Flattered

The spouse was out at a function in Ann Arbor, so I decided to enjoy some social time at the bar with a few friends, Saturday night. Now, I’ve never claimed to be a stunningly attractive man. But I have my well-put-together days, and then the days in which I look as if I’ve been dragged backward through a hedge. Yesterday was apparently one in which I had it going on. My beard was neatly trimmed and leveled, my hair was behaving, my clothes were neat and unfussy.

And of course, it never hurts that the bar’s lights were turned down low.

Three youngish men had entered a few minutes before and sat down at the bar. One was bearded, buff, and wore a pink Powerpuff Girls T-shirt. I was guessing the other two were lovers, from the way they touched each other’s wrists as they whispered between themselves. One was angular, thin, and wore both mascara and eyeliner; his boyfriend had long hair gathered into a ponytail-bun, hipster glasses, and a day’s growth of stubble. And after one drink, I realized that they all three were checking me out.

The bearded guy was unabashed about it. He’d catch my eye and smile, then hold the glance for what felt an uncomfortable length of time. The two boyfriends were more surreptitious about surveying me. The one with the bun would sip his drink from one corner of his mouth, crane his neck, look over his shoulder at me, and then glance nervously at his boyfriend in case he was overlooked. The mascara guy would swivel around so that his back was to the bar and rest his arms behind them, then disdainfully look at the motley collection of gay guys around him before letting his gaze run up and down my length.

There wasn’t much I could do about it, of course. I was with friends. They were all friends. I didn’t really find any of them hugely attractive. So I just sat back and enjoyed the stares and returned them when I could.

Until, that is, a guy walked up and blocked the view. He was in his early fifties—a burly, muscular guy with a pornstache wearing dark Levis, a crisp white T-shirt, and a leather vest. He was an acquaintance of one of my acquaintances. And he shared my first name. It was with the utmost high-larity that we were introduced: “ [Name], meet [Same Name].”

“Evenin’, handsome,” he said, with a bit of a drawl. He grabbed my hand in his and gave it a manly squeeze. Almost immediately I thought to myself, oh, my.

Never mind that he and my friend hadn’t seen each other in a dog’s age. My name twin was all about me from the moment we shook hands. “So,” he said, moving in close. “Do you like guys into leather?”

I nearly spit out my Diet Coke. “That’s a hell of an opening line.”

“You’ve got a ring on,” he observed, nodding at my left hand.

“And you’ve got an armband on.” I pointed at his right bicep, which sported a leather strap drawn tight to accentuate his muscle.

“I wear it to let the boys I’m interested in know that I’m into rough stuff. Grabbin’ ass. Stretchin’ it wide.” The arm with his band rested on the table. He extended his other arm so that it lay on the back of my tall barstool. With him in front of me, blocking the way, there wasn’t anywhere I was going anytime soon. “Gettin’ in there deep.”

“Wow,” I said, blinking. “With your fist? Does the band mark how far you go or something? Because ouch. I’ve been to the elbow, but the shoulder is pretty hardcore.”

My name twin laughed and laughed, so loudly that all three of the boys at the bar turned around to see what was so funny. “I’m not really into fistin’. Just rimmin’ like a crazed dog and then fuckin’ the livin’ daylights out of a hot boy. How old are you, son? Thirty? Thirty-two?”

Exactly as he intended, I laughed and got shy. “Forty-six.”

“Get out!” he let out a wolf whistle “Well, you’d sure look purty with that sweet boy ass up in the air for me!’

My name twin seemed to have forgotten that my friends were all still at the table, listening to every word. “Well!” said one of them, rising. “I think I’m going to go have a smoke!”

“I’m joining you!” said another.

The third seemed to be unable to speak. He just grabbed his drink and went to talk to someone far, far away.

Once we were relatively alone, I noticed that my name twin not only had kind of pinned me to my seat with his wide-armed stance, but that he’d maneuvered his position so that his legs were between mine. He’d managed to overtake my own personal space in a truly sexual way. That’s my move with someone sitting on a barstool. “Are you coming on to me?” I asked.

“Maybe,” he admitted.

“I was having difficulty telling. You might want to amp it up, some. You’re coming off as pretty subtle.”

“Oh, you think?” he leaned forward, so that his face was only inches from mine. Between my blondish hair and his bristly mustache, we must have looked like the homoerotic cover to Hall and Oates’ H2O album.

“I’m very discreet,” he said, with the utmost sincerity. “None of those guys will ever know.”

“I’m pretty sure they already know.”

“You’ll get great sex and a great fuckin’,” he promised.

“Oh, I’m sure. It’s just that I’m a top, too.”

“I know.” His admission surprised me. “I know who you are on Manhunt.” He said my profile name. That surprised me even more. “I’ve looked at those pretty pictures a hundred times. I recognized you when I walked into the bar. I know you’re a top. I also know that you’d look real pretty suckin’ my dick while you sat your boycunt down on my face and let me take care of it for you. You’d get a pussy full of sperm, I guarantee. That’s something every top needs. So how ‘bout it sometime?”

My eyebrows couldn’t have raised any higher. At that moment, the young guy with the ponytail bun stepped down from his bar stool, locked eyes with me, and gave me a meaningful glance as he began wandering back to the restroom. I didn’t really intend to follow up on it, but I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of hormones I was giving off that night. I don’t wear cologne, or anything more complex than a scent of soap and deodorant. But the bar was relatively uncrowded, the lights were low, and maybe I was just the best of slim pickings. “Well, I'm flattered . . . to be honest, I am not real sure I’d be any good for you, and. . . .”

Before I could naysay him, my name twin leaned even closer. “You are going to think about it,” he said. “And your hole is going to start twitchin’ for me. And pretty soon you’re going to give it up. I’m patient.” He leaned back, then in again. “I’m real patient.”

He walked away after that, leaving me grinning and shaking my head. The ponytail guy eventually wandered back from the men’s room and shot me a look of hate. My friends returned, one by one, when they thought the coast was clear. No one said anything about my name twin, and he didn’t approach me again until I was on my way out. Then he only broke off his conversation to slap my ass, point a finger at me, and winked.

Sunday morning I logged onto Manhunt and saw a note from the guy. “You think about what I said,” is all it read. I looked at his profile. My name twin’s photos were pretty hot. His dick was short, but very thick. If he was half the top guy he talked himself up to be, there were probably a lot of happy bottoms in his wake. Good for him.

And yes, I’m sorry to admit it, but my ass twitched.