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.