SHAVINGS FROM MY HEAD

After a sweep of unrequited looks, as he continued to survey the collection of youthful gym gods that congregated near his table at the popular West Hollywood Starbucks, Noel thought to himself, old age is going to be very lonely. That particular Starbucks was the place to see and be seen, to meet and hook up. For decades his libido had been paramount to his identity, Starbucks the additional branding, the epicenter for infusing sex and caffeine into his system.
Armed with a magazine (for cover) and a grande’ vanilla latte’, he continued to drink in the local landscape of gays. Flip, skim the page, sip of latte’, survey the boys. Nothing. Flip, skim the page, survey the boys, another sip. Again nada.

Maybe I’m just having an off day, he thought. Or maybe it’s a cue that middle age is leaving its mark. No curious glances returned. No knowing looks in his direction. No raised eyebrow or interested smirks. Only indifference.

Yet everything else seemed as it had always been: percolating with lust. From underneath the row of hunter-green umbrellas that lined the buildings lemony exterior, the same etched, exposed torsos baked in the afternoon sun. Dogs languid from the elevated temperature, lay at the feet of their Adonis-like masters—their panting, an obvious demonstration of the reason for the congregations’ committed attendance. An abundance of white paper cups sleeved in cardboard marked the tables like a formation of dedicated soldiers. The candy-striped crosswalk that scored that particular stretch of Santa Monica Boulevard, as always, continued to deliver freshly buffed boys from the gym across the street. Like tally marks on a timesheet, their flawless, youthful attributes only seemed to prompt further thoughts of his greatest fear: that he was vanishing.

Maybe it’s finally here Noel thought, continuing his repetition of flipping, sipping and cruising. Maybe it’s my turn….to enter invisible territory.
When he reached the back of the fag-rag he’d been pretending to read, page after page of hunky models and masseurs provocatively smiled up at him. And he began to consider the prospect of exchanging human contact for cash.

Seven hundred and eighty three days until my fifth birthday, he thought as he drank in page after page of hot, hunky men---all accessible at a price.
Along with the covert birthday countdown, he’d been silently scrutinizing his sex-appeal-shelf-life. On that particular day, the young bucks of Starbucks made him feel as if he were rapidly approaching an expiration date---which would lead to the inevitable: no date.
Able to pass for younger---ten years younger so he’d been told---Noel’s youthful, boyish looks had successfully carried him through his twenties, thirties and, until now, most of his forties. But with each unreturned glance, only the coffee in his hand felt hot. He’d been steeping in his sexual self-worth ever since he’d come out, and it appeared to cooling off. In the past, whenever he felt a flood of desire, all he had to do was gaze with intention and it would garner the necessary response---sometimes Mr. Right and other times Mr. Right-now. But with the current barometer shift in status and fifty hovering only seven hundred and eighty three days away, procuring the touch of another man by means of money began to appeal to his practical nature. He wondered if there were others like him, others counting, trying to decide between resignation and the rental of companionship.
He looked back to the pages of men with pagers, and back to the idea of trading kisses for cash. To Noel, the prospect of paying for intimacy felt better than public displays of unreturned desire. And oddly, the more he thought about it, the more comfortable it felt, familiar even. Because at the age of seven, trading valuables for affection was how it all began.




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Leslie Guthrie was not your average seven-year-old girl. A rambunctious pixie that happily existed beneath a disheveled mop of flaxen hair that corresponded perfectly with her sunny, unabashed approach to all things second grade. Boys were at the top of her list of interests, her favorite being Noel. Only days into second grade the pair united over a game of hopscotch and became inseparable.
It was because of her bold approach that Noel grew to love her, to crave her attention. He loved her more than Kool-Aid and Nilla’ wafers. More than finger paint and construction paper---even more than her twist and turn Barbie. But most of all, he loved her because she gave him kisses in the coat closet at the back of their classroom. Soft, wet little kisses that made him feel special, wanted.
At home he felt forgotten, or lonely, invisible to his parent’s scope of being.
As the school year developed, Leslie’s affection, her attention and her kisses became invaluable to Noel. He always wanted her nearby. And he wanted to keep her happy. He decided to do what his father did to restore his mother happiness every time they yelled and she cried. He would give her a present.
Being an average second grader, Noel was void of monetary acquisitions.
With nothing of his own to give her, Noel did what any sensible boy of seven would do: he turned to his parents for help. More specifically his mother.
On her dressing table, was a large, midnight blue velvet box trimmed in pearls and chunky metallic braid, its contents a variable mother-load---brimming with jewelry. To Noel, although everything in the box seemed valuable, life was simple and thus, everything held equal value to him. But he did however understand that if something from the box was worn a lot---his mother’s favorite---it was worth more. If it was a favorite of hers, then surely Leslie would love it too. So he went for popular and then sparkly.


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The next day at school things went along as usual: the pledge of allegiance to the flag, reading from their storybooks, finger painting, lunch, and finally recess. After recess, when the big and little hand on the clock were both on twelve, as they hung their sweaters in the coat closet, Leslie gave Noel his daily kiss. But on that particular Monday, when the big and little hand on the clock both sat on the twelve, to secure her affection, Noel produced something of monetary value. Something he hoped would make him as valuable to her as her kisses were to him. And as it always had with his mother, the sparkly gift worked. Surely it would cover a school year’s worth of kisses he thought to himself after they’d returned to their seats while Mrs. Breadhauer wrote the funny numbers on the chalkboard.


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“Noel, sit up straight and take your elbows off the table please”, his mother commanded in her usual instructive tone, while dishing out the evening meal. With hands washed, manners in tact and stories prepared for dinner hour, Dolores Cavanaugh required the entire family be present for what she referred to as “quality time”.
“So. Boys. How was your day?” she began, kicking off the expected dialogue as she folded herself into her chair and laid the starched linen napkin to rest in her lap.
From his older sister and two older brothers the usual litany of complaints ensued: unsympathetic teachers, injustices on the blacktop and an over-abundance of homework.
He sat quietly trying to figure out a plan for transferring the undesirable contents of his dinner from his place to the dog.
Ring…ring…ring, the kitchen wall-phone rang---assaulting her dinner dialogue like a fire bell.
Noel looked down to the slobbery mouth hovering at the edge of his chair. This would be his chance to dispense with the unpleasant pile of liver he’d been shoveling around on his plate for the past ten minutes. He waited until his mother left the table to answer the phone, then began siphoning chunks of chicken-liver into the dogs mouth. It amazed him that she never chewed anything, just one chomp then a gulp---but perfect for rapidly dispensing of unwanted chicken-liver.
“Hello!”
Chomp, gulp.
“Yes…this is Mrs. Cavanaugh,” she chirped into the phone.
All callers received the same lyrical greeting. No matter how chaotic, it was always the same. One minute she could be screaming bloody murder, and then, ring…her standard, pretend phone voice would emerge.
“Oh…um hum….really?”
“Well…yes. Actually I do.”
Her face began to wrinkle.
Still busy siphoning pieces of chicken-liver from his plate to the dog, Noel should have sensed something was wrong, but the shift went unnoticed.
“Really!?! Well, that would be wonderful. Thank you so much for calling. I’ll have a word with him about it myself. Goodbye!” she said in her Glenda-the-good-witch voice and hung the phone back in its cradle on the kitchen wall.
Happy with his covert disposal, Noel neglected the standard telltale signs of trouble: silence during quality time. Then, holding to her good-witch tone---the same one she also used right before contact with the yardstick---his mother began.
“Noel?” she inquired cheerfully.
Pushing the dog away with his foot Noel innocently smiled up at his mother. “Yes mother?”
“Did you give away my good opal and diamond cocktail ring?” she asked, her voice descending deeper near the end of the question.
Figuring she’d never notice. Assuming it would go undiscovered like all the quarters he’d stolen from her purse, he was unprepared to answer.
“Well…sorta” he replied, testing the waters.
“HOW. COULD. YOU. DO! SUCH. A. THING!?” she roared.
The dog went running and his brothers and sister turned their faces downward to their plates. The rest became muffled screeching until he was sent to his room with no dessert.
Later that night, as his mother tucked him into bed, she ran the palm of her hand across his forehead, brushing his bangs to the side. He hated her now and turned his head away. He thought of Leslie and her kisses.
“Do you know why I got so upset?” she asked. He turned his head further away, burrowing deeper into the pillow.
“Because it’s valuable to me. Your father gave it to me when I was sad, and it means a lot to me. Why do you feel like you had to give that little girl in your class something so expensive? Something so valuable?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Cuz’ she’s nice to me. And…and she holds my hand….and gives me kisses. She makes me feel special. Like…like the ring.”
He turned to meet his mother’s gaze, but she was already at the bedroom door, his words lost in the darkness as he watched her silhouette disappear into the sliver of light and fade down the hall.


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“Is anyone sitting here?” echoed faintly from the depths of Noel’s hazy childhood daydream.
“Excuse me! Is anyone using this seat?” The voice was closer, louder.
A faint shape began to form in front of Noel’s face: the bumpy triangle of a man’s physique formed a construction paper silhouette, the kind he made in elementary school, the kind they glued to paper plates. The harsh midday sun seared his pupils as he tried to fill in the outline. The silhouette shifted. Shade. A creamy face and salt and pepper hair came into focus. Next, welcoming celadon eyes and a gleaming pearly smile flanked by dimples.
“I’m sorry…what?”
“This seat”, the stranger inquired again, motioning to the empty chair. “Is it taken?”
“Oh. Ahh. No. Sorry….I was kinda’ daydreaming.”
“I can see that. I hope it was a good dream’ said the stranger, his green eyes developing a hue of intensity as he took the seat.
“I guess so. A little childish but, I guess valuable.”
“Hum. Seems like most of the things we learn when we’re kids become valuable, precious even.
“I suppose so. The ones we remember anyway. I’m Noel by the way”
“Josh. Nice to meet you. Thanks for sharing your dream space.”
“Sure.”
As Noel said it, their eyes met again, differently. And the nubile Adonis-men began to fade. The sharpness of their chiseled features softened then disappeared into nothingness. He let the fag rag slip from his grip and fall to the ground beside him. Suddenly the costly men seemed worthless.
“So what do you do?”
“I’m a jeweler. Rings are my specialty.”