As You Are (3 page)

Chris had of course jumped at the chance to be teamed up with Danny and me, and the other members rounding out our side consisted of Jake and Jimmy, whom I referred to as the twins. While they did sort of look alike, it was due more to the fact that they always laughed at the exact time, like synchronized divers—only with laughs. It was unsettling, and it didn't help much that their laughs were identical. One laugh…two bodies. Spooooky. The final team member was Aaron, whom I called, Flame On, but only in my head. I didn't think he was gay, but he had the thickest, fullest head of red hair I'd ever seen on a man. He could also do a very convincing imitation of a wall—as in, he was as big as a…

As the six of us huddled up, it took everything I had to not laugh my ass off about how ridiculous it had to look having skinny ol' me clad in skintight, neon clothes bunched up in this mix. These frat boys were mostly huge muscle junkies like Danny, which probably made me look like the annoying little brother one of them had been forced by his parents to bring along.

Usually they went for blood and played full-on tackle football. These guys were, if nothing else, serious about their games. I felt a little sad they were stuck with me, but more than happy to be mashed up into the group of manliness and muscles. Tommy Two-Tone had just been cleared for normal exercise after surgery—to remove his appendix, as I recall. He was still a bit sore, I guess, so luckily for me this was football-lite.

As the game wore on, it did, however, become more than a little difficult to concentrate as the smell of soap, sweat, and deodorant was constantly wafting up my nose and heading directly to my crotch. As if that weren't enough, having Danny yell at me to bend over, then shoving his hands in my crotch as I hiked him the ball… Let's just say I was
really
rethinking my smart-ass decision to wear skintight jeans.

The game stayed neck and neck in terms of score as it moved along. We were about halfway down the field from our goal line, and if we scored, the game would be over. I was beyond sick of listening to Donnie and his mouth. I'd heard the words
pussy
,
pansy
,
sissy
,
queer
, and
nelly
about as much as I could stand for one decade.

On top of that, almost everyone had their shirts off by then, and the scent and sights of all the sweaty beefcake… I needed to beat the other team so I could run home and beat off. I was nearing delirium, and so help me even Shit-Head McGee started to look good when I pictured him naked…with a ball gag in his mouth.

I was literally panting and doing my best to make it seem like I was just out of breath. In addition, I was seriously cursing myself for having Mom get me out of high school PE after only two weeks. Oh, the things I must have missed.

Danny started snapping his fingers in my face. “Pay attention, fucker.”

Okay…wow…that nearly made me come in my pants
. “Sorry…I'm with ya!”

“We're gonna take these motherfuckers down right now.” Danny had a gleam in his eyes. It wasn't the least bit nice, but it was sexy as hell. I might have actually run in and robbed a 7-Eleven had he asked me to in that moment.

“Yeah!” all the other guys yelled out in sync with deep, throaty, rip-your-head-off gusto.

I was just about ready to throw myself onto the ground and beg to be gang banged.
Who knew team sports could make me so slutty?

Danny grabbed my chin, making me focus on his eyes as opposed to moist, glisteny, rock-hard, wish-I-could-lick…

“You're gonna take us home on this one, Julian.”

I could see the other guys getting a bit nervous—along with me. I knew I'd garnered some respect for my speed, which kept the other team from making much ground when they tried to score. It seemed to make up for my uselessness when it came to helping
us
score.

“No one here can catch you, buddy. You're the fastest little shit I've ever seen, and no one from their side will be paying any attention to you.”

“Danny, I can't catch,” I squeaked out in a please-don't-make-me voice.

He looked at me with a you-can-and-you-will expression that made me more nervous.

“Honestly, I've never been able to catch…anything.”

Danny let out a frustrated, blustering sigh. “All right, fuckers. Here's what we're going to do.”

As Danny went over his plan or play or whatever it was called, I could see his eyes flit over to Donnie and the other team. The intensity coming off my guys to shove the other team's fucking noses into the dirt was intoxicating. I knew as I stood hunched over in the sweaty huddle of man-meat that I would most likely never be the same after that afternoon.

As we broke and got into position, I bent over to hike the ball, and Danny patted my ass, giving it a rough squeeze before shoving his hands into my crotch.

That was apparently all the motivation I needed. I hiked him the ball and wriggled my little body through the line of hard-muscled opposition. I ran down the field, keeping my eyes peeled and focused on Chris, who had Donnie hot on his tail. I turned, veering toward Chris as he did the same toward me. Chris jumped up and caught the ball when he was about five feet away. He landed just before we passed one another, and handed the ball off to me. I veered off toward the goal line.

When I glanced back, I saw that it had worked. Donnie was still chasing Chris. Then, realizing what had happened, he turned toward me. I smiled as I tore down the field, knowing no one was going to catch me.

I'd had tons of experience running as a kid. Getting from my house to Cara Cardwell's on the other side of our subdivision became no easy feat with Gary Hamm's house smack between my house and hers.

Gary had been the bane of my childhood existence, especially after he'd gone through some Chernobyl-like growth spurt at the age of ten. That summer before the start of fifth grade, I became a sprinter. Forrest Gump had nothin' on this bitch.

I crossed the finish line and slowed to a stop. I could feel the biggest shit-eating grin in the world stretch my face. I turned to see Donnie coming to a stop several feet away. My teammates all came running up, slapping my ass and shoving me around. I swear to you, the disgust on Donnie's face was the
only
thing that kept me from falling to my knees and start grabbing for cocks. When I saw Donnie's jaw clenching and knew my victory would eat away at him for the rest of his rotten life, something snapped in me. That's when it happened.

“Who's the pussy now, 'roid-boy?” I pushed away from my teammates and began jumping around like I was on fire.

“You just got lucky!” Donnie yelled.

I was oblivious as the testosterone level and man-scent overload I was hyped up on took me over. It was a bit like an out-of-body experience as I took the football and held it down between my legs, pretending like it was a big, hard cock and yelled, “Suck on this, you punk-ass bitch. Pinky Boy just wiped the court with your punk ass!”

Everyone was snickering as Danny whispered, “Field, not court.”

“That too!” I yelled as Donnie spun around in a tizzy and stormed off, muttering stuff under his breath.

Danny walked up and slammed his chest into mine. I fell back onto my ass as Danny looked down at me wide-eyed.
WTF?
We looked at each other in shock. Then I glanced past Danny to the rest of my teammates, all doing chest bumps and high fives a few feet away. I began laughing as Danny helped me back up.
Dude…my first chest bump!
I suddenly began to feel like one of the boyz.

The feeling was short-lived, though. Danny brought me all the way to my feet, then tossed me up over his shoulder. He spun me around to carry me back to the rest of the guys. I laughed and called out to Donnie in a high-pitched, girlie voice, “Come back,
loser
!”

Danny smacked me on the ass. “Settle down there. I think he got the point.”

“The best fucking day ever!” I yelled out, laughing.

I could feel a low, rumbly laugh radiate through Danny's body as he put me back down and I high-fived my team. It wound up being the only time I ever played football with the guys. Not because I hadn't been invited back, but I honestly didn't think my cock could take the torture. I practically beat myself raw that night with an erection that refused to stay down.

Turning the corner onto Lakeshore Drive, I pulled my car into a parking spot right outside the restaurant.
This must be a lucky day.

An Italian family owned Paoli's. They were incredibly gracious, incredibly gay-friendly, and incredibly good-looking—the whole damn family, not a booger in the bunch. I yanked open the door and walked into the bar. Joe, the hottie who managed the place for his parents, was there, and I said hello to him.

The walls had a yellow and terra-cotta faux finish, with frescoes covering a good portion of them. There were six small bistro tables in the bar, and the bar itself was made out of concrete stained to look like real stone.

“Hey, Julian.” Joe smiled as he looked up from the papers he was sifting through. “You want the usual?”

“Please.” I meandered along the bar toward the dining room. “Is she here yet?”

“Oh yeah.” Joe gave me a look and a half smile. He reached around the counter for a bottle of wine and a glass. “When you gonna do me that favor and hook me up with Gabby?”

“Joe, you're too sweet. I couldn't in good conscience do that to you. She'd chew you up and spit you out before you got through cocktails and an appetizer.”

“I should be so lucky,” he pleaded with a sexy smile that made my knees weak.

“Masochist.” I picked up the glass of wine he poured for me and turned to head for the dining room. I never understood straight men, especially when it came to Gabby. I warned them she was a ball buster, but it never seemed to convince them. Like I would lie… I'm gay, for Christ's sake. It wasn't as if I was trying to get into her pants myself.

Since we both smoked, we always sat outside on the covered patio, which was through an archway marked with two Corinthian columns. The floors were some type of light cream stone tiles, and the tables were draped with pristine, white, starched tablecloths. The sun cut through the large arcades, bathing the tables in light. Silverware and glasses sparkled on the tables like Christmas-tree lights.

I spotted her at our usual table, and she waved and gave me a smile. The first thing anyone notices about Gabby is her hair. It's dark red with loads of long, unruly curls. The second thing they notice is the smile. She has a smile that could bring peace to the Middle East. Her lips are really a little too big for her face, and they spread open to unveil her perfect, gleaming white teeth.

Gabby has always been a mystery to me. We'd met during college (my first time around); we were both working at the same restaurant. On her first day, I was supposed to train her on the floor to wait tables. We clicked instantly, and by the end of the evening, we were like conjoined twins. We ended up moving in together. It was the most fun I'd ever had in my life. We'd smoke too much pot, and she'd laugh so hard, she'd wind up peeing her pants. One night, after coming home from the library, we both started laughing about something, I can't even remember what now, and she anointed every step leading up to the attic apartment, eventually losing the rest of it on the kitchen linoleum. She was a walking contradiction of female stereotypes. She was a girlie girl, who liked rock climbing, hiking, and bicycling. If she were gay, she'd fall into the lipstick-lesbian category.

“Hey, sweetie,” she said, martini in hand.

I leaned down, gave her a peck on the cheek, and took the seat across from her. I never understood her ability to down three martinis at lunch and then go back to the newspaper and write. She said she came from a long line of Irish Catholic alcoholics and chalked it up to genetics.

“You look flushed.” She pulled off a chunk of bread and dipped it into a mixture of garlic and olive oil. “Are you already nervous about your date tonight?”

“Well, I wasn't until you brought it up.” I rearranged my silverware. “Thanks.”

She smiled and gave me an apologetic look. She waved at two women as they walked by our table. “I hate her.” Gabby reached into her purse and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. She extracted one from the pack, lit it, and inhaled. “She is so screwing every guy at the office.”

Our waitress arrived and fired off the specials. We ordered and shooed her away.

“Which one?” I asked with a greedy expression as I glanced back, nudging my head at her two friends.

Gabby rolled her eyes in disgust. “The one with the big tits.”

“You always hate women with big tits.” I mixed up my own garlic and olive oil.

“That's probably because I have no tits,” she admitted.

“I like your tits.” I looked at her chest as she pushed them out for me. “They're cute and perky.”

“You probably like them because they're boyish,” she said with a look of insolence.

“Joe hit me up for a date with you again.” I shook my head at her and placed my napkin in my lap.

“Isn't he sweet?” She leaned back in her chair, straining to see him behind the bar. “What a cutie; it is tempting,” she added as a sex-kitten expression came over her face. “I do love Italian men.”

“And Latin men and African American men.” I took a sip of wine.

“What can I say? Ethnicity makes me hot.” She shoveled in another chunk of bread.

“Yet you've been with Mr. White Bread for almost two years.” I leaned over and cadged the cigarette out of her hand to take a quick puff.

“I
know
!” An amazed expression took over her face as I handed the ciggie back to her. She took a last drag before dousing it out in the ashtray.

“Why do you think you've stayed with Brad so long?” I asked, tapping my finger on the lip of my wineglass.

“Well, I'm not sure,” she said with a strained expression. “I love him, I guess. I mean I must, right? I think it has something to do with that Southern accent. I love the way he says
baaaaby
. Plus, he's amazing in bed. The things he can do with his dick.” A very large and greedy smile spread over her face. “My nine inches of nightly therapy.”

“Jesus, more information than I needed to know.” I winced, looking up at her. “Well, as long as you have your priorities straight.”
Nine inches of pain. I'd take one look at that thing and run out the room screaming.

“Well, Christ, Julian.” Gabby threw her arms on the table. “I'm sorry we don't all fit into your fantasy ideal of true love and romance. Overall, I'm happy. What the fuck is love, anyway? What one person can decide that for everyone?”

“Calm down, Stressetta. I wasn't attacking you.” I took another long drink.

“No…not intentionally.” She eyed me suspiciously as she lit another cigarette. “You just have this way of looking down at people who don't conform to your ideals of true love.”

“I do not!”

“Yeah, you do,” she accused, setting her lighter back down on the table. “You don't mean to, I know, but subconsciously you do. Take Danny, for instance. Here's a man you've carried a secret torch for over the past year and, if you ask me, still aren't over.” She fired that last bit off and grinned all evil-like. “The entire time you've come to me and bitched about these guys he occasionally brings home.” She held up her hand, cutting me off as if instinctively realizing I was about to protest. “Knowing the way you embellish, I'm assuming there weren't as many as you've led me to believe.”

She enjoyed pegging me correctly as I huffed and sat back in my seat.

“Instead of confronting him, telling him you have feelings for him, you just sit by, judging his every move. I think you're secretly pissed he's never come home and bent you over the kitchen table.”

“That is so not true!” I folded my arms and sat back in my chair. “I don't judge him or anybody.”

“You are so blind to your own faults.” She smiled. “You're a love bigot.”

“That
is
ridiculous.” I reached over and swiped one of the cigarettes out her pack. “If you're happy merely spending the rest of your life with a penis, regardless of whom it's attached to, then I'm happy for you…honestly.”

“See!” She pointed her finger at me. “Love bigot. You say you're happy for me, but on the inside you pity me for not holding out and waiting for something that
you
believe to be true. What do you think love is, anyway? And don't go giving me some glossed-over Hollywood definition. I want you to dig deep.”

“I do not give Hollywood definitions,” I said with an indignant expression.

“Oh, honey”—she signaled the waitress for another martini by lifting her glass and wiggling it in the air—“you can't help yourself. You're gay. Stop avoiding and answer me.”

After a sigh for emphasis, I sat back in my chair and told her about a time back when she and I were both still working at the restaurant in college. One of the girls who'd been a regular at the bar had come in and brought this guy she worked with at the Nissan dealership. It was after my shift, and I was having a cocktail to wind down. They each sat at the bar next to me, and this guy and I started talking. His name was Rick, and we eventually made our way around to the topic of my fabulous gayness. Rick proceeded to tell me that his mother had run some boarding house or something when he was growing up. He said that she rented to a lot of gay men, and that he had just grown up around it. It seemed very natural to him.

As the night went on, I found myself telling him all sorts of intimate details about myself, and he seemed to be doing the same with me. It was like something magical had happened. A switch had been flicked on, and we were instantly connected.

As I told Gabby my story, our waitress came to the table and unfolded a tray stand before setting the tray she was carrying onto it. I smiled at the server as I leaned forward in my seat—as if that would prevent her from hearing what I was saying.

“When Rick told me that he was married, and that his wife had just had a baby, I was hurt by the information.” I watched Gabby as she swapped glasses with the waitress, who set our salads down in front of us. “It was really strange to feel that attached to someone so quickly. Rick and I talked until the bar closed. I just knew somehow that if I'd asked him to come home with me, he would've.”

“
You
slept with a married man?” Gabby asked.

While she was shocked by the possibility of my having done such a thing, I could also sense she was a little glad thinking I'd done something so…well, so
bad
for lack of a better word.

“I most certainly did not.” I picked up my dressing, which was, as requested, on the side. I drizzled it over my salad, being careful not to pour too much; I hate soggy lettuce. “I really
wanted
to sleep with him, but I would never.”

“I guess that's something,” Gabby offered with a sigh before shoveling in a mouthful of lettuce.

Not that she'd condone the act—but I smiled, knowing how happy I'd just made her by admitting that I'd been tempted.

I told her how the next morning I couldn't get Rick out of my mind. It was like I was possessed with these thoughts of him. I went to the gym, where I pretended to work out. Then I went to the mall. As I walked into Pier One, I heard my name. I turned around, and it was Rick. He was visibly out of breath, and he told me he'd just run down the mall screaming out my name, trying to get my attention.

I could see this look come over his face. Like he was both confused and embarrassed about why he'd just done such a thing. I knew at that point he had felt exactly the same thing. We each just sort of stood there nervously looking at one another.

“I think even the girl behind the counter was staring.” I began to cut up my lettuce. “Wondering what the hell was going to happen next.” I stared out across the street for a moment, remembering those moments.

“Well, what the fuck happened?” Gabby asked, startling me a bit.

“Nothing. Rick said that he'd just wanted to say hi. I said hi. Then he turned around and left. I never saw him again after that.”

“That's your definition of love?” Gabby asked, loudly clanking her fork into her plate as she stared at me. “To meet a married man and then never see him again.”

“No, Gabby.” I picked up my glass and had another sip of wine. “That feeling, that connection I had—we had. That something had brought the two of us together. Like fate—we were supposed to meet. I swear, to this day I still think about him.”

She sucked down the remainder of her second martini. “I don't see the happily ever after in this scenario.”

“Maybe there wasn't supposed to be in that situation.” I shrugged and placed my wineglass back onto the table. “Maybe it was just life letting me know or experience what love is supposed to be like, so that when it does happen for real, with someone who is available, I'll recognize it. I'll know that it's love.”

“You are truly fucked-up; do you know that?” Gabby shook her head.

I shoveled in a forkful of salad. “I'm sorry I told you.”

“Me too,” she said. “How depressing. I could eat a cow.”

The waitress brought us our pasta and another round of drinks. We inhaled the food, and before she ran off to go back to work, Gabby promised to come by the loft after work and help me decide what to wear on my date.