Standard disclaimer: This is a work of fiction - any resemblances of a character to any person, living or dead, is entirely incidental. All characters are over the age of 18.
Author Note: I wrote this story a while ago, as evidenced by the following factors: There is no mention of COVID, there is no mention of apps, and a person under forty is able to purchase a house somewhere in New Zealand...just roll with it, okay... :)
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I didn't factor in the implications for my romantic life when I moved back to Napier. This might've had something to do with the fact that I'd never had a romantic life. I didn't come out until I was safely done with school and away from Hawke's Bay, and I didn't do relationships at uni. I did a marketing degree and a
lot
of experimentation. I hung around Wellington for a year after graduating, interning at the City Council and experimenting some more.
Then in a deeply conventional move, I decided to go on an OE. To make it even more conventional, I chose London for my destination. I know. Sigh. But I found a great job and a cupboard-sized room in a shitty flat with a random collection of ockers, none of whom were in the least bit gay, all of whom were totally cool with my tomcatting self.
I stayed for two and a half years, and it was fantastic. Interesting work, interesting environment, and an absolutely endless parade of hot, adventurous young guys, along with obvious and safe contexts in which to 'bump into' them. Then...I sort of ran out. I didn't have a nervous breakdown or get really depressed or anything like that, but looking down the barrel of a third one of those winters, I just thought, 'nope'.
So I came home. It was early December, the days were long and bright, there was still a bit of breeze about, the grass hadn't all burned off yet. I lazed around on Mum and Dad's deck, and it was perfect. Just what I was needing. In January, without really thinking it through, I got myself a job with Hawke's Bay Tourism, who were wanting to 'increase the visibility of the region among the younger demographic'. Guess it can't hurt, I thought. It's only a twelve-month contract.
Then what did I bloody do? I went and bought myself a house. A workingman's cottage behind Hospital Hill - 'workingman's cottage' being estate-agent speak for 'house that's both old
and
tiny'. And in my case a bit run-down as well. But it was cute - it even had a white picket fence out front. It was the same thing I'd heard other people say a hundred times. 'I saw it one day, driving past, and I just couldn't help myself, it sorta called to me'...yeah, that.
So in less than three months, I went from living footloose and fancy-free in a global city to being some sort of try-hard home handyman in a small provincial town at the bottom of the world. Which was fine actually, aside from the lack of sex. It didn't take me long to realise that just hooking up and moving on wasn't going to work here. The pool of candidates wasn't big enough. Some week, it seemed like the pool of candidates was more like a pothole in the road.
Cricket was the best solution I could come up with. Not that I took up playing. But cricket came with fans from out of town, so I transformed myself into a major groupie and went along to every match, following on to whatever watering-holes seemed to be hosting the influx afterwards. It was a remarkably successful strategy, but seeing as McLean Park only hosts a couple of international matches alongside its generous sprinkling of domestic ones each season, it wasn't quite
enough,
and I wasn't game to attempt the same thing with rugby fans during the winter.
Even so, after a year I renewed my contract - for another two years this time. I didn't want to leave my little house, and I actually quite liked Napier. Okay, so it didn't have a thriving gay club scene, but there were other things going for it, and despite all the sneering you hear about how backward people are in the regions, I never encountered any homophobia.
I did see some good-old-fashioned assholery, though. One of the region's biggest drawcards in tourism terms is the Art Deco Festival, a week in which thousands and thousands of people flock into Napier itself, to fawn over all the beautiful post-earthquake architecture, and/or the beautiful classic cars, dress up and attend thirties-themed cultural events, and generally go a bit Gatsby-esque. It's fair to say it's not a week which has high 'visibility among the younger demographic'. It's also not an opportunity to pull, unless you have a fancy for older gentlemen who wouldn't mind a quickie while the wife rests up her bunions for an hour or so, which is why I didn't at all resent having to work through the weekend that week. And the 'work' on Friday evening was taking place in a private dining room at the Masonic Hotel, where the food was understated but very, very, good. I was expecting to have a thoroughly agreeable evening, but it didn't work out like that.
There were twelve of us sat down at one long table, and the trouble started as soon as our waitress came to take orders for drinks. One of our 'key stakeholders', Rob, a classic good ole boy with a heavily veined nose and a little bit of neck fat flanging out above his collar, winked at her as she drew alongside.
"Well, you're about the best thing I've seen all day. What's your name, honey?" He leaned toward her chest, ostensibly to squint at her nametag. "Katie! Well, that's nice," grinning widely, "I've known some high-quality Katies in my time, oh yes I have..."
She eventually managed to get a drinks order from him, moved around the rest of us, and glided away. Sniggering and nudging broke out around the table as the door swung closed behind her.
Now, I may be, in the words of my least favourite uncle, 'as gay as unicorn shit', but I grew up in a heterosexual world, along with everyone else. As far as female charms go, I'm immune, but I'm not oblivious. I could see why this particular girl was pressing buttons for these guys, all of whom were closer to fifty than forty. She was pretty without being astoundingly beautiful, without any of the ice-queen about her. Next-door pretty. Accessible pretty. And she wasn't stick-thin, she had some meat on her bones. Ugh. 'Meat on her bones' - a phrase you only hear from people old enough to know how to use a slide-rule.
When Katie came back with our drinks, the infection had spread, and there were three guys giving her shit now. She was polite and graceful, moving around the table, but her smile was pasted in place, as she told us she'd be back in a jiffy with some breads for us.
Rob the ringleader winked at her. "I'm salivating!"
It got worse. The subtle innuendo gave way to unsubtle innuendo, and my boss, though not actively involved, clearly wasn't going to do anything to stop it, so poor Katie just had to soldier on regardless. When she removed my plate after the starter I noticed her hand was shaking. I was suddenly so furious I thought I might start shaking myself.
I pushed back my chair. "I'm just going outside for a smoke, guys."
I don't smoke. A fact that apparently hadn't been noticed by my colleagues of fourteen months. Instead, I went out the front doors, down the street a bit, ducked into the service alleyway, and knocked on the door of the kitchen.
A tall greasy-haired kitchen-hand yanked it open. "What?"
"Uh, can I talk to Katie, if that's okay?"
A larger guy, well-groomed, well-dressed, shouldered the kitchen-hand aside. "No, it's not okay! Katie's
working,
she doesn't have time to stand about and talk! And this is a staff-only area! Piss off!"
I held up my hands for peace. "I was just wanting to apologise to her, is all, on behalf of my colleagues. There's a couple of guys in that private dining room - they're being absolute assholes to her, and - and I'm the most junior person in there by a mile, it's not like I can stop them, but I just..." I ran out of words and shrugged instead.
The guy was eyeing me keenly now. "They're harassing her? Making her uncomfortable?"
"Oh, yeah," I confirmed, "I mean, no-one's tried to grab anything yet, it's just talk, but...she's struggling, and goddamnit, I think the fuckers are enjoying that too."
He dropped his head to his chest. "Shit! Why don't these people
communicate
with me when they're having a problem? She doesn't have to put up with that!" Looking across at me, "Thanks. I'll deal with it." I nodded and slunk back to my place at the table.
Sure enough, our mains were brought to us by someone else - a tall, narrow, red-haired guy whose nametag read 'Toby'. Though fairly young, Toby was clearly an old hand at this job. Swift, capable, professional, unobtrusive. He offered no explanations as to why he'd suddenly taken over our table, and oddly enough, no-one asked. He had no dimples, no tits, and no 'meat on his bones'. The evening went a lot more smoothly from then on.
As our group were going to leave a couple of hours later, the guy I'd spoken to earlier at the kitchen door indicated with a flick of his head that I should hang back. I detached from the others and went over to him.
He nodded as I approached, extending his hand for me to shake. "Damon Kightly."
I grasped and shook. "Adrian Townsend."
"Thanks very much for that earlier," he said. "Appreciate it. Hey, we have this monthly business-card draw," indicating a big glass cookie jar by the register, "for dinner and drinks to the value of $150. Drop your card in there," he winked at me, "and I'll make sure it gets drawn, eh?"
I got a flash, a flavour of something coming off him, which made me hesitate. Yeah, I thought, you'll hunt out my card, and then you'll have my number and my email, won't you? And if I come back to collect, you'll try and make sure I have yours in return? Mmh. Yeah-nah. Not that there was anything wrong with him, exactly - he was thirty-ish, and in good shape - it was just a bit too meta, the idea of being pulled by someone, while he was working,
as part of the process
of thanking me for shutting down some workplace sexual harassment. But what are you gonna do? I smiled, dropped my card in the jar, and left.
I'd mostly forgotten about it when I got a call from him two weeks later, making good on his promise. So now I had an internal fight going on. I didn't want to turn down the opportunity for another all-expenses-paid very nice meal, but I
really
didn't want, for some indefinable reason, to be Damon's lunch, that day or any other. Then I remembered that it was Mum's birthday coming up. So I invited the folks out for a fancy meal on me. I walked in with them, Dad, with his belly so substantial these days that he had to be leaning back on it, Mum, with her home-dye job and a half-inch of white showing at the roots all over. I saw Damon at the counter, saw his face fall.
It was an interesting meal. Katie was assigned to our table, and she greeted me by name even though I'd never introduced myself to her. Damon came over a couple of times to ask how we were enjoying things, if there was anything he could do for us, and most of the other waitstaff nodded or smiled at me as they passed by.
"Do you come here often, Adrian?" Mum asked eventually.
"Nope," I replied, "but I was in here just last month with work."
"Oh yeah? It's alright for some, isn't it?" Dad griped. He's a retired diesel mechanic, and for him, the world's divided neatly into two categories - people who do actual work, and everyone else.
Mum tutted at him. "Ray! Stop whining! If you'd wanted to spend your life sitting behind a desk staring at columns of figures, there was nothing stopping you!" He busied himself with his beer, as she turned to me and said, "Well, I hope you were behaving yourself, Adrian, when you were in here last. It looks as though you've done something to amuse them."
It did, unfortunately. As I studied the faces passing by, their expressions all suggested they were kind of primed, waiting to see what I'd do next. It was...unnerving. I decided I was all done with free meals.
