Curiosity Satisfied

IT WAS SEVEN thirty on a Tuesday morning, and I was fighting for my life. Sam, my best friend and current racquetball partner, and I were in a dead heat with our usual opponents, Rob and Will. We’d won the first game, they’d won the second, and this game would be the tiebreaker. Finally, Sam and I summoned a surge of energy from somewhere and made the crucial point. After shaking hands all around, the four of us went to the locker-room. We had a standing reservation for an indoor court at the Y on Riverside Avenue every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday at the same time. If one of us was for any reason unable to participate, he was honor bound to come up with a substitute, which had happened more than a few times during the three years we’d been playing together. As was our custom, we settled down in the steam room for a while before we showered and dressed for work. This particular branch of the Y was situated on the north bank of the St. Johns River only a few blocks from downtown Jacksonville, and a great many men and women brought their working attire to the Y so they could work out, shower, dress, and go straight to their respective jobs. The four of us were all lawyers, ranging in age from my twenty-nine to Will’s thirty-five. We worked for different firms and were extremely competitive. I’d just made partner in the third-largest law firm in town and was still more than a bit overwhelmed at that success, which was largely due to a huge string of luck the year before. I’d won three gigantic settlements for my clients—and for the firm. “Mitch,” Sam said, “are you and Rosalie going out this weekend?” “No. I’ve sort of been tapering off from seeing her lately. In any case, she left town Sunday night and will be attending some sort of seminar on the West Coast for the next three or four weeks.” “That’s a hell of a long seminar,” Rob said. “That’s what they’re calling it,” I said, “but you’re right—it’s more like a crash course in her field.” “And what’s the mouse going to do while the cat’s away?” Will said, with a sly smile on his face. “This mouse, as you know, just moved into his new house—a classic fixer-upper in Riverside,” I said. “I have a shitload of painting, patching, and minor repairs to take care of.” “That should keep you out of mischief,” Sam said. “Yeah.” Showered and dressed (I’d shaved at home), I got in my ten-year-old SUV and headed downtown to deal with my extremely full appointment calendar. After a long and very busy day, I was glad to strip down to a pair of gym shorts when I got home. I’d picked up a sandwich and a Coke in nearby Five Points and immediately got busy painting my living room between bites of food. I was really proud of my first house, and it had been a steal. The house contained a large master suite, two smaller bedrooms with a connecting bath between them, separate living and dining rooms, and an eat-in kitchen. There was also a screened-in front porch, an open back porch, and, perhaps best of all, a two-car garage complete with an upstairs apartment. I’d made a huge down payment to the cash-strapped owners, and they were carrying the mortgage. The rent from the apartment was just enough to cover the payments, but not the taxes and insurance. I reached a good stopping point a little after ten, cleaned up my paint roller, and headed for the bedroom I was using. The master bedroom was empty, and I was using a guest room—my game plan being to paint the master bedroom before I occupied it. I padded naked from the bedroom to the bathroom and stepped into the shower. Afterward, I toweled myself dry, watching myself in the steamed-up mirror as I did. I wiped away the steam and looked at my image. “I’m tired,” I said. “You should be,” my image said. “You’ve had a long, hard day.” “Yeah. It was a good day, though, and I got a lot done.” “Then why aren’t you happy?” “I’m happy.” “Not even close—this is me you’re talking to.” “Of course I’m happy. I’m on top of the world.” “Bovine excreta. You only appear to be happy on the outside, but there’s an underlying sadness inside of you. Something’s missing from your life, and you know damn well what it is.” “Whatever do you mean?” “Don’t be disingenuous. We’re talking about your sexuality.” “Oh, that.” “Yes, that. It’s time you openly admitted to yourself that you wonder about such things.” “That’s a load of crap.” “Oh, yeah? Then why do you have a hidden stash of gay magazines and porn?” “That’s for research.” “That’s a rather quaint euphemism for jerking off while looking at pictures of naked men having s*x, but I don’t think you’ll find it in any dictionary.” “Okay, I give up. I think I might be gay.” “Oh, puh-leeze. ‘Might be?’ Face it, Mitch—you’re gay and you know it. All that remains is for you to prove it to yourself by actually doing the deed.” “What will people think?” “Excuse me, but unless you’re planning to have s*x at high noon on the courthouse steps, or hire the town crier to announce the fact, ‘people’—as you put it—won’t know anything.” “Yeah, I guess.” “Listen to me, my boy. Your current, and somewhat unsatisfactory, source of s****l relief will be out of town for quite a while. What better opportunity for you to try your wings?” “I wouldn’t know how to go about it.” “More bovine excreta. If that’s true, why have you not only looked up but driven by every gay bar in town at least once?” “You’ve got me there.” “Damn straight. It’s time for less talk and more action.” “We’ll see.” I checked the doors, set the alarm system, and crawled in bed. The week dragged on, and I worked on the living and dining rooms virtually every evening—followed by a struggle with my ‘man in the mirror’. Friday evening arrived, and I was once again standing in front of my bathroom mirror having an argument with my reflection, only this time I was fighting a losing battle. During a momentary lull in the ‘back-and-forth’, I picked up my glass of vodka and tonic, took a healthy sip, then set the glass carefully back on the counter. “I’m not ready for this,” I said. “Sure you are,” the image in the mirror said. “You’ve been curious ever since you started jacking off, and you’ve been ‘ready’ most of your adult life.” “It’s not fair to Rosalie.” “Rosalie who?” “The Rosalie I’ve been having s*x with for the past several months—you know damn well who.” “Oh, that Rosalie—so what?” “She’s probably in love with me.” “Again, so what?” “That’s callous.” “No, it isn’t. Are you in love with her?” “Now that you mention it, no.” “Have you made any promises to her of any kind?” “No, but I suspect she’s made a lot of assumptions.” “That’s her problem.” “She’s gonna be out of town for two more weeks.” “What difference does that make? You don’t have to ask her permission.” “I’d be sneaking around behind her back.” “That’s a load of crap and you know it.” “Yeah, I guess.” “So, what’s the problem—what better time to do this? You’ll notice that I refrained from pointing out that you just bought and moved into your first house—a tiny detail about you that she doesn’t know a thing about.” “I was gonna tell her when she gets back.” “Sure you were.” I retrieved the glass, took another slug, replaced it, and said, “I’m scared.” “Oh, puh-leeze. You? Scared? Number one in your graduating class at law school… law review and all the usual overachiever s**t… scared? Just made partner in the third-largest law firm in town at the young age of twenty-nine… scared? As you are well aware, that’s another massive load of bovine excreta.” “I could strike out tonight.” “More bovine excreta. Look at yourself—six feet of muscle, blond hair, blue eyes, good-looking (some might even say gorgeous), and a smile that melts hearts.” “Now who’s dumping the bovine excreta?” “False modesty doesn’t become you; you’ve always turned heads—you know that.” “This is different.” “Damn straight it is, this is about how you want to live the rest of your life.” “I don’t know.” “Mitch, my boy, you can do this. Correction… you have to do this. You’re on the cusp of the rest of your life, and you need to either lock yourself in a deep dark closet, or set your doubts to rest by liberating them and yourself.” I picked up the glass, upended it, and swallowed the last of the vodka. “Yeah, I guess I’d better do it.” “Yeah, but don’t even think about driving—not after three vodka tonics.” “Then how will I get there?” “Geez.Do I have to tell you everything? Call a taxi. Walk to the corner and catch a bus. Hell, it’s only eight or nine blocks, and it’s a cool evening—you could walk the distance.” “Yeah.” I took one last look at myself in the mirror, wondering if others would see all of my warts—real and imaginary—as plainly as I could. Oh hell, the mirror was right—only one way to find out. I headed toward the front door but decided to detour into another room, recalling that I’d noticed a couple of leftover bus passes when I’d organized my desk in its new location. I’d used the bus for almost a month some months earlier while my car was in the shop for some major body work after a drunken fool without insurance had run a red light and slammed into it. For some reason, my insurance hadn’t provided a rental car, and I was too cheap to rent one myself. I found the passes, pocketed them, and left the house. My timing couldn’t have been better—I arrived at the nearest bus stop a few minutes in advance of the next bus. It didn’t matter which bus I took. All of the inbound busses passed within a couple of blocks of my ultimate goal, so I could safely board the first one I saw. I exited the bus at a stop in front of the Blue Cross Tower and walked two blocks to the bar. I squared my shoulders, braced myself, and walked through the wide-open outer doors. The minute I pushed my way through the inner doors, loud music washed across me. Just like a straight pick-up bar, only louder, I thought. Not knowing whether there was table service or not, I walked up to the bar, purchased a Coke, and carried it over to the nearest empty table, where I settled down to watch and wait—for what, I wasn’t at all certain. My gaze wandered slowly around the room, taking in all there was to see, and I hoped I wasn’t being too obvious. The tiny dance floor was occupied by a few couples who were gyrating to something rhythmic and obnoxiously loud. A few of the tables were occupied, mostly by two or more people, and there were a few guys sitting on stools at the bar. Two of them were turned away from the bar, obviously watching the dancers. One guy was staring at the reflections in the mirror behind the bar. He had a head of curly black hair, a strong, good-looking face, and a square jaw. He saw me looking at him and winked, and we locked eyes for a moment. He summoned the bartender, said something to him, and a couple of minutes later, he left the bar and walked over to my table carrying two glasses. He was fairly tall, and the muscle tee he was wearing revealed the torso of a body-builder. “Buy you a drink?” he said, setting a glass in front of me. “Thanks.” I took a tentative sip—it was Coke. “How did you know what I was drinking?” “A good bartender always remembers what he’s served and to whom—especially when it was served to the best-looking man in the room.” Ignoring the flattery, I extended a hand and said, “Mitch Edwards.” “Rion Murphy.” My hand was gripped by steel coated with flesh. We exchanged a bit of personal information and chatted about nothing in particular for a while until he said, “Let’s dance.” “Okay.” He took me by the hand and led me to the dance floor, where we joined the other couples. The music instantly changed to a slow number, which prompted him to take me in his arms. I responded by trying to lead. “You’ve never followed, have you?” “Sorry,” I said. “That’s okay. I’m versatile.” I started leading, but we eventually finished the number with me following. It was so different dancing with a man. Where I was accustomed to pressing against soft flesh, I found myself moving against a hard and firm body. It was nice, and I found myself liking it. My d**k really liked it, because it became as hard as a rock, and I could feel an obvious bulge in Rion’s pants as well. The music stopped for a minute and a fast number began. Rion said, his lips pressed against my ear to make himself heard above the music, “So, Mitch, do you always come to a bar just to drink the real thing?” “Hardly,” I said. “I had a couple of drinks at home working up the nerve to come here. When I got here I decided it was time to taper off.” “First visit to a gay bar, right?” “Yeah.” “You had a couple of drinks thinking you might not like it?” “Maybe I was afraid that I would like it.” “You’ve never been with a guy before?” “Bingo.” “Girls?” “Oh, yeah. A steady stream all through college, law school, and since.” “But?” “Something’s missing, and I’ve done enough reading and research to have a pretty fair idea what it is.” “What kind of reading and research?” “What kind do you think? Gay stories. Gay porn. Jerk off material.” “Scares the s**t out of you, doesn’t it?” “You could say that.” “Ready to find out if it’s real?” “Now or never,” I said. We walked to the bar entrance, headed to the parking lot, and he said, “Where’s your car?” “Home in my garage. I don’t need to deal with a DUI on top of everything else.” “Not a problem. I’m right over here.” He led me to a fairly new BMW sedan, and I said, “The real-estate business must be doing well.” He’d told me what he did for a living. “Not as well as you might think. Things are kind of slow right now—this baby is five years old.” “Could have fooled me.” In the car, he said, “My place or yours?” “Since you’re taking me home, why not mine?” I gave him the address. “That’s one of the up-and-coming areas of Riverside.” “Yeah. I got a bargain on a fixer-upper and I have a lot of work to do.” As we approached my house, I said, “Why don’t you drive around back to park?” “Can’t park in the driveway because of the tenant, right?” “Bingo.” He pulled the Bimmer up to the back of the house, careful to leave enough room for my tenant to back into and out of the garage, and we exited the car. It’s now or never, I thoughtas I led him to the backdoorI was doing my best not to appear as nervous as a sixteen-year-old virgin, but I wasn’t at all certain that I was succeeding.