Downtown Templeton
Larkin Road
9:58 P.M.
Toby has never been one to make the first advance in any relationship in his life. Not with his close friends. Not with one-night stands. And certainly not with Grant Stevens, the musician from Chicago. But laws of nature are meant to be broken, which is exactly what happens this evening on Larkin Road. Maybe it’s the whiskey that causes his inhibitions to miraculously disappear tonight, or maybe he subconsciously challenges himself to be impulsive. No matter what the psychology is behind his action tonight—the motion of slipping his hand over the singer’s and providing it with a gentle squeeze—it’s all but too late to back out now, for fear of coming across as a fool or asshole.
Grant’s hand feels gratifying within Toby’s. It’s a large hand with smooth fingertips and a wrinkle free palm. It’s a piano playing man’s hand, if the truth be shared. And Toby doesn’t mind that it’s tucked within his own, feeling warmth collected between them, mixing digits, wrists, and knuckles.
Everything about this evening is tranquil and perfect. Nothing seems off kilter or questionable. The air is warm, the moon is smiling, and Larkin Road welcomes their company, offering its picturesque sidewalks, Tudors, and white-fenced yards. Toby feels as if he’s in a movie; something queer, romantic, and with an edge of funny to it. He’s never been one to act, although many of his gay friends do, on and off Broadway or in Hollywood. Two actually work in West Hollywood, laboring in the skin flick business and carrying out XXX moves with other pretty boy actors.
This isn’t a movie, though, he understands. It’s too perfect to be a movie, too real. If he can only get his heart to stop thumping and trembling within his chest, crumbling his nerves. And his mouth is so dry, which bothers him, screaming for a glass or bottle of chilled water.
Their shoulders rub together a few times as they walk down the street, hand in hand. Toby trips over a lip of sidewalk, finds his balance, and prevents a stumble. He’s always been this careless and clumsy around handsome men. On edge. Adrenalin-pumped. Unsafe. It’s a wonder he hasn’t killed himself on past dates, none of which really worked for him and didn’t allow him to fall in love.
Love. Toby isn’t familiar with the term, action, or the emotion. It hasn’t occurred in his young world, and probably won’t for maybe the next twenty or thirty years. It’s not that he doesn’t believe in love, because he does. It’s simply that the right man hasn’t come along in his life. No one.
Larkin Road narrows at its west end and veers right. It heads toward Templeton Municipal Park where Templetonites take long walks, jog, play baseball or soccer. It’s also the place where some queers meet and fall in love, sharing blowjobs in the bushes, or other sexual treats that are inconspicuous and private; physical actions between gay men that really shouldn’t be seen by young children, religious old women, or gun-rearing cops who just happen to hate fags.
Toby and Grant decide not to head to the park. Instead, they come to the corner of Larkin and Meed, stop, cross Larkin, and walk down the other side of the street, returning to The Whiskey Club, enjoying each other’s company.