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The Rory person agreed to come along. The car was a two-seater.
“I hope you don’t mind,” I said. “Obviously, I’m going to have to sit on your lap.”
“I don’t mind at all,” he said. “In fact, I shall enjoy it.”
I sat on his lap, and he put his arms around me. The thing about Englishmen, this type of Englishman, anyway, is that you never know where you are with them. “You can put your head on my shoulder if you want. It’s more comfy,” he said. He began to stroke my hair.
Then he whispered in my ear, “The thing I like about you is that you’re always observing things. Like me.”
Lucinda lived in Chelsea. I jumped out of the car and ran up the steps to her white house. I was shaking a little. “Darling!” I said.
“Oh darling,” Lucinda said. She had just gotten married to a paleontologist and was decorating her house, looking at samples of fabric.
“I think I’ve met a man,” I said.
“Darling. That’s marvelous. What’s his name?”
I told her.
“Oh, he’s lovely. But darling,” Lucinda said, looking at me. “I’ve heard he’s really bad in bed.”
“I know,” I said. “That was the first thing he told me.”
“Well, if he told you, then that makes it okay.” She hugged me. “I’m so happy for you. And don’t worry about it. All Englishmen are bad in bed.”
I went to Rory’s house for dinner. I couldn’t decide what to wear, so I wore my combat pants. I was nervous. And who could blame me? I had never deliberately had sex with a man who had a willy the size of a little finger before.
“Calm down,” he said airily. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
“I like your apartment,” I said. It was filled with overstuffed couches and armchairs and antiques. It had a fireplace. There was quite a bit of chintz, but I didn’t think that much about it, because most English people who live in Chelsea have chintz.
“Oh yes,” he said. “It’s terribly . . . cozy, isn’t it?”
Then we drank champagne. American men almost never drink champagne because they think it’s kind of a sissy drink. Then we put on music and danced madly. American men almost never dance. And then it hit me.
Ohmigod, I wanted to scream. You’re gay!
Of course. The champagne, the dancing, the chintz . . . the only men who were like that in New York were . . . gay.
I turned down the music. “Listen,” I said. “There’s something important I have to talk to you about.”
“Yes?” he said.
“You may not be aware of this . . . in fact, chances are that you’ve probably been wondering yourself why it is that you don’t like sex with women . . . but honestly, I think you’re gay,” I said. “And I think you should admit it. I mean, wouldn’t you be much happier if you were out of the closet?”
“I have considered that very possibility,” he said slowly. “And I have come to the conclusion . . . that I am not gay.”
“Gay,” I said.
“Not gay,” he said.
“Look here. You don’t like sex,” I said. “With women. You don’t like sex with women. Hello? What does that tell you? Of course, I don’t mind at all. You seem like a very nice man, and—”
He said, “I’m not gay.” And then, “I know you’re going to kiss me.”
“I’m not going to kiss you,” I said.
“You are going to kiss me,” he said. “It’s only a matter of time.”
