Walk in without knocking.
Smile at his husband. Say "Hello again" when he comes around the corner. Grin, nervously, as he asks: You ready for this? Your husband knows where you are. This is fine.
And it is.
You're sculpting. Okay. Honesty. Modeling for a sculpter, who also happens to be a family friend. He is older, wiser, flirtier, hornier, and that is all okay.
There is trust between spouses and an understanding about what it is to make art.
"Fags can be friends with fags, too" He told you all once, but staring into your eyes, over dinner. And he's right.
The two of you don't talk much, you don't have to. Not for his sculpting, not for the friendship to build.
Afterward, he cooks you dinner and laughs that George (his husband) will be mad that he missed the juice-iest chicken he's ever cooked.
You down your glass of wine and make an ill timed cock joke. You both laugh, he more politely than you, and you sit on the couch and talk art and nothing for a while.
Before you pass out, he calls you a cab and the cabby (an American who doesn't talk much and has a Taoist book on the bucket seat with him) rolls down the back window and lets the warm spring air rush over your burning cheeks as he drives you back down Water Street.