I was getting tired of the Gang of Twelve, the guys in Upstate New York who all had dated each other over the years and knew each other's secrets and gossipped constantly. So although I continued accepting dates with the Klingon, the Sword Swallower, and the Pitcher with a Secret Move, I started looking at other guys.
Like the water man.
That spring water coolers were all the rage. Tap water was unsafe, or at least the media said so, so everybody installed a water cooler in the kitchen, with a 5-gallon, 40-pound tank that had to be changed every week.
It was tricky changing the tanks yourself without splashing water all over, so the water companies offered a service whereby "the water man" would knock on your door once a week with a new bottle to replace the old.
They hired only the most muscular guys for the job, and my water guy, Pete, was no exception: in his 30s, short, dark-haired, with a v-shaped torso, an oval face and big hands. And a wedding ring.
None of the Gang of Twelve had ever heard of him.
Not gay.
Still, every Wednesday afternoon, when Pete arrived with my water, we chatted a little longer than usual, made a little extra eye contact. Sometimes I "accidentally" had my shirt off to see if his eyes widened.
They did.
Pete told mewas from Long Island, where he and his wife owned a house. He was in town studying music at the University. It was very expensive trying to maintain a house and an apartment, so he took the water-delivery job to make extra money.
"What does your wife do?" I asked.
"Sally is a teacher back in Long Island," Pete said. "We're separated."
Separated? The precursor to a divorce?
It made perfect sense. Why did he choose a music school upstate, when there were so many options closer to Long Island? He wanted to get as far from his wife as possible, to make a fresh start as he explored the gay world.
Now I just had to seal the deal.
The rest of the story is on Tales of West Hollywood