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Curiosity Satisfied

(an Avondale Story)

Revised edition

Etienne

1

IT WAS SEVEN thirty on a Tuesday morning, and I was fighting for my life. Sam, my best friend and current racquetball partner, and I were in a dead heat with our usual opponents, Rob and Will. We’d won the first game, they’d won the second, and this game would be the tiebreaker. Finally, Sam and I summoned a surge of energy from somewhere and made the crucial point. After shaking hands all around, the four of us went to the locker-room. We had a standing reservation for an indoor court at the Y on Riverside Avenue every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday at the same time. If one of us was for any reason unable to participate, he was honor bound to come up with a substitute, which had happened more than a few times during the three years we’d been playing together.

As was our custom, we settled down in the steam room for a while before we showered and dressed for work. This particular branch of the Y was situated on the north bank of the St. Johns River only a few blocks from downtown Jacksonville, and a great many men and women brought their working attire to the Y so they could work out, shower, dress, and go straight to their respective jobs. The four of us were all lawyers, ranging in age from my twenty-nine to Will’s thirty-five. We worked for different firms and were extremely competitive. I’d just made partner in the third-largest law firm in town and was still more than a bit overwhelmed at that success, which was largely due to a huge string of luck the year before. I’d won three gigantic settlements for my clients—and for the firm.

“Mitch,” Sam said, “are you and Rosalie going out this weekend?”

“No. I’ve sort of been tapering off from seeing her lately. In any case, she left town Sunday night and will be attending some sort of seminar on the West Coast for the next three or four weeks.”

“That’s a hell of a long seminar,” Rob said.

“That’s what they’re calling it,” I said, “but you’re right—it’s more like a crash course in her field.”

“And what’s the mouse going to do while the cat’s away?” Will said, with a sly smile on his face.

“This mouse, as you know, just moved into his new house—a classic fixer-upper in Riverside,” I said. “I have a shitload of painting, patching, and minor repairs to take care of.”

“That should keep you out of mischief,” Sam said.

“Yeah.”

Showered and dressed (I’d shaved at home), I got in my ten-year-old SUV and headed downtown to deal with my extremely full appointment calendar.

After a long and very busy day, I was glad to strip down to a pair of gym shorts when I got home. I’d picked up a sandwich and a Coke in nearby Five Points and immediately got busy painting my living room between bites of food. I was really proud of my first house, and it had been a steal. The house contained a large master suite, two smaller bedrooms with a connecting bath between them, separate living and dining rooms, and an eat-in kitchen. There was also a screened-in front porch, an open back porch, and, perhaps best of all, a two-car garage complete with an upstairs apartment. I’d made a huge down payment to the cash-strapped owners, and they were carrying the mortgage. The rent from the apartment was just enough to cover the payments, but not the taxes and insurance.

I reached a good stopping point a little after ten, cleaned up my paint roller, and headed for the bedroom I was using. The master bedroom was empty, and I was using a guest room—my game plan being to paint the master bedroom before I occupied it. I padded naked from the bedroom to the bathroom and stepped into the shower. Afterward, I toweled myself dry, watching myself in the steamed-up mirror as I did. I wiped away the steam and looked at my image.

“I’m tired,” I said.

“You should be,” my image said. “You’ve had a long, hard day.”

“Yeah. It was a good day, though, and I got a lot done.”

“Then why aren’t you happy?”

“I’m happy.”

“Not even close—this is me you’re talking to.”

“Of course I’m happy. I’m on top of the world.”

“Bovine excreta. You only appear to be happy on the outside, but there’s an underlying sadness inside of you. Something’s missing from your life, and you know damn well what it is.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Don’t be disingenuous. We’re talking about your sexuality.”

“Oh, that.”

“Yes, that. It’s time you openly admitted to yourself that you wonder about such things.”

“That’s a load of crap.”

“Oh, yeah? Then why do you have a hidden stash of gay magazines and porn?”

“That’s for research.”

“That’s a rather quaint euphemism for jerking off while looking at pictures of naked men having sex, but I don’t think you’ll find it in any dictionary.”

“Okay, I give up. I think I might be gay.”

“Oh, puh-leeze. ‘Might be?’ Face it, Mitch—you’re gay and you know it. All that remains is for you to prove it to yourself by actually doing the deed.”

“What will people think?”

“Excuse me, but unless you’re planning to have sex at high noon on the courthouse steps, or hire the town crier to announce the fact, ‘people’—as you put it—won’t know anything.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Listen to me, my boy. Your current, and somewhat unsatisfactory, source of sexual relief will be out of town for quite a while. What better opportunity for you to try your wings?”

“I wouldn’t know how to go about it.”

“More bovine excreta. If that’s true, why have you not only looked up but driven by every gay bar in town at least once?”

“You’ve got me there.”

“Damn straight. It’s time for less talk and more action.”

“We’ll see.”

I checked the doors, set the alarm system, and crawled in bed.