I do believe the Chambers do keep me around sometimes for the possibility of drama. Gay New Yorkers stereotypically stir the shit, right? I mean how else can we explain the success of Billy on the Street? But I’ve given up the drama. I’m an old man now and I like quiet drama that only I know. When Mr. Chambers was offered a spot in Paris Fashion Week and Mr. Chambers had to stay home to litigate some fucking civil rights case, I was taken with as luggage.
‘You can handle the hat boxes!” he enthused at me. ‘You can carry the Caboodles, darling!’ he shouted as we packed as though it was a great honor.
I could not say no however. Because six years of raving with a man bonds you to him, even if he’s now bonded to another.
And this was the first time we explored the idea of having a sexual relationship outside of the one he pursued with Mr. Chambers. By which I mean, Paris really encouraged us to get romantic. I was sure this was it, we were finally back together, there would be a discussion upon our return to New York and I’d reclaim my place as his partner.
This didn’t happen. We never spoke of it again. I was an accessory. Fashion designers love accessories, don’t they? But the old adage – that one accessory should be removed before one leaves the house – certainly didn’t work in my favor!
We did get a bunch of awesome Paris pictures on our Instagram though. One of him peeing over Pont Des Artes Bridge. One of him adjusting one of his model’s breasts with his non-dominant hand. One of him peeling an orange nude in his bathtub. And finally, one of me from behind in a bathrobe with no distinguishing features, looking straight up at nothing.