One night in the spring of 1997, around 11:00 pm, I got a phone call out of nowhere."It's Matt -- I'm at the Castro Street Muni Station. Come pick me up!"
Matt the Cute Young Thing?
Nine years before, my college boyfriend Fred moved to Pomona, California, about an hour's drive from West Hollywood, to study at the Claremont School of Theology.
He brought Matt, 23 years old -- a scandalous age difference!
Plus Matt was an ultra-elitist graduate of the Andover Academy and Harvard University.
Plus he gossiped about everybody and everything, providing the weird voices.
Then Beau told his "Uncle," wink wink, "Be sure that yo' get mah new underweah in extra-extra-extra lahge."
In the bedroom...well, never mind.
I don't know what Fred saw in him, except that he was rather cute and had a Bratwurst beneath the belt.
In 1995, Fred took a job in Fresno, about three hours away from San Francisco.
"This town is so drearyo!" Matt often said. "And you're living in the heart of gay Heaven, Paradis."
In retrospect, I should have seen it coming.
I picked up Matt and his backpack at Castro Street Station and took him to Orphan Andy's for a hamburger. He was 32 years old, no longer a Cute Young Thing, but quite buffed from hours at the gym.
"Fred and I are kaput! Over! I caught him having sex with a kid in the youth group. I'm all for sharing, but en cachette? And I'm pretty sure the kid is underaged!"
"Well, you should at least hear his side of the story."
"No, I've had it. J'ai trop mangé! This isn't the first time, mind you, but I've put up with it because of my misguided sense of loyalty. But no more."
We returned to my cramped third-floor walk-up, over a hardware store, which he criticized as "impossibly bourgeois" and "a downscale dump," and spent the night.
It was my first time with Matt without Fred being there. He still...well, never mind.
This story is too risque to continue You can read the rest, and see the nude photos, on Tales of West Hollywood.