Note: This story is dedicated to my good friend F.S., who is older than Lloyd, just as horny, and has the same charisma. The tale itself was inspired by his knack for collecting unusual propositions. It's a prequel to "Four Friends," also posted here. KN
*
Let me get one thing straight. I didn't go to my niece's wedding to ruin it. That's what my sister and brother-in-law told everyone, and it's not true. Why would anyone intentionally do a thing like that--cause the biggest family scandal in half a century and end up a total pariah?
I admit if I had kept my pants zipped none of this would have happened. But it takes two, and no matter what anyone says, I'm not the one who made the first move.
I wasn't even sure I would be invited to Kris's wedding. That's my niece, the youngest daughter of my only sister Katherine. Funny how the children in a family can turn out so different. Kath was such a carefree teenager, downright wild at times. I would never have expected her to marry a rich, conservative lawyer and become so straitlaced. Meanwhile, I came out of the closet after twenty-five years of marriage and two children. When word got around about my "conversion," which was the word my family settled upon, for a while there was no relationship between my sister and me. So it doesn't bother me too much that there isn't one now--we've just come full circle.
My older brother Art is something else. Katherine grudgingly sent me an invitation only after Art threatened to boycott the event himself if I was excluded. I heard later that she had asked him in the heat of their argument, "Are you absolutely sure he won't try anything funny in the bathroom during the reception?" which I thought was a ridiculous and insulting thing to say. Now, I have to admit, she might have had a point.
I'd give anything if my brother and I could go back to the way things were. Art feels that I slapped him in the face after he went to bat for me. I've apologized to him until my knees are black and blue, but it's still going to take time, lots of time, and we may never be the same.
This is what happened. I landed at LaGuardia the day before the wedding, having had a smooth flight from Dallas, where I live with my longtime partner Charlie. Katherine had absolutely refused to relent on that issue--Charlie was not welcome at the festivities. If I were there I would have to pretend to be the bachelor uncle. My decision to go anyway did not make Charlie happy, to say the least. When I'm in a mean mood I think my sister's karma simply caught up with her. If Charlie and I had been at the wedding as a happy couple none of this would have happened either. But there's no use thinking about that now.
I rented a car and drove to New Haven, where Katherine, her pompous husband and her family lived, and where the wedding was going to be. Being a last-minute addition to the guest list, I had no role in the actual event, so I wasn't in any hurry. I took the Merritt Parkway and enjoyed the drive. The Holiday Inn where the wedding party and guests were staying was downtown and I got checked in without any problem.
The first thing I wanted to do was to see Art, and thank him for his support. When I called the front desk and had them ring his room, though, he was out.
"If you're with the Fontaineau-Woodson wedding, sir," the helpful clerk volunteered, "I believe I heard some people talking about a rehearsal dinner at the New Haven Golf Club tonight."
It occurred to me that almost all of the relatives were probably there, at the dinner to which I had not received an invitation. It's true that I didn't know the groom or his family, but I suspected Kath was still finding ways to make me feel like a second-class citizen. I felt a slow burn starting inside me, but knew I didn't have the nerve to crash the event. I was stuck in a dull hotel in a strange city where I didn't know anyone.
Just in case I had any time to explore, I'd glanced at and xeroxed the New Haven pages in a gay travel guide that covered the Northeast. Compared to the dozens of pages on New York City, of course, the section on this town was sparse. Nevertheless, there were a few bars listed in the downtown area. I picked out one whose description said it was "low-key and friendly," which I hoped meant it wouldn't be deafeningly loud and overrun with young muscle queens. Sure, it can be fun watching the scene in that kind of a place, but I get tired of the smoke and getting attitude from guys half my age, just because I'm not blond, buff and twenty.
I looked at a map on one of the pages I had brought and discovered that the bar I had in mind was only a few blocks from the hotel. That decided me. It beat watching TV in my room, or calling Charlie and having him start in on me again about how I'd put my family ahead of him.
It was a pleasant spring evening. I walked past the stately buildings of Yale University and found a quick bite to eat near campus. When I finished my meal I looked at my watch. It was nine o'clock, still early.
I left the restaurant and walked toward where I thought the bar would be, feeling a familiar nervousness rise in me. I hadn't even started going to such places until I was well past forty and I still didn't feel comfortable doing it. At last I saw a modest neon sign in a darkened glass window: "Partners."
I walked around the block before I pushed the door open and walked in.
The place looked like it had been a bar of a more conventional type once, with lots of battered wood furniture and booths against the wall. Disco music was playing in some room further inside, but out where I was it wasn't too bad. Video screens hung in various locations near the ceiling, showing clips from what seemed to be old movie musicals. There was something sweet about that and I smiled. If nothing else, I could watch TV here instead in my hotel room.
Partners seemed to be a popular weekend hangout, judging from the number of people in it even this early. I worked my way to the bar and got myself a beer. At least I wasn't the only guy my age in the place, judging from the faces and bodies sitting here.
I jumped as a hand grabbed my butt. I turned and found myself looking into a ruddy face beneath a shock of silver hair. The cloudy eyes and slack jaw told me all I needed to know.
"You're cute," the man said. "New around here, aren't you?"
"Uh, yeah." He also had quite a beer belly going. Definitely not my type. Not that I was available anyway. Once in a great while I'd mess around in the steam room of the gym I went to at home, when the occasion presented itself and I got carried away. Chatting up someone here would be planned infidelity, though. I wasn't going to cross that line.
"Excuse me." I moved away across the room. He didn't try and follow me, thank God.
I settled into a spot against the wall and started watching videos. The minutes ticked by and the bar got more and more crowded, but no one else spoke to me. I saw a number of attractive older guys come in, but they were either in pairs or definitely not interested.
Despite myself my ego felt bruised. I wasn't that bad looking for a fortysomething (well, fifty-two, actually). I worked out regularly and still had most of my hair, even if it was graying. I was wearing a decently tight pair of jeans and my good leather jacket. So far the drunk at the bar was the only one who'd noticed any of this. I thought about why I was here in the first place and self-pity enveloped me.
I heaved a sigh and glanced at my watch again. Eleven-thirty. I was finishing my third beer. The video clips were repeating--I'd seen Ann Miller kick up her heels on the soup can once already this evening. Maybe it was time to pack it in before I gave myself lung cancer from the secondhand smoke. It wasn't too late to call home, either.
I looked around the bar for what I thought was the last time. Then I noticed the newcomer standing against the wall near the entrance.
He was young, little more than a boy. His slender body was clad in a suit and tie, more formal than most of the clientele. He had dark straight hair above a face that was smooth and unlined, the cheeks even a bit pudgy, what we used to call a baby face. His square, determined chin and thick, bushy eyebrows, though, gave him character. I had a feeling he had a nice smile, though at the moment he wasn't smiling.
He was, however, looking at me with a pair of dark eyes.
I glanced around quickly, pretending I hadn't noticed, then looked in his direction again. There was no possible doubt--he was staring at me.
Normally I never would have done what I did. It was late, though, and I was tired, lonely, and more than a little drunk.
I looked straight at him, pointed at my chest and raised my eyebrows as high as I could, as if to say: "You're looking at ME?"
I had been right about the smile--it was radiant. I drew in my breath, and my heartbeat quickened its pace. If I'd only had the strength to resist right then I would have saved myself a lot of grief. But I didn't.
I smiled back and shrugged my shoulders. He left his place against the wall and came over to where I was standing. Up close my first impressions were confirmed. He was young enough to be my son, and as pretty as anything I'd seen in a long time.
I was terrified of saying the wrong thing, but even more scared he'd leave if I didn't say anything. I took a deep breath and opened my mouth.
"You're not drinking anything."
He shook his head, and smiled again. "I just got here." His voice was surprisingly deep and resonant.
"Can I buy you something?"
He shrugged. "Sure."
Unbelievably, he was still standing, waiting for me when I got back with his drink. He toasted me before he took his first sip. I reciprocated with my almost empty beer, dazed at my luck.
We must have chatted while he drank, but I have no idea about what. I did learn his name--Jason, and told him mine. I said something about how he looked too spiffy for the dive we were in.
"I've come from another party. More formal than this one." He was having to lean close to me to make himself heard and his alcohol-scented breath tickled my ear most delightfully.
