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a skinny computer geek in my early twenties who’d always watched Jeff from afar, and when one night he’d looked over and extended his hand to me, I couldn’t believe my luck. Jeff O’Brien—he of the blue eyes and six-pack and bubble butt—was asking me to dance.

    And though we never had sex, Jeff dubbed me his “sister” and took me under his wing. Henry Weiner only really came alive under Jeff O’Brien’s tutelage. Jeff got me to the gym. He taught me how to dress. He allowed me to tag along with him in the days when the gay party circuit was at its height. Off we’d fly to San Francisco and Palm Springs and Chicago and Atlanta and Montreal, and in Jeff’s afterglow, I was transformed. He became, in the words of Shane, my own personal deity. Despite the fact that my grandfather had been a rabbi, I’d never believed in God—until Jeff came along.

    It was a pretty heady time, I admit. How thrilling, how completely new, was the experience of being looked at, of being able to take off my shirt at Gay Pride and get barked at by hot boys. I got so buff, in fact, I discovered there were guys who were willing to pay good money just to touch—and maybe lick a little—so, for a time, I was an escort. Jeff called me the Happy Hooker. But I didn’t stay happy for long. Despite all the attention, I felt lonely. Instead of making me feel more special, hustling eventually made me feel pretty worthless. Enter Lloyd Griffith.

    It was, of course, inevitable that I’d meet Lloyd through Jeff, and in the gaze of those soft green eyes, a different sort of fascination emerged. Lloyd had spent many years as a psychologist, though when I met him he was transitioning to his new career running his Provincetown guesthouse. Still, Lloyd knew very well how to zero in on one’s core issues. He helped me to see that my whole life was ego—not just in my need to be physically admired, but in my constant search for external affirmation. By going within—which we did, in long, intimate meditation sessions at sunrise in the stillness of Beech Forest—I was able to find some internal peace and satisfaction. Then, after a sacred sex workshop, we had incredibly passionate sex, and that pushed me over the edge of bliss. In no time at all, I was head over heels in love with Dr. Lloyd Griffith.

    Of course, the feelings for Lloyd went exactly nowhere, and I was soon back to doing what I do best: being alone. I stopped going to the gym. Ice cream became a substitute for all the sex I’d been having. There were brief flickers of hope—named Daniel, named Joey—but always I ended up back in my little apartment above Nirvana watching Good Times on TV Land. When I started responding to ideas with shouts of “Dy-no-mite!” Jeff issued a moratorium on seventies TV shows for a month. I cheated. I was back to J.J. and Maude and Fred Sanford in a week and a half.

    And despite all I’d learned from Lloyd about ego, I can’t deny that I’ve come to miss some of that old external affirmation. Sure, I still try to meditate, and sometimes I still practice little rituals like saying, “I love you, you are good” to my reflection in the mirror. But there’s something about a guy coming up to you on the dance floor, running his finger down your torso, tasting your sweat and telling you, “You oughta bottle this stuff,” that just makes your day.

    Yes, I know all this dependence on my ego to feel good about myself once ensured my downfall. But here’s the thing: I spent too many years on the sidelines to go happily into retirement. My time at the ball just wasn’t long enough. I had, what? Three years? Four at the most. Jeff might be able to sit in on a Saturday night baking brownies and watching old Bette Davis movies with Lloyd and a bunch of lesbian friends—but he had a good fifteen years out there! I’m not ready to fade away like that.

    Is that the reason I’m being so resistant to the idea of Jeff and Lloyd getting married?