It’s an agitating time of year in the country. Winter pruning winds blow hard. Cabin fever runs high.
These early-to-bed nights induce such hellish, sheet-twisting dreams that we need immediate distraction.
We call another boy-couple and double date. I wonder if we’ll remember what to do. My partner Mark and I haven’t been on a date since the turn of the century.
Before the first drink settles in, we’re bitching about mortgages and the weather. To shake off February we head over to the next watering hole and find ourselves standing in a herd of horny mid-20-something males.
They recognize our friends. One half of this other couple is a renowned seducer of straight men. He’s Sagittarian, handsome with a wickedly breathy laugh and a libido that never quits. He savours the hunt. They in turn adore the attention.
Tonight, however, the blond hanging off the bar has eyes for me. I saunter up beside him. He’s as fast with his drinks as he is with his jocular hands.
We invite him back to our friend’s lair. For his own protection, he invites half the bar over as well. It’ll be a long night of moves and counter-positioning.
Aside from their beer-slugging and brownie-snorfling, the metrosexual swagger of these young broncos astounds me. The topic of conversation swings effortlessly between souped-up engines, skin products and jokes about my friend’s supposed nine-and-half-inch cock.
We drink, toke up and laugh. The prop-and-leverage crowd eventually leave. Surrounded by four hungry fags, the bar flirt, with his tousled blonde hair and blue, wandering eyes chooses to sit next to me, knee to knee. I’m caught short. My first straight conquest and here I hang squirming between indecision and rapture.
I’m no slouch at getting what I want but I’m mindful that as the prize gets nearer the stakes climb higher.
We’re also in the home of a skilled ass-hunter and for me the ground of this fantasy remains unbroken. My disadvantage soon becomes evident. Just as we digress to the perennial panty-remover of gin and tonics, our guest gets up to take a piss.
Straight-boy Seducer licks his lips, leaps out of his chair and trails his prey. I get up to follow only to slink back into the soft chair. I am shocked, impressed, and a little hurt. Boy Wonder has a great butt and I thought it was mine.
I go into the kitchen to mix our next round of drinks. I see him turn his sweet face from a badly timed kiss and determine the night’s not over.
Just then our cloven-hoofed host changes tactics and corners us all. With a wicked grin he says to the object of our mutual lust, “Show us your ass!”
We laugh but none of us move to help the quivering rabbit out of its snare. We continue to stare at our lead man as he whips out his forked tongue and begins a blistering game of 20 questions.
Within a breathlessly short span of time our M2M virgin admits to wondering what it would be like to have a cock in his mouth. We prop up the cushions and avoid looking at each other’s crotches.
I’m in awe of my friend’s ability to disarm us. He is a master of trade. We’ve been let in on the pedagogy of hetero-male tail-chasing.
Strung-up on hormones, nerves and unexpressed desire, we prepare for this decisive stroke. He’s an artist. He pulls out his sketchpad and carefully, casually flips through the erotic line drawings of his past near-conquests.
None of them, however, has ever admitted to wanting the taste of an engorged phallus at the back of his throat. Tonight, blood’s up.
But Kid-Casanova holds his own. Amused but not biting, he leans over to me and quietly slurs, “Someday, when I’m ready, I wanna fuck you. I promise.”
I smile politely but my loins cry “victory!”
My friend, our host, senses the radical shift in this drawn-out chase. He plays out a final, desperate act by standing up and dropping his own pants. He does it as if to model the all-too-simple action of releasing the top button. He dares our man to follow suit.
Within 30 seconds Billy Boy is out the door and disappears into the sobering morning air.
The vacuum effect shocks me into uncontrollable laughter. My friend’s blank face, the night’s empty outcome, my own futile attempt to cross the gay-straight divide; this Bacchanalian stupor feels more dangerous than I can grasp.
The release of tension is so fast my lungs ache. Then the hangover sets in like yesterday’s backwash.
I blush green to think of my part in this night’s pseudo-ritual. I stink of spent pheromones and rotten luck. I need a trip to the city.
Of course, on an island of only 10,000 we see this guy in town the very next day. He saddles right up to me and in full public view grabs my hands.
“Soft,” he says. “These hands have never seen a day’s work.”
I say nothing. In a few short weeks these hands will be chapped raw from planting the season’s new crop.
I start to apologize about things. He interrupts my confusion with a heart-disturbing smile and says, “Thank you,” that he had “fun.”
Talking openly about his desires last night turned him on. He leans into me, brushes my ass and says, “When I’m ready, you’ll be the first in line.”
Something shakes loose. Some diversionary small talk follows, another smile, a nod of the head and I land on my feet again. I grab my partner, my home-ready man, and head south.