Best American Gay Fiction 3 by Brian Bouldrey (editor)

By Brian Bouldrey (editor)

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One should expect little or nothing of anyone, and thereby never be disappointed again. But to be aware of a problem is not necessarily to conquer it-problems are rarely, if ever, conquered-and I, knowing all too ~ell the pitfalls expectations bring, nevertheless had them. You see, as far as biography and vital statistics were concerned-which I had been able to compile, for the most part, from our two rather short but incisive telephone conversations-Stanley measured up quite well: mid-thirties; non smoker, with no history of drug or alcohol abuse; had tested repeatedly negative for HIV antibodies; was inclined, he avowed, toward monogamy; and, to my delight, possessed of a virtually flawless set of gleaming white teeth.

And that wasn't even the most interesting part; what truly captivated me was what occurred to me next: he wasn't wearing any underwear. This Little Miss Prude that got offended by the words fock and asshole was letting her big dick flap all around New York. Mm-mmm. It was all I could do not to get erect right there; I could have really gotten erect over a beautiful little hill of contradictions like that. And so after he stood up suddenly, and I followed him across the little bridge, I couldn't help myself, I copped a little feel of his shoulder, and of his long lean arm, and I swear I could hear it then, too, even louder: HorrifY me; please horrify me.

I asked, joining him before the archway. " He shook his head distractedly. " Again he shook his head and, masticating with renewed, methodical vigor, walked, without so much as a nod to Rousseau's Sleeping Gypsy, Gauguin's Moon and Earth, directly to the foot of The Starry Night; we made our obligatory pause. Yes, yes, the cluster of blue and green flame-like cypress trees to the left, the sleepy little town down on the right, the church steeple piercing the blue hills, the swirling sky, the eleven stars, the crescent moon ...

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