The Choice-Chapter 1

The Bass Player
Chapter 1 – The Chance Meeting
I reluctantly hopped onto the sticky bar stool, acknowledging I was now obligated to buy at least one drink before the musicians finished their set. Ordering my standard vodka tonic with lime, my eyes were drawn to the far end of the saloon, where the smallest stage I'd ever seen had some really nice blues blaring from the speakers. While the bartender slopped my drink down, I squinted at the stage, trying to see the band through the haze of smoke and humidity. The first thing my alcohol-soaked brain registered was a forearm. The muscles and tendons flexed in tandem with the music. I was mesmerized by its thick, athletic form, the size of a small branch.

My glance traveled upward, absorbing a well formed bicep, round enough to make the band around the shirtsleeve strain, but not so bulging that I suspected addiction to workouts at the gym. Continuing upward, I found the shoulder, not extremely broad but dense with strength, pulling the stitches tight at the shirt’s seam. That chest had to be at least 46 inches, I thought, maybe 48. He exuded strength. 

Coping with 90 percent humidity had left me clammy all over for days, but my underwear suddenly went moist and it had nothing to do with the weather. He did not appear clumsy as many large men do but lightly shifted his weight on the balls of feet, swaying with the beat.  His bone structure comfortably supported the muscles wrapped tightly around the torso.  The waist was not the six pack abs that is so overrated. Again I guessed around 34 inches, nicely proportioned to the 46 - 48 inch pectorals. Realizing I had been staring (or was it leering), I felt humiliated, even timid, when I lowered my gaze to discover a thigh the size of tree-trunk packed tightly into a pair of jeans. The legs were accustomed to standing for long periods of time.  He has endurance, I thought wistfully, continuing downward. 

Wondering exactly how long a long time meant to those thighs, my gaze traveled upward again.  A bead of sweat started to roll down his temple and I remember feeling sorry for him, for the lights on stage must have been torturous in the humid, oppressive, heat.  The bead slowly snaked its way down the side of his jaw. It was then I remembered to look at his face discovering a high forehead with matching cheekbones, a small, closely clipped mustache, and a set of brilliant, luminous teeth that were smiling. He must love what he does, I thought, not without some envy.  Thin, tortoise shell eyeglasses framed his eyes. I thought it odd that a musician would wear glasses for the fear they could slide down his nose in a pool of perspiration.

Only then did I think to look into his eyes, realizing with a start that he was staring at me with a knowing look, not smug, not arrogant, just knowing, as if he'd seen my face or a least the lustful expression on my face, a thousand times before. So lost in my fantasy, the music had stopped without me realizing it. In a surreal moment, he hopped off the miniscule stage, and walked purposely behind the bar, grabbing a beer without slowing his pace. I was frozen, unable to comprehend the meaning of his movements until I heard a low, soft, velvety voice whisper in my ear, “My name is Phillip, what's yours?” 

I ordered another vodka tonic.  There are moments in our lives when we know something is about to change us forever – be it for better or worse. This was one of those pivotal moments, where I could give in to the blood surging through my veins and causing an embarrassing wetness between my legs, or chose the high road, ignoring the man, my body’s reaction, and the inevitable nights ahead.