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I wore the hue of the night sky as I walked briskly down the street. I glanced at my watch. It was already nine. The bus was caught in traffic congestion after it retrieved all its passengers to carry back home. The night air was a little too crisp for me, but the sharp gusts of wind that cut across my face kept me awake after a long, uneventful workday. The boulevard was bustling with cars, their headlights a blaring white, yellow, and the occasional blue as they sped in an almost contiguous strand of motion. Youthful pedestrians pooled at bus stops and popular corner cafés. I faded in and out of gloom as I passed under street lamps, my lustrous dress shoes clapping along the pavement.
My house was a mile walk from the bus stop. I was nearing the edge of town as the buildings shifted from strict business establishments to the leisurely entertainment facilities. Trees stood confidently beside storefronts, their canopies thick with leaves that littered everything, their branches strangling telephone poles and hugging the necks of street lamps. I glanced over the names of the buildings I approached, pondering which one would be a good place to order a meal. My eyes then settled on a vivid neon sign flickering in the distance. Standing alone and proud in contrast to the barren, black sky, the sign would periodically blink an array of colors. The building was called South Street Nine. It appeared classy from a distance, so I made up my mind to dine there.
As I reached it, I found that the building was the size of a two-story townhouse and looked exactly the same as the other buildings that neighbored it, its only other uniqueness the arrangement of potted plants around the doors and shuttered windows. There was a man leaning on the wall of its entrance, and as he saw me deviate from my path towards him, he stood up and straightened his blazer. He intercepted me when I was close enough to question. His voice was brusque.
“You wanna get in to South Street?” he asked. I stumbled out a yes, smiling at the stranger, his mirror aviators reflecting my rather silly grin.
“It’s a restaurant, right?” I asked, “You serve food?”
“It’s a gay bar for men.”
His blunt statement caught me by surprise, his shades matching my dumb expression. He continued.
“We serve refreshments, though. You can only get in if you’re gay.” He paused, furrowing his brow. “…Are you?”
Without hesitating, I blurted out a yes. I knew not what I just said, what I was doing, or what I was getting myself into. Shortly after I confirmed my sexuality to him, I assured myself that it would just be a social experience. I had never been to a gay bar before. It might be interesting.
The man gave me a quick nod and ushered me through the door.
Techno music blared, siren lights glared, and the dance floor was packed with men of all sorts. I tried to ignore the rush of motion and sound, pushing through the couples and groups that were chatting and dancing. The mass thinned out as one panned the room, the eastern end hosting noticeably less people than the western. I immediately headed for the bar, which took up almost the entire East wall, the nearest corner of the strip reserved for the stairwell to the second floor. A rowdy cheer roared from the dance mob as I sat myself down on one of the few bar stools vacant. My heart was racing. I felt so uncomfortable amidst all this noise and talk and people. I hunched over the burnished counter, staring at my clasped hands, trying to take everything in. I was rudely shocked from my introversion when a shot glass slammed in front of me.
I whipped my attention up to a handsome man with a friendly smile on his stubbly face. As the bartender, he wore a pinstripe shirt with a dapper sweater vest to fit the theme. His hair slicked up into a ducktail.
“Welcome to South Street Nine, buddy,” he chirped. “What would you like to drink?”
I made an attempt to smile, but the corners of my lips could only form a timid simper.
“I… don’t really know, actually…” I tend to chuckle at the end of my phrases when I’m unsure of myself. I did so then. Fortunately for me, the bartender took it lightly and laughed along with me.
“I could definitely start you off with a shot of our signature liquor,” he urged. “It’s kinda fruity—likeme.” God, how awful! His terrible joke made me snort, and he deemed his job as comic relief accomplished. He then turned his back towards me to retrieve a few bottles of alcohol off the shelves and proceeded to concoct my drink. I let my attention wander with my eyes to the others nearby. Just out of the illumination of the bar’s hanging lights was a couple in the shade. I had to strain a bit to see them, but they appeared to be dressed in dark, sleek leather and metal studs. One was sitting on a stool, pressed up against the wall, loose vest giving way to his brawny chest. His more slender partner was standing and nudging him into the corner, kissing him amorously. They caressed each other’s bodies with long strokes and firm grips, the one on the stool fidgeting more so than his lover. I lowered my gaze a bit to see the reason—tenderly groping the crotch of his pants. I couldn’t help but lick my lips. Absentmindedly, I allowed my hand to drift as I watched him drag his fingers over the rim of the other’s pants, letting them linger there—just to tease. My twitching fingers lightly traced the seam of my fly as he began to wedge his hand between tight leather and writhing muscle, slowly sinking into the depths of his pants…
“Here you go!” bellowed the bartender. I started, my face flushing a bit as I whipped my gaze back to him. The guy smiled. “I’ll make this one on the house, buddy.”
I thanked him and took a sip, pushing my hand off my hardening crotch and clasping my knee, darting my eyes about in an attempt to avoid the bartender and the temptation in the corner. I focused on a group of casually dressed Arabian men on the opposite end of the bar, laughing and holding a conversation that I could barely hear. I caught something of a foreign language during a quick lull in background noise. The wine had something of a fruitful flavor—a punch of spice when it hit the tongue, mellowing out into a round, sweet tone. I examined the yellowish-green liquid in my glass, approving of the taste. The man leaned over the counter on his arm, his face spouting a playful look of anticipation that simply impelled one to respond.
“It’s, uh, really good,” I managed to utter. I felt the hotness of my cheeks gradually blow over. The man bobbed his head in agreement, grinning.
“That’s why it’s our special, you know.” He winked. Abruptly, he changed the subject. “I’ve never seen you around this bar before—and I’ve seen alot of people.” He smiled, raised his brow, and then asked, “Are you new?”
I nodded. “I just came by because I thought you served dinners.”
The bartender told me otherwise and slicked back his hair.
“Just drinks. A restaurant is right next to us, though. It’s closed now. It’s… a quarter past nine?” He strained to remember, and then checked his wristwatch to reassure himself. “I mean 9:21… Well, you know.” He shrugged. “By the way, I’m Jared. Sorry I didn’t mention it before. I kind of misplaced my name tag. Yours?” Jared was a pleasant guy. Strangely, I felt myself grow more relaxed around him. I smiled and told him I was Collin. He smiled too.