Free The Cosmopolitans by Sarah Schulman Page A

every turn. But the white guys could be hot in their dopey out-of-it-ness. They could act like they didn’t want it, when they did. Or that they didn’t know how much they wanted it, what was causing that rise in their pants. That was sexy.
    He followed Lynette into the huge central area that was packed with young kids. Even younger than she was. Basically, it was a white kids’ party with some black folks. Who did she know here? Didn’t look like doctors. She gazed at him and raised her eyebrows.He could tell this wasn’t what she’d expected. She wanted a poetry reading or some shit like that. Some hip cats. Some weed, some drums. She wanted to show him how cool she was, but she wasn’t. She was just a hardworking, good-looking woman who needed a man. He understood that. She had a fleeting fantasy that this man would be an artist or whatnot, but that was just whimsy. It would only give her more problems. Artists never make it, even if they should, and that’s hard to understand and live with. No, she needed a tax accountant or a teacher. Someone solid who knew how to hand back the papers on time and wore a tie. She didn’t belong at this party, and neither did he. It wasn’t for them. That was one of the things he loved about being in a play, the camaraderie. Going out for drinks and ending up at someone’s place with a handful of folks talking out their hearts. He loved that.
    â€œI gotta go to the bathroom,” he said.
    Lynette smiled, nodding her head to the music some guys were making in the corner. Their sound was okay.
    Earl pushed his way to the bathroom line. It was long and slow. Lots of girls ahead of him, smoking, laughing. Women take a long time in the bathroom. They have to look at themselves, prolonged inspection. It was a swirl of other people’s dreams, their self-images, imaginations.
    â€œWhat do you do?” a sharp-tongued white girl asked him. She was bold, he could see that. She had energy. She laughed and her eyes gleamed.
    â€œI’m an actor. What about you?”
    â€œI’m writing a novel,” she said.
    â€œOh, yeah, how do you do that?”
    â€œWell,” she said. “It’s hard to explain.”
    Earl looked over her head. Lynette was talking to another woman, still swaying to the music, waiting for his return so she could pull him onto the dance floor. He needed to tell her. He needed to let her know that this wasn’t going to happen. The charade was already too elaborate, had gone on for too long. Every minute more that he lied to her was a bigger waste of her life. He didn’t want to do that, create disappointment for others. He had to stop this game now.
    â€œExcuse me,” Earl said, and determinedly pushed his way through the guests, turned the corner, and without making the decision, simply fled down the four flights of stairs, and burst out into the night. He ran like someone mean was chasing him, and then, when he got to the corner, he was filled with indecision. Should he go upstairs to his apartment where everything was known? All the cracks, the dust, the sounds that entomb? Or walk around some more looking for something that wasn’t going to happen?
    Then Earl remembered his boyfriend, the one in his imagination. But where was the guy? He wasn’t upstairs. He wasn’t around the corner. He wasn’t waiting in a bar or killing time in the park. Earl leaned against his building. The rough, cold bricks held his face. The concrete base scratched his palms. The support felt so good. He’d been tense all night. The mortar scratched his aching back. He turned and pressed his body full against 21 East Tenth Street. His toes, his thighs, his cock and balls, stomach, chest, his lips caressing her. He licked her. Buildings are “shes” like cities and boats. But his building was a flamer. She camped. Shewas a queen, whose drag name was Mary or Helen. The bricks drank his