The Men from the Boys Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  TRICKS

  Provincetown, June 1994

  Boston, January 1995

  Provincetown, June 1994

  Boston, January 1995

  Provincetown, June 1994

  LOVERS

  Boston, January 1995

  Provincetown, June 1994

  Boston, January 1995

  Provincetown, June 1994

  Boston, January 1995

  FRIENDS

  Provincetown, July 1994

  Boston, February 1995

  Provincetown, July 1994

  Boston, February 1995

  Provincetown, July 1994

  Boston, February 1995

  FAMILY

  Provincetown, July 1994

  Boston, February 1995

  Provincetown, July 1994

  Boston, February 1995

  En Route to Provincetown, July 1994

  Boston, February 1995

  CLASS

  Provincetown, July 1994

  Boston, February 1995

  Provincetown, August 1994

  Boston, February 1995

  Provincetown, August 1994

  SEX

  Boston, March 1995

  Pravincetown, August 1994

  Boston, March 1995

  Provincetown, August 1994

  Boston, March 1995

  Provincetown, August 1994

  BEAUTY

  Boston, April 1995

  Provincetown, September 1994

  Boston, April 1995

  Provincetown., September 1994

  Boston, April 1994

  Provincetown, September 1994

  AGE

  Provincetown, April 1995

  Boston, October 1994

  Provincetown, April 1995

  Boston, October 1994

  Provincetown, April 1995

  DEATH

  Boston, November 1994

  Provincetown, April 1995

  Boston, November 1994

  Provincetown, May 1995

  Boston, November 1994

  Provincetown, May 1995

  PASSION

  Boston, December 1994

  Provincetown, May 1995

  Boston, December 1994

  Provincetown, June 1995

  Boston, December 1994

  Provincetown, June 1995

  ACCLAIM FOR The Men from the Boys

  “An erotic, riveting page-turner. As sexy as it’s relevant. Offers a profound statement about the state of evolving gay relationships at the end of the millennium. You must read this delightful book of our time.”

  —Douglas Sadownick, author of Sacred Lips of the Bronx

  “Mann charts with a steady compass one young man’s journey through the bewildering landscape of desire and dread that is contemporary gay life. There’s much passion here, and pain and anger and morality, and yes, sex too, and finally a wisdom so generous it makes the heart ache. The reach of gay relationships across generations—the complex legacies we both receive from and bestow on one another—has seldom been so richly explored. A magnificent debut.”

  —Paul Russell, author of Sea of Tranguillity and Boys of Life

  “This isn’t a story of interest only to gays. This is a family drama ... and its life lessons enrich The Men from the Boys. An absorbing, cleverly paced story of love and friendship.”

  —Hartford Courant

  WILLIAM J. MANN is the author of Wisecracker: The Gay Hollywood of William Haines (Viking). He writes for such publications as the Boston Phoenix, The Advocate, and Architectural Digest. His short fiction and essays have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies, including Men on Men 6 (Plume). He lives in Provincetown.

  “A bittersweet, carefully observed romance.... This is the warmest-hearted account I have yet to read of both how we live now and how we might live in the future.”

  —David Bergman, editor of Men on Men series

  “A heartfelt story about the meaning of gay male relationships and friendships.”

  —Boston Phoenix

  “Mann offers all one might ask for in gay fiction: solid, believable characters who reflect the ethnic, class, and generational diversity of the community; witty, ribald conversation; laugh lines that are funny and sex scenes that are hot. An impressive debut.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Witty, erotic, philosophical, tear-jerking, occasionally tragic and ultimately uplifting ... resonates with a powerful emotional honesty that is sure to strike a chord with readers. Mann has populated Jeff’s world with fully realized, immediately identifiable characters who soon seem like old friends.”

  —Bay Review

  “Ebbs and flows with a sweaty techno pulse.... In this beautiful book, first-time novelist William J. Mann explores the irony that gay men are mourned when they die young, but dismissed when they grow old ... poignant and delightful.”

  —POZ

  “A buoyant but ultimately serious exploration of what love can mean to gay men.”

  —Lambda Book Report

  “At this point in time, the experiences, understandings, and desires of gay men who are 22, 32, or 47 are vastly different. Mann is one of the first writers to delineate these different contemporary life experiences within the framework of one novel.”

  —Bay Area Reporter

  “William J. Mann’s funny and swiftly told story of one man stuck between the Baby Boomers and Generation X will warm your heart with its sensitive and tender portrayal.”

  —Edge magazine

  “It is Mann’s gift for dialogue that makes this first novel remarkable.... His characters talk the way people actually speak ... one of the most honest and engrossing books in years.”

  —Out (Pittsburgh)

  “Mann’s characters enter and leave relationships, find mentors, sleep with cute boys, deal with AIDS, face death and generally learn what it means to be responsible, caring, sexually active adults in a culture that does its best to inhibit all three. The Men from the Boys is a debut novel that delights and challenges but, more important, understands how we live today.”

  —amazon.com

  PLUME

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Pumam Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Books Ltd, 27 Wrights Lane, London W8 5TZ, England

  Penguin Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood, Victoria, Australia

  Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2

  Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, 182-190 Wairau Road, Auckland 10, New Zealand

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: Hannondsworth, Middlesex, England

  Published by Plume, an imprint of Dutton NAL, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.

  Previously published in a Dutton edition.

  First Plume Printing, June. 1998

  10

  Copyright © William J. Mann, 1997

  All rights reserved

  Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following for permission to reprint from

  previously published material:

  “(I Never Promised You a) Rose Garden” by Joe South. Copyright © 1971. Published by

  Lowery Music, Inc. Used by permission.

  The Outermost Haure by Henry Beston. Copyright 1928, 1949, © 1956 by Henry Beston,

  © 1977 by Elizabeth C. Beston. ., Inc.

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK-MARGA REGISTRADA

  The Library of Congress catalogued the Dutton edition as follows:

  Mann, William J.

  The men from the boys / William J. Mann.

 
p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-0-452-27856-1

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any, form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE AT QUANTITY DISCOUNTS WHEN USED TO PROMOTE PRODUCTS

  OR SERVICES. FOR INFORMATION PLEASE WRITE TO PREMIUM MARKETING DIVISION,

  PENGUIN PUTNAM INC., 375 HUDSON STREET, NEW YORK, NY 10014.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  FOR TIM

  AND, EVEN NOW,

  FOR VICTOR

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many people helped shape this book, persuading me of its worth and guiding it toward reality. In particular, I am indebted to those individuals who read and brought new insights into the developing manuscript: Christopher Bram, Michael Bronski, Lesléa Newman, Surina Khan, Jim Gemmel, Suzanne Lewis, Karen Bellavance-Grace, and Kelly Scannell. I am grateful not only for their sharp eyes, intelligent criticism, and constant demand for excellence but also for their sustaining friendship during this process. I want to acknowledge as well my deep gratitude to Dorothy Allison, who gave me invaluable early feedback and convinced me I wasn’t a fraud.

  Matthew Carnicelli provided the kind of encouragement and advice that an author dreams about from an editor. It has been a joy to work with him, and I thank him for believing in the book and its unique structure.

  My agent, Malaga Baldi, has been a constant source of support. She is an untiring champion, a shrewd advocate, and a genuine friend.

  Finally, I must thank my life partners. Tim Huber, as in everything else, provided unwavering love and support: material, financial, and emotional. A few words on an acknowledgments page can hardly express my gratitude and love for him. Without his belief in me, this book would not exist. Likewise, I can only offer humble thanks to Victor D’Lugin, a giant of a man who taught both Tim and me the meaning of unconditional love and support. His constructive criticism of early manuscripts helped fashion this novel, but even more important, his wit, wisdom, and unfailing devotion helped me navigate my life during the roller-coaster year of writing it. Even now—especially now—he continues to inspire.

  TRICKS

  Provincetown, June 1994

  “Going tricking?” Javitz asked earlier tonight, in that voice that knows the answers to its own questions.

  I just laughed.

  Tricking. Such an odd little twist of a word. As if I would take one of these boys home with me and rather than sex I’d pull a rabbit out of a hat. As if we’d get to my door and I’d refuse to let him inside, turning instead with a maniacal grin to say, “Tricked ya!”

  As if tricks were the antithesis of treats and not what they are: the caramel on the apple, the cinnamon in the bun, the cotton candy on the stick. Tricks are how we treat ourselves. Not that all tricks are always so delectable: some of mine have been the proverbial rocks in Charlie Brown’s paper bag. But most of them have been sweet: Hershey’s Kisses. Milky Ways. Almond Boys.

  Tonight, it’s his nipples that bewitch me from across the room, little pink cones in relief against sweat-dappled copper skin. The boy I am watching moves in a rhythm that repudiates the beat on the dance floor. He wears a vest but no shirt, a grin but no smile.

  Summer is a time of random magic such as this, of surprising spirits conjured up between the sheets of my bed in a room overlooking Provincetown harbor. Here, strangers’ kisses expose souls to me. The uneven scar on one boy’s abdomen, the crinkles at the corners of another’s eyes reveal more truths than I could ever discover in a more consistent lover.

  It is the last summer in which I am to be young.

  “Hi,” the boy says to me, stroking his firm stomach idly. Little beads of sweat leave shimmering trails down the smooth brown flat plain. He can’t be more than twenty-three.

  “I’ve seen you around,” he says. “You work up here?”

  “No,” I say, which is a lie. Mystery helps in this town—especially when you’re no longer twenty-three. “But you do,” I say. “A houseboy or a waiter?” I ask, knowing the options for a boy his age.

  “A houseboy,” he says.

  And so the script stays on course, except for the brief flutter of my eyelids at that precise moment, when I find the eye of a man across the dance floor. My breath catches, and I worry that the houseboy notices. But he doesn’t—of course not: he’s deep into character. Acknowledging my distraction would be akin to an actor on stage responding to the laughter of the audience in the middle of a scene. He carries on, as is proper. But I stumble, drawn by a man across the room, a man I don’t know, a man I thought was someone else.

  I know no one here.

  “What’s your name?” the boy is asking.

  I turn to face him. “Jeff. And yours?”

  “Eduardo.”

  We shake hands. Our eyes hold.

  And so another one.

  Loving strangers is a heady mix of romance and reality, the sordid and the sublime. I have returned this summer for that mist of sweat across a boy’s bronzed back, for the magic that happens when the two of us marry eyes across a dance floor and become forever young.

  “Can I still get away with it?” I asked Javitz before setting out tonight.

  He laughed. “Maybe for another year.”

  Once, Javitz and I were lovers, when my skin was soft and unmarked like the boy Eduardo’s. That was before the little pinched lines began creeping around my eyes like the marks my mother used to make in the crust of her apple pies. My lover, Lloyd, tells me I’m being absurd, that at thirty-two I still have many years left to play. But he should talk: he with his monthly dosage of minoxidil and the, tweezers he leaves behind on the sink surrounded by a scattering of his bristly gray hairs.

  “Will we ever get to a point where we don’t care?” I asked him not long ago. “Will we ever welcome the gray, disregard the wrinkles, skip the gym, eat that extra piece of chocolate cake?”

  It is both lovely and terrifying to imagine: Lloyd and I, bald and fat, in matching reclining chairs, watching Jeopardy! side by side, finally free of the tyranny of youth.

  Once, we were the boys of the moment, angry young men marching through the streets in black leather jackets covered with crack-and-peel slogans: “Act Up! Fight Back! Get Used to It!” Javitz and his generation, a decade older, had smiled indulgently at us. “Ah, youth,” they would sigh. But how quickly our energy dissipated, how quickly boys are replaced. The hair on my head thins out, while in my ears it sprouts cocky as crabgrass. My body might be pumped from an afternoon in the gym, but one hundred crunches a day can no longer dispel gravity’s influence on my waist.

  “And then what?” I asked Javitz, replying to his comment about getting away with it for another year.

  “I’ll see you at Spiritus,” was all he said.

  That he will still join me there takes courage. Javitz is a tall, striking man with long, curly black hair and intense dark eyes. Once, when we were lovers, I thought he was the most handsome man in the world. Today, Javitz is forty-seven—a terribly old age for me to contemplate ever being. He’s well known in Provincetown and back home in Boston, too. “A leading activist,” one newspaper account called him, “an icon of the gay community.” He was one of the engineers of the state’s gay rights law; he helped get gay issues into the public high school curricula; he helped found ACT UP. But in front of Spiritus, the late-night cruisy pizza joint on Commercial Street, it’s his loss of muscle tone that stands him out from the crowd, the predictable result of years of antivirals: shapeless cal
ves, spindly arms. And not long ago he witnessed what happened to one man—near fifty, almost bald—who dared to assume he could still come out and play.

  “Did you smile at me?” this man had asked, standing on the steps of the pizza joint, behind a cluster of boys in backward baseball caps.

  “Sure,” I offered.

  “Are you trying to pick me up?” he asked.

  I was taken aback. “No,” I told him.

  “No,” he echoed, darkening. “Of course not.” He slumped, like a tire slashed.

  A boy beside me began to giggle. “They’re going to find him washed up on shore in the morning,” he whispered.

  Growing old is not for sissies, so they say. But sissies do get older. All of us sissies here tonight, with the hot juice of youth pulsing through our veins. Some of us are already well on our way. Some of us are going to die long before our times. What does it matter, Javitz says. Get old or get AIDS: the end result is the same. Especially here, in this place: this place of sculpted pectorals and shaven torsos, heads thick with hair and bodies jumping with T cells. But the first wrinkle, or the first purple blotch on your leg, and you must accept the exile, a banishment that we rarely question, dismissing any who try.

  “How old are you?” Eduardo is asking me now, the inevitable question.

  “How old do you think?” My inevitable answer.

  “Twenty-eight?” Last year, it probably would’ve been twenty-six, but it’s good enough; it’s what I want to hear.

  “Around there,” I lie. “And you?”

  “Twenty-two,” Eduardo responds.

  Who has ever been twenty-two? I ask myself. Not me. Not ever. If I ever was, I don’t remember. It was all such a long time ago, in a world very far away. And every summer, a new crop is twenty-two, standing at the cusp of the dance floor as if they were the first ones ever here.