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is that hint of viciousness directed at me?
    “Sorry,” I say with a shrug. “But you can still watch the game. Raphael and I will be quiet.”
    He snorts at that. “Trace, Raphael isn’t even quiet in his sleep.”
    He’s right. We shared a room with him at Kate and Billy’s Hamptons share in July and the air was fraught with deafening snores and anguished—or perhaps libidinous—shrieks. I probably should have thought to warn Jack that Raphael talks in his sleep. And that he sleeps in the nude.
    “Well, lucky you, he isn’t sleeping over tonight,” I tell Jack.
    “Yeah, lucky me. I’m going to change into my sweats.”
    “Sweats?”
    “What’s wrong with sweats?”
    “Sweats are just too…”
    “Too…what?” he asks. “Too comfortable? Too hetero? Too…?”
    “Dumpy. I mean, come on, Jack, we’re having company. And you know how Raphael is. He’ll be dressed up.”
    “So you want me to dig out my feather boa and hot pants so he and I can be twins?”
    I have to laugh. “No, just at least wear jeans, okay?”
    “Is a sweatshirt out of the question?”
    “Only if you were planning to wear the hooded one with the broken zipper and the bleach stain on the front.”
    I can tell by his expression that he was.
    “What’s wrong with that one?” he asks. “Too dumpy?”
    “Too Unabomber.”
    He scowls.
    “Don’t be mad, Jack. Come on. Cheer up. Do you want to invite somebody over, too?” I ask in my best toddler-soothing voice, thinking maybe poor Jackie wants a playdate, too.
    “Like who?”
    “How about Mitch?”
    Mitch is one of his college buddies who recently moved to Manhattan and doesn’t know many people yet. I keep meaning to fix him up with one of my friends, because it’s a sin to let a cute single guy go to waste in this town.
    “I can’t invite Mitch,” says Jack, who needless to say doesn’t share my views on cute single guys going to waste.
    “Why not? He’s probably sitting home alone.”
    “That’s better than being pounced on by a horny queen who thinks every single guy in New York is secretly closeted.”
    “Horny queen?” I echo ominously. “That’s really mean, Jack.”
    “It’s also how Raphael described himself in the last personals ad he ran.”
    That’s right. He did. And he meant it in a most complimentary way.
    He got a ton of responses, too.
    “Don’t you remember what happened when you invited Raphael over the night Jeff was in town?” Jeff is an old frat brother of Jack’s.
    Feigning Alzheimer’s, I ask, “No, what happened?”
    “For starters, Raphael gave him a lap dance.”
    “Oh, yeah.” I shrug. “I guess you won’t be inviting anyone over tonight, then.”
    “I guess not. You’re lucky I’m staying home at all.”
    I’m lucky he’s staying home? Is it me, or should he be wearing a wife beater and belching down canned beer when he says something like that?
    “I’m going to change,” he says, planting a cozy little kiss on my nose, and I promptly decide to let him off the hook.
    You can’t really blame a guy for being a little cranky under the circumstances. In fact, how many straight live-in boyfriends would shave, and put on a nice polo shirt and clean jeans for a horny queen?
    That’s exactly what Jack does.
    He emerges from the bathroom in a mist of air freshener just as I’m about to open the door for Raphael.
    “Is that Lysol?” I ask, sniffing.
    “Room spray. Gristedes was out of Lysol.”
    “Snoopy Sniffer is going to comment,” I warn him.
    Raphael’s nose is even more discriminating about scents—good and bad—than he is about fashion.
    Jack shrugs, and I open the door.
    First, I should point out that with his Latin good looks, Raphael is a dead ringer for Ricky Martin. Rather, Ricky Martin is a dead ringer for Raphael because, as Raphael likes to say, he himself is still hotter than hot and Ricky is more over than pink tweed bouclé.
    I should also point out that Raphael is dressed in red from head to