. . . “A woman shouldn’t be here,” he told her. She didn’t know how to react. The guy with the tongue ring seemed surprised and defended her presence, saying that such views were old fashioned. “I’m 55 years old,” the man said. “I just think a girl like you shouldn’t see such things.”
“You’re 55?” Sam asked. “I thought you were like, 38.”
“Ohhhh stop,” he said, blushing.
We ended up at the back of the bar, and Sam began talking to a topless young man with a seemingly hand-sculpted body. He had perfect abs and pecs, and his skin was gold and smooth. They seemed to be hitting it off, laughing and joking. He had his hand on her shoulder. “His name is Oscar. You need to sleep with him for me,” she hissed. I’d never seen her so sexually aggressive. It seemed like the Eagle was rubbing off on her.
Oscar was very attractive but not my type — he was too perfect. I chatted with him anyway, mostly to appease Sam, and learned that he was originally from Colombia but was now living in New York. I was having trouble hearing him so I placed my hand on his hip and moved my ear closer to his mouth. I could feel the force of his breath on my neck. His skin was much softer than it looked and felt strangely inviting; I reconsidered my level of attraction toward him. As he told me about his outfit for the Black Party, I looked past his shoulder and noticed a man standing behind him. He was wearing a Nike baseball cap, and was staring at me intently. I lost track of what Oscar was saying.
The man in the cap fit the profile of who I was looking: he was in his mid-40s, definitely taller than 6’0” and could’ve very well been Mediterranean. Samantha grabbed my arm. “Are you going to sleep with him?”
“He’s really handsome but he’s not my type.”
“I hate you!” She said it like she meant it.
“I’m really sorry.”
She was genuinely upset. I was very proud of her — she was fitting right in.
Without wasting any time, I walked up to the man in the cap. “How’s it going?” I asked.
“Good,” he said. I stared at him for a moment. I was almost sure it was him.
“What’s your name?”
“Phil.” This wasn’t my guy. He was too shy; I could see it in his smile. “Are you here for the Black Party?” I asked. He had no idea what I was talking about. He was visiting from Boston with some friends who didn’t know he was gay, or even that he was at a leather bar. We continued chatting for another half hour, and I’d convinced myself that I should sleep with him anyway. Sure, he wasn’t the guy I was looking for, but he was sexy and he was nice — what more do I need?
“We should go back to your place,” I said. It wasn’t possible because he was sharing a room with his friend. Sam and I were sharing a place as well, so that wasn’t an option. I wasn’t in the mood to visit a bathhouse or sex club, so when he said that he had to go, I simply offered to walk him out.
I pushed him up against the chain-link fence by the coat check and started kissing him. He pressed his crotch against mine. I could feel him throbbing, so I reached into his pants and gave his cock a few jerks. He smiled, hungry, and said he wanted to have lunch with me the next day. I wasn’t sure if I was up for a date while in the city, but we exchanged numbers anyway and then he was gone.
But still, this wasn’t who I was looking for. I needed to keep looking for him.