The first seven days
My and Charlie’s first week together in our new loft was exciting … and a little nauseating — you know, that nauseous feeling of commitment phobia that sets in when gay men begin to realize that they could easily fall off the monogamy wagon … or, for some, choose to jump. I was probably internalizing fear, anguish, despair, and heart palpitations as I watched Charlie commandeer my personal space, but it’s hard to say; the man collects everything from colloquial-emblazoned aprons to Zen Buddhist artifacts.
Our first day as co-homeowners had been spent organizing and decorating a corner of the loft designated by an L-shaped beveled-glass wall as the bedroom. The space is large enough to accommodate a king-size bed, two wardrobes, two dressers, and two nightstands that we had purchased together at IKEA. I know, how gay. We considered buying three wardrobes — explanation is likely moot here — but we decided instead to finally discard all the clothes we’d been saving from our younger years that we hoped we’d someday fit into again. Everybody needs a pipe dream.
Besides, we agreed that both our choices in clothing had instantly doubled … well, unfortunately, except for the footwear. Charlie wears shoes three sizes larger than I do, so his plethora of designer loafers, boots, and wingtips is out of the question, even though I told him I could just stuff toilet paper into the toes. He was not amused. I suppose that’s carte blanche, since he says, when I walk around barefoot, that my feet look like stubs. “How do you keep from falling over?” He jokes. “You look like a pirate with two peg legs!” The scab should be on Comedy Central.
The second day in our abode had been spent unpacking boxes labeled kitchen, about fifteen of varying sizes. Seriously. Charlie loves to cook, which is a good thing, as my diet consists mainly of to-go containers. That day I determined that Charlie has accumulated every kitchen gadget imaginable; if I didn’t know better I’d think he was a QVC addict. My hell, he owns a pasta drying rack! Ummm…paper towels, duh. But we had made it through the day mostly unscathed, and he prepared a fabulous eggplant lasagna — the noodles were perfectly al dente … I think.
The next three days, we spent a lot of time bickering over how to properly do laundry. He insisted on Henrie’s Dry Cleaning, and I said I’d rather have the beer money. Bathroom etiquette had also been a sore spot. He’s disgusted by facial hair in the sink; I’m disgusted by urine on the floor — everyone, penis or no penis, should sit to pee. Not that the entire three days were spent hissing and spitting — we shared in romantic sex … and dirty sex, we laughed a lot at Raising Hope and The Big Bang Theory, and we held each other tightly during American Horror Story — albeit we scuffled a little over who’s bucket list Dylan McDermott should be on, but then it turned into the dirty sex I previously mentioned. All was right in the world.
By day six, we had rearranged the living room — space, actually — furniture no less than a dozen times, and so we agreed to leave our last attempt as is, though it feels to me about as Feng Shui as a Motel 6 lobby. We hung artwork, then shelved my library of books, which inclined Charlie to admit he hadn’t read a book in six months. I was flabbergasted, and it must have been apparent in my expression as he was quick to add that he enjoys books on tape. Oh, good grief!
Day seven was a bit trickier; our families were coming to our housewarming party in the early afternoon, and our friends in the early evening. Charlie and I felt it was best to sequester the two groups — our friends can be … rambunctious, to put it mildly, especially when the Skye is out. Charlie had set the alarm on his phone for six in the morning, which he conveniently neglected to tell me, and when The Muppet Show’s “Mahna Mahna” song filled the room and my head I was ready to spit nails. What self-respecting gay man wakes up at such an ungodly hour — it’s revolting, like pickled pig’s feet, your face just scrunches up into a heap of malcontent.
It took me until noon to finally forgive Charlie, even though he had been nice enough all morning to give me very easy and light tasks to prepare for company. He, however, slaved in the kitchen over the stove, creating a spread as large and extravagant as the Royal Wedding. I kept pointing out to him that my friends have a less savory palate: little smokies, donut holes, cream cheese salsa, Jell-O shots, and pickled pig’s feet. He was not amused.
The party went swimmingly; a steady flow of guests coming and going kept us on our toes, but there were very few tears shed and only one downed drink, which is unusual. All in all, it was a great first seven days.