Genie in a Vodka Bottle

Chapter 1Luke, my fuckwad of an ex-boyfriend, cancelled his seat on our flight from SFO to Dublin, which would then continue on to our vacation destination of Malaga, Spain. I, it seemed, in the mess that was our relationship, and the further mess that was our breakup, forgot to cancel my seat. Said fuckwad, suffice it to say, did not remind me to cancel. Granted, we weren’t talking at the time, or since, but it might’ve been nice if he’d said something. Then again, why start now? Being nice, that is. All that is to say, I would soon be travelling along the southern coast of Spain very much sadly solo. “f*****g fuckwad,” I said as I began to pack, Christina Aguilera singing “Genie in a Bottle” on MTV. I glanced up, just a tad bit confused. “MTV still plays music videos?” I said to the TV and then shrugged. I changed the channel. Luke loved Christina. I hated Luke. Ergo, I hated Christina. Well no, not really; I loved Christina, duh, but the wound was still too fresh. And deep. Like Mariana Trench deep. And so, yeah, I changed the channel one up to VH1. Bowie was singing “Jean Genie” and my confusion blossomed into befuddled bewilderment. “VH1 still plays music videos?” I scratched my head. I folded my underwear and placed it inside my luggage. I missed Luke. Mainly because Luke always did the packing, and certainly not because I missed him. Not because I missed waking up to his arm wrapped around me, or the way we showered together every morning, or breakfast magically appearing before I was even half-way dressed, and not because this trip was supposed to be a celebration of five years together. Heck, not even because he bored me with his lectures on art history, which he generally did naked, and so, though still bored, at least I was bored and horny. And not even how he dusted all the time, because he absolutely hated dust around the apartment, but, then again, he dusted naked, too. “f*****g fuckwad,” I repeated, because yep, it bared repeating. FYI, the apartment was way dusty now because I hated dusting, which made me both hate and miss my ex all the more. The channel moved two more ahead. Some sort of classic TV. Luke and Laura were getting married on General Hospital. “Genie Francis,” I said. That’s who played Laura. I stared up at the ceiling as a few bats took wing inside my belly and skidded against my pancreas. The swarm hit full-on when the channel once again changed and there was Barbara Eden blinking her master into a space craft. “Genie,” I whispered and then gulped. “What gives with all the genies?” I turned the TV off. I closed my luggage. I sat on the bed and stared at a photo of me and Luke in better times, celebrating our fourth anniversary in Germany, travelling down the Rhine together, ancient castles and impossibly steep vineyards as a backdrop to our, blech, longevity. Meaning, no shock here, I turned the frame around. In retrospect, I don’t think I ever really loved Luke. We simply looked good on paper. And In photos. He like Cheyenne Jackson, only shorter, me like James Franco, only taller, leaner. I liked Luke, past tense, a lot. I figured loved would eventually come along. Sadly, it missed the boat. And the plane. Namely the one I’d soon be riding on. Alone. “A week in Spain,” I said, forcing a smile. “Might be just what the doctor ordered.” * * * * I blinked my eyes open as the plane began its initial descent into Dublin. So much green. Every shade of it. Even Kermit would’ve been envious of it all. The man next to mean leaned over to have a look. “Beautiful,” he said. I nodded, glanced his way. Guy looked Middle Eastern. Dark skinned. A thick beard. Handsome fellow. I hadn’t noticed him much until that moment. Or at all, really. Sad because he was well worth noticing. “Yes,” I said with a smile. “Beautiful.” He smiled back, locked eyes for the briefest of moments, causing both me and my d**k to shift in the seat. “First time to Dublin?” I nodded. I shook my head. “Not going to Dublin. Just a brief layover before Malaga.” His smile widened. “Southern Spain. Beautiful place.” His accent was melodic, lilting. His eyes looked like melted chocolate. Willy Wonka had nothing on this guy’s eyes. I popped a cavity, and a boner, staring into them. “Mind if I make a suggestion?” I was hoping for an invitation to the bathroom, but my life hadn’t been that lucky as of late. Or as of early. Or as of any time I could recently recall, really. “Please do,” I said. As in me. As in please do me. Please. Okay, so I was a tad desperate, but since the breakup, I’d pretty much been dating my hand. “Gibraltar,” he said. I squinted his way. Gibraltar. Was Gibraltar in southern Spain? Was Gibraltar part of Spain? That couldn’t be right. Wasn’t Gibraltar British? Maybe I should’ve done some research before this trip. Or cancelled this trip when I had the chance. Or cancelled Luke just after Germany. Alas, hindsight, twenty/twenty, blah, blah, blah. “Gibraltar,” I repeated, trying to recall some image of it, some iota of knowledge. Didn’t it have some sort of monkey connection? Did this guy dig monkeys? Did this guy dig me? Had my luck finally changed? Would my hand at last get a well-deserved rest? “You’re saying I should visit there?” He nodded rather emphatically, beard shaking in his neck’s wake. “Yes, friend. Such a unique place. So much history. The rock of Gibraltar. The Barbary Apes.” His smile lit up to maximum wattage. A Disney Parade had nothing on this guy’s smile. “You walk from Spain into a British territory. So unique. So unique. Trust Omar. You will not be disappointed.” I trusted Omar. In that I wanted desperately to f**k Omar. Or Omar could f**k me. I wasn’t all that picky. “Okay,” I said. “Thank you, Omar. I’ll check it out.” Or you out. In the bathroom if you’re game. Not that I said as much but hoped beyond hope that maybe he was telepathic. He reached out his hand. I grabbed onto it like a life preserver. A spark jolted me in my seat as flesh met flesh and the plane glided in for a landing. “You will not be disappointed, my friend,” he repeated as he gleefully shook my hand. “One day you will thank Omar, Allah willing.” I said a brief prayer to his god that I’d get the chance to thank him. With a kiss. In the bathroom. Or heck, right there. Again, I wasn’t picky. Horny, sure, but not all that picky. Like I said, no s*x since the breakup. Or much before, truth be told. “Thank you, Omar; I’m looking forward to it.” His smile, if at all possible, grew to even more mammoth proportions. He withdrew his hand from mine, though it felt like it was still in my grip. Wishful thinking at its best. “You are welcome, my friend. You are most welcome.” He sat back in his seat. He looked strangely relieved. I turned to look at the airport. I was in Ireland. I was happy. Horny, still, but something more, too. Hopeful, perhaps. As if a great adventure lay before me. Or Omar in the bathroom. Fingers crossed. Toes, too. Not my eyes, though, because my mother warned me they could stay that way. And permanently crossed eyes was not a look I was going for now that I was that aforementioned sadly solo. The plane began to deboard. Omar stood to get his luggage. He glanced my way, waved. “Have fun on your journey, my friend.” “Paul,” I said. There was that smile again. There was all that glorious chocolate. Omar could’ve been the spokesperson for Hershey’s. “Have fun on your journey, Paul.” The accent afforded my name a few extra vowels. The accent again gave me a boner. Not that it had much gone down, but still. Perhaps it was good that Luke and I planned for Spain and not Egypt or, say, Turkey. I’d brought almost nothing but shorts, which did little to hide my much. As I sat there pondering all this, the line of travelers began to move. Omar was already halfway down the plane. I hopped up, retrieved my carry-on. I shifted my head a bit to the left, to the right, trying to keep my seat-mate in my line of vision. I exited the plane five minutes later. Omar had seemingly vanished. I raced to the bathroom. My very soul ached. My boner deflated. Where had he gone to? I was just behind him. But no, he wasn’t in the john either. I sighed and headed for a urinal. I peed and thought of Omar. I’d only just met him and felt like I’d lost an old friend. How could that be? I chalked it up to my recent foray into singlehood. I was surrounded by people and so incredibly lonely. And yet, the horizon loomed. I felt myself being yanked toward it. * * * * I ate in the airport, had a beer in the airport, and kept my eyes peeled for Omar. But no. Nada, zip, zilch. Not a single Middle Eastern man in all of Dublin. Or at least in the airport. Or at least while I was sitting in the airport. Just a whole hell of a lot of people with red hair and green eyes or blue eyes and impossibly pale skin. Coppertone must’ve made a killing in Ireland, I figured. In any case, I boarded my connecting plane and tried to think instead of what lay ahead. I’d looked up Gibraltar on my phone during my brief meal. I smiled. I had Prudential Insurance. I didn’t have to get a piece of the rock; I already owned a piece. Also, I had no idea you could actually walk through said rock, never even realized it was a tourist destination as well as an insurance marketing gimmick, and that there were Barbary macaques swarming all over the place, the only wild monkeys in all of continental Europe. Yippy for Wikipedia. In any case, it would be unique, just like Omar had promised. I wouldn’t be disappointed. Horny, sure, but what else was new? Nope, disappointment seemed highly unlikely, despite being disappointed in losing my newfound friend so soon after I’d found him. Thirty minutes later, I stared out the plane’s window and watched as Ireland quickly vanished from sight. Always weird to visit a country and never actually step foot on its soil. Thankfully, Spain had more than enough soil to go around. And people with skin tones darker than freckly pink. And sunny, warm beaches. Yeah, mostly that last one, which is why Luke, the f*****g fuckwad, chose it in the first place. The Costa del Sol. Stretching from Malaga to, yep, Gibraltar. Again, I saw it on a map on my phone back at the airport. Funny, I hadn’t noticed it when we planned everything. Or maybe I hadn’t given it much thought. Now, oddly enough, it was all I could think about. Plus, you know, those chocolate brown eyes of Omar’s, which I saw as I drifted off to sleep across a vast expanse of ocean. When I awoke, it was to turbulence, bump-bump-bumping me into instant alertness. “Sorry, folks,” said the captain over the speaker. “Big rainstorms ahead.” I rolled my eyes. “Figures,” I said beneath my breath. I’d told Luke we should’ve come a couple of months later, more outside the rainy season, but he insisted we go on our anniversary. Now only one of us would be celebrating, and probably from under an umbrella. And not the kind you add to a daiquiri. Seemed my ex was still f*****g me over. God how I hated him. God how I missed him. God how I needed some therapy. Or the money to pay for it. The turbulence briefly abated as the plane rocked its way to a landing. Storm clouds surrounded us as if they had come in from all sides, choking out the sun I’d been counting on for a deep, dark tan. Because I might have been miserable but at least I’d look good in the photos I was sure to post on f*******:, figuring Luke would see them and hate himself for f*****g us up. I mean, sure, the breakup was somewhat my fault, too, but he did the actual breaking, so it was easier to blame him and then call it a day. Cheaper than that aforementioned therapy I couldn’t afford, at any rate. I sighed as I stood to retrieve my carry-on, as the thunder rumbled, as my belly did the same. I caught the eye of a man from across the aisle. He shrugged, smiled. “It’ll pass.”