Free Men Who Love Men by William J. Mann Page B

pills. Insomnia has been a rather frequent visitor to my room these past several months.

    “Damn,” I say, flicking on the light and looking at myself in the mirror.

    What I notice first are the bags around my eyes. When did they become so prominent? When did I start looking so old? Then my gaze drops down to the tiretube of flesh jiggling above the waistband of my Calvin Klein boxer briefs. What the hell was Gale thinking when he asked me out? If he’d seen me like this—the real me—he’d never have gotten such an absurd idea. Like I’m going to want to take my shirt off in front of Mr. Four-Percent-Body-Fat!

    I decide to try some of that Sleepytime tea Lloyd keeps downstairs for guests. No caffeine but plenty of chamomile. It’s not Ambien, but it’s something.

    I creak open the door and start down the stairs to Nirvana’s common room. I don’t want to wake any guests; the last thing I want right now is to make small talk with a couple of horny middle-aged guys from Pittsburgh or a large baby dyke from Ottawa. We’ve got a full house tonight, and each and every one of them was wide eyed and eager to start exploring Provincetown when I checked them in this afternoon. They all got my very best Chamber-of-Commerce spiel, recommending restaurants and explaining shuttle schedules. But now, at half past twelve in the morning, I’m not in the mood to play tour guide.

    I’m in luck. The common room is empty. I hurry over to the bar, where in just six hours I’ll be putting out blueberry muffins and croissants (reheated from yesterday’s batch, no way I’m getting up an hour early now to whip up some new ones). I fumble around in the darkness, not wanting to switch on a light, searching for the little baskets where we keep tea bags and sugar packets.

    “And what are you lurking about for at this time of night, Mr. Weiner?”

    I jump, even though I know the voice.

    “Lloyd,” I say, not bothering to look up. “I can’t sleep. I need some of that tea. Or better yet, if you have some Ambien lying around…”

    “No need for all those toxic chemicals,” Lloyd tells me. He easily finds the basket with the tea and motions me to follow him into the small kitchen area. It’s thankfully separated off from the common room by a solid oak door. Once inside, Lloyd flicks on the overhead light. I blink, my eyes adjusting, while he drops a tea bag into a mug filled with water and pops it into the microwave. “So, tell me, Henry,” Lloyd says, while the tea spins slowly inside, brewing, “what’s keeping you awake and prowling the halls?”

    “Oh, nothing much,” I say. “Except my entire life.”

    Lloyd smiles. The microwave beeps. He carefully removes the mug of tea and sets it down in front of me. “Honey?” he asks. I shake my head no—too many calories. He tells me to wait a couple of minutes before drinking. “It’s hot.”

    I look over at him. Nothing in the world feels better than being taken care of by Lloyd Griffith. He always knows just what to say, what to offer, how to be. Once, I really believed we were right for each other. Maybe I still believe that. Jeff doesn’t appreciate Lloyd the way I do. Jeff’s always too busy, always rushing off somewhere, to just sit and be , the way Lloyd prefers. Jeff never pauses long enough to listen to Lloyd’s soothing, wise words and truly take them in. He’s never admitted as much, but I think Lloyd agrees with me about the whole monogamy thing—that if Jeff didn’t insist on remaining a tramp, he’d reel him in, and they’d have a lovely, one-on-one, monogamous relationship.

    He could have had it with me—but the one blind spot in Lloyd’s wisdom is his love for Jeff. What he puts up with from that man! Today, while Lloyd was probably here at the guesthouse, Jeff was back in their bed fucking Luke’s hot little butt. As much as Jeff is my friend, I really don’t see what keeps Lloyd so attached to him. They’re day and night, black and