list through my head and can feel the frustration building. "Fuck it!" I murmur to myself and resume the article, wondering if the author has actually seen any of Sargent's work. The man's argument over he drops his expensive leather carryon beside my chair and flops down in the next chair a little dramatically. I move my legs to allow him room.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to drop my stuff on you." He said and I'm rewarded with a mega watt smile of very white teeth, surrounded by dimples. "Nothing seems to be going right today."
I smile in return over my magazine and realize I'm looking into cerulean blue eyes that are literally sparkling. Something clicks in my brain, I've almost placed him. I've definitely seen him on the TV, hum, and then it's gone as quickly. "Perhaps things will get better on the flight." I said in reply grasping for the ephemeral thought that has evaporated. "Are you going to Toronto?" I asked.
"Yes, thank God, it'll be good to be home. Although some people won't think so when I get my hands on them, the bastard!" he says and scowls. Then he focuses on me again and smiles. Pointing at my magazine he says, "Sorry, are you an artist?"
I chuckle softly thinking back to old faded dreams and ambitions, "No, I'm a Dealer." I said and reaching into my cashmere blazers inside pocket I hand him my card. "Garritt Singer." I said reaching my hand out to him.
He switches hands with the card and takes my hand in a rather firm grip, our eyes meet and my gaydar goes nuts. "I'm Steven," he says, "pleasure to meet you. Have you been buying here in London?" he asks.
"Well, attempting is more appropriate. One of my rivals walked off with the prize, I just got second best I'm afraid." I said and chuckled again. Remembering the frustration at not being able to top Mark's bid of $175,000.00; but satisfied that in the long run I'd made a sound business decision. At that price the Fechin portrait wouldn't make much, if any, profit. I had satisfied myself with five other works by lesser known artists but which would make a nice profit in the San Diego gallery.
"Are you visiting London or working?" I asked, hoping he would say something to jar my memory. I was starting to get pissed at myself, after all I am only 42 years old, not old enough for this memory roller coaster. I am 6' 5" tall just slightly taller than Steven, my hair is dark and my eyes are more gray than blue. I wear glasses and dress well but more conservative than trendy.
"Well a little of both I suppose, I came over to do a spot for the BBC, it is kind of a loan thing with CBC, and well, I just decided to extend it for a few days. I'd never been over here before." He said.
"I hope you enjoyed London, it has a lot to offer no matter your interests." I said and resumed my reading.
I remembered him now; I'd seen his rather banal interior design show, once or twice, not really my thing. I wasn't particularly attracted to obvious fags; I liked my men a little more masculine than that, even if I'm a top. Of course it's not like I was swimming in men. I managed the odd encounter with people I met through the gallery and my club. I even went to bars occasionally but my very promiscuous days were long behind me. I had never been lucky enough to find true love, but I'd managed to develop a network of men, like myself, who played safely but it was really only about sex. I had non-sexual friends and colleagues that I had developed more personal relationships with. I am not lonely, and have never really missed a steady relationship. I guess what we've never had we can't miss.
The announcer called my flight and I boarded with Business Class. The concierge helped me with my briefcase and I settled into the large leather seat. While I was settling in Steven stopped and said, "Well looks like we will get to know each other a little better." He stowed his carryon and settled in the seat beside me.
"Shit" I thought but said, "How nice, the flight goes faster if you have an amiable seating companion." We were soon airborne and the flight attendant was conscientious about drinks. I was drinking mineral water and refused snacks. Steven was drinking bloody Marys and eating everything offered.
"Shit, I'll be hitting the gym three times a week, next week. I rather over indulged in London." He said. "I wish I had your self control."
I laughed, "Oh I don't know about self control, I just can't find the energy for the gym, so I have to control my intake instead." I used this opportunity to look him over openly; he was lithe in build, swimmer or runner I would say. His chest looked fairly developed and his thighs looked muscular, the crotch fully packed. The most attractive feature besides his face was the thick auburn hair that coated his arms and peeked from the top of his shirt. "You look fit enough." I said.
"Well it's true what they say about the camera adding 25 lbs so I need to get at least that much off before next season." He sighed.
A silence followed and I dug out my paperwork going over the acquisitions I had made in the auction catalogue and trying to decide if they needed a reframe before they went out to California. Steven leaned over the arm that separated us, I could feel the firm round of his bicep touch mine and the aroma of his woodsy cologne came to my nostrils. He said, "Did you buy the Fechin?" I must have looked surprised because he laughed out loud, "I have a fine art degree. I wanted to paint professionally and originally only took this job to make ends meet. Somehow it's taken over my life and I don't get to paint at all anymore. In fact my brushes are stored somewhere and I didn't even unpack them when I moved the last time." He sighed.
"No that was the prize that got away; it went for about a quarter million US dollars. I just couldn't justify that expenditure when you look at how much it will sell for from the gallery. It won't cover Mark's travel and shipping expenses." I chuckled, "He thinks he's got one over on me, he's wrong. He'll have that capital tied up for at least a couple of years if the market stays strong. I bought these instead." I flipped through the catalogue and showed him the smaller, less well known American Impressionists that I had acquired in a weak European market for a strong California market. I estimated I'd make at least a 50% profit. Our conversation brightened and I was surprised to find Steven knowledgeable and interesting on art in general and Impressionism in particular.
"I've used copies of Fechin's work in some of my designs, and one of my clients's had an original that I had to design the whole house around." He laughed and then said more quietly, "You're very lucky to do something you clearly enjoy so much."
I sensed something deeper and said, "You don't enjoy what you do? You seem to be very successful at it."
He smiled and said, "Thanks, but I'm more TV personality than designer at present. It's a tough game at the best of times. I just wish...oh well." He paused, "So how did you manage to become owner of two galleries at such a young age?"
I laughed, "The flattery is appreciated, thanks, I'm 42. I took over the business from my Grandfather, who prefers sunny Boca Raton to the New York rat race. One of the first things I did was acquire a west coast gallery. The market is very strong out there, lots of disposable income. It's still possible to go to London and New York and find California impressionists at a reasonable price and then ship them out there and turn a profit."
"Do you represent any living artists?" He asked.
"Yes, but only a couple at present. I represent David Holland, do you know his work?" I asked
"Why, yes, I do. I met him and Joel once at a party in San Francisco." He said and sighed again, "Lucky man, they seem very happy."
"Yes, some of us haven't been as lucky to find a soul mate." I said and sighed also.
"Married?" He asked.
"Lord, no." I said and laughed ruefully.
"Gay?" He asked quietly.
"Quite." I said
"I'm glad." He said quietly and sat back up in his seat, my shoulder feeling much colder and alone without his weight pressing into it. I didn't know, for sure, what had just transpired; but I found myself idly wondering what that auburn hair would feel like, smell like, hell even taste like. I stirred in my seat to ease the sudden tightness in my crotch. I glanced at him and met his smile.
The flight went quite fast actually, he was deep into telling me about Sanjeev, the man he was currently living with and who had been the recipient of his anger at the airport. They apparently had been together for about a year and Steven had discovered that he was sleeping around on him. Steven apparently had thought they were monogamous; the other guy hadn't hence the fight.
"So are you currently dating someone?" He asked.
"No...not really," I said, "I haven't managed to find someone with whom I could share my life with. I'm afraid I'm something of a loner." How do you tell someone you just met and who is currently dealing with a wandering partner that you have a few fuck buddies you play with but there isn't any real emotional attachment? I couldn't so I just left it like that.
I'd had opportunities, of course, to take relationships deeper but no one every plumbed the depth of my emotions. I liked the guys I played with; I was certainly turned on by them. Beyond the sex, though, we had little in common. One of them from a few years back had declared he loved me; I had liked him also, but love? I wasn't sure I even knew what that emotion was, beyond my family.
I'd been raised by an ordinary couple my father had been a lawyer and my mom a social butterfly, they had let the Nanny and then the housekeeper attend to my needs while school occupied most of my time. The only real family relationship I'd had as a child had been with my grandparents. I had spent summers and sometimes winters also with them in their Manhattan apartment. After college and my Grandmother's death I'd went into the Gallery with my Grandfather. I'd learned the ins and outs of the business and after 10 years he had retired to Florida and left me with not only the business but their apartment as well. I'd grown into a tall average built man, fairly quiet but frequently asked to social functions for my conversational skills. I could talk about many topics, as I had varied interests, but Art tended to be my center.
"So you're not dating anyone, very handsome and well set up in life...hum" He said and looked at me a smile twitching on his lips.
I felt myself blush, "Damn..." I sputtered, as my mineral water tilted over from my hand. I set the bottle upright and before I could reach a napkin Steven was mopping the water up with his, his hand lingered on my thigh and then it was withdrawn leaving the napkin. "Thanks." I said and looked into his blue eyes, his smile slowly faded and I thought I could see desire, I turned my head away. This guy was in the middle of a messy relationship, he didn't need me complicating it.
The pilot announced our imminent arrival in Toronto and we busied ourselves with getting ready for landing, as the airplane taxied to the gate Steven asked, "May I call you, Garritt?"
I looked at Steven and thought carefully about what he asked, "Steven, I'd like that, if things at home don't work out for you."
At the top of the jet way we paused and I put out my hand and he shook it. "It has been a pleasure to meet you, Steven, I hope things work out."
"Thanks." He said and I turned and walked toward my connecting flight. The trip home was less enjoyable.
I spent the next several weeks busy at the gallery; I was anxiously awaiting the arrival of the work I'd purchased in London and planning a trip out to California with them. I'd decided on a reframe for a couple and it was easier to do that in Manhattan. My actions were frenetic and I realized I hadn't stopped since I'd returned, not because the work was that pressing, but because I didn't want to be alone. I told myself it was useless to think of Steven, he was not really my type. Too flamboyant, too fem, too gay!
Bill, one of my buddies, had called soon after I returned but I'd given a lame excuse and declined his offer. I didn't want a quick fuck anymore, I felt alone and lonely and seeing Bill would only make it worse.
My apartment, by Manhattan standards, is huge. My grandparents had lived in it for twenty years before I moved in, and my grandmother had liked to entertain. The formal sitting room and dining room were all Parisian elegance while the study was English country style. The only really comfortable room is the kitchen with its breakfast nook and I spent most of my time between there and the bedroom. It was, however, very convenient to the gallery and, of course, economical so I stayed.
I was sitting in the study working out my travel arrangements to the west coast when I was interrupted by the phone. I picked it up and didn't immediately recognize the voice.
"Garritt, how are you? This is Steven." My heart gave a funny skip and my mouth went dry.
"Steven, how nice to hear from you, I...uh...take it you made it home alright." I said.
We talked for an hour, about inconsequential things. He asked about the business, I told him of my imminent trip to the West Coast. I asked about his weight loss, he laughed. We laughed. I was captivated; I was hard as a rock.
"I've never been to San Diego; I've heard it's beautiful." Steven said.
I paused for a second then making up my mind I said, "Why don't you join me? I'll be tied up with the gallery for a couple of days but I'd be happy to show you what I know of the city after that." My heart was in my throat with anticipation.
He laughed quietly and said, "Well I'm at loose ends for a few weeks, and I'd love to get out of town and away from things for a while."
"How are things with, your boyfriend....I'm afraid I don't remember his name." I asked.
More laughter, albeit rather bitter, "That shit? He's gone and I was glad to see the back of him."
We talked on about travel arrangements; I invited Steven to the gallery function I was preparing for the exhibition of the works from London. It would be a small chic affair with lots of affluent collectors. I thought he would be both entertaining and entertained by the function. By the time we hung up I was both nervous and excited. I hadn't been this nervous in years, "Fuck, he's just a friend to hang out with." I told myself, all along realizing that I already thought of him differently. "Shit!"
To be continued.....