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Why, when we think of the word "motives", do we so quickly link it to the word "ulterior"?

Can we not be motivated in some positive way, free from hidden agenda and often dark intentions? True, sometimes what we say and what we do turn out to be different things; but, personally, that makes me feel less calculating and sinister, and more fluid and adaptable.

There are times when I have a definite motive - a definite goal in mind, a definite set of steps laid out to help accomplish that goal, and definite expectations for the timing and the impact of the attainment of that goal. Motives like doing laundry. Or brushing my teeth. Or masturbating. I know that, with the right amount of Downy, Colgate, or manual friction, I can expect April freshness, kissing fresh breath, or a fresh load of spunk on my stomach and hand. And, except maybe in the case of being desperate to crank one out since the cute Asian kid at the deli gave me a wink with my coffee, none of these activities promises all that much earth-shattering excitement in the undertaking, so, really, who gives a fuck about motive?

But, then, there are things we do such as going shopping, or out to dinner, or out to a bar, that leave room for negotiation. It's the process more than the outcome that matters, so be it this store, restaurant, bar, or that one, our motive - far from ulterior - is alternative: as long as it's the activity in which I wanted to be involved, I'm happy to have whatever happy ending I find. Thus, my referring to this flexibility as having not ulterior, but alternative, motives.

That's why when I had Chevy over for dinner the other night, I didn't consider there to be a single bit of intrigue or artifice, not an item listed on some hidden agenda or a moment of unspoken promise or expectation.

It was dinner prepared lovingly by one friend, for the enjoyment of another - a good time practically guaranteed, full of enjoyable possibilities. And alternatives. Those unwittingly tricky fucking alternatives.

By now, my readers know two things other than beautiful men that I truly love: art, and the act of pleasing others. Seldom can these two be combined with such force and facility outside the bedroom as in the kitchen. So, as is my nature, I went to great pains to prepare and present a multi-course feast for my friend who, coming to my house after a day of teaching mostly talentless, rich, old ladies how to Salsa and Marengue, was going to be tired, famished, and in need of something fresh and delicious to savor visually for a change, as well. Thus, a beautiful dinner was born, replete with carefully selected wines to set a definite mood of comfort and relaxation.

As I am want to do, I checked in with the usual assortment of girlfriends (the ones with real vaginas, and the ones with mere fag-inas) through the whole process. If you follow me on facebook you know I find it necessary to check in every time I change subway lines, shoes, or my mind; the same holds true with my texting and phone calls. But my touching base under such circumstances is part reality check ("Do you think smoking my own salmon is a bit overboard for bagels and lox?") and part gloat ("If you could see my pecs in this shirt and taste this chocolate mousse, you'd fucking cum, and then drop dead"). It's just part of my process.

So, with my appetizers beautifully laid out, I snapped a picture with my Blackberry and sent it off first to Christian.

"Looks great," he said, "but you lost me at the mention of chickenless parmigiana." Chevy's a vegetarian, so I was happy to indulge his needs with something more satisfying than tofu and steamed vegetables. Headed out on a date, Chris had to be brief, but added "besides, I'm sure he'd rather eat you than any of that stuff anyway."

What? I mean sure, I made that crack a few days earlier to Chev that I was in a mood to feed him Italian; but he couldn't have meant little old Neopolitan ME when he responded "as long as the Italian is cute."

Could he?

Trini was on her way to a meeting, but after viewing the picture, chimed in with her two hot little cents.

"That, my sister, is how you answer a booty call!"

A WHAT-y call? We're having dinner. He's really hungry. I mean sure, he stopped home to shower and pack a bag, but that didn't mean he was expecting to get lucky.

Did it?

Elle took time away from her own anniversary dinner preparations (a delicious assortment of upscale takeout menus and frozen appetizers from Trader Joe's) to practically salivate over the phone, "well, if that man doesn't fall in love with you, at least you're guaranteed one hell of a fuck."

One hell of a - now wait a freaking minute! I mean sure, I shopped and cooked all afternoon, and, yes, I put out good china, linen napkins, my holiday stemware, and I used baskets and little cocktail forks and countless other bits of dinner party finery, but this wasn't about getting laid at all! I was, at best, trying to impress my guest, and, at worst, indulging my own ego a bit, but sex? I wasn't trying to initiate anything of the sort.

Was I?

"Lover, don't even try to pretend this isn't about getting that man into your bed," Elle cooed, all smug and all-knowing.

"It is NOT about getting him into bed. It is about really expensive Danish Gouda made with olive oil, and these fucking amazing green olives I stuffed with marinated garlic cloves, and - “

"And romance," she teased, cutting me off.

"Romance is the farthest fucking thing from my mind. Keeping my gnocchi al pesto firm - that's on my mind. Not romance. He's my friend, and I haven't a single romantic - OUCH!"

I pretended to burn myself on the stove; I wasn't about to give her the satisfaction of knowing I'd done it lighting one of the 20 candles I'd placed strategically - unromantically - about the living and dining rooms.

"You know you aren't planning on sitting around watching sports all night. You have... other things planned."

"Yes, Elle, I have movies planned. HORROR movies, because Chevy likes to see things get fucked up and bloody. And I have sorbet planned, because we both like fruit. And I have salad, and dried edible flowers and candied fucking pecans planned, but I DON"T have 'other things' planned so go say 'Happy Anniversary' to Kenny with your uvula, because I have to go float Gerbera daisies on the surface of my reflecting pool."

Yes, I noted my own irony. I don't even have a reflecting pool.

But I did have the Gerbera daisies.

As I stood surveying the spread - and yes, it was both impressive and inviting - I wondered if it did indeed smack of some alternative, if not ulterior, motive. I flat-out rejected the notion.

Chevy and I are buddies. I mean sure, we went on a few dates early in our association, but we're just friends. And five different kinds of savory appetizer spreads have no hidden meaning; they're just for variety. With their assortment of crackers and flat breads...

And I mean, sure, he is seriously handsome and incredibly sexy, but we've known each other through, collectively, about half-a-dozen semi-serious boyfriends. And it's not like I made the marinara sauce from tomatoes I grew in my own yard or anything. The tomatoes came from the produce market.

And yeah, I mean sure, now I'm thinking about those big lips and brown eyes of his, but only because he'll be using them to talk to me and look at me over wine and hummus and hand-painted china plates and beeswax tapers in antique holders. It's not because he's going to want to use those lips, and his tongue, to kiss me deeply or that I'm going to succumb to his eyes searching deep into my own as his hands search my body. They're just eyes, damn it. Big, brown eyes...beautiful, deep, soulful, brown eyes that always probe warmly, unnervingly deep inside me...leaving me naked...and those cheek bones...

"I'm at the train station. I'll be there in a few minutes."

His phone call pulled me back into reality. My friend would be here any minute for dinner. For dinner.

I found a "Family Guy" marathon to enjoy over appetizers. The various courses of our impending meal (damn it, stop saying the word "communion" in the back of your head, you idiot!) were set to various appropriate temperatures. Wine was chilled. DVDs for Boys' Night In were conveniently stacked near the player. In another ten minutes, I'd be kicking back with my pal, laughing and getting comfortable, reconnecting, enjoying the warmth of each other's presence...

Fuck you and your ulterior motives.

Ten minutes. Just enough time to finish setting the dinner table.

And, to run upstairs and light some incense. And put fresh linens on the bed...

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