The Other Man

Husbands by Austin Bunn-1

Husbands by Austin Bunn

“All actual life is encounter.”

—Martin Buber

This is how I find Daniel in my memory: naked, in my closet, on the phone with his wife.

“Are you in a tunnel?” I heard her ask. “You sound strange.”

“I’m driving with the windows up,” Daniel said. “Love you.” He flung the phone onto the pile of his clothing and slid next to me on the bed, his eyes closed, an over-eager smile warming his face.

Daniel’s photograph, the one he emailed yesterday, showed him wearing a bad tie and seated in an office chair, the ghostly slap of a computer spreadsheet paling his face. He claimed to be a photographer, for God’s sake. Yet the total inhibition of his picture, the complete lack of self-awareness, was somehow the attraction. Or challenge. Or maybe this was charity. I still don’t know. Here was a man who couldn’t see himself. At least he laughed easily. When he did, he barked upwards, revealing a top row of teeth that came to a point, like the prow of a boat.

Initially, Daniel proposed I visit him at his office building during his lunch hour. This was to be my first encounter in a new city, and the thought of s*x on industrial carpeting depressed the hell out of me. Driving to him, anyway, was out of the question. So I invited him over after work. An amuse bouche, I called him. An appetizer. He didn’t get the joke.

He was slim and shorter than me, with tremendously bushy eyebrows. A pelt of black hair covered his body, which I saw as some certification of masculinity, however imaginary. On his Manhunt profile, he said he had “suckable” balls—a straight man’s idea of a gay man’s idea of sexy. I felt like I was providing material to Daniel, fuel for his fantasy life, which I couldn’t help but think, judging by his greediness, occupied increasing real estate in his actual life.

He emailed the following morning, “WOW! Sure would like to get invited back.” He won’t. I expected to date single gay men, not sleep with husbands. Months later, he found me online. He said he was unemployed, home and horny. I wished him luck with the job search. Hey, at least I wrote him. A month later, I received another note. “This is my final email to you. I am deleting the others.”

Nine months later, I was standing in line at the airport security checkpoint and I spotted him, six people back. I waved and smiled without noticing his wife, dressed in a light-blue 1980’s power suit, standing beside him. He looked away and she stared bluntly. Could she suspect nothing? I was in the realm of impossibilities.

The line was long, and for the next twenty minutes, Daniel and I snaked back and forth in the queue, passing each other by inches. I could have leaned over the rope and shattered his world. I was a cold, dangerous fact rising to surface and sinking again. As we shuffled along, I realized that, in the months I’d lived in Kentucky, I’d become the other man for more husbands than I cared to think about. I wanted Daniel to be the last married man I slept with, but he was only my first. I considered waiting for him on the other side of security, even though I had nothing to say. I wanted to prove that I was a nice person, that we shared an afternoon and that nothing washes off. But of course, I terrified Daniel and by some transference of doom, that really worried me.