I was wiping the santorum off my dick when Mort let it slip.
Santorum is an occupational hazard for gay men. It doesn’t appear that often (most guys have the courtesy to schedule around it, if you know what I mean), but when it does, it can be quite a turn-off.
Unless you’re in love. And that was how I knew I was in love with Mort: Mort’s shit was just a fact of life now. I could deal with his shit and barely notice.
I’d fallen in love with his feet first. Actually, his feet were all I could see under the divider in the men’s room. Most guys use a simple Morse code—one or two taps just to inspire a response. But Mort didn’t stop there. No, Mort had a whole rhythm to his tapping. It was like being seduced by an invisible Fred Astaire. As I watched, those size-12 wingtips tapped out a jazz melody that echoed throughout the room. You could say he had me at ta-da.
And when one of those wingtips softly ventured over to my side of the divider and gently grazed my Top-Sider, the die was cast. I was already infatuated. By the time I finally saw his face and heard his voice, our future was set.
We didn’t see each other often—only when he was in town on one of his mysterious business trips. I figured he was married, and sure enough, he told me all about it one day. He even asked me to go to Bloomingdale’s with him to pick out a dress for his wife. She had a major event coming up, and he was the only person she trusted picking out her clothes. She would never know, of course, that the earrings—big hoops that were just the right size for cockrings—were my idea.
So everything was great for a while. Mort would call me when he was on his way into town, and I’d arrange fun stuff for us to do. Once I took him out dancing, figuring his toilet-stall rhythm would carry over to house music, but it was hopeless. Mort was all jitterbug and jazz hands. Frankly, it was embarrassing. But charming. He looked kind of cute out there, so willing to make a fool of himself.
Usually, I’d just make dinner and we’d spend the night alone. Mort could talk your ear off. He had one of those kindly preacher-like voices (albeit on the falsetto side) that make everything make sense. You think you can do just about anything when Mort encourages you. He asked me once if I thought I was really gay. My head was in his lap at the time. I looked up, wiped my mouth, and said, “Uh, yeah, why do you ask?”
“Oh, just wondering,” he said, leaning back to gaze up at the ceiling. “I hear there’s a cure.”
“Who wants a cure for this?” I asked, and went back to the task at hand.
I loved Mort. I could put up with the wife, with seeing him only once a month or so. I could put up with his two left feet, and the fact that he used his teeth a little too much (if you know what I mean). But then he crossed a line.
“Who are you voting for this year?” he asked.
I dropped a dirty Kleenex into the toilet and ripped the condom off gingerly. Over the running water—getting it warm enough to wash off any remnants of santorum—I laughed and said, “Obama, of course. Who are you voting for?”
And then he looked at me with a combination of fear and arrogance—a look I’d never seen on his face before. “I’m a Republican,” he said quietly. He squirmed a bit, like he was afraid I would hit him or something.
“You’re what?” I asked, my eye on his still-open suitcase.
I didn’t hit him. But still, that was the end of Mort. There’s only so much shit I can put up with.