Queer Window

A Chelsea "Horror" Story

by David Toussaint
© 1998

I had never actually met Norman until I knocked on his door. Rather, his apartment had been recommended by our mutual friend, Jason, and I desperately needed a place to live. The two of us hit it off immediately, he a working actor, and me, working at acting. The apartment was small but quaint; a top-floor back unit unencumbered by street noise. And even though its location in the heart of Chelsea was not ideal to one as pure and intellectual as myself, I could easily sacrifice locale for the fact that I could move in immediately. I had found the perfect home. Or so I thought.

One morning, approximately a week later, the two of us were breakfasting, Chelsea-style. I was nursing a Cosmopolitan hangover and reading the Arts and Leisure section of the Times, while downing my seventh cup of Chockfull O Nuts. Norman’s morning routine consisted of switching back and forth from a nonfat yogurt shake to the latest chat room on AOL. As is customary among new roommates, the conversation digressed into a discussion of any mutual friends we might know, any mutual people we might have slept with (surprisingly, there were none!), and several various men from American Fitness who we might desperately want to sleep with. All of which culminated in my confessing lustful admiration for the most beautiful of all the gym’s men, Rod Top* (*Some names have been changed).

“You mean my neighbor?” Norman said, somewhat surprised. “Why does everyone think he’s so cute?”

“What do you mean, ‘Your neighbor?’” I replied, quickly tossing aside the Victor/Victoria ad I’d been studying.

“He lives right across the way. Haven’t you seen him walking around?”

I then realized that my new apartment was an exact mirror image to the one outside the living room window, separated only by a narrow fire escape, approximately 15 feet across. With the blinds open, as they were on this crystal clear day, I could see directly into my neighbor’s home. I was not aware at the time, however, as I quickly stripped down to nothing but my Calvin Klein briefs, that this panorama went both ways.

“I’m surprised you haven’t noticed him,” Norman added. “He never closes his blinds. Especially at night.”

“No, I hadn’t noticed,” I said, spotting a shadow flicker across Rod’s living room, much like the killer pygmy in the Karen Black classic Trilogy of Terror. “Do you know him?”

“Rod? I’ve known him for years. I can never understand why people think he’s so hot, though. He’s never done anything for me.”

I sensed bitterness in Norman’s tone, perhaps the remnants of a crush unfulfilled. But I opted to remain mute on the subject. “He such a typical Chelsea Boy,” I said instead. “He’s got the most beautiful body in the world, but he’s so damn fucking shallow. I can’t imagine anyone actually falling for him.” I felt this was the more diplomatic recourse.
 

hings went by uneventfully for the next week or so. One night, upon returning home from my usual two-hour-plus gym workout, followed by a quick jaunt to Big Cup and Food/Bar (two Chelsea establishments far too trendy for my tastes, but I do think it’s imperative to adapt to one’s surroundings), Norman approached me in the kitchen. “By the way,” he said, carefully stacking clean pasta bowls on the dry-rack, “I ran into Rod today at the supermarket. He asked about you.”

“Really?” I said. “Why would he be asking about me?”

“He asked if you went to our gym, and if you were the guy he saw in that show Nightmare Divas. He must have noticed you through the window.”

“Imagine that,” I said, quite surprised.

Naturally, my curiosity toward Rod had piqued. Why was he asking about me? Was he simply interested in knowing who Norman’s new roommate was? And what was I to make of his actions the next day at the gym, when he snapped a towel at me and whispered in a seductively masculine voice* (*Some characteristics have been changed), “Hi, neighbor!”?

As I knew, however, that no man as beautiful, gym popular, and Greek God–like as he could ever be attracted to someone as un-Chelsified as myself (while I’ll admit to owning several baseball caps, I have never worn one backward), I abandoned any fleeting thought I might have had of a romantic interlude.

Until that night.

Early in the evening, I had met Jason at the Chelsea Cinemas for a second look at The First Wives Club, after which we sauntered over to Rawhide, a quaint neighborhood watering hole, for a quick nightcap. Jason asked me how the new apartment was coming along. 

“Great,” I said. “Norman and I get along great.”

“That’s great,” Jason said, in a tone suggesting anger, quickly chasing back six shots of tequila. “I’m happy I helped you find the place. By the way,” he added, “does that guy Rod still live across from you?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I have the funniest story about him,” he said. “Hold on while I get another drink.”

As a concerned friend, Jason’s increased reliance on alcohol in recent months had somewhat disturbed me, and my only thought at the time was that I could in no way encourage this destructive habit. It never occurred to me, however, that it might be the catalyst for a deceptive change of nature. He came back with a Dewar’s in one hand, freshly lit cigarette in the other. And then he told me his story.

“When I moved here three years ago, Norman let me sleep on his couch. One night Norman was asleep and I was watching TV, an Alfred Hitchcock film, I think. I looked over and noticed that his neighbor was also up, watching the same film. He glanced at me through the window and waved. I was a little embarrassed at first—I didn’t want him to think I was a voyeur—but then I waved back. I figured that if he was looking back at me, I wasn’t doing anything wrong. And then the most peculiar thing happened…Oh, never mind. It’s really not that interesting.”

As I noticed Jason’s enthusiasm in retelling this story beginning to wane, I immediately bought him another drink and urged him to continue. 

“What then?” I asked nonchalantly.

“He disappeared for a few minutes and then came back in the room, but he had changed into shorts and a T-shirt. And he just kept staring at me. Feeling uncomfortable myself, I took off my jeans, so I too was lounging in underwear. Then he threw off his shirt, lit a cigarette, stood up, and faced me directly, his hand grabbing his crotch. He had quite a bulge. There’s not much else to tell.”

“Bartender!” I yelled. “Can we get another round?”

“I figured, What the hell! I did the same thing. The next thing you know, he beckoned me over to his apartment. We had really great sex. Funny thing is, I never told your roommate anything about it. And I’d still rather keep it a secret from him. You understand.” 

“Of course. I would never repeat anything like that. Cute story.”

I looked at my watch and realized it was quite late—almost 9:30!  I yawned, politely excused myself for the evening, screamed for the nearest cab, and went home.
 

hen I opened the door of my apartment at 9:33 the place was pitch black, save for the luminescent light of a full moon seeping through the kitchen window. I noticed my roommate’s bedroom door was closed, which meant that he was asleep for the night. I quickly changed into a brand-new pair of Raymond Dragon Lycra briefs, threw off my sweaty shirt for a freshly washed Speedo tank, did a quick set of pushups for that just-buffed look, then propped myself in front of the TV, foolishly thinking the evening would end this way.

A mere six hours later I noticed a light flicker in my neighbor’s living room. Turning the channel to TBS, and a repeat of Brian DePalma’s Body Double, it soon became clear that Rod, from what I could barely make out with a set of opera glasses, conveniently resting on the nightstand nearby, had just arrived home and was settling comfortably on the couch, channel surfing his 19-inch Sony TV with the aid of a Panasonic remote.

“How odd,” I thought, backlighting myself with a desk lamp and gargling with Listerine. “He’s still up, and at this late hour.” I had another cup of coffee. I glanced over again and noticed that Rod, without my knowing it, had turned off the TV and was staring directly at me. I panicked, quickly ran for the bathroom to re-gel my hair, and returned to my position on the couch.

He was gone.

I sat there, alone, with nothing but the sound of my beating heart and the grandfather clock ticking on the wall. But then he reappeared, stripped down to nothing but boxer shorts and a half-top football jersey, cut off at the sleeves. He lit up a cigarette, leaned up against the back wall, and stared intently into my eyes, his body oil casting a shimmering glow over his chiseled, Tom of Finland frame. His penetrating brown eyes fueled by desire.

I panicked—my heart racing, my skin twitching, my full lips pouting ever so slightly. I wanted Rod desperately, always had. But was this ghostly apparition too good to be true? Could this man whom I had lusted after and dreamed about for seven-odd years now actually want me? His ripped to perfection Chelsea Boy exterior craving my newly remodeled physique? It was too much to ask for, yet so much I deserved. Please God, I 
said to myself, throwing my tank top off in the process, give me a sign, any sign. I glanced down at the immense rock now protruding upright through the fly in Rod’s boxers and thanked the good lord for his dependability.

Before I knew what was happening, I had unlocked the window and closed it behind me, leaving it open just a crack to make sure I could return, crawled the 17 steps across the fire escape to Rod’s kitchen, where he had removed the obstructing geranium and azalea plants, taken his masculine left hand, complete with a 1986 sapphire class ring, for support in lifting me up and inside his home, had my boxers stripped off me and placed on a reenameled black Ikea sofa, and then guided down the wood-trimmed hallway, thrown onto his queen-size bed with a Macy’s comforter and fake-down pillows, and made passionate love to for one hour and 37 minutes.

It’s all such a blur.

As I left his apartment early that morning, the sun just beginning to appear over the horizon, the blisters from his window frame just beginning to well up in my hands, I saw my whole life in a brand-new light. I, Jimmy Kelly, the former fat kid from Pleasant Hill, California, who as a child had to shop in the Husky section of J.C. Penny for back-to-school clothes, was now the accomplished sexual predator. I would be the pride and envy of Eighth Avenue, the drop-dead inaccessible beauty with the beautiful boyfriend to match. Soon I’d be the most popular man in all of gay Manhattan, the lustful object of desire at the gym who would only condescend to speak to those as beautiful as myself. My every adolescent dream had become a realization. I was now a Chelsea Boy! 

“Jimmy,” Rod called out to me, the tenderness penetrating my soul. “Whatever you do, please don’t tell anyone about this. Especially at the gym! You know how those people gossip.”

Sometimes our dreams don’t turn out exactly the way we intend them to. 

“Sure,” I said, quickly turning toward him while holding onto the railing for dear life, the vertigo almost overwhelming me. “I understand completely. It will be our little secret. Sweet dreams, Baby.” 
 

ou can imagine just how jealous all my friends were the next day when I told them the news. 

“Congratulations!” my friend Rosemary screamed into the phone when I woke up her, and her baby, at 7 a.m. “I’m going back to bed now.” “I can’t believe you actually scaled the fire escape seven flights up,” said Damien, a former roommate and dear friend. “Kind of like a Pavlovian dog.” “Can I sleep on your couch when I come to New York?” was the response—via e-mail—of my former college roommate Freddy, who himself had distant ambitions of living in Chelsea.

Oddly, only Norman seemed nonplused. “Thank God you finally had sex,” was his rather passive response as he consumed the last bites of his seven-grain bread. “Have you told Jason yet? I’ll bet he’d find that amusing.”

Naturally, it hadn’t even occurred to me to mention anything to Jason—besides, I had already left 17 urgent messages on his machine. And I must admit I was a little concerned he might be upset by the news or, worse, make up some ridiculous story in which he was somehow responsible for my newfound romance. This being Saturday, however, his inevitable ten P.M. call came through later, urging me to join him for his usual outing of drinking, cynicism, and desperately trying to latch onto a man for the night. It saddens me when I think of the lengths that some people will stoop to for sex.

“You’ll never guess whom I slept with last night?” I told him, standing in line for the nightspot G, and forced to use my loudest voice possible to drown out the narcissistic meandering of the pretentious crowd. 

“I give up,” he said indifferently, eyeing the late-night liquor store on the corner. Clearly, he had already touched the stuff, as evidenced by the slight scent of gin emanating from his breath. “Norman?”

“No. Rod! The neighbor!” I said, screaming now, as a chill wind passed through the line. I could only hope and pray that the crowd wasn’t listening. “It happened last night. It was so weird. I never could have predicted such a thing.” I repeated this last sentence slowly, as the gentleman behind me seemed to be having trouble deciphering it.

Jason merely laughed as the doorman let us through. He headed straight for the bar, not even bothering to check his coat. “What’ll you have?” 

I had predicted Jason would be jealous, but never in my wildest dreams did I think he’d express his feelings so blatantly. I quickly changed the subject.
 

he next two or three weeks were pure heaven. My days were busy at my new job at Condé Nast; evenings I’d cook and play along to Jeopardy with Norman. I’d then head off for my nightly workout, come home, say goodnight to my roommate, turn on the TV, pull out my pint of Ben & Jerry’s English Toffee Crunch frozen yogurt, and settle comfortably on the couch. And then Rod would appear, like clockwork, always within minutes after the light in Norman’s bedroom went out, and always following the same ritual as the first night.

Before I hopped onto the fire escape, however, he did one thing that struck me as peculiar. Standing at full attention, so to speak, he’d pick up his cordless phone and start talking into the receiver. For a while I thought this was a prop (and he did look like a sexy GQ layout, the semi-dressed man on the go, so busy he takes calls in his underwear); it wasn’t until months later, after events unfolded, that I learned otherwise.

But alas, I was as happy as a clam; so thrilled with Chelsea hospitality. All apartments, I thought to myself, should be constructed in such a fashion.

Two weeks later things started to change. I remember the day as clear as an alcohol-induced dream. It was the middle of January and a frosty chill had settled over the streets of Chelsea. Jason has asked me to join him at G, as he had several friends visiting from D.C. and wanted someone along to help entertain them. I hesitated, as his phone call came later than usual, about twelve o’clock, and I knew that my neighbor would be home momentarily. Nevertheless, I ejected Psycho from the VCR, remembering the true importance of friendship—and, of course, Peter, the bartender who worked Saturdays and always gave me free drinks—threw some clothes on, and headed out into the winter night. 

When I arrived at the bar, Jason and his friends were already quite drunk and making derogatory comments at every man more beautiful than they. I could only imagine how long it would take before they took aim at me. 

“Jimmy,” Jason beckoned, “grab a drink and get over here. I want you to meet my friends.”

As I have never been much of a drinker, I ordered two large double martinis from Peter, to avoid the drunken masses at the bar later on, and joined the crowd. The usual introductions were made, then Jason jumped in with, “Jimmy, you’ve got to tell my friends about your neighbor. They’ll die.”

“I can’t, Jason. That’s supposed to be a secret. Even if it is a great fucking story!” I took a sip. 

Before I knew it, several empty martini glasses were scattered before me on the table—each one of Jason’s friends had absolutely insisted on buying me one!—and I had conveyed every last detail of my relationship with Rod. I had foolishly let the alcohol get the better of my judgment. At least, I thought to myself reassuringly, none of them will remember a thing. The Xeroxed notes I had supplied them with were sure to be thrown away.
 

arrived home at four a.m. that night, quite drunk, yet still riled up after the evening’s festivities. I had hoped Rod would still be awake, perhaps waiting anxiously for me, 12 cigarette butts lining his ashtray. Alas, the lights in his apartment were out and I had missed him. I sauntered off to my bedroom, collapsing fully clothed onto my bed, with just a lingering remembrance of the night behind me. 

And then the phone rang. The light was just peering in through the window when I picked up the receiver, the hangover just setting in. 

“Hello,” I mumbled, still in a dream state and feeling like a house had just been dropped on me. “Who is this?” 

“It’s me, Jimmy. Rod. We have to talk.”

Before I had a chance to brush my teeth, throw on some sexy underwear, and hop-skip through the window, he stopped me unexpectedly. “Somebody called me tonight at about four. He knows all about us. You promised not to tell anybody.”

“What? How could that be? And what did he say?”

“He knows you and I have sex late at night, he knows you come over from the fire escape, he knows what gym we go to, and he said that he was a friend of yours and that you were giving my name and number out over the Internet.”

These last words were almost drowned out by the sound of distant thunder.

“Rod, I have no idea who called you, but I didn’t tell a soul.” The lightning was soon to strike. “Are you sure it’s not somebody you know?” 

“Why would I say anything about this? I told you, this is something I wanted to keep a secret, just between you and me.” 

“Did he say anything else?”

“Yes, but it was hard to figure out. After he hung up I noticed your light was on. I thought maybe it was you; that you got really drunk and thought it would be funny, or that you put someone up to it.” 

The evening passed through my head. Could I have…No, no amount of alcohol could make me do something that thoughtless, no matter what the temptation. But what about someone else? I started to panic. 

“He said that you used to live on Christopher Street, across the street from a bar called The Hangar, and that you used to strip-down naked in your window in front of them. Is that true?”

A bitter chill ran through my entire body as I slid down the corner wall, the phone dropping to my chest, like Jamie Lee Curtis in her best Halloween pose. As much as I hated to admit it, this last bit of information was correct. And I had thought the past was behind me. I knew I had to confess.

“Jimmy, are you there? Jimmy…”

“Yes, Rod, I’m still here. And Rod, that last thing you said, and only that, is true. You’ve got to believe me.” 

“I believe you.” 

I had to know if there was more.

“Anything else?”

“Not that I can remember. But he really gave me the creeps, this being New York. You never know what kind of pervert lives around the corner. It’s enough to make you never want to open your door. Well, it’s late. I’m going back to bed and making sure the doors are locked. If I were you, I’d do the same. In the meantime, be careful who you talk to.”

“Yes. Thank you. Goodnight, Rod.”

There was a long pause on the other end. For a moment I thought something drastic might have happened. 

“Rod, are you there?”

When he responded again, his voice was trembling slightly, and his breathing had become heavier. 

“Yes, I’m here,” he said slowly, hesitantly. “Wanna fuck?”

You can imagine how shocked I was that he would suggest something so absurd as this after what had just transpired between us. And you can also imagine how tired I was, crawling back over to my apartment at 8 a.m., after such an exhausting evening. Oddly, when I left him, he no longer seemed troubled by the mysterious phone call, nor did he express any desire to discontinue our late-night interludes. He did, however, seem satiated.  And I promised I would never discuss our liaisons again.
 

he next day was jam-packed, as I immediately informed Norman, Jason, Rosemary, Damien, and Freddy of the frightening phone call from the previous night, and asked if they had been unscrupulous enough to reveal the details of my affair. They all insisted they had remained mute, but cautioned me to be wary, as there were, indeed, a lot of perverts running around New York.

“I know,” I lamented to Rosemary, who, surprisingly, had already forgotten about my rendezvous with Rod. “It’s amazing how someone can take something so special and try to destroy it. I’m sure it’s somebody who’s insanely jealous that I’ve found happiness. People can be so petty.” 

At the gym that night, frustrated that my detective work was getting me nowhere, I decided to confide in my friend Tony, or “The Voice of Chelsea,” as some had nicknamed him. Tony, to my complete surprise, had been a former beau of Rod’s whom Rod had cruelly dumped. Ironically, he seemed more shocked upon hearing the news that Rod and I were an item than by the account I gave him of my vengeful stalker. Before walking away—quite abruptly, I might add—he strongly suggested I keep the whole thing under my hat.

Good idea, I thought to myself, confining my remaining queries to AOL chat rooms, where I knew my security was intact. But alas, 30-odd IM’s later, nothing, and I went to bed that night frightened and alone, knowing that somewhere in the dark crevices of the seediest corners of human nature, somebody was out there, preying on my solitude, my vulnerability, and most of all, my imagination. The safety of my locked bedroom door was my only solitude.

The phone rang.

“He called again.”

Crawling across the fire escape, my feet slipping on the iced-over grid, my face cracking in the minus-degree wind chill, I felt comfort in the knowledge that perhaps Rod and I could solve this mystery together, as a united team, as opposed to over the phone, which was so impersonal. I felt even more secure as Rod opened his window and shoved me into the room, walked ahead of me down the hall to his bedroom without speaking, and gestured for me to take my clothes off, hop onto his bed, and turn over. So much can be said with so few words spoken. 

“So what did he say this time?” I asked, as Rod threw the cotton sheet he’d placed over the duvet into the dirty clothes hamper. 

“Same thing, pretty much. A real pervert. He kept telling me what a big dick he had and that I should really get together with him. And then he kept describing himself and what he wanted to do with me. He kept me on the phone for about an hour. Talk about your romantics. I’m taking a shower to get all this cum off my chest. Don’t wake up my roommate on the way out.”

As I heard the water pressure go on in the bathroom, I thought for a moment how strange it was that Rod didn’t immediately hang up the phone on the intruder, but was soon comforted by the idea that he was surely trying to collect as much evidence as possible.

Rather than go home, I decided to take a quick perusal of Rod’s room, realizing that, with the exception of the ceiling, whose 137 panels I’d studied meticulously, I’d never really surveyed the most private dwelling of my new lover. And what harm could there be in a little looking around, I said to myself as I opened each dresser drawer and peered into file 
cabinets and cobweb-covered shelves. After all, we had already consummated our passion on the most intimate level.

My eyes flashed on it immediately. Buried in his third dresser drawer, beneath his underwear and socks, behind a collection of “Creative Realization” meditation CDs, and folded up inside a Scotch-taped Dagostino shopping bag, absolutely impossible to miss, was the book. The book that still haunts me to this day. How much simpler my life would be if I hadn’t happened to glance upon it. But I had made my bed, so to speak, and knew I must now lie in it.

Sex Addiction and You, the bold-red title read, the latter word leaping off the cover like an admission of my sins, a scarlet letter on my breast. I closed the book immediately— only seven or eight chapters into it—when the water pressure shut off. Rod was through showering. I heard the sound of curtain rings thrusting open, then Rod’s footsteps down the hall. How could I explain this? What possible excuse could I find for my still being in Rod’s bedroom? How was I ever going to get out of this situation and away from this dreadfully terrifying stranger? This stranger who now stood directly in front of me, stark naked in the doorway, his nipples erect from the shower, his perfect, Adonis-like body glistening in the moonlight, his chiseled features an International Male catalog sprung to life. Think, Jimmy, think!

“Want to fuck me again?”

To save one’s life one must sometimes suffer the most humiliating acts of degradation.
 

hen I woke up the next morning, I knew I had to speak out. If Rod was harboring some dreadful secret from me, if what we had together, what we shared, was a lie, I had to know the truth. I told my roommate everything.

“You didn’t know he was a sex addict?” Norman said, with an air of casualness too forced to sound natural. “I would have said something, but I just assumed you knew. That guy would fuck sheep.”

My earlier suspicions about Norman confirmed (what else but sheer envy could entice him into saying such spiteful things?), the most dreadful thought came over me, a thought I dared not think for fear my thought might overwhelm me. What if, I thought, Norman had made those calls, torn apart by rage and jealous hatred, and determined to divide Rod and me and to arouse suspicion between us. It then occurred to me that Norman had actually been home and sound asleep (or so I thought) both nights the calls were placed. And after all, what did I really know about my new roommate, other than a propensity toward nonfat foods and a strong recommendation from Jason? And why did he spend so much time on AOL, anyway? I shuddered to think about my privacy being invaded in such a demeaning fashion, especially as demureness is such an inherent part of my psychological makeup.

Jason! I would call Jason. I made a feeble excuse to Norman about an urgent enema replacement—I’m still shocked that he bought it—rushed to my room, picked up the phone and tried desperately to remember Jason’s number, the last digits failing me in my agitated state, my trembling fingers pressing and repressing. Finally, his phone rang.

“Hello?…Who is it?…”

“Is this Jason?” He sounded slightly incoherent.

“Yes…Who is this?…Jimmy, is that you? You woke me up.” 

I hadn’t woken him up. He was drunk, plain and simple, plowed at 11:30 in the morning, the scent of too many bloody Mary’s practically reeking through the receiver. I could almost smell the whiskey on his breath.

“Never mind. Wrong number.”

I slammed the phone down. My so-called friend Jason, a drunkard. How could I ever trust my secret to somebody in that state? And then it hit me. Jason placed those calls! Who else but a jealous alcoholic with no gym body and far less distinguishing bone structure than myself would want to destroy me and everything I had? I wanted to throw up, if not for me, then for him.

The whole terrifying scenario unraveled before me, like the second act of a bad play. Jason had set me up. He had never had sex with Rod; on the contrary, Rod had rejected him on the nights Jason slept over on the couch, his drunken, overt advances no doubt a turnoff for Rod’s romantic sensibilities. Fueled by hooch, he vowed someday to seek revenge at any cost, and years later I came along, an innocent, unsuspecting friend who just happened to have an amazing body and a dynamite personality to match. Of course Rod and I would get together. We were meant for each other. Jason saw that and concocted a scheme in which our mutual distrust would, at the least, tear us apart, or in the worst possible worlds, drive us into doing something drastic, unthinkable, more horrifying than anything conceived by any barfly at four in the morning, or any loner with an overactive imagination. I was the perfect pawn. Checkmate was the only thing left for me to prevent.

I immediately phoned my former roommate Damien. Damien, my trusted friend and confidant; Damien, who I knew would be working this Saturday morning because long ago he had abandoned a social life in favor of his ever-blossoming career; Damien, whom I’d shared so many secrets with back when we lived together on Christopher Street…Christopher Street? Oh my God! I screamed, my voice drowned out by the sudden high-pitched “eek, eek, eek” thrusting-kitchen-knife background music. It wasn’t Jason or Norman who had unleashed my secret—How could I have ever even doubted their unbridled loyalty?—it was Damien, my ungrateful ex-roommate whom I’d never really liked and who’d always harbored a grudge at me for my dashing good looks and frequent love affairs.

Who else would know, and reveal, the true story of that torrid night two years ago, when, at a surprise birthday party held in my honor, I was forced into taking all my clothes off, and, despite continuous, agonizing protests (the only thing numbing the pain was the seven martinis I quickly downed), thrown against the windowpane, stark naked, my perfect body put on display for all the men across the street to leer at and lust after, a mere object for their sinful desire.

Who else? Rosemary, that ’s who. Hadn’t Rosemary organized that birthday party in the first place, obviously thrilled over the fact that, with my ex out of the picture, she was now free to get her claws on me, even though I’d repeatedly rejected her cheap, tawdry advances. Hadn’t Rosemary secretly wanted me all this time, and now, disillusioned over my newest flame, she’d calculated this latest feeble attempt to destroy my happiness.

Or was it Freddy, my so-called friend and college roommate. I’d trusted Freddy with the details of my relationship, thinking of him and only of him and his isolation in L.A. as I described every inch of Rod’s body and the pleasure it gave me over the M4MNow chat room on AOL. And now, new to New York and its cynical ways, he’d betrayed that trust for quick access to on-line popularity in the cold chill of the Big Apple.

They were all in on it. That was the only plausible explanation. Or, at least, the only one I could think of on such short notice. 

It was up to me to find a way out. And I knew I had to go straight to the source. 

“Rod,” I said calmly, lying naked in his bed, my freshly shaved ass tingling from his razor, the ropes tied around my hands causing my veins to swell, the scattered issues of Mandate on the bedspread hardly even a distraction. “Are you a sex addict?”

“Of course I’m a sex addict. Couldn’t you tell? Do you think I would have been doing this with you every night if I weren’t?”

I could hardly breathe, and it wasn’t from the dog collar chained around my neck.

“You mean, This only happened because I was there? Not because I was special to you or handsome, but because I happened to live right next door and was easy access?” I paused before adding, ironically, as much to myself as to Rod, “In more ways than one.”

“Every beautiful guy in Chelsea wants me. I get asked out every time I walk down the street. But I can’t have a relationship because of my addiction. So I settle for this. Don’t take it personally. I’ve done it with all of Norman’s roommates. Even his mother once. That place is a regular hotel. But for some reason, you keep coming back for more. Do you know that when that guy called last I gave him my address and told him to come over? I was kind of bummed when he didn’t.”

“So I mean nothing to you?”

“Actually, you’ve been a great help. I’m in therapy now and I’m reading books on how to solve this problem. Who knows, maybe I’ll get over it someday and be able to have a relationship like a normal person.”

My hope returned. I began to picture Rod and myself, years from now, sipping cocoa around the fire, amusing ourselves with memories of how we met before heading off for a blissful night of slumber under his star-filled room. “Yes, that would be nice. Relationships are wonderful.” 

“I hope so. I’ve really got the hots for that guy Tony at the gym. We dated briefly, but I broke it off. He’s so gorgeous! I’d kill to go out with a guy like that.”

The cold consumed me. I dressed quickly, determined not to let Rod see me cry, determined to keep my emotions at bay, before falling apart at home. Determined, above all else, to leave with my dignity intact.

“Is that it?”

“No. One more thing.”

I was naked and spread-eagled before Rod could even speak.

“I have to stop doing this, so from now on I’m going to keep the blinds closed. That way I won’t be tempted. My sponsor thinks that’s the best recourse.”

“Your sponsor?”

“Yes. I’m in a program for people with sex addictions. Every time I want to have sex with you I have to call him first. That’s why I’m always on the phone right before we have sex.”

“But Rod, every time I see you you’re on the…” 

I cut myself off in midsentence. 
 

lay in bed that night a shattered man. My dream was over. My thoughts of becoming Chelsea’s pride and joy and everything wonderfully gay the community stood for shattered. Rod didn’t care about me. He wanted possession of the Beautiful Boys, a prize he had every right to claim. While I imagined him in years to come ensconced by gorgeous, young, emotionally stable, giving men like himself, I saw myself growing old alone, jaded, left with nothing but my friends and family to keep me warm. I had nothing.

Nothing, that is, except those phone calls. I never found out who made them, and perhaps it’s best that I never do. For whoever was responsible, be it Norman, Jason, Damien, Rosemary, Freddy, Rod, that bartender at Uncle Charlie’s who loved my story so much he kept giving me free drinks, or someone else, they were my one link to mystery, to that spine-tingling sensation inside that says I’m important, that my life is fascinating and worthy of someone’s undaunted obsession. I still had that, and that was something I intended to hang onto.

Now, a year later, when I reflect back to that brief, foolish time I spent as a Chelsea Boy, I grow almost sentimental for my days and nights with Rod. And, loath that I am to admit it, I miss the pure physical excitement derived from his body, albeit a body obviously enhanced by steroids and reduced with liposuction. Oh, sure, we still see each other on the street and at the gym. We nod and say “Hi, neighbor,” but it isn’t the same. We both know the mystery is gone, and I’m left with nothing but a cold chill, in a neighborhood that used to surround me with so much warmth. Incidentally, Rod never did get together with Tony. As this is an accurate, completely unbiased work of non-fiction, I think it’s imperative that I state all the facts exactly as they occurred* (*Some basic fundamental truths have been changed).

And at night I still curl up in front of the TV to catch a late-night horror flick. Sometimes, halfway through a good Hitchcock thriller, I’ll see a flicker of light across the way and be convinced it is Rod, or someone equally as tempting, opening his closed blinds to get a glimpse inside my private life. And then I’ll realize, after everything, the light was merely a flicker across the window of my imagination.