afterword: where are they now

Most of the names in this book have been changed and certain other details adjusted to protect the identities of the gentlemen involved. While a few are now off my radar, like Wheelchair Mike and Brown Lips, I’ve kept tabs on most of the others, and quite a few have read and approved their sections of this narrative, as awkward as that may sound. (I knew that despite my attempts at disguise, each would recognize himself if he ran into the book, and other people might, too. So I asked them to read what I had written and see if they agreed that this was what happened. In most cases, I made any changes they suggested.)

Here’s a rundown.

Humberto: About six months after our rendezvous, the crew was working at another house in my neighborhood. Humberto started coming over at lunchtime, eating at my kitchen table. I didn’t mind; in fact, it seemed sort of sweet to me that he felt we were friends after what went down. We talked about his brother, who had ended up back home in Salvador for now.

After about a week, though, somebody ratted him out, and his boss, who is a friend of mine, came over to find out what was going on. I blanched when I realized how angry he was and how much trouble Humberto might be in. I tried my best to minimize the situation, saying that we were actually friends and he did nothing wrong, and please, please don’t fire him. Anything that was out of line was my fault.

The boss gave me a look. Okay, he said, but he has to learn how to behave with clients. You’re not helping him if you encourage him to be unprofessional.

About a year later, I wrote down the story, changing some identifying details to confuse the INS in case I published it. Since Humberto couldn’t read or speak English, I couldn’t get his comments. I doubted he would ever even be aware of its existence, but his boss definitely would. So I had my friend over one day and said I wanted to show him something, but he had to promise he wouldn’t take any action based on what he learned by reading it.

I’m not sure he would have stuck to his agreement, but he didn’t have to—it turned out he had already let Humberto go for inappropriate behavior with another lady whose house the crew had been working at. Apparently this woman had received his advances less enthusiastically than I had. And she was not the only one. Meanwhile, in addition to the family I had heard about in his home country, there were apparently also some little Humbertos living in Atlanta.

Oh, well. I guess we already knew I was an idiot.

The Underwear Model Biologist: When reached by e-mail, he agreed to review his chapter. He was basically flattered at his portrayal but suggested I make a couple small changes to further conceal his identity. The most amusing one was changing the long, inscrutable technical title of his cancer research paper to a different long, inscrutable technical title.

Uncle Norm: As of season eleven, he still shows up for an occasional American Idol with his take-out Chinese food and his clever little dog, whom we took care of one time when Norm was out of town. He is still dating the yoga teacher he met on Match.com.

Bmoreguy: Remember, he wasn’t interested in me “carnally.” Sadly, this guy had a second chance to reject me when I relapsed on OkCupid and Plentyoffish about a year after meeting him through Match. He favorited my profile the second I put it up. I couldn’t believe it. But when I wrote and reminded him who I was, it turned out that he hadn’t recognized (or remembered) me. Sorry, my mistake, he wrote. In reply, I told him I was writing about my experiences and that there was a mention of him—would he like to see it? He demurred. He said he wasn’t worried about being “outed,” but would prefer not to be in my book, as he “has always been repulsed by authors who manage to profit by telling stories about others’ personal lives, or by portraying real people in a less-than-positive light, no matter how disguised they may be; the author still knows their real identity, and it seems like thievery somehow. I think we might have even covered this peccadillo of mine when I mentioned that I had disdain for The Wire and for David Simon, for this reason.”

Let the repulsion and disdain continue.

Arnie: While a touch concerned about his portrayal in the book, he was most unhappy about the pseudonym Arnie. However, he had no other ideas, and did agree that it was better than using his real name. As former Greenfields campers, Arnie and I have remained friends, and hope to plan another reunion sometime. He called the other day and filled me in on his last few relationships, which turned from potential soul-mate situations to frustrating and confusing disasters. One girl had a brain injury where she couldn’t retain visual memories, so she couldn’t recognize Arnie, say, when he came out of the bathroom, or from one date to the next. It definitely made for trouble. Another one, with whom he was sure he had a very intense connection, called the cops when a bouquet of flowers he had sent to her arrived on her doorstep. He is a romantic soul, and still very much looking for love. Too bad we didn’t click, but in retrospect, we really didn’t.

Brett: Still has ridiculous power over me—conceptually, I mean. I haven’t seen him again since the Ravens game with the purple coleslaw, but revising the chapter about the kisses was almost as dangerous as experiencing them. His response to reading it was, “Jesus. What a doucher. This guy is a total loser, great kisser or not. I am sorry. Being the private person I am, if you decide to publish this, I would ask that you change enough things to make me unidentifiable. Not only do I value my relative personal anonymity, but I’d also be embarrassed for anyone who knows me to see what an ass I can be.” So actually, Joe Fiennes is not the movie star he looks most like. Anyway, I need to stop writing this paragraph before I get sucked into the vortex yet again.

J.J. Johnson: This guy is a prince among men and was very nice about his chapter in the book. He complimented my memory, corrected tiny details of his backstory, and asked if I still had a cute butt.

The Walrus: Jane and I still go see him in his parade every year, and he is always sweet and welcoming. He said it was a very strange experience to read about himself in my manuscript. He had no corrections and said he was mostly flattered, though he did not think it suitable for family and friends.

Zach Silverman: I had to take a deep breath before I showed it to him, because I felt particularly stupid about this incident. Like Brett, he was appalled by his own behavior. He was glad I had explained how drunk he was.

The Pheromone King: We are still in close contact, though every time I talk to him he seems to suggest that he is on his way out of this life very soon. He has been an invaluable source of support and information during this whole hepatitis thing. I hope he gets a liver transplant and outlives us all.

The Brainiac: He thought he came off pretty well. He seemed to like being called the Brainiac.

Crispin: He has firmly stated his intention never to read this book, and I support that decision. Not because I am worried about how I portray him, or our breakup, but because even after all that has happened, it would kill him (or at least make him very ill) to read these stories about me and other men. We remain friends and cordial co-­parents. As of this writing, he is still single . . . as far as I know.

At this point, I have accepted the permanence of my tattoo of his initials. I think it’s better to live with the evidence of that mad love than to try to cover it up or remove it. Passion leaves marks.