In West Hollywood in the 1980s and 1990s, hooking up was unheard of. You dated -- you met someone, then planned a full evening of social activities five or so nights later.
Even when you were partnered.
One Friday night in September 1992, Lane went to Shabbat services at Beth Chaim Chadashim, the gay synagogue, and returned gushing over a Cute Young Thing he met at the refreshment table.
Artan, 19 years old, a sophomore at Pepperdine University, still living with his parents.
West Hollywood culture was rather strict about age differentials: anything more than 5 years older or younger caused raised eyebrows and snide remarks. I was 31 at the time, and Lane had just turned 36 -- Artan was 12 and 17 years younger!
"I know they'll make fun at me at temple and the Zone -- but he's so cute, I couldn't resist!' He went on to describe a blond, tan beach boy, with broad shoulders and a hard chest. Plus he was studying English. He wanted to become a writer. Plus he was a science fiction fan. And Jewish. Practically perfect in every way.
"Anyway, in 20 years we'll all be Daddies," Lane continued, planning ahead. "Our date is Wednesday night. And you're invited."
It was rare to let a partner tag along on a first date -- the infatuated gushing made you feel like a third wheel, no matter that you would all be sharing a bed soon. But I was curious about this guy who had Lane on Cloud Nine, so Wednesday night we met Artan for dinner at Killer Shrimp in Marina del Rey.
There was one thing on the menu: shrimp. It came in a bucket, with bread on the side.
Artan was as extraordinarily cute as Lane said, and not as shy and quiet as most Cute Young Things. In fact, he took over, quizzing me on the first date essentials with the ease of a news reporter, yet not for a moment leaving Lane out of the conversation.
Yes, I noticed the incongruity of two Jewish guys at a shrimp restaurant, but I didn't mention it.
After dinner we went to the Change of Hobbit, the premier science fiction bookstore in California, probably the world. Lane was 300 times the science fiction fan that I was, yet Artan managed to draw us both into discussions of our favorite authors.
In case you were wondering: hard, smooth body, tan line, good kisser, average beneath the belt gifts, and extremely energetic. We were both dozing while he was still going strong.
It still seemed weird to be going out with someone so much younger, especially when he had to leave at 11:00 because he told his parents he was studying at the library.
Still, best three-way date ever.
In West Hollywood, the 48 hours after a first date were traumatic. You were flushed with the heat of desire, thinking about him, fantacizing about him, yet you couldn't call, lest you appear too eager and scare him off.
You had to wait at least 24 hours, but no more than 48.
Our date ended at 11:00 pm Wednesday, and 11:00 pm Thursday was too late to call, so Lane had to wait until Friday and call him from work. He got the house phone -- no one had a private telephone in those days -- and left a noncommittal message.Artan finally returned our call at 10:30, half an hour before the 48 hour waiting period was over.
The second date was his idea -- to the Santa Monica beach tomorrow at noon!
Date #2:
In all my years in West Hollywood, I was only at the beach twice. A few years ago, Alan dragged me to the nude beach for cruising. And this time.
The scenery was breathtaking, but the water was too cold for swimming, the sand was gritty, and we felt quite out of place among the heterosexual couples with children and presumably heterosexual surfers.
We splashed around a bit, then dried off, changed into our street clothes, and, anxious to be among gay people again, went to the Different Light and then had dinner at the Greenery.
There were a few stares -- what are those two doing with a Cute Young Thing? A friend came over and asked "Is it past your bedtime?" But no major resistance.
We began thinking about a three-way romance, having Artan move in with us, meeting his parents, signing our party invitations "plus Artan."
He was, again, very attentive and very affectionate in the bedroom, even though he had to leave at 8:00 pm because he was meeting some of his school friends. He wasn't out at school, see, and....
Still, the second best three-way date ever.
Artan answered. "Yeah, I'm sorry, I'm a little busy this coming week. But we'll definitely get together again soon. I'll call you."
That's West Hollywood speak for "I have to wash my hair."
We were disappointed, but figured the age difference was just too much for him.
A few months later, we ran into Artan again at the French Quarter. His tan had faded a bit, and he grew his hair out, but he had the same broad shoulders and impish smile.
He was having brunch with an older man. Way older.
Lane knew him -- Isaak, who sometimes came to Shabbat services at the gay synagogue. A newspaper reporter in Poland before World War II. A concentration camp survivor.
In his 70s.
We said hello and retreated to another table. Artan followed.
"Hey, I'm sorry we never got to the third date," he said. "I had a lot of fun with you guys, but it was exhausting!"
"You..were exhausted?" I repeated, shocked.
"Isaak is more mature, settled down. Not running around all over creation all the time. You know we did last night? We ordered Chinese, watched tv, and fell asleep in each other's arms! No sex! How romantic is that?"
"We like to order Chinese, watch tv and fall asleep without sex," Lane protested.
He laughed and rubbed Lane's shoulder. "You firecrackers? I don't think so. But I'm into sharing -- just give me a few days advance warning, so I can rest up!"
He left. Lane and I stared at each other.
Years later, when I turned 40 and became a twink magnet, I started to understand.
See also: The Teenage Lawnboy and Sharing the Orthodox Jewish Boy.
No comments:
Post a Comment