Dessert

We all stared at each other. Robert, Steven, Joseph, David, John, Michael, William, and me. James. All eight of us. My thirtieth birthday and here we sat at Philadelphia's hippest cafe, the prime table in the front corner on the second floore, overlooking Rittenhouse Square. The waiter had brought a huge piece of double chocolate mousse cake, a delectable chocolate frosting, a wisp of whipped cream, ornamented with fresh raspberries on the side swimming in a raspberry sauce. I had just blown the single candle out after a rendition of "Happy Birthday" screeched out by the seven out-of-tune tenors sitting at the table with me, the birthday boy.

I was never very good at this after-dinner game of blinksmanship between us. So who'd take a bite first? I suppose I should, because after all it was my birthday, but I always took the first bite! And ended up eating more than my fair share. We'd been doing our birthday dinners for six years now, all eight of us. A perfect tradition, since the eight birthdays were spaced evenly throughout the year and didn't fall on family holidays. Boyfriends came and went, we moved across town, we had heart-rending affairs and turbulent job crises, but these birthday dinners were our tradition. And so was this game of cat and mouse. Who'd go first?

Thank goodness I still had a 31-inch waist. And rock hard abs, too. And big, manly-muscled biceps. But hey, I was now thirty years old and, thirty's pretty old, you know. So I can't afford to eat a rich chocolate cake. Have to watch my carbs, just like I've been doing ever since I came out and started going to the gym seven days every week. Even on vacation, I'd seek out the Gold's Gym in San Francisco or the Better Bodies in New York or the Mussel Beach in Provincetown or Max's Gym in Boston. Loved 'em all and got my daily pump before heading out to the bars to find the next love of my life.

I looked over at the guys. Robert wouldn't have a piece; he was still smarting over being dumped by Phil the dirt-bag. Steven was out of the question; he was lactose intolerant and chocolate made him fart. Joseph had had a teenage acne problem and stayed away from anything oil-based. David suffered from insomnia and never ate chocolate after six o'clock in the evening. John was diabetic. Michael had had liposuction just after his twenty-seventh birthday and had sworn that he'd never let himself grow a spare tire again. William was wearing jeans so tight they made him look like the cheap tramp on the make that he was. And all seven of them, like me, had the perfect body, the perfect complexion, the perfect hair, the perfect teeth. One bite of chocolate cake and KABOOM.

I grunted. "So which one of you knuckleheads ordered the chocolate cake?"