Talking Art Deco with a Trick (1975)

After the party ended, I was hoping for a trick. What I didn't anticipate was a trick with whom I could discuss art deco architecture. Or a trick with whom I'd want to discuss art deco. Or that we'd be having this discussion on the bare floor of a house in the shadow of a casket factory.

Let's flash back to earlier in the evening.

The setting for the party was someone's house in an out-of-the-way neighborhood. The party began as the bars were closing and the attendees had all learned of it at the bars. Not everyone had been told, of course, but enough that the house was packed with sweaty gay males in their best club clothes. That they were at the party, of course, meant either they were already "partnered" for the night or hadn't found a trick at the bar. If the former, they were looking for more party before tricking; if the latter, they were still looking for a trick. Those not in attendance had either not been told of the party or had already found a trick and considered an after-party redundant.

That I don't remember much of the party itself likely means it was a generic after-party. Drinking, dancing, loud conversation. More drinking, more dancing, some groping. And so on.

The crowd faded away within a few hours, again typical for such a gathering. They half dozen or so of us left knew each other barely or not at all. This unfamiliarity faded quickly too as we paired off. One couple left the house, another left the room, and that left us in a bare living room to determine what happened next.

So what would happen next? Was I left with a trick or just someone to talk with?

Neither of us had spoken to the other during the party, neither of us knew each before now, and neither of us probably had an idea of where things were going.

There was no furniture in the room, just a sleeping bag and a few blankets in one corner. So that's where we sat down.

We didn’t lie down, we sat down. Facing each other. Not normal behavior for two guys about to trick. But, then, I don't believe either of us knew if we were going to. After all, we were only together through process of elimination.

He was skinny with tousled hair, and cute in a sort of nerdish way. He was taller than me - who wasn't? - but not by that much. Had I noticed him during the party, would I have put the moves on him? Maybe. Would he have come on to me? I had no clue.

But here we were, face to face, sitting on the floor of an empty room. In the dark except for light from street lights through three bare windows. I looked out the window over his shoulder and saw a factory across the street. The sign in front of it said it was a casket factory. As I said, we were in an out-of-the-way neighborhood.

On the floor below the window I noticed a book, a large coffee table sized book. I could see part of the title from the light through the window. Art Deco. I reached over and picked up the book and began to thumb through it. In the near dark. At least there were some pictures to look at, as best as I could see them with so little light.

"Are you interested in Art Deco?"

His question made me realize that picking up and thumbing through a random book wasn't something I normally did when alone with a guy I was about to trick with. But then I didn't know if we would. Trick, that is. Perhaps now we wouldn't. Perhaps we'd discuss architecture through the night. That would be something I had never done.

"Well, sort of," I replied.

I lied.

I knew vaguely of Art Deco style because of Entre Nous, a gay bar that had opened recently in Knoxville. Everyone - well at least those seeking to appear sophisticated - raved about its Art Deco style. So I'd done a little research about it, though I didn't bother to research what "entre nous" meant. For all I knew, it meant "stylish gay bar with very small dance floor." And my knowledge of Art Deco wasn't much better.

Ironically, given that we were alone in an empty room, entre nous means "between us" used with something spoken in confidence. The phrase may not have applied to the bar, but it certainly applied to our situation.

I needn't have worried. Apparently he knew a good deal about Art Deco and, holding the book near the window light, proceeded to expand my understanding as he thumbed through the pages and discussed various illustrations. I was fascinated.

By his knowledge. By the subject. And by the possibility of architectural style as foreplay.

After a while he put the book aside and we both lay on our sides, face to face, continuing the discussion. Then we both lay on our backs on the blankets and continued talking. About Art Deco, about the house (his friend in the other room lived there), and eventually we stopped talking.

We turned back on our sides, face to face, and held each other. And we kissed and our hands explored each other's body.

And then we tricked. And fell asleep.

On the blankets on the floor of an empty room in an empty house across the street from a casket factory.

I don't recall his name and I never saw him again after that night. But whenever I encounter Art Deco style I think back on that night. I think of what we talked about. And what we did when the talking stopped.

What did we do when the talking stopped?

Sorry. That's entre nous.