PERSONAL ESSAYS

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Reed is asleep on the couch in the living room under the skylight. He's wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts and a pillow over his head, and the sun, I must admit, is glinting off his rather impressive pectoral muscles. He groans from the couch, then flexes his abs, then rolls over. He's like a 190-pound cat.
   In the kitchen, Aaron, the lead singer of my brother's band, Fractious, chats on the phone with a booker for a rock club in Baltimore. His long hair cascades to his shoulders in dark brown ringlets, and, when I look at him, it's like looking at the ghost of Brandon Lee.
   "Do you want a hazelnut latte?" he asks. "Oh don't worry, I'll just make a whole batch!"
   In 2002, I lucked out and happened into a bit of high tech money that allowed me to buy a large-ish house in South Austin, just a few minutes from downtown. There are hardwood floors, a huge stone-tiled rec room, and a babbling pond in the backyard. There's even a raised deck with a large hot tub. It is far too much house for one person, and I was immediately struck with a deep and sickening guilt for owning so much enclosed space, and filling it with nothing but the echoes of my gentle, lonely weeping.
   I solved the problem of my loneliness, and as a bonus, cut my daily chores in half by inviting a friend to sleep in the empty second bedroom after he lost his job, his girlfriend, and his house in a office romance / roommate threesome gone horribly awry. He moved in immediately and stayed at my house for six months without paying a dime of rent.
   The thing is, I work from home. And I don't have much of a nightlife. And in the last three years, I

We are adults, we are attractive, and our eyes burn with hot monkey lust.

haven't dated a single girl who lived in the same city, let alone the same state, as me. Ah, my cruel mistress, Internet dating. My point, there's not a lot of other people in my day-to-day life. My dogs can only listen to me talk for so long.
   So having someone around, someone who is essentially being given room and board in return for keeping me company, is really handy to have.
   I had a houseboy.
   It was great.
   Dakota stops in on the Ben Brown Home For Wayward Boys on a daily basis to find Reed, Aaron, my brother Alex and me lounging about on the couches, watching a DVD with the surround sound pumped all the way up. He's tiny and redheaded, like a pixie on fire. His shirt is cut on the bias, and his pants have something written around the waist, where the belt should be. Dakota is a graduate of the home; now, he lives in his own house a block away. He wanders into the kitchen to pick up an organic energy bar and a bottled water.
   "What are you guys up to?" he says.
   "Lounging," says Reed.
   "Excellent," he says, and plops down onto a free spot on the sofa. He rests his feet on an ottoman, and, lighting a cigarette with a smile, looks at me. He's like a Diesel advertisement, or perhaps something out of a Prada catalog.
   All day, every day now, I'm surrounded by these boys, these stylish, attractive, talented young men. We talk about politics. We eat together. And when the layers of pot ash and wine glasses get too deep, we all pitch in and clean the house. It is a trade off — they eat well, drink well, and are allowed to pursue their creative and/or slacker lifestyles. And I get attention. Lots of attention.
   One night, I'm out with a woman. We're making out ferociously at a stoplight, and I have an iron grip on her upper thigh. There is no confusion about my motivation. We are adults, we are attractive, and our eyes burn with hot monkey lust. She bites my lip and I shudder from head to toe. Then I feel another shudder, this one located in my left pants pocket.
   "Shit," I say. "Phone."
   I pull my phone out and hit the talk button. It's Aaron. He tells me he'll be staying at his girlfriend's house tonight.
   "That's too bad," I say. "I was going to cook a pie tonight."
   "Ooh," he says. "Maybe I can convince my girlfriend to stay over there instead."
   I hang up with a smile on my face and turn back to my lady friend, but when I lean in for another kiss, she pulls back with a strange look on her face.
   "You are so gay," she says. "This always happens to me. You're totally, totally gay."
   "What?" I say. "Me? Gay? Why? "
   "You and all your boys. Every time I come over to your house, someone is wandering around in his underwear. I've seen more of Reed's body than I have of yours!"
   "Well, he's very good looking," I say.
   She sighs, and drives me back to her place, where I behave in a thoroughly heterosexual manner.
   When 50 Cent shows up at an award show followed by eight strapping lads in matching outfits, nobody blinks an eye. He's got a posse of men who share his interests, and he likes to spend time with them. Does this raise questions

There are times when, in a very platonic way, I love my boys.

about his sexual orientation? Of course not, and he'd shoot you for implying so. But apparently, when I surround myself with a similar posse of men, it means I like to have sex with them.
   Sure, there are elements of homoeroticism in my relationship with these boys. I feel close to them. I care about their well-being. Heck, I'd even be willing to say that there are times when, in a very platonic way, I love my boys. I love them like a nun who runs an orphanage — the kind who neither abuses nor forces her charges to become pocket-picking street urchins. It's a wholesome and totally normal relationship.
   I share this problem of perceptions with one of my heroes, Bruce Wayne. The relationship he had with his young charge, Dick Grayson, met with similar sideways glances. But was he committing buggery with his sidekick? Absolutely not! During the day, he helped Dick, who had fallen on hard times, through the difficulties of young adulthood, supplying him with the necessary tools to become a responsible and educated member of society. And at night, they put on tight spandex outfits and fought super villains.
   Did Bruce love Dick? Of course! But did he love him? No, the spandex-clad man-boy love is reserved for another reclusive billionaire.
   When I woke up this morning, Reed was sleeping on one couch, and my brother was sleeping on the other. Aaron was lying on his bed in the corner, typing on his laptop. I walked in, wearing my bathrobe and holding a cup of coffee, and smiled. It makes me extremely happy to see these boys slumbering in my house, like the proud bastard father of this mix-mash community.
   Aaron looks up at me with a smirk. "Jesus, dude," he says.
   "What?" I say.
   "You kept us all awake last night."
   "Oops," I say. "Sorry."
   "No need to apologize," he says. "But, I think your brother has been forever traumatized. I don't think he sees you as the kind of guy who makes girls scream like that."
   "See!" I say. "I am so not gay."
   "Who said you were gay?" says Aaron.  n°

©2005 Ben Brown and hooksexup.com

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Ben Brown is the author of TV! TV! and Tidalwave Of Doom, novels which remain remarkably unpublished. He writes daily at www.blog.benbrown.com, and lives in a house filled with semi-employed young men in Austin, Texas.