Thomas and I are seated at the bar, close to the piano. We’d been wandering around the West Village, our freshman faces getting us turned away from a string of venues, when I spotted the lovely singer of show tunes through the window. Let’s try here, I suggested, and Thomas was an easy sell. He usually is. A lad of outstanding piety, he’s less concerned than I am about sex and so is more relaxed. He sleeps with guilt on a regular basis; guilt is tender and attentive.
Tall, curvy, in her twenties, with wavy red hair, the chanteuse turns to the two of us after her song and says: “You guys smile a lot.”
There’s an older man a few seats down from us at the bar, and he takes this opportunity, our moment in the limelight, to catch my eye. “Can I buy you boys drinks?” I flop around for a moment like a seal losing his fish. He senses my concern. “No strings attached,” he adds. My friend, emboldened by confidence in his own chastity, says: “Sure!” I feel this is a sticky move. I go along with it.
Our solicitor is about sixty, short and wiry and well groomed; a hint of boyishness abides beneath his wrinkles. He is, can be nothing other than, a regular in this bar. He wears the room with ease. He doesn’t appear drunk, though many in the 30-plus crowd seem to know how to hide it.
Some verbal scuffling with the bartender confirms that 21 is, non-negotiably, the legal drinking age in the United States. We go with Cokes. We talk to Saul, who’s introduced himself with a firm handshake. I can learn something about flirtation from Saul. His manner is coated in harmlessness but taut with intent. It’s sexy, or it would be, were I at all interested. He asks us where we’re from. Toronto, I say. How did we meet each other? Oh, we went to high school together. We didn’t meet over the Internet or something?
Oh.
It’s clear that Saul is attracted to men. The pianist, who is a man, is flirting with the bartender, who is a man. The group of four middle-aged women in a nearby booth appear to be, possibly in various combinations, more than friends. Apparently we’re in a gay bar.
Now Saul says something silly. “You ever want to be in a porno film?” I blink several times; Thomas furrows his brow, perplexed. Saul tells us he thinks we’re beautiful boys. Thomas finally gets it. I worry he’s about to blanch and whip out his Aramaic and do sixty Hail Marys, but I have no need to worry. My pal is a smooth operator. He tells Saul he thinks I’m more beautiful, I tell Saul I think Thomas is more beautiful, and so a heated argument begins. Saul arbitrates and ends it by saying that Thomas has the hair and I the face, “the sweet faccia.” Insecurity insists I read his judgment as a lie. Still, I thank him.
A draught from the opened door makes me shiver. I’m starting to feel guilty for not correcting Saul’s assumptions. But the lovely singer’s set is coming to an end and Saul’s advances have given me a shot of confidence. She sings a pristine top note; the drunk lesbians in the booth hoot; Saul leans over to talk politics with Thomas. As the object of my Saturday night affections walks from the piano to where she’s deposited her winter accessories at the back of the bar, I trail behind her. My hands tremble. She’s slipped into her sleeves by the time I heave my heart into my throat.
“So that was great,” I say. “Like really great. What a great set.”
She turns and takes me in with a charmed curiosity, as if I’m a talking cocker spaniel. “Well, thank you.”
“So how do you get started with this stuff? I mean, you’re a singer. That’s wicked. So do you, like, what, make a demo tape and then send it around? That sort of thing?”
“Yeah, that sort of thing. Are you an aspiring musician?”
“Well, sorta. I mean no. But I can play the guitar. Sorta.”
She gives me a bemused look.
“Look at how straight you are,” she says.
Um.
“Right? You’re not gay?”
“Well, no. I mean not in the traditional sense. Like I’m not going to go home with our new friend at the bar there. Even though I’m sure he’s a nice guy. But, like, I dunno. I could love a guy. Sure. Love is love.”
“That’s a very delicate answer …”
“Steven.”
“You’re what, nineteen?”
“Sure.”
“Have you ever been with another boy?”
“Okay, no. But that’s more a matter of chance, isn’t it? Like if you find someone compatible who happens to be the same gender — ”
“But you’d probably rather sleep with me. For instance.”
“No, I, yeah, but that’s not the — ”
“Steven.”
Her eyes are very blue.
“Okay. Yes. I’d rather sleep with you.” I take quite a deep breath. “So … is that a possibility?”
She seems to give it due consideration.
“I don’t think so. Sorry.”
The confidence with which Saul fuelled me forms a puddle on the floor. “Oh. Why not?”
“Because you’re crazy young. For starters.”
“I’m not that young. How the hell old are you, anyway?”
“Take care, Steven.”
She blows me a kiss and makes her way to the exit. Blood rushes to my face. I think of a thousand things I should’ve said.
Thomas is laughing with Saul. I clap a hand on my friend’s shoulder and he glances up, sees my expression, loses his smile. “No luck?”
“I mean…”
“Ah.”
Saul gives me a sympathetic look. “Your pal tells me you’re straight.”
“Oh yeah? What did he tell you about himself?”
“Things I would never, ever repeat in respectable company.” He pats Thomas on the thigh. They both smile.
I’m beginning to feel nauseous. The ladies in the booth are singing Yellow Submarine. Thomas is confusing me. I’m sweating. I really want to take off my clothes. I really want to take off my clothes with someone else. But I don’t like older men that way. “I’m getting tired.”
Thomas frowns. “Oh. So you wanna go?”
“Can we?”
“I guess so. Yeah.”
I can see that this has depressed Saul. I don’t feel great about that, but my claustrophobia is mounting. The piano man seemed talented, but now it’s as if he’s playing Heart and Soul over and over again.
I grab my jacket. I toss money (those pale bills the colour of melancholy) at the bartender. He slides it back across the bar and tells me Saul has picked up our tab. Thank you, Saul. Thomas follows close behind me and, with plenty of eyes on our exit, we’re back in the crisp chill of the West Village in December, remnants of the year’s last leaves crunching beneath our feet.
We don’t look at each other as we walk. When we arrive at Christopher Park, we sit on a bench. The park is poorly lit. I can hardly see Thomas. Down the street, a pack of college guys clown around with the one female friend in their midst, take turns doing the tango with her, ignore that she seems obviously to be annoyed. It turns my stomach. I consider the possibility that I might hate sex. Or at least all the dirt that clings to it. It’s midnight.
“How you doing?” I say to Thomas.
“Mm. Good.” He seems distracted.
“Are you?”
“What?”
“Gay.”
“No.”
I think for a second. “You wanna kiss each other or something?”
He looks at me without judgment. “Not really.”
“Me neither. Not particularly.”
As we walk home, steam funnels up from underground and cloaks the street. For a moment, passing through it, I feel like I could disappear.