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I pitied men who couldn’t live authentically, yet in my gay circles, it wasn’t uncommon to meet a few who had gotten married, had kids, but finally realized they were attracted to the same sex. They’d gotten married to women either out of social norms, family expectations, or figured they’d simply outgrow their orientation.

Cheating spouses always upset me. My father had cheated on my mother, which tore our family apart. Mom got full custody of my brother and me when we were in middle school. My dad ended up with the woman he cheated with after my mom divorced him, but when I was in high school, I found out he had cheated on her as well.

Although I always knew I was gay, I told myself I’d never cheat or hurt any guy. I saw the pain it caused in my youth—and in my profession. I moved to San Francisco from a small town in Colorado straight out of college, knowing the City by the Bay was a gay mecca. I figured I’d find the man of my dreams, but that dream turned into a lucrative career instead.

I watched the two men in the SUV finish their lip wrestling, and after a couple of minutes, they drove off. Camera in hand, I contemplated how best to let my client know what I’d uncovered. She didn’t seem to be the overwrought, hand-wringing type, so I was confident she would accept what she saw and take action with a lawyer or two.

I decided I could hold off on peeing until I got to my office, which was only ten minutes away. I took a quick look at the LCD monitor of the camera to scroll through the barrage of photos I’d snapped. Confident in what I had, I started the car and pulled away from the curb. After what I’d just witnessed, my thoughts drifted to the man I held dear in my life.

I’d known Detective Gabriel Jones for some time through my work with the San Francisco Police Department, but my initial shock at seeing him perform in drag at a gay nightclub with friends had me, as they say, “clutching my pearls” during his performance. He was the most beautiful black man in drag I’d ever seen, and his singing talent took my breath away.

I was fifty years old and still single, but had been happily involved with Jonesy, who’d fascinated me for the past three years. I was no slouch when it came to my looks. I was clean-cut and told I was handsome. My blond hair was thinning a little on top, but I kept it in a tight fade that needed trimming every few weeks. I worked out regularly, ate healthily, and tried to maintain balance in my life. I dressed for success and was proud of my wardrobe, carrying myself with a calm demeanor and a thoughtful perspective on the world, its politics, and that life wasn’t always fair. I saw the latter more than anything in my line of work.

Jonesy and I didn’t live together, out of choice. I’d toyed with the idea in my head after a year of serious dating, but nothing ever came of it. I loved my house, and Jonesy loved his condo. I think we hit an impasse over which one to move into, so we never did. Plus, Jonesy’s aesthetic was mid-century modern, which I thought looked outdated. My taste leaned toward more traditional or contemporary styles with classic lines. I enjoyed yard work, whereas Jonesy was into plants in containers…but only a few, so as not to disturb the modern aspect of his place.

In reality, even though we’d become close, Jonesy wasn’t the romantic type, which surprised me, given his love for the songs he sang doing drag. Most were full of longing, love, and forever. I was the flower-throwing, box-of-chocolates, romantic-setting kind of guy. He tolerated my mushiness, but I knew my limits, so he wouldn’t tease me mercilessly. There were times I wished he’d hold my hand in public, or even give me a quick kiss or two, but it never happened, and I accepted it.

Arriving at my office, I parked, and my first order of business was to empty my bladder. Once that was done, it was almost five o’clock; I figured I’d reach out to my wealthy client before the day ended and set up an appointment. I needed to write up my final assessment in the case file and print the incriminating photos before heading home. My phone buzzed, vibrating on the edge of the desk. The caller ID made me smile.

“Hey, sexy,” I said, accepting the call.

Jonesy chuckled. “Hi there,” he replied without affection, which meant he must be at his desk in the squad room and didn’t want to draw attention to who he was calling. “How’s your day going?”

“I hear phones ringing and conversations in the background, so I assume you’re at your desk and can’t be lovey-dovey with me.” I teased. “Or you’re sitting across from Sean, and he can overhear you.”

“Congratulations…you’re correct on both counts,” he huffed.

“So what’s the pleasure of this call?”

“I wanted to know if you’re not busy tonight, if you’d like to grab dinner later.”

“Ah, you want to wine and dine me tonight. I assume I will end up being dessert?”

“Your assumption would be correct again, Sherlock.”

“How can I possibly turn down such a romantic invitation?” I asked jokingly.

Jonesy cleared his throat. “That’s about as romantic as I can muster, mister,” he replied, keeping his voice low.

“Alright, alright…I’ll spare you the teasing. Since you’re in the squad room. I need to print out some photos for a case, write some notes, then we can meet for dinner. Just give me an hour,” I said, looking at my smartwatch.

“Okay. I’ll pick a restaurant and text you.”

“Perfect. Love you,” I said.

“You, too,” he replied, ending the call.

I knew Jonesy loved me, but damn, it would be nice to hear the actual words from him outside our private moments once in a while. The expressive romantic he was not. It took him a long time to say, “I love you,” even in private, after sharing our feelings one passionate night. I knew I was falling for him shortly after we started dating, and I accepted his slow pace. But now, after three years, I wanted more.

When I confronted him about his lack of romance and affection after a few months together, he admitted his family was not expressive with their love. He grew up in a sports-oriented family where athletics came first. His father was a retired pro football player, and his mother excelled in track and field in college. Even his younger sisters were outstanding athletes—one was an award-winning gymnast, and the other played basketball in Europe. Their way of showing love was through quick hugs and butt slaps.

Like his father, Jonesy focused his athletic talent on football. He attended the University of Georgia on a full-ride scholarship, played wide receiver for the Bulldogs, but realized it wasn’t his professional path after graduation. He’d always wanted to work in law enforcement, and he was good at it. It also made things easier for us because we both understood the lifestyle we’d chosen. When duty called, neither of us felt slighted or as if the job was more important than our relationship. It was simply what we did.

I started out in corporate security, but grew tired of babysitting executives. Fortunately, my reputation followed me into private practice, and I was referred by a few high-end clients to help me get started. Most jobs entailed gathering background information or identifying fraudulent insurance scammers by prominent insurance companies. That was over ten years ago, and work had never slowed down since. I preferred to work alone, although I had Chloe, my secretary, who loved reading detective novels and thought it was her job to keep me updated on what the fictional detectives were doing to solve cases. I took her suggestions at face value, but in real life, what they did wasn’t practical or up to date. Most of the time, I either rolled my eyes or nodded, half-listening to what she’d said.

Chloe had already taken off for the day, so I was left to print the photos and type up the case notes. I sent the client a text, her preferred way of communicating, and told her to get back to me so we could discuss the evidence against her husband. I figured she’d probably want to meet as soon as possible. Just as I finished, my phone dinged with a text from Jonesy about where to meet for drinks and a quick bite.

I was more than enthusiastic about meeting up with him, comparing our day, and then losing ourselves in some horizontal aerobics.