Date: Fri, 14 May 2004 06:13:41 -0700 (PDT)
From: dante umbero <danteumbero@yahoo.com>
Subject: Famous Stranger

This is a story of Gay fiction.  If you are offended
by such, you are beneath the age of consent or it is
illegal to view this sort of thing in your area, then
GO AWAY...otherwise read on and enjoy.

This work has a poor man's copyright, please don't
post this to other sites without the authors
permission.

This story came to me while sitting in an airport
trying to remember who a certain handsome set of twins
were that sat across from me.  I must admit I drooled;
they model for CK, "I think..."

Dante--

I knew him, but couldn't place him.  Since receiving
Chemotherapy I just didn't have the memory I once had.
My physician called it "Chemo brain", how charming.
In reality it was an annoying cognitive disability, I
had trouble recalling the simplest information at
times, and yet at other times I could remember the
most obscure fact about an Artist's life or particular
work.  It made me almost regret having survived the
cancer.  I own a fine art gallery, actually two
galleries, one in Manhattan and one in San Diego.
That's what brings me to my present predicament.

I'm sitting in the concourse at Heathrow, waiting for
my Air Canada flight back to Toronto where I'll
connect to New York, I was passing the time with the
latest issue of American Art Review, noting my
advertisement and also reading the article on Sargent,
when a slight disturbance to my left caught my
attention.  A rather tall man with striking features
and spiked auburn hair is having a heated conversation
on his cell phone.  I know I know him, but can't place
him.  I start running through my regular client list
but he doesn't seem to fit there.   He appears in his
thirties, no wedding ring, trendy clothing...hum,
perhaps he's an Artist.  I run that list through my
head and can feel the frustration building.  "Fuck
it!" I murmur to myself and resume the article,
wondering if the author has actually seen any of
Sargent's work.  The man's argument over he drops his
expensive leather carryon beside my chair and flops
down in the next chair a little dramatically.  I move
my legs to allow him room.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to drop my stuff on you."  He
said and I'm rewarded with a mega watt smile of very
white teeth, surrounded by dimples.  "Nothing seems to
be going right today."

I smile in return over my magazine and realize I'm
looking into cerulean blue eyes that are literally
sparkling.  Something clicks in my brain, I've almost
placed him.  I've definitely seen him on the TV, hum,
and then it's gone as quickly.  "Perhaps things will
get better on the flight."  I said in reply grasping
for the ephemeral thought that has evaporated.  "Are
you going to Toronto?"  I asked.

"Yes, thank God, it'll be good to be home.  Although
some people won't think so when I get my hands on
them, the bastard!" he says and scowls.  Then he
focuses on me again and smiles.  Pointing at my
magazine he says, "Sorry, are you an artist?"

I chuckle softly thinking back to old faded dreams and
ambitions, "No, I'm a Dealer."  I said and reaching
into my cashmere blazers inside pocket I hand him my
card.  "Garritt Singer."  I said reaching my hand out
to him.

He switches hands with the card and takes my hand in a
rather firm grip, our eyes meet and my gaydar goes
nuts.  "I'm Steven," he says, "pleasure to meet you.
Have you been buying here in London?" he asks.

"Well, attempting is more appropriate.  One of my
rivals walked off with the prize, I just got second
best I'm afraid."  I said and chuckled again.
Remembering the frustration at not being able to top
Mark's bid of $175,000.00; but satisfied that in the
long run I'd made a sound business decision.  At that
price the Fechin portrait wouldn't make much, if any,
profit.  I had satisfied myself with five other works
by lesser known artists but which would make a nice
profit in the San Diego gallery.


"Are you visiting London or working?"  I asked, hoping
he would say something to jar my memory.  I was
starting to get pissed at myself, after all I am only
42 years old, not old enough for this memory roller
coaster.  I am 6' 5" tall just slightly taller than
Steven, my hair is dark and my eyes are more gray than
blue.  I wear glasses and dress well but more
conservative than trendy.

"Well a little of both I suppose, I came over to do a
spot for the BBC, it is kind of a loan thing with CBC,
and well, I just decided to extend it for a few days.
I'd never been over here before."  He said.

"I hope you enjoyed London, it has a lot to offer no
matter your interests."  I said and resumed my
reading.

I remembered him now; I'd seen his rather banal
interior design show, once or twice, not really my
thing.  I wasn't particularly attracted to obvious
fags; I liked my men a little more masculine than
that, even if I'm a top.  Of course it's not like I
was swimming in men.  I managed the odd encounter with
people I met through the gallery and my club.  I even
went to bars occasionally but my very promiscuous days
were long behind me.  I had never been lucky enough to
find true love, but I'd managed to develop a network
of men, like myself, who played safely but it was
really only about sex.  I had non-sexual friends and
colleagues that I had developed more personal
relationships with.  I am not lonely, and have never
really missed a steady relationship.  I guess what
we've never had we can't miss.

The announcer called my flight and I boarded with
Business Class.  The concierge helped me with my
briefcase and I settled into the large leather seat.
While I was settling in Steven stopped and said, "Well
looks like we will get to know each other a little
better."  He stowed his carryon and settled in the
seat beside me.

"Shit" I thought but said, "How nice, the flight goes
faster if you have an amiable seating companion."  We
were soon airborne and the flight attendant was
conscientious about drinks.  I was drinking mineral
water and refused snacks.  Steven was drinking bloody
Marys and eating everything offered.

"Shit, I'll be hitting the gym three times a week,
next week.  I rather over indulged in London."  He
said.  "I wish I had your self control."

I laughed, "Oh I don't know about self control, I just
can't find the energy for the gym, so I have to
control my intake instead."  I used this opportunity
to look him over openly; he was lithe in build,
swimmer or runner I would say.  His chest looked
fairly developed and his thighs looked muscular, the
crotch fully packed.  The most attractive feature
besides his face was the thick auburn hair that coated
his arms and peeked from the top of his shirt. "You
look fit enough."  I said.

"Well it's true what they say about the camera adding
25 lbs so I need to get at least that much off before
next season."  He sighed.

A silence followed and I dug out my paperwork going
over the acquisitions I had made in the auction
catalogue and trying to decide if they needed a
reframe before they went out to California.  Steven
leaned over the arm that separated us, I could feel
the firm round of his bicep touch mine and the aroma
of his woodsy cologne came to my nostrils.  He said,
"Did you buy the Fechin?"  I must have looked
surprised because he laughed out loud, "I have a fine
art degree.  I wanted to paint professionally and
originally only took this job to make ends meet.
Somehow it's taken over my life and I don't get to
paint at all anymore.  In fact my brushes are stored
somewhere and I didn't even unpack them when I moved
the last time." He sighed.

"No that was the prize that got away; it went for
about a quarter million US dollars.  I just couldn't
justify that expenditure when you look at how much it
will sell for from the gallery.  It won't cover Mark's
travel and shipping expenses."  I chuckled, "He thinks
he's got one over on me, he's wrong.  He'll have that
capital tied up for at least a couple of years if the
market stays strong.  I bought these instead."  I
flipped through the catalogue and showed him the
smaller, less well known American Impressionists that
I had acquired in a weak European market for a strong
California market.  I estimated I'd make at least a
50% profit.  Our conversation brightened and I was
surprised to find Steven knowledgeable and interesting
on art in general and Impressionism in particular.

"I've used copies of Fechin's work in some of my
designs, and one of my clients's had an original that
I had to design the whole house around."  He laughed
and then said more quietly, "You're very lucky to do
something you clearly enjoy so much."

I sensed something deeper and said, "You don't enjoy
what you do?  You seem to be very successful at it."

He smiled and said, "Thanks, but I'm more TV
personality than designer at present.  It's a tough
game at the best of times.  I just wish...oh well."  He
paused, "So how did you manage to become owner of two
galleries at such a young age?"

I laughed, "The flattery is appreciated, thanks, I'm
42.  I took over the business from my Grandfather, who
prefers sunny Boca Raton to the New York rat race.
One of the first things I did was acquire a west coast
gallery.  The market is very strong out there, lots of
disposable income.  It's still possible to go to
London and New York and find California impressionists
at a reasonable price and then ship them out there and
turn a profit."

"Do you represent any living artists?"  He asked.

"Yes, but only a couple at present.  I represent David
Holland, do you know his work?"  I asked

"Why, yes, I do. I met him and Joel once at a party in
San Francisco."  He said and sighed again, "Lucky man,
they seem very happy."

"Yes, some of us haven't been as lucky to find a soul
mate."  I said and sighed also.

"Married?"  He asked.

"Lord, no."  I said and laughed ruefully.

"Gay?"  He asked quietly.

"Quite."  I said

"I'm glad."  He said quietly and sat back up in his
seat, my shoulder feeling much colder and alone
without his weight pressing into it.  I didn't know,
for sure, what had just transpired; but I found myself
idly wondering what that auburn hair would feel like,
smell like, hell even taste like.  I stirred in my
seat to ease the sudden tightness in my crotch.   I
glanced at him and met his smile.

The flight went quite fast actually, he was deep into
telling me about Sanjeev, the man he was currently
living with and who had been the recipient of his
anger at the airport. They apparently had been
together for about a year and Steven had discovered
that he was sleeping around on him.  Steven apparently
had thought they were monogamous; the other guy hadn't
hence the fight.

"So are you currently dating someone?"  He asked.

"No...not really," I said, "I haven't managed to find
someone with whom I could share my life with.  I'm
afraid I'm something of a loner."  How do you tell
someone you just met and who is currently dealing with
a wandering partner that you have a few fuck buddies
you play with but there isn't any real emotional
attachment?   I couldn't so I just left it like that.


I'd had opportunities, of course, to take
relationships deeper but no one every plumbed the
depth of my emotions.  I liked the guys I played with;
I was certainly turned on by them.  Beyond the sex,
though, we had little in common.  One of them from a
few years back had declared he loved me; I had liked
him also, but love?  I wasn't sure I even knew what
that emotion was, beyond my family.

I'd been raised by an ordinary couple my father had
been a lawyer and my mom a social butterfly, they had
let the Nanny and then the housekeeper attend to my
needs while school occupied most of my time.  The only
real family relationship I'd had as a child had been
with my grandparents.  I had spent summers and
sometimes winters also with them in their Manhattan
apartment.  After college and my Grandmother's death
I'd went into the Gallery with my Grandfather.  I'd
learned the ins and outs of the business and after 10
years he had retired to Florida and left me with not
only the business but their apartment as well.  I'd
grown into a tall average built man, fairly quiet but
frequently asked to social functions for my
conversational skills.  I could talk about many
topics, as I had varied interests, but Art tended to
be my center.

"So you're not dating anyone, very handsome and well
set up in life...hum" He said and looked at me a smile
twitching on his lips.

I felt myself blush, "Damn..."  I sputtered, as my
mineral water tilted over from my hand.   I set the
bottle upright and before I could reach a napkin
Steven was mopping the water up with his, his hand
lingered on my thigh and then it was withdrawn leaving
the napkin.  "Thanks."  I said and looked into his
blue eyes, his smile slowly faded and I thought I
could see desire, I turned my head away.  This guy was
in the middle of a messy relationship, he didn't need
me complicating it.

The pilot announced our imminent arrival in Toronto
and we busied ourselves with getting ready for
landing, as the airplane taxied to the gate Steven
asked, "May I call you, Garritt?"

I looked at Steven and thought carefully about what he
asked, "Steven, I'd like that, if things at home don't
work out for you."

At the top of the jet way we paused and I put out my
hand and he shook it.  "It has been a pleasure to meet
you, Steven, I hope things work out."

"Thanks."  He said and I turned and walked toward my
connecting flight.  The trip home was less enjoyable.

I spent the next several weeks busy at the gallery; I
was anxiously awaiting the arrival of the work I'd
purchased in London and planning a trip out to
California with them.  I'd decided on a reframe for a
couple and it was easier to do that in Manhattan.  My
actions were frenetic and I realized I hadn't stopped
since I'd returned, not because the work was that
pressing, but because I didn't want to be alone.  I
told myself it was useless to think of Steven, he was
not really my type.  Too flamboyant, too fem, too gay!
 Bill, one of my buddies, had called soon after I
returned but I'd given a lame excuse and declined his
offer.  I didn't want a quick fuck anymore, I felt
alone and lonely and seeing Bill would only make it
worse.

My apartment, by Manhattan standards, is huge.  My
grandparents had lived in it for twenty years before I
moved in, and my grandmother had liked to entertain.
The formal sitting room and dining room were all
Parisian elegance while the study was English country
style.  The only really comfortable room is the
kitchen with its breakfast nook and I spent most of my
time between there and the bedroom.   It was, however,
very convenient to the gallery and, of course,
economical so I stayed.

I was sitting in the study working out my travel
arrangements to the west coast when I was interrupted
by the phone.  I picked it up and didn't immediately
recognize the voice.

"Garritt, how are you?  This is Steven."  My heart
gave a funny skip and my mouth went dry.

"Steven, how nice to hear from you, I...uh...take it you
made it home alright." I said.

We talked for an hour, about inconsequential things.
He asked about the business, I told him of my imminent
trip to the West Coast.  I asked about his weight
loss, he laughed.  We laughed.  I was captivated; I
was hard as a rock.

"I've never been to San Diego; I've heard it's
beautiful."  Steven said.

I paused for a second then making up my mind I said,
"Why don't you join me?  I'll be tied up with the
gallery for a couple of days but I'd be happy to show
you what I know of the city after that."  My heart was
in my throat with anticipation.

He laughed quietly and said, "Well I'm at loose ends
for a few weeks, and I'd love to get out of town and
away from things for a while."

"How are things with, your boyfriend....I'm afraid I
don't remember his name." I asked.

More laughter, albeit rather bitter, "That shit?  He's
gone and I was glad to see the back of him."

We talked on about travel arrangements; I invited
Steven to the gallery function I was preparing for the
exhibition of the works from London.  It would be a
small chic affair with lots of affluent collectors.  I
thought he would be both entertaining and entertained
by the function.  By the time we hung up I was both
nervous and excited.  I hadn't been this nervous in
years, "Fuck, he's just a friend to hang out with."  I
told myself, all along realizing that I already
thought of him differently.  "Shit!"

To be continued.....