Package Deal

Paul’s studio apartment was neat and clean with ultra-modern furniture. Every piece must have come from a popular Scandinavian box store. The space was one big room with a high ceiling. There was a wall of windows covered by sheer curtains opposite the entrance, which at the moment contributed to the place being ice cold. His bed occupied a corner with a decorative folding screen hiding it from the front door. The opposite corner held a weight bench, a treadmill, and something that looked like a pull-up bar mounted on a stand. A love seat with its matching chair were set at an angle to the door and a table split the space between the bed and eating bar. Behind the bar was a tiny kitchen with a small bathroom opposite. While Paul packed a black leather bag with clothes from a combination dresser and wardrobe, I looked around. There were a few pieces of art work on the walls but not much in the way of dust collectors. I found his modeling book on the bottom shelf of the bedside table and opened the cover to flip through the photos. They were very well done. “Those are from my first few months of work,” he said when he noticed what I was doing. “Elaine has the up-to-date copy. I borrowed that one from her and forgot to return it.” He folded a few other items into his bag and mentioned, “Do you know that even though almost everything is done electronic now, Elaine has a book like that for every model on contract? She said she’s old school and just likes the feel of a hard bound book to flip through when she’s evaluating a model’s work. That small room off her office is full of shelves with identical leather bound books like that of every single model she’s ever represented.” Paul glanced at the exercise equipment and asked if my apartment complex had an exercise room. I told him it was next to the pool. He closed the bag, walked over, and politely reached for the book. I handed it over. “You ready? He asked. Less than five minutes had passed. He was efficient. Paul tossed the book and his bag on the back seat of my car and took the passenger’s seat. He was silent as we drove the loop around downtown. I wished I knew what he was thinking, but I could only imagine how I would feel in his place. He reached over and took my hand in his. Traffic on the loop was light, so I held his. All the Christmas shoppers were in the suburbs or the malls. “Are you hungry?” he asked looking out the window. He turned to face me, waiting for my answer. I shrugged and said, “I could eat.” “Great, let’s go to Basil & Thyme. I’m in the mood for basic comfort food.” B&T is a homey restaurant in the Montrose area of town which is generally accepted as the gay district. Their specialty is an oversized slab of chicken breast or chopped beef, battered and fried and served with rustic mashed potatoes and cream gravy. I took the appropriate exit off the highway and we drove the rest of the way in silence. I think I managed to find the last available parking space. The place was packed and warm but we didn’t have to wait long for a table. All eyes were on us as the hostess escorted us to our booth. I nodded to a few friends. Most gave me looks that said, ‘who’s he?’ I assumed that someone would know Paul because he would not go unnoticed in a room full of gay men. Even so, he didn’t greet anyone. “I usually come here for lunch,” he explained, looking around, “ I didn’t think it would be this crowded.” “Are you kidding? On Friday nights this place is packed.” I slipped off my coat and slid into the booth. “I’m surprised we found parking.” Paul removed his coat and tossed it on the opposite seat. He then pulled the borrowed sweater up and over his head. He was trying to be careful not to pull his shirt tail loose which made his actions appeared slow and sensual. Of course he was watched by all the men, and a few women, in the vicinity. All he was wearing underneath was the tight thin shirt from yesterday and even being careful, the shirt tail pulled out exposing his tan, washboard stomach. I watched everyone else watching him. He dropped the sweater on his coat and sat next to me, apparently oblivious to the stir he had caused. “You don’t get it do you?” I asked. “What?” he said, glancing around the room. A few men were still looking in our direction, whispering. “Half the men in here would love to be sitting right here next to you.” He smiled, “Yeah, well I only want to be sitting right here next to you,” and to emphasize his point, gave me a gentle but lingering kiss on the mouth. “Thanks for today,” he said softly, brushing my cheek with his hand. “I couldn’t have managed without you.” A perky blond waiter walked up - blatantly staring at Paul - and asked, “What are you boys drinking?” “Well Eric,” Paul answered, reading his name badge, “I’ll have hot tea with lemon and my boyfriend,” he said turning to me, “. . will have coffee.” He made the last part of the statement a question. His eyes were twinkling. “Yes,” I answered turning to address Eric, “I’ll have coffee, please. Black, two sugars.” “Rolls or cornbread?” Eric asked next, pen poised over note pad. “Both,” Paul and I answered together. Eric gave us a winning smile and said, “Be right back,” then sailed off between the tables. “Boyfriend?” I asked. “Yeah, If you don’t mind” “Why would I possibly mind?” I answered. Under the table, he squeezed my thigh.