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Uncommon Ground

Seated by the windows in Common Grounds, Trace grinned nervously as he shifted his weight and redirected his eyes to the marble tabletop. He had allowed his gaze to linger over Élan’s eyes for too long, and Élan had noticed.

Trace their third date, suffused with a feverish expectation, and although he enjoyed the conversation, he was distracted by the thought of their two naked bodies grinding. The anticipation of this moment had already peaked in his pants, and he wondered if Élan was peaking too.

Feeling his cock tingle as it stiffened further, Trace thought about peeling Élan’s clothing from his body and exploring every inch of skin beneath them, and he was happy to think—for once—he was on the precipice of a consensual sexual experience that was free of the clandestine and the cryptic, and he was determined that when they had sex later that night—the lights would be left on.

They had not kissed at the end of their second date, and Trace attributed this omission to the fact they were at a suburban movie theater and parted ways in a parking lot full of families. Hardly, the place for a gay kiss, they shook hands on parting. Their eyes meeting for several seconds over shaking hands satisfied Trace more than a publicly displayed kiss. Driving home, Trace found himself feeling sorry for heterosexuals, for despite their freedoms and codified cultural supports, or maybe because of them, they would never know the quiet intimacy of conspiratorial erections or the swelling of desire that builds with every delayed kiss and redirected impulse. Trace found pleasure in thinking of his oddly privileged position as he realized heterosexuals may have lovers on the side, but they will never know what it is like to love on the side. They could never locate, much less experience, the uncommon province of love, the visceral mid-Atlantic ridge of passion built from the unspoken, unrequited, and undone.

His nerves still reeling from being caught eyeing Elan, Trace redirected the energy by introducing a new topic for conversation: “Do you have many gay friends?”

“Yeah, I have several,” answered Élan.

“I don’t have any,” replied Trace.

“Why’s that?” questioned Elan.

Remembering both of his friendships with gay men failed because of a sexual slippage, the question made Trace nervous, but he decided to answer it honestly: “I don’t meet many gay guys, and when I do, it becomes more than friendship sooner or later—whether I want it to or not.”

Elan responded quickly, “Come to think of it, I’ve had sex with most of my gay friends. Usually, no more than once though.” Élan paused to sip his coffee: “Sometimes, I think sex is a prerequisite for gay friendship.”

Trace pondered Élan’s statement and found himself growing increasingly uneasy: “That’s weird to me. I don’t want to have sex with my friends.”

“Neither do I, anymore, but if you don’t meet many gay guys, which is how it goes in Connecticut, don’t the few you meet have to serve as both lovers and friends?” challenged Elan.

Trace found himself agreeing with Élan’s logic if not his point: “Yeah, I guess.”

“If it wasn’t for my friends, I wouldn’t ever have sex.” Élan lightened the mood with the one-liner and punctuated it with a lighthearted laugh.

“A friend in need is a friend indeed,” quipped Trace.

Élan eyes took on a serious look as he fiddled with the sugar packets on the table: “Besides, with most gay guys, the sex thing hovers over the friendship until you deal with it anyway.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s true,” replied Trace.

“That’s why I’m glad we met; we’re both mature and have our shit straight. We won’t have to deal with that.” Élan eyes searched Trace’s as he spoke.

Despite the sharp ringing of surprise in his ears, Trace smiled as he processed Élan’s comment. Realizing he had unwittingly turned the conversation towards an unspoken agenda, Trace understood Élan had just clarified his position on the sex-between-them question. Deciding he respected Élan’s honesty, Trace negotiated the space between disappointment and frustration with a penetrating interrogative that felt like a declarative: “You see us as friends.”

“Yes,” answered Elan. “From the first night we met, our energy felt more like friendship.”

It did to you: Trace thought to himself as he sipped his coffee and found what was left of it cold and swirling with coffee grounds.

Realizing dates can be as unpredictable as clients, Trace was suddenly very grateful for the professional training that allowed him to maintain a clinical face and used this detached posture to save face with a bit of wit: “Yes, we have a lot of common ground.”

Élan raised his coffee mug and offered a cheerful toast that displayed his own wit: “So, here’s to finding common ground at Common Grounds, a very uncommon find.”

Trace recognized the toast by raising his mug with a conciliatory effort, and as he sipped, he was uncertain if he found it difficult to swallow the cold coffee or the toast. Swallowing the last of the coffee in one gulp, he decided it was better to have Élan as a friend than to not know Élan at all, but he found this comfort as bitter as the coffee as he realized he would not be having sex tonight.

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