Which was weird, and also somewhat nice. And the warmth, too, was nice, and yet, there was no CJ there. I was alone in the sensation, alone in the dark, holding my breath because the air was smoky and stale, and I wondered if I should touch his face while he was down there, or if I should keep my hands to myself, and frankly when it was done, a couple of minutes later, I was relieved.

  We walked back into the world in silence, changed.

  I wasn’t sure if I was the one being distant, or if it was him. I knew that I was feeling disappointment on his behalf, because I had literally done nothing. Nothing at all but stand there, and who does that? I was a dud. A sexual dud. And this was a story I’d take to my grave, I was certain. I couldn’t even imagine telling Deena. What was to tell?

  “Well,” CJ said as we got back up to Broadway and we paused at the subway station on Seventy-Ninth. “That was fun. All of it. Thanks for the movie ticket.”

  I laughed, feeling too much awkwardness for one body. Again, what was this life? Why were we feeling less close now that we’d been intimate? “Yes,” I said. “Thank you. Um. For all of it.”

  He winked at me and grinned. “Don’t mention it,” he said.

  As I walked home, I felt the streets closing in on me. The eyes of passersby averted from me, and in that aversion was judgment. Not just of where I’d been and what I’d done, but of how I’d frozen up and floated away. I’d had a chance, but now CJ knew what he needed to know. He knew I was a bad lay. And that meant I’d probably never hear from him again. And the taste of regret was like belched-up strawberry wine cooler and onion.

  October 1987

  When I arrived at Deena’s apartment for brunch the next morning, she was already doing five things at once.

  “Grab the spatula and flip the pancakes, would you?” she yelled while squeezing oranges into her juicer. Susanna Hoffs was imploring us to walk like Egyptians.

  I did as I was told, being careful not to dislodge the chunks of strawberry floating in the half-cooked batter. Deena Robin might have been all about fun, but she was serious about brunch. On Sunday mornings at her place, everything was always maddeningly perfect.

  “If you don’t watch out, you’re gonna become a yuppie.”

  She ignored me. Even though it was just us, she was showered, made up, and wearing a gorgeous blue-and-red cashmere sweater with shoulder pads with blue slacks. I had eschewed showering in lieu of an extra fifteen minutes of MTV (I’d showered after coming home, obviously), and I was dressed like a ten-year-old who was off to his first day of summer camp: baggy Lee jeans and a tan, off-brand collared shirt from Marshalls. I sometimes didn’t know why she put up with me, and I almost always feared that she was judging me. Which she probably was. I was, after all, judging her.

  “Are we mimosa-ing?” she asked, glancing over at me. Mimosas were possible because her mom slept in on Sundays. When I nodded emphatically, she grinned. “Brunch with the gays. It’s the best.”

  I replied, “Brunch with the gay, in actuality.”

  “Yes, but I have big plans,” she said. “Big plans to attract at least one more gay guy.”

  “What am I, chopped liver?” I asked.

  “Yes, honey,” she deadpanned. “That’s exactly what you are.”

  “Oh good,” I said. “I hate chopped liver.”

  “Oh my God. The self-hating gays. Tragic.”

  I cracked up. It was funny because in my case it was true. She was arranging two side plates, each with a Zabar’s croissant and a pristine berry salad. “So back to my plan to add a gay guy to the posse. And this one will LIKE to shop, and he WILL have decent fashion sense.”

  “Oh goody,” I said.

  She exhaled dramatically. “Where is your enthusiasm, mister? And anyway, this should be your job, but you’re too busy dating creepy guys and being the football team’s mattress.”

  I giggled despite myself. Once the table was set, we sat down and began our feast. I dug into the fruit salad first. Unlike at home, where my mom had a tendency to allow fruit to grow fur in the refrigerator and then scrape it off and pretend it was fine, I could rest at ease that every blueberry in Deena’s salad was plump and fresh.

  “So tell me everything about your date.”

  I swallowed. “Not much to tell, really. We saw a movie. Princess Bride.”

  “Boring. The good stuff. Did you kiss? Did you do more?” She raised an eyebrow.

  I flinched without meaning to. I’d slept for about two hours, because all night I kept thinking about what would have happened if the condom had broken and CJ had given me AIDS. I imagined my parents finding out, and how humiliated they’d be, and also how sad. How all my friends, Deena included, would shun me. It would all be my fault since I should have known better.

  I knew I was making some pretty irrational leaps here. CJ wasn’t positive. I didn’t know what risk there actually could be from a broken condom during oral sex. I didn’t know how anyone would react for sure if somehow I got HIV. But my mind was drowning in the worst-case scenarios. And as much as I needed to talk about it, to figure it out, Deena was definitely not going to understand.

  “Barely,” I said. “Good-night kiss on a side street. After making sure no one was looking, by the way. Peck on the cheek and that was it.”

  “Oh, Micah. What are we going to do with you? It’s supposed to be easier with two boys. Less to negotiate. No one can get pregnant, and you’re both guys, which means you’re both idiots.”

  “Guilty,” I said, wondering how even Deena seemed to forget about that tiny little AIDS thing. I slurped up some mimosa and averted my eyes. “Guilty as charged.”

  * * *

  Sunday afternoons were usually when my parents went golfing up at Old Oaks in Rye. For that reason, it was also typically when I’d occasionally play hooky from the theater so that Napoleon Diaz could visit.

  The inaccurately named Napoleon had no complex. He had no reason to. He was Puerto Rican, not French, excelled on the basketball court, and quietly let it be known to me that he might be up for hanging out sometime. Just lying back and chilling out. It had started last year, in tenth grade.

  We were at Stacy Martin’s party. We weren’t hanging out together, because why would we? Basketball star and theater nerd? No connection whatsoever. So it was weird when he left right after I did, caught up to me, and asked, “Wanna share a cab to the West Side?”

  I was like, Um.

  “Sure,” I said.

  We stood there saying nothing as he hailed, and then we rode in silence … until he leaned over and said, “Come on over. I wanna show you something.”

  I was, again, like, Um. And a part of me heard Deena’s voice warning, Careful! He’s gonna kill you and cut your body into pieces. But I disregarded that voice because NAPOLEON DIAZ HAD JUST INVITED ME OVER ON A SATURDAY NIGHT, ALONE!

  What he wanted to show me, apparently, were his abs. I agreed they were very nice. Then he wanted to show me his legs, which, duh, basketball. Long and nice. And then his butt, which was a surprise, but also quite picturesque. The rest was just as surprising, to the point that while we were doing it, a few times I wondered if it was a dream. But it wasn’t. There was no kissing, no sweet talk, no anything else, but who was I to complain? After, he grunted, rolled over onto his back, and said, “See you, man.”

  I left thinking, I’m a man now. I, Micah Strauss, am no longer a virgin. And it felt great! And also, it felt like the biggest letdown I’d ever suffered, because, WHAT? What had just happened? Where were the flowers? Where were the kisses and the hugs and the holding after?

  We did it like three times in tenth grade, always at his apartment, and then something must have happened because one day he called me up and was like, “Can we do it at your place?”

  Obviously no, we could not, but then I realized that we could, on Sunday afternoons. Which we did a few Sunday afternoons once summer rolled around, when my parents went to Old Oaks.

  But then ushering started, and Sunday matinees were important, and while he was entirely unimpressed by that excuse, we stopped. This was only the third time we’d done it again since June.

  We watched MTV for a while, me sitting upright on the couch like my parents could come home at any minute, even though they had only left half an hour ago. When Def Leppard’s new video “Pour Some Sugar on Me” came on, Napoleon yawned and stretched his muscular arms up behind him, showcasing his six-pack. I felt like the girl in a John Hughes movie.

  “Want a soda?” I asked.

  He turned his head, his dark eyes inquisitive, his eyebrows arching in a way that suggested, What are you waiting for? The king has arrived. Do your thing, servant boy.

  I swallowed, my body quivering.

  I had so many questions. Maybe that was my problem, I thought, as I narrated the moment to myself as it happened. I wanted to talk. What seventeen-year-old gay boy wanted to talk when provided a perfectly beautiful body to explore and please? A sexual cadaver, almost. Napoleon’s attitude was, Here’s my body. Do with it what you wish. But during, I’d find myself fantasizing about the conversation after.

  I was obviously broken.

  Staring at my feet, I mumbled, “Feel like lying down?”

  “Yup,” he said, standing up.

  And … scene.

  After, in bed next to me, Napoleon smelled like talcum powder, which he used religiously after showering. That should have been a turnoff. It totally wasn’t. Nothing about Napoleon Diaz was a turnoff. I stared at his rosy lips and the way they stood out against his dark brown skin. I wanted to kiss them, but he didn’t allow that.

  Thinking back to CJ the previous night, I wondered, Why is it that suddenly all sorts of guys are willing to do stuff with me, but never kiss?

  I had all sorts of questions darting around my brain. How do I take this from fooling around to boyfriends? How would that even work, when we’ve never even had a conversation? I should kick him out. Who kicks naked Napoleon Diaz out of bed? How did Napoleon know he liked that? How does a macho basketball player figure out he likes to get screwed? What does it mean that CJ silently sucked my condomed penis in public? Why don’t me and Napoleon do that in private? Why can’t we talk? What’s a normal thing to say while naked next to another boy? Or, in this case, half-clothed next to a boy, because I hadn’t taken my shirt off. I never did. There was no reason. It was never part of the equation. Say something! Say! Something! Aargh!

  It was not always pleasant, being Micah Strauss.

  I spied the album cover to Spring Session M, Dale Bozzio’s pink hair and angelic face. I got up and grabbed it.

  “Do you know this?” I asked Napoleon, handing him the album sleeve.

  He sat up onto his elbows and regarded the album.

  “She’s a fox,” he said.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Wanna hear it?”

  He looked at me with those arched eyebrows. “Uh. Okay, I guess.”

  I jumped up and turned on the stereo. The record was still on the turntable, on side two. I grabbed the needle and put it on “Words.”

  He sat there as the music came on, and I found myself hearing it through his ears. Hard rock, which was cool. You surprise me, the Napoleon in my mind said, offering me a rare grin. You’re so much more than people know, Micah Strauss. So much more. You’re cool. Really cool. This is rad.

  After the first chorus, Napoleon stood. “Gotta jet,” he said.

  “Oh, yeah. Of course. Cool,” I replied.

  And just like that, our surreal afternoon of whatever it was came to an end.

  * * *

  My parents returned around four to find me watching MTV. My mother sighed, exasperated.

  “Have you moved from there all day?”

  Oh, don’t worry. I fucked a star basketball player while you were out. Less than twenty-four hours after getting oral sex with a condom while surrounded (probably) by homeless people. I don’t know. I couldn’t see.

  “Barely,” I said.

  She exhaled and left me alone with The Human League, who felt that the truth might need some rearranging. There were stories to be told. Yeah. Definitely.

  * * *

  Sunday night. The worst part of the week, because it meant the freedom was over. Homework only half done, and not getting done-er. All the floating constellations, pulling me in different directions. They had their shit together. And me? Stuck as the object. Pinballing around the universe while everyone else was the subject, doing. Making choices. Why did it always feel like I had no choices? Like my only thing was to do what was available to me?

  What about me? I thought, morphing into a housewife in a Lifetime movie. What about my needs?

  I sat against my bed, facing the vertical mirror on my closet with the basketball hoop on top. I grabbed the Nerf basketball I didn’t even really like and took a shot. I looked at myself as the ball bounced away from the rim.

  Really. What do I want?

  Sitting there, a few things became clear to me.

  Other people might want Napoleon to come over some Sundays, because sex was fun. But there was nothing there. It was like using his body as if it were my hand, and he was using me like a sex toy. Frankly, I would have rather watched Steel Magnolias for the fiftieth time. Enough. And Deena, always hurting my feelings. Yeah, we joked, but why was I never enough for her? And if I weren’t enough, maybe I’d find friends for whom I was. This one was hard, because it was Deena. I loved her. But at least maybe I could say something.

  And CJ. No more. I was not a marionette. He couldn’t keep pulling my strings. Yes, I wanted to date someone, but there was no way to date a guy after your first time was … that. No way.

  Also, the maximum risk for AIDS that I was willing to take was zero. There were only so many sleepless, tossing-and-turning nights a guy could take, and keeping what happened with CJ—which maybe wasn’t that risky but maybe it was—from Felicia and Deena was killing me.

  So yeah. No more of that until AIDS was over.

  I smiled at myself. Some Sunday night clarity. Good.

  The phone rang. I hoped it was Deena, because yeah, I was going to tell her to be nicer. And after we had our nice moment of reconciliation, I probably would tell her about Napoleon’s visit. Those stories tended to enrapture her.

  It was not Deena.

  “Hey,” CJ said. His voice was a little subdued. I was used to him being over the top. All personality, all the time.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Do you wanna, um, go to Tower Records with me? Wednesday afternoon? The one downtown?”

  I had given him my number during our great phone conversation but hadn’t expected him to call, ever. And part of me had hoped he wouldn’t, because it was all too much. I was so far out of my league it wasn’t funny.

  My clarity went out the window so fast.

  “Sure,” I said. “That’d be great.”

  October 1987

  The fourth time I saw CJ, I was standing in front of Tower Records and he was rushing in my direction down Broadway, with boundless energy and excitement. And blue hair. Blue.

  “I think I’ll dye my hair blue,” I said, quoting Dale Bozzio.

  He laughed and hugged me like we were old friends. “YESSS,” he said.

  He grabbed me by the jacket and pulled me into the store, where “Skin Trade” by Duran Duran was blaring. The place was packed, as always. The checkout line was already long and the station to buy concert tickets was busy, too. Browsers occupied the many rows of rock albums heading toward the back, and off toward the wall to the right, I could see that my favorite section, where all the 45s were, was also jammed. There was a pole in the middle of the main floor with listening stations, four sets of headphones. They were all taken, as usual.

  “Okay,” CJ said, nearly breathless. “Before we go any farther, a task. Meet me back here in ten minutes, okay?”

  I nodded. CJ might have been made manic by the possibilities, but for me, going to Tower Records was a marathon, not a sprint. What rare 45s could I find? Was there anything new from Donna Summer or Nik Kershaw? Many times I’d lost hours in there, and I regretted none of that lost time. Tower Records was like a religion to me.

  While I perused singles by Janet Jackson and Jody Watley, I rehearsed in my head what I was going to say to CJ. I’d started this during lunch, when I’d told Deena I was going to see CJ later.

  “You’re seeing him again?”

  “To break up,” I said quietly as a senior crossed behind us with her tray of pizza. I didn’t point out that it was impossible to break up since we weren’t actually dating, but what phrase was there for calling things off before they’d really happened?

  “Oh thank God,” Deena said dramatically. “I said we needed to add a third, but not THAT third. You can do so much better, Micah.”

  I was glad she’d said it, but in my brain I thought, Yeah, probably I can’t.

  I rehearsed it over and over while perusing records. I like you, CJ, and I’d like to be friends. But the other stuff? It’s not you, it’s me. We’re just not on the same wavelength. I also rehearsed in my head what I would not say: The sex thing? That was weird. And not fun. Let’s never do that again, okay?

  Just as I found the old 45 of Sparks and Jane Wiedlin’s “Cool Places,” CJ grabbed me by the shoulder and just about spun me around.

  “Whoa!” I said, regaining my footing.

  With a somber expression that clashed with his blue hair, he presented me a pile of records. Some singles, some albums. It teetered, uneven, and that made me anxious.

  “For you,” he said softly.

  I took them from him. “Thanks,” I said.

  The first one was “U Got the Look.” The letter U was circled in pink Magic Marker. I looked up at him, shocked.

  “Did you draw on this?”

  He shrugged. “It’s covered in plastic. Anyway, I’m buying them.”

  I highly doubted that, since this pile would probably cost a hundred dollars. I turned to the next one, concerned. A pile of record recommendations was not what I needed. What I needed was a way to say what I had to say without hurting his feelings. The second record was “We Are the World” by USA for Africa. The word Are was circled. This was the pile: