The Boyfriend Experience

I’m walking toward Broadway in the lower Seventies when I pass a storefront with a display of floral bouquets out front. Garish carnations dyed orange, bundles of freesia, drooping boughs of heather. On impulse, I stop to select a plastic-wrapped cone of roses. The bored young man inside smiles when I proffer them to be rung up. “For your girlfriend?” he asks.

“For my boyfriend,” I correct. He just raises his eyebrows, shares a knowing smile as if he’d already guessed that answer, and returns my change.

Almost at your place, I text, as I step out back out onto the sidewalk. It’s only a little before five, and already the sky is almost dark in New York. People are hustling homeward with swift steps; most of them seem to be in pairs. I’ve scarcely shoved my phone back into my pocket when it vibrates once more. I press myself against the shop front, pull it out, and see a notification from one of my cash apps. There are four digits before the decimal point.

So that part of the transaction is done.

Julio’s apartment is only a short walk from where I’ve selected my bouquet. In the vestibule I press a tiny button with my index finger, wait for the corresponding buzz of the door, and let myself in. I share my ride to the tenth floor with an older couple. They smile at the flowers, and then at me, conspirators in my wooing. I pull my mouth to the side, wryly bashful, and wish them a good evening when they exit on eight. At my floor, I step out, look both ways to find the direction I need to go. When I’m outside his door, I press the rectangular button beneath the peep hole. With one hand I hold the flowers behind my back, parallel to my spine.

I hear footsteps. The door opens. A man stands before me—shaved head, muscular, handsome, late thirties. I’ve seen photos, of course; they didn’t do him justice. Julio’s wearing nothing but a towel. His hairless pecs still glisten with droplets of water, as if he’s run to the door straight out of the shower. He’s considerably shorter than I expected, but it’s obvious he’s a powerful man. “Baby,” he says, looking at me with chocolate brown eyes. He speaks in velvet tones. “You got in early.”

“Hey, lover,” I murmur back. I lean forward from the waist over the threshold of his apartment until my lips meet his. His eyes close as he melts into the gentle kiss. One of his hands still holds his towel at the hip, but with the other, he cups the side of my furry face. “I’m home.”

The kiss ends. I straighten up. For a moment, his eyes remain closed, as if he’s still lost in the moment just passed. Finally, he smiles. “Yes, baby. You’re home. And I’m so glad.”

That’s when I present the flowers. He’s genuinely surprised; his eyes dart back and forth between the red roses and my face as if he can’t believe I’ve gone to the trouble. “What were you thinking?” he fusses, absurdly pleased, as he paces down the hallway into his little kitchen, roses in one hand, the ends of his towel in the other. The apartment smells of spices; there’s something cooking in the oven.

I follow him, and watch as he lays the flowers onto the counter and tucks the terrycloth to fasten it tight. “I was thinking that it has been a long time since I’ve been home, and that my boyfriend might like to know I’ve been thinking of him. Every day. Every minute. Every second.”

He’s flattered, I can tell. Both hands now free, he joins me at the kitchen door. “I missed you,” he tells me.

“I missed you too,” I say, softly. Our faces are mere inches apart. “My beautiful, beautiful boyfriend.”



That’s when he takes my face between his palms and draws me down for another kiss. This one is soft, deep, my tongue deep in his mouth, his hands holding me in place until he knows my taste. “You don’t have to say that.”

There’s a genuine bashfulness in the way he nay-says me. Is he fishing for compliments? He doesn’t seem the type. Maybe he’s unaware how striking are those rugged features—the crooked nose that looks like it might have been broken at some point, the sculpted brow, the point of his chin. I can picture him in his Wall Street pinstripe armor as a formidable foe, or as a beast lifting weights at the local Equinox. Here though, nearly naked, his damp flesh pressed against my fully-clothed body, he’s sincerely handsome. “I say it because it’s true,” I assure him.

Julio cracks a smile. He’s delighted, I can tell. And shy. Surprisingly shy. “God, I missed you,” he says, as he grabs my hand and leads me deeper into the apartment.

Julio’s home is no cramped walk-up; it’s a genuine luxury flat. I’d already noticed the gleaming stainless steel and marble of the kitchen. The combined living and dining areas seem professionally decorated, or at least the pieces have been chosen with someone with taste far better than mine, and with much deeper pockets. The oversized sofas are upholstered in rich, textured jewel-colored fabrics; the dining table is glass and steel. Plush rugs in earth tones delineate the different living spaces. It’s not a decorator’s showcase, though; the space looks lived-in. There’s a stack of mail on one of the occasional tables, and books that actually look like they’ve been read on the shelves; through the bedroom door I can see Julio’s work suit discarded on the mattress.

“Hey babe, I know I said we’d go out to dinner, but the show’s at seven and I thought I’d just cook at home so we wouldn’t be in such a rush.” He holds both my hands now as we sink onto a sofa together.

“That’s great,” I tell him. “It gives me more time to spend with you here, baby.”

Again, he seems pleased with my answer. “Are you tired?” he asks. “Let me rub my boyfriend’s shoulders.”

I laugh, and protest, but he’s already helping me out of my jacket. I admit to being a casual dresser at the best of times—a hoodie and jeans kind of guy. Tonight, though, I’ve made an effort to clean up. I’m wearing dark slacks and shiny black shoes, a dress shirt of deep purple with cuff links, and one of the few sports jackets I own. I’d had a haircut earlier in the week. I’ve been growing out my beard for the last two months, but earlier today I’d made an effort to trim the sides and groom back the startling chin so that it looks neat and respectable. Surrounded by all this finery, however, I feel a little like Cinderella, the kitchen drudge cleaned up for the ball.

Once Julio has positioned me so that I’m leaning over the sofa’s arm, I feel the warmth of his body across my back. His fingers begin kneading my muscles. It’s been so long since anyone has done this for me. I sigh, and allow him to continue. “You’re so tense,” he whispers in my ear. “Did you have a hard day at work?”

“No,” I murmur, my eyes closed. “I just missed you, baby.”

“Really?” he asks. “My god, you are so sweet. I couldn’t have asked for a better boyfriend.”

“Neither could I.” I groan slightly as he finds a knot and massages it into submission. “You are so good to me. So handsome.”

For reward, he plants a succession of tiny kisses upon the back of my neck. I gasp at the tickling sensation, then shiver as the fluttering pecks send a wave of tingles across my scalp and down my spine. “My sexy boyfriend.” His words, whispered directly into my ear, cause another tsunami of shivers across my skin.

Something is pressing into my lower back. Hard. Insistent. I’m pretty sure it’s his cock. I twist myself around, reach beneath his towel, and wrap my fingers around his dick. It burns like a branding iron in the palm of my right hand. I can feel wetness from its tip on the inside of my wrist. For a moment we stare at each other as I squeeze him tightly. “Oh god, I have missed you,” I tell him at last.

“Me too,” he says. Then he’s on top of me, his mouth on mine, his hands stroking my beard, my hair, the underside of my chin. Our kisses grow more and more desperate as I hold his rigid cock in my hand. It’s thick. Short—maybe five and a half inches. Uncut. I haven’t seen it yet, but can easily imagine the thick dark shaft, the fat and glistening head. “Baby, I don’t want you ever to go away again.”

“I won’t.” Tonight I’ll be saying all kinds of things I cannot really mean. We both know that. But in the moment? My promise is all sincerity. “I belong to you.”

“You’re my boyfriend,” he whispers, staring down from above.

“And you’re my boyfriend,” I reply. In that moment, I’m being honest.

We stare at each other in the moment. His flesh throbs in my hand. Then slowly, sweetly, he leans down to kiss my forehead. “Let me get you some dinner, baby,” he whispers.



There’s a breed of man who sometimes crave the close and established intimacy of a lover—a deeply-connected lover with whom they have a history—yet who have little time, or perhaps no serious inclination, to cultivate a long-term romance. In my experience, these men tend to have achieved success in their careers, perhaps at the cost of their own personal lives. These men sometimes reach out to me and inquire whether I’d be willing to fulfill, for a price, a specific fantasy.

The Boyfriend Experience. It has a name. The illusion, just for a few hours, or a day, or a weekend, of complete intimacy, of a familiarity that goes far beyond a hookup. It combines tenderness. Suavity. A gallant respect for the client and his emotional needs. The Boyfriend Experience is perhaps the deepest form of Method role-play I’ve ever encountered.

Take Julio. I’ve never met him before today. We’ve communicated only briefly, first through an app and then later a handful of text messages. There’s so much I don’t know about this man—what he does for work, what paths in life he’s walked to get to this point, his tastes in food, his family and friends, whether he’s one of those Taylor Swift gays. His surname, even.

And yet, how difficult is it, really, to be a good boyfriend to someone you’ve never met? I’m leaning against the kitchen lintel, glass of red wine in my hand, watching him putter around the stove and steaming some green beans. He’s talking about work. Someone named Gretchen has done something that I can’t in the least parse, but it sounds as if it could be grievous. Julio, now wearing a t-shirt and joggers beneath his apron, checks on whatever smells so good in the oven and chatters away about how he spent an hour consoling Gretchen and trying to educate her on how to avoid the problem in the future.

“You are such a good mentor, baby,” I tell him. I’m sincere. I’m not making a stab in the dark. It genuinely sounds as if he’s doing the right thing by this woman. “But that’s just the kind of man you are.”

He beams. Doesn’t the colleagues with whom he spends his days tell him such truths? I suspect not, after he replies with a shy, “Do you really think so?”

“Yes, I really think so.” For reward, he comes over, stands on tiptoe, and kisses traces of wine from my lips. “So tell me more. What happened?”

And then I listen, like a good boyfriend should.

We sit catercorner at one end of the glass-topped dining table over dinner, glasses of wine nudging together as closely as our knees. The roses I bought for him sit in a glass vase filled with water, at the table’s center. He’s pulled open the draperies, revealing a fantastic view of Broadway below, and of lights from the neighboring buildings. He’s still telling me work stories, dropping first names as if I’ve heard them all before, while I nod or shake my head at appropriate junctures, and ask questions when I feel the need for more clarification. I don’t find financial work all that fascinating, but I’m here to pay attention, so I do. Meanwhile, I eat the eggplant lasagna, laden with cream and cheese, that he’s sweated over, and compliment his cooking skills.

“I wanted to make sure you got a good meal before we go out,” he says.

“You are so fucking sweet,” I reply, meaning it. In my time I’ve cooked for plenty men I’ve loved. None of them have cooked for me. Impulsively, I place my hand over his.

“Anything for my boyfriend,” he tells me, as he leans in for another kiss.



The show is less than three blocks from his apartment, a way-off-Broadway comic revue of which I’ve seen other iterations. The theater itself sits on the second floor of the building, over a restaurant; once we’ve passed the ticket-taker, we slide across a vinyl bench to sit side-by-side at a cocktail table close to the tiny stage. The audience demographic seems to be mostly older than me, and definitely a lot older than my date, but there are young gay men in pairs sprinkled throughout the crowd. Once settled, I rest my left arm atop the padded bench’s back, around Julio’s shoulders.

“Cocktails?” asks a server.

Julio’s already studied the drinks menu. Without consulting me, he tells the young woman we’ll be having the theater’s fruity variation on a Moscow Mule. I’m taken aback at having someone choosing for me, yet slightly flattered, especially since of all the specialty cocktails on the list, he’d picked what I’d have chosen. “Everybody’s looking at us,” he murmurs in my ear.

“Are they?” I ask, scanning around. I don’t see any evidence of his claim, but I haven’t been paying attention to anyone else but him.

“They’re probably wondering how I landed such a handsome boyfriend.” I flush a little at the compliment. If anything, I suspect they’re speculating why such a good-looking Latin stud is saddled with such an old geezer—the prince burdened with Cinderella. He leans in a little closer, though, as if telling me a secret. “They’re probably wondering what a tall, handsome…big-dicked…stud sees in someone like me.”

Again, my scalp and spine tingle from the combination of flattery and close-talking. “I’m the lucky one,” I tell him. His hand rests on the table; with my left arm still around his shoulders, I cross my right arm to take his hand in mine. I look him in the eyes. “Because I’m out on the town with the most handsome boyfriend in the theater. If they’re looking—it’s because they’re jealous I have such a good-looking man to take care of.”

I sidle closer on the bench as I speak. It doesn’t take a psychic to know how pleased he is by those words. His eyes are liquid. His lips tremble with unspoken happiness.

“You are beautiful,” I tell him. I need no acting skills to mean what I say. The server arrives with our drinks, disappointingly served in bar glasses instead of copper mugs.

“You’re my gorgeous boyfriend,” he says, giving me a gentle kiss on the cheeks.

I raise my mule. He taps his glass against mine. “To us,” I suggest.

He agrees. “To us.”

Then the lights dim.



We hold hands on the walk back to his apartment, my larger paw completely encompassing his fingers. No one really turns a head to stare our way, but I sense that he wants to be seen like this. With someone. Together. Taken. The show had no intermission and hadn’t lasted more than an hour and a half, so it’s not even quite nine o’clock yet. “You want a hot dog, baby?” he asks, as we amble past the sidewalk brightly lit by Gray’s Papaya.

“No. Seriously, after your delicious dinner?” I ask. “You’re not hungry, are you? Do you want a hot dog?”

He squeezes my hand. “I’m hungry for something. Something I want only from my hunky boyfriend.”

My dick stirs at the insinuation. “I think I can accommodate you, in a bit.”

Up Broadway we stroll, seemingly in no particular hurry, though we’re both anxious to get back to his apartment. Along the way he tells me more about an upcoming work trip to Chicago, where’s he never visited before. I share a few of my hazy memories of previous visits to the city, but mostly he’s interested in telling me about the hotel where he’ll be staying, the deals he’s expected to accomplish. I know much more about Julio and his day-to-day workflow than he knows anything about me, at this point, but I don’t mind. A good boyfriend—in this situation—listens more than he speaks.

Once we reach his building, we fall silent. No conversation during our elevator ride up, though our fingers remain clasped. Neither of us utter a word as we walk down the hall to his apartment. I drop his hand when he fumbles with the door keys, and follow him inside.

“We’re home, baby,” he finally says, once we’ve crossed the threshold.

“We’re home,” I echo.

He turns to face me. All evening he’s been spoiling me with alcohol and food, with back rubs, with entertainment. Now, I sense, it’s my turn. I step forward until I’m able to hold him by the shoulders. My face looms over his. “You’re so good to me, sweetheart,” I whisper.

“I love being good to you,” he protests. His voice is soft. Breathy.

“Now let me be good to you.”

Slowly—slowly—I lean down. Our lips connect. I hesitate, pull back, and look into his eyes. “Do you love me, Julio?”

This powerful little man, this muscular athlete, seems unsteady on his feet at hearing the question. He breathes, “Yes. I love you so much.” My heart pounds more quickly when he says my name.

“I love you too,” I tell him. Again I give him the lightest kiss possible, our lips barely touching, our hastened breaths warming each others’ faces. “You know that, right?”

Slowly he nods. “I know.”

“And you’re going to show me how much you love me, right now,” I inform him.

“Yes.”

“Because you’re my boyfriend.”

“Because I’m your boyfriend. And because I love you.”

I look into those brown eyes and pause a moment before I say, emphasizing each word, “And I love you like no other.”

My erection rages as he leads me into the bedroom. Gently, carefully, he removes my jacket. Undoes my cuff links. Kneels to slip off my shoes. Lifts each foot to remove and fold the sock covering it. He stands, unbuttons my shirt, unclasps my belt. I finish the job of removing the rest of what I’m wearing, watching as he undresses.

He was solicitous with my clothing, but he shows no mercy to his own, in his haste to get naked. Shoes and socks fly. He yanks open his shirt front so quickly that I imagine buttons popping. His pants and shorts hit the floor with a thump. Then he’s on the king-sized bed, on his back, holding out his arms for me while I’m still shucking my trunks. “Come to me, baby.”

I straddle him on the mattress. Both our dicks are hard as cement; they strike against each other like fencing epees. When I lower my weight on his smaller frame, he wraps his knees and arms around my body and holds me tight. “I need you tonight,” I tell him. “I need to be deep inside you, sweetheart.”

“Use me,” he begs. I feel him reach for my dick, and then sense him squeezing it tightly for the first time. “I want that big dick making me pregnant.”

“Yeah?” I ask. “I’ve always wanted to have a baby with the man I love.”

“I need your babies.”

His moaning continues, though muffled, as I kiss him roughly. “I think about you all day at work,” I tell him when we come up for air. “People see me daydreaming and they tease that I must be thinking about my boyfriend again.”

“Oh fuck,” he pants. “That is so hot, baby.”

“They’ve all seen the photo of you I keep on my desk,” I tell him. “They all know that I’ve got the most handsome boyfriend out there.”

“You keep my photo on your desk?” he asks with wonder, as if this world for two we’re building is real. “Really?”

“Of course!” I exclaim, cradling him in my arms. “I’m proud of being your boyfriend.”

I retrieve my right hand, gently lift it to my lips, and deliver a payload of spittle to his rectum. “Oh fuck, baby,” he says again, as I slather the moisture there. “You don’t know how that makes me feel.”

I shake my head. “I know exactly how that makes you feel. Because I love you.”

“I love you,” he repeats, lost in sensation.

“Then show me,” I tell him.

It takes only the gentles of nudge to roll him onto his abdomen. I position a pillow beneath his hips, then spread his hairy little legs. He gasps when I taste him; my beard is covered with the scent of his shower soap, and of my own spit, as I lick my way into his pussy. Deeper and deeper I delve as he jerks, twitches, and groans. “Fuck me, baby,” he says, while I lap away at his most tender parts. Then, more sharply, “Fuck me!”

With that snappish tone, he sounds more like a client making demands. I’m not a dick for hire, though. I’m not his employee. No way. Not now. I’m this man’s boyfriend. I call the shots.

I love eating hole, and his is the perfect combination of fuzz and warmth. So for a while, I ignore him, and gnaw my way in. His tone is less aggressive next time he speaks. “Fuck me,” he begs as I pull apart his cheeks.

But no. I’m still rapt in my own passion for my boyfriend’s hole. It slides open when I insert two fingers, three. His back arches; his hips lift. I’m determined to pleasure him this way until he can’t stand it.

A few minutes later, he sobs. “Fuck me. Please fuck me. Please—just fuck me. Please.” I’ve tamed the boss. Reduced the beast to whimpers.

That’s when I pull myself to my knees and plant my hands on either side of his ribs. “Yeah?” I ask, sounding dubious. “Should I stick it in?”

“Yes.” He’s almost crying with frustration and pleasure.

“You want your boyfriend’s dick in that sweet ass?”

“Yes!”

“Why?”

“Why?” he repeats. And now he wrestles with the pillow and manages to turn himself on his side, so that he can look me in the eye in that dark bedroom, illuminated only by the city’s lights. “Because I want to show how much I love you.”

I allow the words to hang in the air for a moment. Finally, I nod. Help him turn onto his back. Adjust the pillow once more beneath his hips. Haul his legs into the air, and aim my pulsing cock at the hole. “I want you to look me in the eyes as I slide in,” I tell him. He nods, anxious to have me inside. “And I want you to tell me how much you love me when it’s time to breed you.”

“I’ll tell you how much I love you right now,” he promises. “I love you, baby.” My head presses against the point of entry. “I love you so much.” I feel his flesh part to admit me. I hit the first ring, and press harder. “I love you,” he says. “I love you. I love my boyfriend so…ahhhhh.”

And then I’m in. True to his promise, he keeps his eyes wide open, adoring me from below as I slide to the base.



It’s after midnight. Julio sleeps in a fetal position, his legs pulled up, his head crooked down. It rests on my half-numb arm. I’m big spoon to his little. My belly is glued to his back by the juices of four loads. A few minutes before, he had asked, in the softest and most boyish of voices, “Will you stay until I fall asleep, baby?”

I’d kissed the top of his smooth head, and rubbed my beard against his neck. “Of course.”

He had sighed, and cuddled against me. “I have the best boyfriend,” had been his last words before subsiding into a doze.

I’ve been lying with him, listening to him breathe, for the last half hour. Down on the streets below I can hear the occasional whine of traffic whenever the lights change. Distant sirens occasionally cut through the quiet. Julio slumbers solidly, now. I’m able to retrieve my prickling left arm from beneath him without disturbing his rest. After I creep to my feet, I pull up the sheets and blankets from the bed’s bottom, where we’d kicked them a couple of hours before. His deep respiration continues as I tuck them gently around his shoulders.

I don’t take a shower—I don’t want to wake him, and I’ve a commuter train back home to catch. In the bathroom I do quietly run a washcloth beneath the faucet and sponge myself off, however, then check my reflection in the gloom before returning to the bedroom. My clothes are mostly in one place; I dress, check my pockets, and determine I’m good to go.

I’m walking in the direction of the front door when I see the roses I’d bought Julio, resting in their vase on the dining table. I pause, then pluck one from the rest. I wipe the water from its stem onto my palm, and tiptoe back into the bedroom. Then, gently, softly, I lay it upon the pillow where my head had been resting a few minutes before.

It will be the first thing he sees when he wakes in the morning, my boyfriend. I love you so much, he’d told me, I think, as I let myself out.

In that moment, those were the words I’d needed to hear. Even if, like Cinderella’s gown and carriage, their spell had evaporated at midnight.

Straight Boy

Saturday night at the Governor Bradford. Two days after Halloween. The joint is packed; at both the front and back bar, staff bustle to keep up with the drink orders. The Black and Gold Ball is taking place down the street at the Town Hall; a little further down, at the Crown and Anchor, men are packed into the Wave for the Spooky Bear dance. Townies and gays alike crowd the Governor Bradford’s battered and sticky tables. Most wear costumes. I’m comfortably installed a bench directly across from the bar’s stage, where a drag queen busily attends to the karaoke queue.

Another group of townies swarm in, seeking seats. They shuffle to where we’re sitting. One of the party is a woman dressed as Nurse Ratched—I can tell because she’s wearing a white nurse’s uniform with a stick-on tag that reads HELLO MY NAME IS Nurse Ratched. She points to the empty chairs on the other side of my table. The noise of a drunk local singing ‘Sweet Caroline’ is so loud, and the sound system so ancient and staticky, that there’s no chance I can hear her soft treble over the cacophony. I assume she’s asking if the seats are unoccupied, however, so I nod and point and mime somehow that it’s okay for her to arrange them in a row in front of us. Nurse Ratched and her crew—a man in an Adam West mask and gray Batman uniform and a woman I assume is supposed to be his Catwoman, and a witch who’s seemingly raided Stevie Nicks’ skirt closet—arrange themselves with their backs to us. Nurse Ratched stands up to wave over a man in a doctor’s lab coat and, improbably, a rainbow-colored Bozo wig.

“Will I be blocking you if I sit here?” shouts the doctor, as he straddles the chair directly in front of me.

“You’re good. You’re good,” I reassure him.

“You sure?” Onto his lap the doctor rests the kind of oversized leather bag that Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman might’ve lugged around.

I hold up my hand and smile, to tell him he’s good.

I’ve already sung once on this noisy Saturday night. So many costumed partiers are stopping here before heading to their revels, though, that the queue of performers is long. Remarkably few are any good. In the center of the restaurant, on the brightly-lit stage that’s flanked by two giant inflatable black felines, another drunk is massacring “Walking in Memphis” so painfully that the cat-masked drag queen doing the hosting is smiling to herself and hiding behind her computer screen, struggling not to laugh. It’s terrible, but the point of karaoke is that no one really cares: everyone in the crowd roars along with the chorus about their feet being ten feet off of Beale, filling out the melody in ways the singer cannot.

At last the song mercifully ends, everyone cheers and applauds wildly. The drunk staggers offstage wearing the smile of a man who assumes he’s nailed it. When everyone at a karaoke joint agrees to a low bar for success…maybe he has.

My friends are on their fourth round of drinks, and I on my third Diet Coke, when another group invades our territory. Three men, three women, all in their late twenties or very early thirties, muffled in puffy coats. None of them are costumed; all are obviously grateful to be inside and away from the Cape Cod winds. They crash down with some force into seats to my left. From the way they weave and laugh a little too loudly, over too little, I can tell they’ve been drinking already. The women are laughing and chattering with excitement at the crowd; their eyes dash around the room from costume to costume. “Honey!” yells the blonde closest to me, as she struggles out of her coat and scarf. “Honey! Look at the two Eltons!”

At a table to my right sit a gay couple dressed as Elton John; the older and more inebriated of the two is wearing a ruffled and bedecked Elton jumpsuit in flamingo hues. His headdress is so elaborate and wide that whenever he turns his shoulders, its ostrich feathers dip into his neighbors’ drinks. I’ve had to pluck plastic straws from it several times already, when no one else would. The younger is dressed in a sequined baseball uniform that’s open to his navel. His chest is muscular and hairy. All the women, and all the gay guys, can’t keep their eyes off him.

The dude the blonde called honey plops down next to me, sharing my table. There’s not enough room on the benches for him to sit with the other couples. He’s kind of an adorable little bulldog of a straight boy, in his Syracuse hat and his bulky sweatshirt, his two-day growth of scruff. “Hey buddy,” he says, nodding at me. I’m feeling a little odd sitting shoulder to shoulder with a straight jock, but he doesn’t seem to mind. “Okay to sit here?”

“Sure,” I tell him. My hip’s already against a division of the bench, so there’s not much further for me to slide. I make a show of attempting it, anyway.

“You singing?” he says, his hooded eyes directly meeting mine. The noise level in the Governor Bradford is crazy already, but even taking that into account, he’s speaking a little loudly; I can tell he’s been drinking for a good portion of the night. “You gonna get up there and sing for us?”

“Later,” I promise. His response is to grin at me and raise a clenched left hand. Oh, I think to myself, for a surprised moment. This is what the kids call a fist bump. I’ve only fist-bumped kids before. I graze my knuckles against his, then manage to fumble through some kind of elaborate man-shake that involves clasping, slapping, and more bumping. When it’s finally over I feel dazed and a little giddy. I haven’t done anything quite so hetero in years.

“How about your boyfriend?” he asks, nodding at my other side.

Whoops. I guess I’ve been clocked. The dude is pretty matter-of-fact about it, though; it’s always seemed as if the straights in Ptown understand what they’re getting into when they visit. “He’s not my boyfriend,” I say over the caterwauling singer. “And no, he’s not singing.”

“Oh, so you’re the singer in the relationship, huh?” he says. His mouth is so close to my ear that I can feel the warmth of his breath tickling its tiny hairs.

I laugh. “He’s not my boyfriend,” I repeat.

“Oh, oh!” He punches me on the shoulder in a manly way. “Footloose and fancy-free, huh?” His words are a little hesitant as he talks through his mild inebriation, but he’s friendly and kind of cute…and let’s face it. I’m easily charmed. “Good for you, dude.”

The blonde has already made a trip between the two bobbing inflatable cats to retrieve a few karaoke slips and a golf pencil. She’s scribbling something down to give to the drag queen. “And she’s your wife?” I ask.

“Four years in January.”

“Well, congrats.”

When one of the guy’s friends punches him to ask a question, he moves his attention away from me. It feels a little weird to be sitting so close to a stranger. Even by New York City rush hour subway standards, our hip-to-hip adjacency feels alien. He doesn’t seem to mind, though—and his wife and his friends don’t care. So why should I? I give myself permission to enjoy the proximity of a cute straight boy half my age.

I’m not really upset when Syracuse’s wife gets called to the stage before I get a second shot—some karaoke hosts try to let as many people have a first song before beginning the rotation again. I’m not going anywhere. I’m in no rush. The blonde gets up on stage, yells out, “Peeee Tooowwwwn!” and then, “This one is for my honey!” before pointing at the boy at my left elbow. I glance at him. He’s grinning up a storm, watching his wife through the screen of his phone as he videos her performance. She’s chosen a Beyonce power tune. It’s not a bad rendition at all. She’s more on pitch than just about everyone else, at least, and while she’s prone to shouting out “WOO!” at odd intervals, it’s clear she’s having fun.

“She’s good!” I tell my neighbor. “She’s really good!”

“I know, right?” His entire focus is on her. It’s sweet.

The wife’s girlfriends are out on the floor in front of the stage, dancing. When the blonde steps forward off the stage, she and her friends attempt a twerk line that doesn’t quite work out. The husband catches every moment of it on tape. I’m wondering exactly how much she’ll appreciate the incriminating footage the next day. But honestly, he’s so into his wife’s performance that my cold black heart can’t help but melt a little.

When the song is over, I congratulate the blonde on a job well done. The three couples order a celebratory round of drinks from the front bar. The orange-and-pink Elton takes his place at the stage to shout out Talking Heads’ “Psycho Killer.” There’s another straw hanging from his headdress.

Midway through the qu’est-que c’ests, Nurse Ratched and her crew rise from the chairs directly in front of us. It’s time for them to hit the Black and Gold Ball. None of us have talked to any of them all evening, but they all make a show of waving and smiling as they exit. Only the rainbow-wigged doctor lingers behind.

“Sorry if I blocked your view,” he says to me.

“Oh no. It’s fine.”

“Let me prescribe you something for your trouble.” He opens his leather medicine bag and digs into it. I hear a rattling of glass At last he produces a little bottle and hands it over.

“Well thanks!” I tell him. How many of those did he have in there? I read the label after he’s gone. Spiced rum. My stomach heaves a little, but still. It’s a nice gesture.

The drag queen at last calls my name. “YEAH!” yells the straight boy through cupped hands, even though I’m still all of about three inches away. “KNOCK ‘EM DEAD!”

I’m laughing still when I ascend the little stage. “Hi again, darling,” says the drag queen. Her cat tail bangs against the curtains in back as she hands over the microphone.

While she queues up the song on her laptop, I lean over and say, “It kind of seems that tonight you’re less karaoke hostess and more babysitter.”

“Well,” she says, grinning. “I am so glad that someone noticed. Thank you, honey.”

When I’m in a karaoke bar that’s packed, I tend to keep away from ballads and stick to songs that get people dancing. So I’ve put in a request for “Jump in the Line.” It’s one of my better tunes, and its appearance in Beetlejuice gives it a slight Halloween connection. When the familiar calypso strains begin blaring over the loudspeaker, the drag queen raises her arms in the air and begins twirling. The fringe hanging from the arms of her catsuit flies everywhere.

I’m bouncing my knees and thrusting my hips in time to the beat. When I start bellowing out instructions to shake, shake, shake, Sinora, I hear whooping from the vicinity of the bench opposite the stage. My straight buddy is fist-pumping with one hand, and...oh god, videoing me with his camera in the other. Oh well. At least he’s enthusiastic. The three women in his group are already on the floor in a conga line, and other people from around the bar are joining.

I’m unable to keep a straight face through the song as the drag queen and I dance onstage, because her fringe keeps slapping me in the face as she twirls. “Best car wash I ever had!” I call out, during a break in the lyrics. She shrugs and spins some more, laughing with genuine amusement. Mr. Syracuse has abandoned taping me, I notice with some relief. He’s out on the dance floor with a score of other bar patrons, spinning around with a beer in his hand as the conga line snakes around him.

People are having fun. The drag hostess looks like she’s getting a break from tuneless drunks. I’m enjoying myself. The song feels like it’s over too soon, and to a round of enthusiastic applause I thank the crowd, hand back the mic, and step down from the stage. I’ve done a good job.

Or maybe—I think, as I wend my way back to my seat through a flurry of back slaps—maybe I’m just that clueless guy who thinks he’s nailed it.

“DUDE.” The straight guy is slapping my hand hard the moment I sit down. “You ROCKED.”

“Hey, thanks,” I laugh, as I settle back down on the bench. Something in my pocket makes sitting difficult, though.

“Did you see all the people dancing?” he asks. “You were crazy good.”

“I saw you dancing,”I say. I reach into my pocket. I’d forgotten I’d shoved the tiny flight-sized bottle in there. I slap it down and push it in front of my straight buddy. “Want a shot?”

He stares at the bottle, then reaches for it. “What is it?”

“Spiced rum. Some guy dressed as a doctor prescribed it for me earlier.”

The guy examines the label. “You don’t want it?”

“I don’t have the stomach for spiced....” My words trail off as the straight boy uncaps the bottle without hesitation and downs it in a single swig. I actually had in mind a little addendum to my speech about how I didn’t think it wise to chug from bottles given to me by strangers, but at this point a warning would be moot. The dude is already slapping the empty container on the table, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, and giving me a thumbs-up.

I just laugh and shake my head as I stand. “I’m heading to the bathroom,” I tell my friend on the right. Up on the stage, a woman in her mid-fifties is gyrating her hips and wailing out the lyrics to “My Humps.” I have to push through the three twerking wives to get through the dance floor. On the way toward the back, a few people shake my hand as congratulations for my recent performance. I laugh, thank them, and try to pick my way through the packed tables toward the men’s rooms.

The restroom is a veritable oasis of peace, compared to the taproom outside. The fixtures are old and worn, like everything else in the Governor Bradford, but I’m just there to piss. I hear the door behind me swing open on its creaky hinges, admitting another blast of “My Humps.” I shake, zip, and turn to wash my hands.

Syracuse is leaning against the toilet stall, blocking the men’s room door. In the brightness of the restroom, I can tell he’s drunk enough that he’s using the sturdy frame to keep himself standing. “Hey,” I say, soaping up. “Your wife was really good earlier. Is she a singer?”

“You don’t like rum?” He’s not quite slurring. But he’s inebriated enough to be amusing.

I rinse, and grab for a paper towel. “What? Oh.” I wipe off the moisture. “Spiced rum is just not my thing.”

I’m ready to head back out. He doesn’t exactly step in my way and block me, when I move for the door. On the other hand, he’s not exactly moving aside, either. “You want to see what it tastes like?”

“Huh?”

This time he does block my exit by propelling himself from his leaning position until he’s standing in front of me. The dude is only five-six, something like that, so he has to tilt his head back slightly to look me in the eye. “I said,” he repeats, loudly and clearly, as if I’m the drunk one, “do you wanna see what it tastes like?”

“I’m not sure what….”

That’s when he cups the back of my neck and kisses me.

His tongue has been deep in my mouth for several seconds before the reality of what’s happening sinks in. I can indeed taste the lingering prickle of the spiced rum, the sourness of many beers on his breath, as he holds my head and hungrily makes out with me. His body presses against mine. Against my leg I feel the hardness inside his sweats, as it rubs my thigh.

For a microsecond I wonder if I’m taking advantage of a drunk dude. But no, I reason. If anything, he’s taking advantage of me. When I wrap my arms around his shoulders, he relaxes into the embrace, and allows me to invade his mouth with my probing tongue. His hands clutch my rib cage, and he kisses me harder.

Outside, it sounds like the whole bar is chanting along with the Black-Eyed Peas. The realization that anyone could walk in, at any moment, though, brings me to my senses. I manage to separate myself from the boy’s amorous grasp. He regards me with liquid adoration. “You’re hot, dude,” he whispers. Then, “I’ve never made out with a guy before.”

Oh, fuck it.

Once again my mouth covers his. This time, I’m the aggressor, pushing in deeper, harder. His erection burns like a brand through layers of thick cotton and denim. He grapples with me to draw me in closer. As we furiously make out, grunting, moaning, breathing heavily through our noses, one of his hands begins to quest lower. It gives my butt a squeeze. Makes contact with my hip. Then searches at the crotch of my jeans. My rock-hard dick is at an awkward angle down my left leg, but at last he finds it, all at once discovering its length and girth and firmness.

“Whoa.” Suddenly the dude backs off. His hand flies back, as if it’s been scorched. He stares at me. There’s fear in his eyes. Maybe even panic.

Too far, I think. I smile, then wipe my sloppy beard with the back of a hand. Then I nod, recognizing I’ve hit a limit. “It’s okay.”

Someone does walk into the men’s room right then. Thankfully, it’s just a townie looking to use the urinal. “So, um, thanks for that shot, dude,” says my straight boy. Outside, the song has mercifully come to a conclusion to raucous applause. He looks around and grabs the door’s handle, ready to make an escape.

“Yeah, yeah,” I mumble, and head to the sink to wash my hands once again.

“Later.” He’s gone.

I don’t really need to scrub again, but somehow it seems wise to give him some time before I emerge from the men’s room. Wiser still to give my dick time to deflate. This is going to be awkward, I think to myself, as I wander through the crowd back to my bench again. Syracuse is dancing—I guess that’s what we’ll call his shuffle-step with a beer held aloft—with his wife when I get back. I don’t even attempt eye contact.

I’m alone on the bench for a few minutes until my friends and I decide it’s time to move on. That’s when the straight boy decides we’re friends again. “Hey, hey, hey!” he yells while I try to put on my coat. He sits beside me once more and throws his arm around my neck, like we’re the best of friends. “The night is young! You and your boyfriend can’t go!”

“He’s not my—“

I realize, too late, that he’s joking. He bursts into laughter. Once again, he holds out his fist. This time there’s only the slightest hesitation before I bump it. And then clasp. And then slap palms. His whole group yell out their goodbyes.

There’s a great load off my mind when I part as friends with Syracuse. At least he doesn’t seem to bear any ill will against me. Will he even remember that men’s room encounter tomorrow? I have no idea.

What I do know is that I can still taste the spiced rum on my tongue.