"No agenda, no secret motives."

Is it possible to have two gay people be friends without . . . .? Whatever.

This is the question my friend Emma posed as we passed messages back and forth last night in Carnegie Hall. I had been trying to get some resolution on our nebulous friendship situation when the start of the concert halted our post dinner conversation. Passing my moleskine notebook, Beethoven's string quartets as soundtrack, we continued it in ink instead.

Is it possible to have two gay people be friends without . . . . What, Emma? Sex? Dating? Where does the line fall between friends and girlfriends? What are we doing?

A while ago I got to wondering whether or not she was just a friend or whether or not she was sending me signals. Existing mostly in my peripheral, the intensity in which Emma sought my friendship seemed to go just a little beyond. She was touchy-feely. I was not by nature. She seemed incredibly flabbergasted by my presence in a way that was reminiscent of teenage crushes. My magic 8 ball said Reply hazy, try again.

There were more mixed signals, especially on Friday when she was cuddling on me while sitting outside on Cattyshack's deck. My incredibly touch deprived body began to feel the pangs of lust while my higher brain wondered what to make of her intense closeness.

"Do you like me?" I asked point blank.

She paused to think.

"When I first saw you I knew you were someone special," she said. "I didn't know it was going to be so hard to get to know you. I couldn't believe that you were single."

Let's just take a moment to review the facts here. (1) I had a pretty girl hanging all over me telling me that she thought I was special. (2) She also couldn't believe that I'm single, which would mean that I exuded some sort of quality that is normally found quite desirable. She even asked me out to go see the Emerson String Quartet as if she magically knew that I am a huge fan of classical music.

So what would your conclusion be? Just friends? Special Friends? Ponder that for a moment.

Later that night, fueled by lust, a lingering buzz, and a desire to be reckless, I asked Emma to go home with me. Nada. I tried to kiss her. Nada. Frustrated and confused, I went home alone. When we got together two days later I tried to get some resolution, or perhaps just apologize for being too forward and perhaps a bit rude.

Passing the notebook back and forth it became more apparent that she saw us as just friends.

"The problem is that benign touching is tremendously gratifying in the sense of being freely interconnected to other people, but it is easily off-putting or misleading."

Misleading? Yes. Therefore my previous conclusion was wrong. We are just friends.

Later on the train ride home to Brooklyn, she said awkwardly, "I didn't realize I had been grossly misrepresenting myself."

"It's cool," I shrug.

"If one could die of embarrassment, my parents would be mourning my loss."

Sigh. I think I'm feeling rather cynical about life and love right now. I'm going to go buy myself a rice krispie treat.