Link & Think: Cocktail Conversation

Originally published on May 22, 1999.

Jeff and I are lingering near the buffet, jealously coveting what remains of the hors d'oeuvres. However, since I was late to arrive to the party, what remains is merely a few molecules of hummus, a slice of veggie pizza that no one dares contemplate and roughly 500 mini-quiche of indeterminate content.

Jeff has no qualms about the quiche, and punctuates our conversation by popping them into his mouth at random intervals.

"So I told him I saw the same shirt at Goodwill for $1.25—" (Pop. Pause.) "—and his little shit-eating Mark Shale grin just slid right off his face."

Since I haven't seen him in almost two months, I am delighted by Jeff's company, but not by this particular bit of chat, a litany of fashion-victim reports from the bars. I scan the room in hopes of finding something juicy and gossip-worthy. Jeff knows Everything about Everyone who is Anyone, but just now, I can't unearth any subjects about which I'm curious.

I only vaguely know the host of this party, an A-Gay who made his pile through treachery and smart investing and now, as nearly as anyone can ascertain, sustains his fortune merely by making a few phone calls a day and spending the rest of his day ensconced in a Clayton office, scowling at computer printouts.

More interesting, visually at least, is his partner Darin. A former circuit-fixture, Darin all but disappeared from the scene a few years ago. Buff and beautiful, feckless and charming, his absence was noticed at the very first tea-dance he missed. Gradually, word trickled back that he'd been caught by the aforementioned A-Gay and installed in this very Central West End apartment as the latest Hubby to the Rich and Fabulous.

News also reached the party set, through a somewhat more convoluted set of correspondents, that this was no short-term romance. The A-Gay and Darin were set up for permanent housekeeping. Oh, and by the way, rumor had it, the A-Gay is dying.

"Sweetie, could you peek behind that fern stand and tell me if there's an electrical outlet?"

I turn back to Jeff, and he repeats his request. Trying to balance my drink and the piece of salmon-encrusted filo I managed to snag from a passing cater waiter, I bend slightly to my left. "Yes," I say, "there is an outlet back there. Why? Do you have a set of hot curlers in your pocket?"

"No," Jeff replies. "I'm just happy to see you. Did you happen to notice, when you went to the john, if there were three bedrooms or four?"

"I didn't notice, and what's with the sudden interest in the local architecture?"

Jeff momentarily contemplates scarfing another quiche, decides against it, sips his rum and coke and whispers conspiratorially, "There are rumblings that there may soon be a vacancy at the Hotel Set-for-Life."

Two thoughts occur to me simultaneously. The first is that, absurdly, with gaggles of gorgeous men present, Jeff is spending his time cruising the apartment. The second is that Darin is nowhere in sight.

"Two words," explains Jeff. "Separate vacations." Darin is in Mexico for two weeks. The A-Gay is headed for France just after his lover's return.

"Really!?" I say. This certainly qualifies as Good Dish, primo stuff. Darin and the A-Gay, once they had transcended the jealous rumblings wherein were mentioned terms such as "boy toy" and "sugar daddy", seemed to constitute a model of stability.

"Mmmmm," says Jeff. "I hear they're headed for a cocktail divorce."

An image of a well-sauced Elaine Stritch, robed up as a Sondheim-inspired Judge Judy, flashes through my mind. I shake it, then ask Jeff to explain the term.

Apparently, so the grapevine has it, the miracle of protease inhibitors—mixed into pharmaceutical "cocktails", coupled with prescription steroid therapies and the very best personal training money can buy, have both rescued the A-Gay from the brink of mortality and rendered upon him an outrageously wonderful body to match his outrageously wonderful bank balance and lifestyle.

Thus equipped, A-Gay suddenly finds himself beset with offers of, well, shall we say, companionship from boy toys with which the likes of Darin can never compete. And, Jeff further elaborates, the A-Gay has accepted many of the offers. Many, many of them, it seems.

"I am thinking," Jeff says, "of tossing my hat into the ring."

Jeff is joking, of course. For his gossipy bluster, he too is appalled that the A-Gay's vision is blinded to Darin's long-standing loyalty and obvious affection. From what I know of the pair, though that is precious little, Darin loved—loves—the man, not the money. And the A-Gay, so most believe, loves the Darin, not the Adonis.

So, a "cocktail divorce," then. Neat as you please.

The party is starting to wane, the complicated algebra of an open bar in a swank apartment balanced against gyrating flesh on a dance floor somewhere in the city beginning to work its way through the brains of the circuit set and effecting departures.

As the crowd thins, I notice finally the host, the A-Gay, surrounded by a worshipful crush of bedmate-hopefuls. I note, with no surprise, that our Jason is among them. As a relatively fresh face in town, he may triumph tonight.

I finish my beer and amble with Jeff to the door, mentally adding "temporary insanity" to the list of noxious side effects the current regimen of AIDS drugs entails. I think of Darin, who went south of the border as his relationship, beyond his control, simply went south and hope that it is, indeed, temporary.

Jeff is making a comment about the size of the coat closet in the foyer, and how there's scarcely room for two furs, but his heart isn't in it.