The invitation came in an email:"You and a guest are invited to Matt's Black and White Balls, Memorial Day Weekend 2009. Lodging provided. Please RSVP."
Plus a MP4 of "Everything's Up To Date in Kansas City" from Oklahoma.
"Balls must be a mistake," I told my boyfriend Chad. "He must be doing an homage to the famous Black and White Ball that Truman Capote held for New York glitterati in 1966."
"Gay glitterati, all dressed in black and white!" Chad exclaimed. "Sounds festive. But who's Matt?"
"My ex-boyfriend Fred's ex-boyfriend from California. You'd like him."
When I met Matt in 1988, he was a 22-year old Cute Young Thing, a Harvard elitist, abrasive and condescending in spite of his fabulous butt and extra-large beneath-the-belt gifts. But as I got to know him better, he turned out to be secretly kind, generous, and only marginally insane.
In the bedroom, he kept up a nonstop monologue of his progress, first in English, then in French.
I'm getting there...un peu plus, mon chevalier.......je vais arriver...bien, bien...ich komme!
"Fred and Matt were together for about ten years. When they broke up, he moved to San Francisco, and then to Boston. I haven't heard from him in six or seven years."
"Well, you must have made a good impression on him. But why is he hosting his Black and White Ball in Kansas City, not Boston?"
When I asked, Matt responded only "That would be telling. But don't worry, it won't be just KC barbecue-and-tractor-pull fans. There will be a lot of guys from San Francisco: David, Corbin, Seth and Fangorn. I even invited Kevin the Vampire."
Kansas City, May 23rd, 2009
I arrived in Kansas City at 2:00 pm. Instead of Matt, I was met by a guy holding a sign: an African-American Cute Young Thing, short, very dark, buffed, wearing a formal white shirt and black pants. He introduced himself as Malcolm.
I thought he was a professional driver, but he led me to an old, beat-up car with a back seat cluttered with clothes and fast-food wrappers. Not really professional -- must be one of Matt's friends."How long have you and Matt known each other?"
"He just hired me for the weekend. But I'm available all day and all night. Just give me a call, and I'll be there." He grinned and grabbed my knee.
Hired for what?
"Would you like a short tour of the City before we head over to Matt's house?"
He drove me past the Crown Center, the Liberty Memorial, and Swope Park, where we kissed and fondled at a fountain overlooking the valley. Then we drove to a huge brick house on the north side of town, parked, and went inside without knocking.
Past a foyer into an enormous living room. A cute older guy, mid-40s, African-American, was standing on a ladder, putting up a poster of a naked man.
"This is Boomer," Malcolm announced, putting his arm around my waist. And leaving it there.
He smiled and held down his hand. "I'm Dallas, and no, I'm not from Texas."
Then Matt came in, naked, dripping wet. He was now 44 years old, balding, a little pudgy, but he still had a fabulous butt.
"Boomer, welcome! Sorry I can't hug -- we've been in the pool. Why don't you go up to your room, change, and join us? Malcolm will show you where it is."
The full post, with nude photos and explicit sexual situations, is on Tales of West Hollywood.