Bac to the Bay

Standard disclaimer: This is a work of fiction - any resemblances of a character to any person, living or dead, is entirely incidental. All characters are over the age of 18.

Author Note: I wrote this story a while ago, as evidenced by the following factors: There is no mention of COVID, there is no mention of apps, and a person under forty is able to purchase a house somewhere in New Zealand...just roll with it, okay... :)

---

I didn't factor in the implications for my romantic life when I moved back to Napier. This might've had something to do with the fact that I'd never had a romantic life. I didn't come out until I was safely done with school and away from Hawke's Bay, and I didn't do relationships at uni. I did a marketing degree and a

lot

of experimentation. I hung around Wellington for a year after graduating, interning at the City Council and experimenting some more.

Then in a deeply conventional move, I decided to go on an OE. To make it even more conventional, I chose London for my destination. I know. Sigh. But I found a great job and a cupboard-sized room in a shitty flat with a random collection of ockers, none of whom were in the least bit gay, all of whom were totally cool with my tomcatting self.

I stayed for two and a half years, and it was fantastic. Interesting work, interesting environment, and an absolutely endless parade of hot, adventurous young guys, along with obvious and safe contexts in which to 'bump into' them. Then...I sort of ran out. I didn't have a nervous breakdown or get really depressed or anything like that, but looking down the barrel of a third one of those winters, I just thought, 'nope'.

So I came home. It was early December, the days were long and bright, there was still a bit of breeze about, the grass hadn't all burned off yet. I lazed around on Mum and Dad's deck, and it was perfect. Just what I was needing. In January, without really thinking it through, I got myself a job with Hawke's Bay Tourism, who were wanting to 'increase the visibility of the region among the younger demographic'. Guess it can't hurt, I thought. It's only a twelve-month contract.

Then what did I bloody do? I went and bought myself a house. A workingman's cottage behind Hospital Hill - 'workingman's cottage' being estate-agent speak for 'house that's both old

and

tiny'. And in my case a bit run-down as well. But it was cute - it even had a white picket fence out front. It was the same thing I'd heard other people say a hundred times. 'I saw it one day, driving past, and I just couldn't help myself, it sorta called to me'...yeah, that.

So in less than three months, I went from living footloose and fancy-free in a global city to being some sort of try-hard home handyman in a small provincial town at the bottom of the world. Which was fine actually, aside from the lack of sex. It didn't take me long to realise that just hooking up and moving on wasn't going to work here. The pool of candidates wasn't big enough. Some week, it seemed like the pool of candidates was more like a pothole in the road.

Cricket was the best solution I could come up with. Not that I took up playing. But cricket came with fans from out of town, so I transformed myself into a major groupie and went along to every match, following on to whatever watering-holes seemed to be hosting the influx afterwards. It was a remarkably successful strategy, but seeing as McLean Park only hosts a couple of international matches alongside its generous sprinkling of domestic ones each season, it wasn't quite

enough,

and I wasn't game to attempt the same thing with rugby fans during the winter.

Even so, after a year I renewed my contract - for another two years this time. I didn't want to leave my little house, and I actually quite liked Napier. Okay, so it didn't have a thriving gay club scene, but there were other things going for it, and despite all the sneering you hear about how backward people are in the regions, I never encountered any homophobia.

I did see some good-old-fashioned assholery, though. One of the region's biggest drawcards in tourism terms is the Art Deco Festival, a week in which thousands and thousands of people flock into Napier itself, to fawn over all the beautiful post-earthquake architecture, and/or the beautiful classic cars, dress up and attend thirties-themed cultural events, and generally go a bit Gatsby-esque. It's fair to say it's not a week which has high 'visibility among the younger demographic'. It's also not an opportunity to pull, unless you have a fancy for older gentlemen who wouldn't mind a quickie while the wife rests up her bunions for an hour or so, which is why I didn't at all resent having to work through the weekend that week. And the 'work' on Friday evening was taking place in a private dining room at the Masonic Hotel, where the food was understated but very, very, good. I was expecting to have a thoroughly agreeable evening, but it didn't work out like that.

There were twelve of us sat down at one long table, and the trouble started as soon as our waitress came to take orders for drinks. One of our 'key stakeholders', Rob, a classic good ole boy with a heavily veined nose and a little bit of neck fat flanging out above his collar, winked at her as she drew alongside.

"Well, you're about the best thing I've seen all day. What's your name, honey?" He leaned toward her chest, ostensibly to squint at her nametag. "Katie! Well, that's nice," grinning widely, "I've known some high-quality Katies in my time, oh yes I have..."

She eventually managed to get a drinks order from him, moved around the rest of us, and glided away. Sniggering and nudging broke out around the table as the door swung closed behind her.

Now, I may be, in the words of my least favourite uncle, 'as gay as unicorn shit', but I grew up in a heterosexual world, along with everyone else. As far as female charms go, I'm immune, but I'm not oblivious. I could see why this particular girl was pressing buttons for these guys, all of whom were closer to fifty than forty. She was pretty without being astoundingly beautiful, without any of the ice-queen about her. Next-door pretty. Accessible pretty. And she wasn't stick-thin, she had some meat on her bones. Ugh. 'Meat on her bones' - a phrase you only hear from people old enough to know how to use a slide-rule.

When Katie came back with our drinks, the infection had spread, and there were three guys giving her shit now. She was polite and graceful, moving around the table, but her smile was pasted in place, as she told us she'd be back in a jiffy with some breads for us.

Rob the ringleader winked at her. "I'm salivating!"

It got worse. The subtle innuendo gave way to unsubtle innuendo, and my boss, though not actively involved, clearly wasn't going to do anything to stop it, so poor Katie just had to soldier on regardless. When she removed my plate after the starter I noticed her hand was shaking. I was suddenly so furious I thought I might start shaking myself.

I pushed back my chair. "I'm just going outside for a smoke, guys."

I don't smoke. A fact that apparently hadn't been noticed by my colleagues of fourteen months. Instead, I went out the front doors, down the street a bit, ducked into the service alleyway, and knocked on the door of the kitchen.

A tall greasy-haired kitchen-hand yanked it open. "What?"

"Uh, can I talk to Katie, if that's okay?"

A larger guy, well-groomed, well-dressed, shouldered the kitchen-hand aside. "No, it's not okay! Katie's

working,

she doesn't have time to stand about and talk! And this is a staff-only area! Piss off!"

I held up my hands for peace. "I was just wanting to apologise to her, is all, on behalf of my colleagues. There's a couple of guys in that private dining room - they're being absolute assholes to her, and - and I'm the most junior person in there by a mile, it's not like I can stop them, but I just..." I ran out of words and shrugged instead.

The guy was eyeing me keenly now. "They're harassing her? Making her uncomfortable?"

"Oh, yeah," I confirmed, "I mean, no-one's tried to grab anything yet, it's just talk, but...she's struggling, and goddamnit, I think the fuckers are enjoying that too."

He dropped his head to his chest. "Shit! Why don't these people

communicate

with me when they're having a problem? She doesn't have to put up with that!" Looking across at me, "Thanks. I'll deal with it." I nodded and slunk back to my place at the table.

Sure enough, our mains were brought to us by someone else - a tall, narrow, red-haired guy whose nametag read 'Toby'. Though fairly young, Toby was clearly an old hand at this job. Swift, capable, professional, unobtrusive. He offered no explanations as to why he'd suddenly taken over our table, and oddly enough, no-one asked. He had no dimples, no tits, and no 'meat on his bones'. The evening went a lot more smoothly from then on.

As our group were going to leave a couple of hours later, the guy I'd spoken to earlier at the kitchen door indicated with a flick of his head that I should hang back. I detached from the others and went over to him.

He nodded as I approached, extending his hand for me to shake. "Damon Kightly."

I grasped and shook. "Adrian Townsend."

"Thanks very much for that earlier," he said. "Appreciate it. Hey, we have this monthly business-card draw," indicating a big glass cookie jar by the register, "for dinner and drinks to the value of $150. Drop your card in there," he winked at me, "and I'll make sure it gets drawn, eh?"

I got a flash, a flavour of something coming off him, which made me hesitate. Yeah, I thought, you'll hunt out my card, and then you'll have my number and my email, won't you? And if I come back to collect, you'll try and make sure I have yours in return? Mmh. Yeah-nah. Not that there was anything wrong with him, exactly - he was thirty-ish, and in good shape - it was just a bit too meta, the idea of being pulled by someone, while he was working,

as part of the process

of thanking me for shutting down some workplace sexual harassment. But what are you gonna do? I smiled, dropped my card in the jar, and left.

I'd mostly forgotten about it when I got a call from him two weeks later, making good on his promise. So now I had an internal fight going on. I didn't want to turn down the opportunity for another all-expenses-paid very nice meal, but I

really

didn't want, for some indefinable reason, to be Damon's lunch, that day or any other. Then I remembered that it was Mum's birthday coming up. So I invited the folks out for a fancy meal on me. I walked in with them, Dad, with his belly so substantial these days that he had to be leaning back on it, Mum, with her home-dye job and a half-inch of white showing at the roots all over. I saw Damon at the counter, saw his face fall.

It was an interesting meal. Katie was assigned to our table, and she greeted me by name even though I'd never introduced myself to her. Damon came over a couple of times to ask how we were enjoying things, if there was anything he could do for us, and most of the other waitstaff nodded or smiled at me as they passed by.

"Do you come here often, Adrian?" Mum asked eventually.

"Nope," I replied, "but I was in here just last month with work."

"Oh yeah? It's alright for some, isn't it?" Dad griped. He's a retired diesel mechanic, and for him, the world's divided neatly into two categories - people who do actual work, and everyone else.

Mum tutted at him. "Ray! Stop whining! If you'd wanted to spend your life sitting behind a desk staring at columns of figures, there was nothing stopping you!" He busied himself with his beer, as she turned to me and said, "Well, I hope you were behaving yourself, Adrian, when you were in here last. It looks as though you've done something to amuse them."

It did, unfortunately. As I studied the faces passing by, their expressions all suggested they were kind of primed, waiting to see what I'd do next. It was...unnerving. I decided I was all done with free meals.

——-

I go to the gym every morning before work, but I hate running on a treadmill so I make sure I run in the evening three times a week, as well. If I'm feeling like being tough on myself, I'll go up the street, through the botanic gardens, around the hospital, all over the hilly part of town. If I'm not, I'll head down, onto the flat, and either around by the port, or across to Westshore, along the beach reserve, where you can just go...pretty much forever, if you're in a groove.

On a Tuesday, early March, it was still seething hot at 6 p.m., so I went the easy way. There was a slight breeze coming off the sea when I got over the causeway and along by the beach, which made things easier. I came to a stop to take a bit of a breather before heading back, just by where the houses end. I was standing, heart thudding, listening to the roar of the pebbles being thrown down by the waves, the staccato clatter as they rolled back with the undertow. I had a monkey-tail which'd fallen from one of the Norfolk Pines held in my hand, and I was idly whacking it against my calf and thigh when I noticed a dog running toward me. I don't mean loping, in my general direction - I mean, hurtling, purposefully, toward

me

. A

huge

dog.

I had a bare half-second to be alarmed before he arrived and it became obvious he was friendly. He capered all around me, then came and half-sat on his haunches in front of me, while somehow still wagging his rear, panting ecstatically at the monkey-tail in my hand.

I laughed. "Oh, is

that

what it's about? You want, this, eh?" lifting it tantalisingly. He jerked up, then subsided when I didn't actually throw it, looking at me pleadingly. Monkey-tails aren't awesome for throwing since they don't have much heft, but I hurled it anyway and he shot off after it.

As he was streaking back to me, a guy came panting alongside on a bicycle, unclipping his helmet, shaking his head free. "Oh my god, I'm totally sorry about that! He usually runs beside me just fine, but he thinks all sticks everywhere belong to him!"

"It's cool," I said, as the dog arrived back, dropping his prize, trembling for more. I picked it up and threw it again, then I turned to the guy. I recognised him - and he was pointing at me, saying, "Heyyy...um...Adrian!"

I nodded. "That's me. And you're Toby, yeah?"

The dog returned again, and I threw the monkey-tail for him, as Toby replied, "That's right."

"God, he's a beautiful dog," I breathed, as we watched him coming toward us once more. "What is he, a husky?"

"Nope," Toby replied, still astride his bike, reaching out, trying to grab him, keep him from jumping around, "he's a malamute. Same sort of thing, a sled dog, but bigger."

I threw the stick again. "Doesn't he, like, die of the heat in this weather?"

"He does okay," Toby assured me, "his coat's not nearly as thick as it would be if it was cold - and apparently it somehow insulates from the heat, as well."

"Is he yours?" I asked.

"All mine," said Toby proudly, as he pranced triumphantly back to us once again. "His name's Yukon."

I reached out to fondle his amazing coat. "You're a lovely guy, Yukon, yes you are. You're totally boo-tiful." He must've been able to tell I was complimenting him, because he dropped down and rolled over for a belly-rub, basking in the attention. "God, he must've cost a lot," I murmured, largely to myself, but Toby heard me.

"Yep - about two months' pay."

"Holy

shit!

" I exclaimed, turning to stare up at him, still crouched by Yukon's side.

He shrugged. "What? People spend that much on going to Bali for a week, or on souping up some stupid car with unnecessary accessories, and no-one bats an eyelid." He shrugged again. "I'm not interested in going to Bali, and I don't care about cars, but I've wanted a malamute for literally as long as I can remember. So why not?"

"Yeah, for sure," I agreed, coming upright again. Halfway up, one of my adductors seized, and I had to hop around inelegantly, massaging it and groaning 'fuuck'. "I'm cramping here," I said, "I guess I need to get on with my run." Then, addressing Yukon, "but I'd stay and play with you some more if I could."

Toby got hold of Yukon's collar, warning him, "No chasing, you!" Then he said, "Can I ask you something, Adrian?"

"Sure," I replied, bobbing on my toes, trying to disperse the last of the flickering stabs.

"Are you gay?"

Whoa...I've never been asked that on a Tuesday evening while I'm halfway through a run...

"Yeee-ss," I replied very cautiously, "um, why?"

He laughed awkwardly. "Okay, yeah, that was random - but see, you know Damon? The duty manager at the hotel? Well, he's bi, and he's also...ah, how shall I put this...a complete slut. I mean, if it's still warm it's game on, basically, though he's very professional at work - apart from the bit where he's always telling us all about it, I guess. Anyway, he was making the moves on you. He thought you knew, thought you were up for it, he kept on saying how he was gonna nail you when you came back in - and then you brought your Mum along!" He chortled at the memory. "Damon, he was just totally flattened!"

Oh, my god. That's why they were all looking at me, that's what they were waiting for. For Damon to 'nail' me. Nope. Nope-nope-nope-nope-nope. I looked across at Toby, unable to suppress a grimace. "Well, maybe don't tell him, eh, but my bar's a little higher than his - and he doesn't clear it!"

He laughed, and tapped the side of his nose with a finger, as I waved goodbye and ran home.

That dog awoke something in me. After my shower, as I was making myself some dinner, I really felt the solitude, and not in a good way. It was like something was missing. In bed, later, with everything all far too silent, I thought to myself, Well, I could get a dog. Nothing stopping me. I considered it. I pushed it away. I googled it, then did nothing. I went and visited the SPCA and came away empty-handed. It was like some part of me was absolutely aching for a dog, and some part of me was resisting it hard. It eventually occurred to me that I didn't want just any dog. I wanted one of

those

dogs. But to go and copy someone like that? That'd be a total dick move. So I didn't do it. But I gave up running around the hills or the port, and just ran exclusively along the shore in hope of crossing paths again.

I found them a few more times, and Toby let slip that they came out for an evening run on Mondays and Tuesdays because those were his days off. The other days, it had to be mornings. I changed my Tuesday and Thursday runs to Monday and Tuesday, and changed Saturday afternoon to Saturday morning to give myself as much opportunity as possible to marinate in Yukon's majestic presence, throwing sticks and balls, racing back and forth, getting down on the ground wrestling, rolling, tickling. It was simple fun, good fun, the most fun I'd had in...ever. Those three twenty-minute interludes became the high points of my week. I was addicted.

——

I'm an idiot. It took me over a month to figure out that it was at least as much about the owner as the dog. I was surprised at myself, because I usually go for guys who're...kind of like me...mid-late twenties, professional, gym-honed but reasonably compact, and above all,

gay.

I mean, why shoot for something you can't have? Why would you do that to yourself? Turns out, you don't have a choice who you fall for. You don't

decide

to fall. And once you're already falling you can't just decide to stop, either. You really can't.

He

might

be gay, the little voice in my head would whisper to me, in the shower, in the middle of the night, anytime I was vulnerable, he might be. You don't know that he's

not

- and every time I'd talk back with reason. 'You don't know that he

is,

and, probabilities, probabilities - you need to assume that he's not. You can't start creeping on apparently straight guys just on the off-chance. That's how bad things happen. That's how you get what you've got already taken away from you.' I couldn't imagine my life anymore without those meetings on the beach, so I was left with being careful, living in the moment, enjoying what I already had for what it was, trying not to think about the other stuff -

and

cricket season was over for the year.