Once Upon a One Night (completed)

Once Upon a One Night Stand


Twas the night before New Years and all through the bar, things were stirring as I entered, instantly smelling nicotine and tar.  Their butts overflowing stools like congealed candle wax, red-nosed fat men sat all in a row.  Even though I just arrived, already, I was ready to go.

  Silver and gold lights swiveled across a barren dance floor as music sounded with the claps of Olivia Newton John’s “Xanadu.”  In a dark corner, leather-clad biker types gathered.  I imagined they whispered about secret bear games, the hairy two-legged, human kind, as they compared metal paraphernalia and admired TV sets displaying images of naked men.  On the screens, a dark haired stud with a brimming smile wore a Santa’s cap while exposing anatomy as long as his hat, but not as saggy. 

         In a few hours, sharp dressed guys would pack this place beyond occupancy, toting drinks and speaking amongst friends with a carefree attitude. Revisiting the year’s escapades with each other, they will not so slyly glance around searching for “Mr. He’ll Do.” -- A mouth to kiss at midnight and a body to take home for the first trick of the year.
         
          My lungs dropped and tackled my stomach at the mere thought of a one-night-stand.  I’d been with Paul since I was sixteen-years-old and missed out on the entire lifestyle -- ten years of wasted time.  I struggled against the urge to turn around, drive home and watch the ball of lights descend over New York in my living room.  Mark drove though, no Dick Clark this year.

         I ordered a Bacardi and coke, a draft with a wedge of lime, and a roll of quarters.

         “Was Santa good to you, Sweetheart?”

         The words came from the mouth of the man sitting next to me.  He smiled up with puffy cheeks and drooping chins.  Dark circles edged his eyes and he licked his lips, not in a seductive way but in a repetitive manner, his tongue coating the top lip with saliva, then the bottom, back up to the top.

         “Yes.”  I returned his smile.  “I’ve no complaints.”

         “Wouldn’t do any good anyways.”  His hand found my buttocks and he squeezed.  “Girl, you’re tight.”

         I‘m not a girl.

         “Thanks,” I said through gritted teeth.  I angled my body to the side and turned my attention to the bartender, doing my best to pretend the old man did not rub my leg.
   
         The bartender poured a plastic cup full of rum and topped it with a splash of coke, just enough to add a tea color at the rim.  I paid him and stuffed the roll of quarters into my front pocket.  The sitting man stared at my coin bulge, and then eyed me with a furrowed brow.  I winked, took the drinks and hurried away.
         
          I found Mark leaning against a wall, one foot propped against it.  In his nipple revealing powdered blue shirt and navy slacks, he stared at the ceiling as he presented himself in what I called the ‘Give me your best shot boys’ pose.  The temperature felt like a hundred degrees, but not a drop of sweat beaded on his toupee-like, black hair.

         “About time,” Mark told me as I set the drinks at the side-runner he occupied. “What‘d you do, import it?”

         Ignoring him, I unraveled the quarters, selected three, and went to a nearby pool table.  I inserted the money and heard the satisfying rattle of the balls falling together, bumping into each other before coming to a rest.
 
         “You rack,” I said, already headed for the sticks lined up along the wall.

         I selected a twenty-weight, less warped than the rest.  It felt right in my hands.  I played no better or worse than most at pool, but it brought me comfort and placed me on familiar ground. 

         “So are you actually going to go through with it this time, or are you going to spend the night talking?” Mark said, arranging the balls into a tight triangular formation.

         He referred to my last three solo attempts at carpe la vie deviant.  The first guy I tried to take home called himself Jim, Jack, or John, changing his name every time someone asked.  He said they were nicknames. He passed out on my couch the instant he touched the cushion.  The next morning, he went by Bill Smith when I dropped him off at his Dodge Caravan.  I had other names for him when I spied a grocery bag with tampons, and a child’s seat in the back. 

         The second run at it got a bit further.  The guy’s name was definitely Luke, sober; he followed me home in a Sebring convertible.  We progressed to him pulling up my shirt.  That was where it had ended.  He bolted up, leaving my collar over my nose and my arms in the air.  I heard him charge across the room, complaining about my audacity to wear deodorant, and then the door slammed. 

         Mitch made the third.  He confided he had a boyfriend before we walked through the door and he apologized.  I spent the entire night listening to him about his relationship.  I did not mind.  Mitch loved his husband and I think, once they talk, they will work it through.

         “Earth to Mick, hellllooooo…”

         “I’m not like you,” I said, leaning over the table and taking aim.  “I’ve been with one person my whole life.  You consider three people a week a drought.  I need time.”

         Mark held three fingers up in a “W” shape, flipped his hand sideways to form an “E”, then folded two fingers, and flipped me the bird.  “What!  Evverrr! Exclamation point.”
         
         “What are you, like twelve?”  I slammed my stick into the cue ball.  It collided with the other balls, sending them rolling and spiraling along the table and into each other, but none hit a pocket.

         I skulked away, grabbed my cocktail and choked on a sip.
 
         “I do want to,” I said.  “I’m sick of being the morals guy.  I want to be like everyone else and have fun -- damn the consequences.  It’s just … I don’t see how you do it.  Not knowing anything about each other, not having more than a physical connection, what do you even say?”

         “Bend over,”  Mark said.  He flashed a smile and sank a stripe ball into a corner pocket.

         “No, seriously, I just keep picturing the after and thinking about how I’d feel.  It’s not empty or awkward? My God, I’ve never dated.  I‘m twenty-six year‘s old, already a troll and never dated.”  I took in a deep swallow and the burn felt good, numbing.

         “Cool your curling iron, Drama Queen.  No one is forcing you to do this.”  He clipped another stripe into a corner pocket.  “Personally, I think you should.  You’ve been married your whole life, to your first no less.  You’ve missed out and it’s time you got some.  No relationships.  No worries.  Learn what it’s like to play.  It’s awkward, sure, but you get used to it.”

         “I can’t get beyond you pointing out people and saying ‘did him, did him, and did them.’  I don’t want to be a ‘did him.’”

         “Gross, doing you would be like doing my brother.”

         “That’s not what I meant.”

         Divine’s “You think you’re a man,” blared through the room.  I grinned as Mark miscued and hit one of my solid balls by mistake.  I took another gulp and traded him places.  With a good song and a decent buzz, I could usually control the table.

         “I’m going to do it,” I said, “if only to get it over with.  Two into the five, corner pocket.”

         “Then you could at least act the part.  For that matter, you could’ve dressed it too.”

          I looked down at my clothes and then over to him.  “What’s wrong with what I have on?”

         “You’re wearing tennis shoes; gay men don’t even own tennis shoes.”

         “What do they wear to the gym then, high heels or combat boots?”

         “Baggy jeans.”

         “It’s a Levi/leather bar.”

         “Your hair looks like it was done at Supercuts and your shirt looks Old Navy.  You need style and attitude.  You’ve got a hard body, and you’re a cutie, advertise: a tight shirt with some flair, skin tight jeans not Levi‘s, and square toed dress shoes.  Your look should say ‘I got the goods’ not ‘Shh… I’m hiding under here and I use plastic ware at parties.’”

         “One ball, side pocket,” I said feeling my face redden from the alcohol and the conversation.  The ball rolled around at the pocket, spun at the edge, and finally fell.  I released a deep breath I did not remember catching, lowered onto my haunches and examined the table’s layout.  A blue flannel shirt worn as a jacket over a white tee sauntered through my vision.  I smelled cologne, not sweet smelling Paul Sebastian or Escape that most bar goers wore, but deep and spicy, Gaultier.  My eyes followed the shirt up to see a man whose face had a well-defined jaw, high cheekbones, blue eyes, and wild hay-colored hair.
           
         “Can I play next,” the man said in soft country accent.  A voice you could listen to in the dark: warm, a bit scratchy, and definitely masculine.
 
         I miscued a dead on shot.

         “Hi, I’m Mark and this is Mickey.”

         “Mick,” I said going over to them.

         “Rob.”

         “Well, Rob,” Mark said placing his arms over our shoulders, “it’s my turn to shoot, but I need to go take care of some business.  Play for me while I’m gone.”

         Rob took the stick I offered him.  “You don’t want to do this.  I’m not really that good,” he told Mark.

         “That’s okay, neither’s Mickey.”

         “Hey now!”

         Mark waved me off and headed for the loo.

         Rob leaned over the table to make a shot.  The room disappeared, leaving only his bubble butt straining against the constraints of jeans, shifting up and down as he made repeated efforts to stretch across the table at different angles.  When he took his shot, I do not really know what ball he aimed for, but the cue ball flew into the air and rolled over the floor.  I should have offered to get it.  I felt a tinge of guilt, but it faded as he strutted over and bent down for it.

         “I’m sorry,” he said, making his way over to me. “I told ya I was bad.”

         He placed the ball into my hand, and his fingertips slid slowly over mine, turning the muscles in my body to lava.  Did he delay our touch on purpose?

         “Don’t worry; I do it all the time.”  I searched his face for an expressional hint.  Perspiration beaded on his skin, darkening and matting hair tips to his brow.
 
         He combed his hands through his hair, the way I wanted to do it.  “Oh my God, am I hot.”
 
         “I could’ve told you that.”  Those words escaped my lips.  Me, I actually said that.

         He smiled wide, cast his eyes to the floor, and gave me a tilted glance.  “Thanks.  So are you.”
         I am not sure which one of us blushed more, our eyes locking, looking away, and then locking again.

         “Did I win?”  Mark placed three shot glasses on the rail.

         “You bought shots?” I said.  “Did you call Ripley’s first to get it on record?”

         “That’s it; make me look bad in front of strangers.”

         “Goldschlauger, I’m out,” I said seeing the flakes settling to the drinks’ bottom.

         “Come on,” Rob said.  “You can do it.”

         I did do it and many more after it.  The alcohol flowed, the balls fell and we laughed rating the pictures of men on the screens in a coy way to determine each other’s type.  I threw game after game.  The people in the bar multiplied and space became an endangered resource.  A drag queen named Tonya eventually ousted us from the table, running the balls in angles and banks that defied our meager skills.  We were not upset.  Pool had lost its appeal after men slapped us on the butt, pushed us, and groped at our crotches.  Why is it that certain people think it is acceptable to go up to a stranger and clasp his privates like some sort of handshake?  “How you doing? Good package. Nice hang. I’m Dave.  I see you go to the left.  I‘m a right guy myself.”

         The three of us stood back for a while, watching the clamor unfold.  Most people dressed well, slacks and collared shirts.  Their different colognes mixed with the smoky air, commingling into one singular smell, Eau de Club.    Drag queens and bears made their showing as well.  One guy came appareled in a diaper and sash that said, “New Year”.  He accessorized with bottle, pacifier, and cowboy boots. 
         
         Cocktailed enough, we danced on the checkered lit floor to “Small Town Boy”, Carmina Barina (O’Fortuna) and even got down with “Staying Alive.”  Winded and dizzy, I staggered from the dance floor to make a pit stop.

         At the urinal, a Pilipino man next to me tapped me on the shoulder, leaned over to my ear and whispered, “Do you know you’re in a gay bar?”
 
         I zipped up fast and exited.  I ordered drinks at the dance bar, adding a Miller Light bottle, for Rob, to my typical draft and coke splashed rum.  I scanned the dance floor, but did not see my friends.  I checked the pool table, the sitting area outside, and made three rounds of the entire club. Finally, I tossed the drinks into the trash, stopped to get my hand stamped, and went out to check Mark’s parking place.  A Dodge Viper half up a snow bank had taken the place of his Volkswagen. 

         “Damn it.”  I should have known better than to ride with Mark.  I should have known not to leave him with Rob.  I should have … Men will hurt you every time.

I showed my stamp to get back into the building.  Just inside the entrance, a meatless young guy in glasses turned to me, smiled and said, “Do you know this is a gay bar?”
 
         “Really?”  I surveyed the bar and feigned surprise.  “Oh well, always been a little curious anyway.”
 
         Midnight found me standing in a dark corner of the dance floor, my mind running through a list of friends for someone that might be home to pick me up; once I sobered.  Worse still, four different people had stopped dancing long enough to ask me if I “knew this was a gay bar?”  Why did they ask me that?  Was I that much of an outcast?  I felt as if my shirt held neon letters, blinking the words repeatedly: “Don’t belong.”

           As “Auld Lang Syne” played, I wondered if so-called friends should not be killed.  Then I wondered about Paul, where he was, and if I ever came into his mind.  Did he kiss his new man right now, or did he cheat on him as well?
 
         “It’s going to be a happy new year.”  Tears traced lines down my face.  I pivoted toward the wall, thankful the darkness hid my public display.

         “Hi.”

         I turned to see bears, the ones here when I first arrived, still clad in leather vests much too warm for the sweltering heat inside.

         “Yes, I know I’m in a gay bar,” I said wiping the salty residue from my face.

         “Actually, we were going to ask if you’re alright,” said the taller, muscular guy, wearing a German military looking hat and sporting green and red tattoos on his arm.

         “You look so sad,” said the shaved head, heftier of the two.

         “My friend left me here.”

         “Oh Honey,” said the shaved bear.  “Don’t you know better than to ride with a gay man to a bar?”

         “You’d think.”

         “I’m Patrick,” said the tattooed one.  “And, this is my boy, David.”

         “Mickey.”

         “We can give you a ride,” said David.  “We are stopping at The Eagle first.  You’re welcome to come along, no strings attached and you’ll be safe.  Then we’ll take you home.  We’re not players.”

          I laughed.  “I’m so not a player,” I said smiling and tearing at once.

         “It’s up to you,” said Patrick.

         “I’d like that very much, thank you.”

         I followed them out, and we climbed up into their green Ford F150.  My anxiety increased.  My body shook and I clenched my teeth to keep them from rattling.  Not just because of the cold and alcohol lowered body heat.  Though leery of their intent, I did not fear the two who rescued me.  The Eagle, that scared me.  I had heard nightmare stories of the place: public displays of debaucheries, fetishes, fights, drugs and near rapes.  The bar I had sworn never to enter.  Only I could go on a search for Bohemia and find Gomorrah instead. 

         One hour into the year‘s infancy, my two newfound companions opened the door of the Eagle for me and I stepped inside.  The lack of light within, paler than the streetlamps outside, forced my eyes to adjust to the contrast.  The odors of a locker room assailed me: sweat, mildew, and a pungent chemical smell that seemed familiar like petroleum, but I could not place it.  Two screens on each side of a long wooden bar,  lamps over a pool table in a room separated by a half wall, and blue fairy lights sparingly built into the woodwork, composed all the illumination in the club. 

         The Patrons of all ages, each and every one, cocked their heads to stare at us.  In the glow of the televisions, I saw that some dressed similar to me: shirt, pants, and hiking boots.  Others wore black harnesses -- leather bands snapped to chrome rings over their hair-covered chests and backs.  A single band ran from each one’s midsection, over their bellies, to slip underneath chap-covered jeans.

         “Get this boy a drink on my tab,” Patrick called to the bartender.  “He’s had a rough night. We’ll have the usual.”

         I followed Patrick and David to the center of the bar aware of the patrons’ gazes following me out of the corners of my eyes.  I sensed their attention on my back, watching, analyzing and rating me.  I felt miniscule, unworthy.

         “What’ll it be?” said the bartender through a thick mustache and beard.

         “Rum and coke,” I said not wanting the extra charge for Bacardi on their bill.

         The television sets drew my attention.  Movies played on them - movies involving men with devices.  I slammed my sight onto the bar counter.  In place of beer nuts and pretzels, the bar offered up steel buckets packed full of condoms and lubricants.

         “Here you go,” David said handing me my drink.  Patrick and he both held bottles of Bud.

         I took the cup and it shook within my grip, the alcohol swishing over the rim.

         “Relax,” Patrick said, placing his hand on my shoulder.  “You‘re safe…  You look like a straight man getting a proctology exam.”

         Two large black speakers over the bartender crackled into life, pulsating with Kermit the Frog’s heartfelt rendition of “The Rainbow Connection.”  Voices joined.  I turned to see most of the people, hoisting cigars, cigarettes and bottles, singing along, moderately in tune and word for word. David winked. My muscles slackened and my lips curled up from a frown.  I joined in with “the lovers, the dreamers, and me.”

             “See, not so bad,” David said when the tune ended. 

         Gathering my courage, I checked out the bar on my own.  I found a stairway.  With one hand on the rail and the other cradling a drink, I started up steps, my mind contemplating if Miss Piggy ever caught on to Kermit. 

         I came across a sign posted halfway up the steps. “One in Six have it, don’t play Russian Roullette.”  A few more steps up, another sign proclaimed, “Friends don’t share toys.” 

         At the top, a huge room spanned out, darker than below, with men lined up around its borders, standing, smoking, and drinking.  I entered a doorless entrance, just to the right of the stairs, and came into another section of the bar, the same size as the one a floor below, but packed with twice the people.  Against one wall, wooden planks were bolted together to form a larger than human sized ‘X’, with thick restraints at the end of each one.  On another wall, a huge chair resided in throne fashion, reminding me of the fifties’ movies I watched, where men sat to have their shoes shined.  I walked through the room, acting oblivious to the ever-watching eyes upon me, and discovered an exit at the other side of the bar that led out into the end of a hallway.  To the left I could see down to the expansive room and the stairway. 

         To the right, another doorway loomed.  I tried to peer into its darkness, but could not see more than two feet in, which revealed only a small section of the floorboards.  Sounds emanated from it: moaning, sliding, and groaning noises.  A Schoolhouse Rock song popped into my heard, “He was a hairy bear, he was a scary bear, I made a hasty retreat from-”
         
         

         Something clasped my wrist and whirled me around, sending my drink hurling into a liquid explosion against the wall.  A body forced itself into mine, pinning me against the opposite wall.  A man with brown hair snared my other wrist and forced my arms over my head.

         “Oh, you’re a hot one,” the man slurred, breath soured with whiskey and smoke. 

         I pushed against his grip with all my strength, but my arms did not move and he ignored my effort.    His muscles bulged against green and orange armbands.  Was that a scar?  Yes, there was a scar under his nose that made it look like it was running. 

         “Let go of me right now!” I hissed, in the coldest, firmest voice I could manage.

         “Oh, you like to play.”  He moved to kiss me, but I swerved my head to the side.

         “I don’t want to play.  I don’t want to do anything.  Let me go!”  Bits of brick cut into my arm and my hands pulsed from lack of blood.

         “You do too or you wouldn’t be at the Dark Room.  You know you want to.  You just want someone to make you want it.”

         “No I don’t.  Stop it!”

         “You cheater!    You freakin’ little cheater!” came a voice.

         The man looked to the side.

         “Can you believe this guy?  I turn my back for one minute.  One lousy minute and I find him making out in the hallway.”

         I looked under my captor’s arm, but all I could see was a blue shirt with a red “S” against a yellow background.  Superman?  I’m being rescued by a man in Underoos?

         “I’m sorry,” said the man holding me, his tone shifted from gruff to apologetic.  “I didn’t know.”

         “It’s not your fault,” said the guy in the Superman shirt.  “He does this all the time.”  Superman guy turned his attention toward me. “But, I’m through. Do you hear me?  Through!”

         The man let go and backed off me.  I slid to the floor and held my knees, my hands throbbing.
         “This is the last time Mr. Man,” said Superman guy thrusting his finger at me.  “I’m taking Muffy and moving in with Mom. And, if you think I’m going to let you keep that Christmas present, you have another thing coming.  I’m taking it back and buying a new wardrobe.”

         The man looked at each one of us in turn, his brows knitted in a stymied expression and then walked away.

         “You alright?” Superman guy said.

         “I’m so not alright, but I‘ll be fine.  You yelled at me.  Me?  Who’s Muffy?”

         “In my head it was a cocker spaniel.  It was that or steal him away from you.  And, he‘s not really my type.  Besides, once I get going, I could talk a bum out of his last swallow of liquor during a blizzard.”

         He held out his hand and I accepted.  Once standing, I wiped spittle from my neck.

         “First time here I take it?” he said.

         “You could say that.”

         “Don’t worry, not everyone is like him.  He’s just partied out.  Most people here are nice.  Just avoid the Dark Room, unless that‘s what you want.”

         “I suppose they’ve got to be with super heroes like you running around.”

         He looked down at his shirt and blushed.  That is when I first truly realized how beautiful he was: dirt blonde hair in thick waves, dimples, a runner’s build, short nose and soft-spoken voice.

         “My hero,” I said, enjoying his flushness and dimples.

         “TWeren’t nuttin’ Mr.” He stopped smiling and stared at me with such an expression of concern.  “You going to be okay?”

         “Yeah, I think so.”

         “Looks like you need another drink,” he said, glancing at the splattered wall.  He looked back at me.  “Well, take care.  I’m going to go make sure that Mr. Bruiser doesn’t attach himself to anyone else.  Have a happier New Year.”  With that, he walked down the hall and started down the stairs.

         “Thanks again,” I called after him.  Then, I realized; I had not even gotten his name.

         I walked back into the upstairs bar and asked the bartender for a shot of Crown Royal and a Bacardi and coke.  I went to pay, but a hand flew up in front of me.

         “I’ve got him.”

         “Thank you,” I said to a man sitting at the bar.  He was bald, looked to be in his mid twenties and had a goatee on his face and a diamond earring in his right ear. 

         He patted the stool next to him.  His black biker jacket scrunched with every movment he made.

         I sat down, threw back the shot, and took a sip of the cocktail to weaken the flavor.

         “What’s your name?” he said.

         “Mickey.  You?”

         “Keith.  Well, Mickey, why don’t you tell me why you look like your dog just died?”  He motioned the bartender with two fingers.

         “I had a run-in in the hallway.”

         “That’ll do it.  A hot guy like you roaming the hallways is bound to draw attention.”  Keith swiveled his stool to face me and placed his arm onto the counter, his jacket making that stretched leather sound.   

         The bartender placed a shot in front of me.
 
         “No thanks,” I told the bartender, who just walked away.

         “Go ahead,” Keith said.  “You look like you need it anyhow.  You’re so uptight.”

         “I’m not uptight.”

         “Sure you’re not.”

         I took the shot and washed it down again with my drink.

         “How many have you had?”

         “This is my first here.  Well, second, the first one is eating through the plaster.”

         Keith laughed.  “Well, my friend, you have some catching up to do.”

         “It’s my first one here.  I had plenty before I ever got here.”

         The bartender picked up the empty shot glass and put a full one in its place.  He quickly moved to another customer before I could complain.

         “What’re you doing?” I said to Keith.

         “Can I level with you?”

         “Sure.”

         “The minute I saw you walk through, I thought to myself, that is one fine looking man.  I want to take him home.  But, I knew from the look on your face that you’d be uptight and afraid.  I knew that you’d never open up.  So, I’m trying to get you drunk. Then, hopefully, you’ll let me take you home so I can make love to you.”

         I felt as if a hundreds of millipedes scoured my body.

         “Unless you aren’t attracted to me.”

         “It’s not that.  I think you’re very cute and I’ve always had a thing for bald guys.  It’s just that-”

         “Just what?”

         “I rode with friends and I probably should go with them.”

         “Tell them I’m taking you home.”

         I took the shot, hoping for a jolt of liquid courage.  Thoughts chimed in the back of my mind, repeating ‘this is what you set out to do.’

         “See, I knew you were too uptight.”

         “That’s not it … I’ve just never gone home with someone.  Besides, with the night I’m having, you’re probably Jeffrey Dahmer’s biggest fan.”

         “The bartender will vouch for me as well as just about anyone in the bar.  The only thing you have to be worried about is having too much fun.    Tell you what, continue to sit and drink with me and after a little while, if you don’t feel comfortable, just walk away, no questions asked.”

         “Okay …”

          His questions probed into my secret fantasy places and I dodged him, not wanting to discuss things with a stranger that I had never been comfortable even telling Paul.  A few drinks later, the bar blurred, the music faded, and even the smell of smoky residue dispersed.  Then it happened.  He looked at me, leaned over, held the back of my head and kissed me.  Tight lipped and flicking tongue, it did not suit me at all.  A fact made worse by my hatred of public displays beyond simple affection.  When I kiss I like it to be deep, passionate, not forceful, but strong enough to make me melt into the moment.

         “Come on,” he said, holding out his hand.

         I took it and he led me down the stairs.  An argument ensued between Keith and Patrick.  David rubbed my back and supported me, while I listened to the words volleyed back and forth over who would take custody of me.  Eventually, it came down to my decision.    I remembered telling everyone I would be all right, David wrote down his  phone number and handed it to me in case something happened, Patrick threatened bodily harm if Keith so much as scratched me, and Keith vowed to take me home hardly marked.

         The next thing I recall, I sat in a white car, I do not even know the make or model, shivering, as my breaths hung before my face in puffs.  Keith got into the car.

         “My gawd, you’re so hot.  I’m going to have so much fun with you.”  He smiled, patted my knee, and then started the car.

         I am going to do it, I thought.  I am actually going to go through with it.

         Bile arose in the back of my throat and my guts recoiled.

         My door opened, arms attached to a blue shirt with a Superman emblem reached in, grappled my shoulders, and dragged me out of the seat.

         “What in the hell are you doing?”  Keith shouted, scrambling from the car.

         “He’s going home with me,” Superman person yelled back.

         “The hell he is.  He wants to go with me.  Ask him.”

         “I’m not asking him.  He’s drunk out of his mind and doesn’t have the slightest idea of what he’s doing.”  He darted a glance toward me.  “No offense.”

         “None taken,” I said.

         “No!  You’re not doing this.  He came out with me.  He was in my car and I’m taking him home.”

         “You do not comprehend the situation here, Keith.  I’m telling you no.  Argue all you want, he’s not going home with you.  I have him and he’s staying with me.  And, if you make me, I’ll knock the un-holy hell out of you to prove it. “

         Keith started to come around the car.
 
          Superman guy leaned me against a car, and balled his hands into fists.  “Keith, I’m telling you.  You don’t want to do this.  I’ll win.  There’ll be other tricks, but you can’t have this one.”

         “Forget you.  He wouldn’t have been that good anyway.”  Keith got into his car and slammed the door shut.  The car tore out of the parking lot, the windows still covered in frost.

         “You okay?”

         “Yeah,” I lied, not telling him about my new ability to see the earth spin.



***

           
         
         Superguy, as I decided to call him, did not have the typical house of most gay men.  Everything was minimalist.  The few pieces that hung on the wall were posters of Derrick Jeeter and Jeff Gordon.  The furniture of Mexican design consisted of a couch and chair.  Mystery books and comics racked one wall -other than that, nothing.

         “Sit down, I’ll make some tea,” Superguy said.

         “Tea?”

         “What you don’t like tea?”  He went into his kitchen.

         “No, tea’s fine,” I called out to him.

         “So tell me what led to this mess?”

         “One too many.”

         “No seriously.”  He returned with a box in hand.  “Darjeeling okay?”

         “Sure.”

         I don’t know why, perhaps because he rescued me twice, but I sipped the tea he served and told him everything.  Every detail about finding out about Paul cheating for the last ten years, taking an AIDS test which thankfully came out negative,  the three times I tried to take home someone, the events of the bars, my inexperience - everything, all culminating up to that moment in the parking lot.  Superguy listened intently, never interrupted and hung on every word.  When I finished, he just sat there, studying me.

         “Okay, go ahead, tell me I’m a crazy idiot,” I said.

         “You’re a crazy idiot.  Actually, I was going to say that you’re genuinely sweet.  I’ll even say that Mark isn’t such a good friend.”
 
         “I kind of figured that out on my own.”

         “The funniest part that you didn’t figure out then is --  If a gay man comes up to you and asks if you know you’re in a gay bar, he’s not telling you that you don’t belong, he’s hitting on you.”

         My eyes went wide.

         “Don’t be too hard on the bars.”  Superguy laughed.  “I went to a straight club once, believe me, they are just as bad.  I showed my I.D. to get in and they said they needed my divorce papers instead.

         I laughed.

         “Seriously, they’re every bit as bad.  Only difference is that men in gay bars have a bit of style.  Men in straight bars are like zombies running around going “Breasts, breasts, breasts.”  Superguy held his arms out in front of him and did a Frankenstein’s Monster walk.

         “I take it you do standup comedy?”

         “Oh and the women …  One time, we did some sort of sex oriented game on the dance floor where the men hid fake money on them and the women had to retrieve it and whoever got the most in a certain time won.  A woman, I found out later she was a stripper, skipped the money, dove straight down for the jewels and would not come up for anything.  The whole bar watched as she wrestled me to the floor.  The DJ finally pried her off.  What?”

         He noticed the concerned look that had to be obvious by my opened mouth and dropped jaw.

         He laughed again.  “I’m not straight.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

         “No, of course not,” I said, and then sighed relief.

         “Because you know … There’s not.  There’s nothing wrong with it.”

         “So is that what you do?  Bring strange men home and tell them jokes all night?”

         “I don’t know. You’re the first person I ever brought home from the bar.”

         “Really?”

         “Don’t sound so surprised.”  He sat next to me on the couch.  “Sorry, I always tell jokes when I’m nervous and I always get nervous around people one on one.”

          “I understand that.”

         “Let’s get serious then.”  He dropped his smile. “You’re a sweet guy, who likes to play pool, insecure, hurt, but you still care about people.  Don’t go out and do one-night-stands because you think that’s what you’re supposed to do.  You might even try dating.  Understand?”

         “Yes, Mom.”

         His face brightened and the smile returned.  “Hey now, don’t make me give you a time out.  And, if you call me Mom, that will put a definite dampener on things.  I don’t do Oedipus.”

         “That’s good; he’s dead anyway.”

         “Don’t go there.”
 
         I tried to meet his eyes with mine, but he lowered his head.  “Why did you pull me from the car, if you didn’t want to sleep with me?”

         “I never said that.  Besides, you would’ve hated yourself after going home with Keith.  I know him.  It would’ve been a big regret on your part.”  He stood and held out his hand.  “Speaking of which, it’ll be light soon.  Ready for your one night stand?”  He pulled me up and steadied me.

         “I thought you said I wasn’t the type?”

         “Yeah, well you’re here now aren’t you?  No sense wasting opportunities.”  He leaned in close, hugged me, and whispered.  “We’re not going to do anything.  I would never take advantage of you.  But, I think you need holding and if not, do it for me. I feel the need to hold you tight and keep you safe.”

         He herded me to the bedroom and we collapsed onto the bed

         I rolled over to him.  “My name is Mickey.  You may not care, but it is important for me that I tell you-”

         “Shh …” 

         We spooned in clothes.  He fell asleep; his hand resting on my thigh, his breathes caressing the short hairs of my neck.  His arm felt warm against mine and I could smell cinnamon on his breath.  I felt secure, a part of someone.  I missed this.  I did not find sleep for several hours, taking in every second and tactile sensation of this man holding me …


***


         One afternoon into the year, Superguy and I pulled up in front of my house in his red Nissan truck.  I felt tired, but had no ill effects from the previous night’s consumption. 

          Superguy turned to me.  “Do me a favor?  When you’re bragging about last night’s conquest, be kind to me.  Nothing too outrageous, just liken me to ten stud bulls with unending stamina.”

         “I’m not a cuddle talker.  But, if I were, I would say that I got to sleep with my own personal hero.” 

         He blushed, flashing those dimples.

         I got out of the car and began to walk to the door.

         “Mickey?”

         I stopped and turned around.  He was out of his truck, leaning against the cab.

         “Did you know this was a gay bar?”  He held out a slip of paper.

         I strolled over, reached for it and he pulled it from my grasp.

         “If you call me,” he said, “I will ask you out on a date.  If you go out on a date with me, then you’ll not have had a one night stand.”

          Tears welled in my eyes.  “Didn’t you hear me say I’d never dated?  Maybe I should, just to say I did.”

         “But, what about the one-nighter?”

         I gripped the paper and he released it.

         “Don’t hurt me, Mickey.”  He got into his truck.

         I opened the slip and read his name aloud, “James Stanton.”  I waved him away as he drove out of sight.  This year didn’t seem so bad after all, and I smiled as I thought about last night.