Cocktales 04 A Friend In Need

CockTales 04 -- A Friend in Need

by James_444

A love story with some sex. Be advised!

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I felt like it was just another Friday, similar to a string of many other past Fridays, and no doubt a harbinger of many other future Fridays still to come. But I was wrong there. Wrong about Fridays. Wrong about Evan. Wrong about the future. Wrong about me. But who cares about the wrongs when everything turns out right.

Evan and I both worked on the same floor of the same building in the same division of the same multinational conglomerate. But the sameness stopped there. Evan was older than me by a good 20 years, had a good six inches on me in height, still had a full head of wavy hair even if it was turning a bit salty and peppery, and always had a ready smile, a pat on the back, and a good word. On the other hand, I was medium height at five foot nine inches, tended towards a little bit of a belly at 180 pounds, had buzzed my hair short because I perspired a lot in the Florida summer (heck, I perspired a lot in the Florida winter, too), and had become generally sad and morose over the last year and a half. I just felt grey all of the time, if you know what I mean. I didn't recognize that, and it took Evan to point that out to me once we became closer, but I'm getting a little bit ahead of my story.

My name is James, and I am 40 years old and a recent widower. I know, 18 months isn't "recent", but I had lost a part of myself when Diane died and I still hadn't gotten over her. I still woke up every morning and expected to see a cup of hot coffee waiting for me on my nightstand and to see her reading in bed next to me when I gained enough motor skills and coordination to roll over and open my eyes. I was the night owl to her early bird, and our differences didn't stop there, but we fit together well. Really well. Until someone ran a red light one Friday night and killed her. And a part of me died that night, too.

I digress, so back to this particular Friday. Evan and I left work that fateful day at the same time, just like we had on several occasions in the past. Since we had both left our cars in the same parking garage several blocks away, we walked together that spring evening and talked about nothing in particular. We were halfway there, walking past the bars and restaurants that fed the hungry and slaked the thirsty denizens who worked and lived in the many high-rise buildings in downtown Ft. Lauderdale when the sky opened up and the deluge began. We looked at one another and said at the same time, "Got an umbrella?". With a quick shake of both heads we turned towards the door under the bar's awning that afforded us some protection from the rain, and once again said the same thing at the same time, "Buy you a drink?" We laughed and hurried into the bar. We snagged a couple of seats at the bar and ordered. Evan asked for a scotch neat and I ordered my usual, a Ketel One vodka on the rocks with a wedge of lime.

As we drank and waited for the rain to subside, we began a conversation that hasn't ended. We started with baseball. Evan is a Miami Marlins fan while I am a diehard New York Yankees fan. You know the old saying - "You can take the guy out New York, but you can't take New York out of the guy." Or something like that. Well, that was me. Born and bred in Brooklyn, the only thing that New York borough didn't give me was that distinctive Brooklyn accent, but that was only because I had decided at an early age that I didn't want to sound like those New York caricatures in the movies "Saturday Night Fever" and "Goodfellas".

The rain stopped after one drink and we made some vague promise that we should do this again sometime and we both went our separate ways. Until the next Friday, when we wound up in the same elevator, walking to the same parking garage past the same bar, when we both paused, looked at one another and said, "Buy you a drink?" Since then, that's been our thing. We meet almost every Friday afternoon for a happy hour drink.

It isn't always "happy" as we do disagree on a number of items. As we progressed from talking about sports and work, we touched on politics, race relations, immigration, gun control, home schooling, and even single edge versus Gillette razors. We didn't choose the topics, the televisions behind the bar, one tuned to CNN and the other to Fox News, usually dictated what we would be talking about. So we agreed to disagree about a few things and it never got too contentious. But then I noticed something. We rarely talked about sex. Which really didn't bother me, because I always felt kind of weird talking about sex with another guy because it always seemed to come down to a "How big is your dick?" or a "How many girls have you laid?" contest. And I had no time for that crap. I guess Evan didn't either.

It was a Friday in July, well over a year since we started our regular happy hour bar stop, when Evan turned to me and said, "James, you've been more quiet than usual the last couple of weeks, but especially tonight. Is anything the matter?"

I just looked at him and shook my head.

"C'mon, something's eating you, I can feel it. What is it? We're drinkin' buds now. You can tell me."

I sighed, finished my drink and caught the bartender's eye and motioned for a refill. Both Brittany (the bartender), and Evan were surprised because I had never had a second Friday afternoon drink before.

I waited until the vodka was in front of me and rather than turning to look at him, I just looked at Evan's reflection in the mirror on the back of the bar and said, "This Friday is the third anniversary of my wife's death." I stopped and drank half the contents of the glass. "Today."

"Shit," I heard him say. He put one arm on my shoulder and another on my knee and forced me to turn towards him. "I'm so sorry. I didn't realize that was today." He looked at me and asked, "What were your plans for this evening?"

I just smiled a sad smile and turned away and downed my drink.

The next thing I knew, he threw a couple of bills on the bar top, yelled a "Have a good night" to Brittany and hustled me out the door. We stopped just outside when he grabbed me above the right elbow and turned me towards him.

"James," he said, "Tell me you weren't thinking about doing anything stupid tonight."

I just looked up at him and weakly said, "It's not that stupid an idea." And then I sighed and just said, "You wouldn't understand."

He looked back down at me, and after a short pause where he seemed to be considering something, he whispered, "Oh, but I do understand."

And that was all he said until we got to the parking garage.

"Where are you parked?" he demanded.

"In my driveway," I answered. "I took an Uber to work."

Evan just looked at me. I couldn't meet his gaze so I just looked down.

"All right then," he said. "You're coming with me."

We got into Evan's car and I he drove us to his house. We didn't talk at all during the short drive, but I was glad that he had Sirius XM radio in his car. It was tuned to channel 4, the Billy Joel station that month, and I got to hear a couple of my favorites, especially All for Leyna.

Evan got me a soda when we arrived, and told me to wait for a bit and that he would be right down. I wandered around the first floor checking out the living room (leather couches), the kitchen (protein drinks, some 12 and 18 year old scotch, and lots of bottled water), and the den (bookshelves filled with mysteries).

I heard him come into the room and without turning, I said, "I didn't know you were a Travis McGee fan."

I heard and felt the sigh. "James, there's a lot of things you don't know about me." He paused. "But you're about to find out one of them. You up for a couple more drinks?"

I turned to him and shrugged and said, "Sure. Sounds just like my other plan."

We left his house and walked a couple of blocks before turning right onto some other street. I could see some neon up the block a ways and figured that was our destination. I went to open the door to the bar when Evan laid a hand on my shoulder and stopped me. I turned to look at him.

"James," he started, "We've known each other for a pretty long time. At least for me it's been pretty long as I don't make male friends that easily. Or keep them." His hand dropped from my shoulder and he rubbed his face. "Acquaintances, yes. I've got plenty of those. But people close to me, not so much." He paused and seemed to consider his next words carefully. "So whatever you hear tonight, whatever you see tonight, whatever you think about tonight, please just talk to me before you freak out. Will you promise me that?" he asked.

I had no idea what he was talking about, so I just nodded. It was easier than asking questions.

Before I opened the door, I stopped and looked around. We were in front of a place named The Shack. It looked like your typical neighborhood bar with blacked out windows and beer signs throwing their colorful lights onto the sidewalk. Evan shouldered me aside and pulled open the door, and I entered. Evan followed close behind. The first thing I saw was a U-shaped mirrored bar, gleaming brass foot rails, leather captain's stools with curved wooden backs, and what looked like every liquor known to man, their bottles sparkling in the muted lights shining from above each shelf. There were some booths along the right wall, and some high-tops to the left with matching barstools. Further left there was another open room with a dance floor, and it looked like a DJ was setting up on a tiny stage in the far corner. I heard Cheap Trick's I Want You to Want Me playing in the background and noticed what looked like an original Wurlitzer jukebox tucked into the corner on my left beside the entrance. The next thing that hit me was the smell. I smelled whiskey and leather and cigar and old wood mellowed and darkened with age. I also noticed that while the bar was already half full, there didn't seem to be a single woman in the place.

Evan took my elbow in his hand and directed me to one of the empty high-tops. We had barely sat down when what I assumed was our waiter appeared and without preamble, said, "Hi Evan. Who's your friend?" Evan sighed and shook his head in exasperation, and then looked at me and said, "James, meet Barry, the bartender of this fine establishment." I reached across and shook Barry's hand and Evan went on. "He also owns the place."

Barry held on to my hand just a little longer than was necessary and asked me what my pleasure was. I told him that I wanted a Ketel One on the rocks with a lime wedge and he just laughed and let go of my hand.

"And the usual for you, Evan dear?" Barry asked.

Evan just nodded and watched me. Barry delivered our drinks and looked like he wanted to say something, but Evan just looked at him and he melted away.

We sat and drank without saying anything for a few minutes before I broke the silence with a question.

"So you think that bringing me to a gay bar would get me out of my funk?"

Evan laughed and responded, "No, James. I just thought that it was payback time."

"Payback?" I was confused. "Payback for what?"

Evan responded, "Payback for sitting in a straight bar with you every Friday afternoon for the last year, that's what. Now you get to see how the other 6% live!"

I thought carefully before I uttered my next question, not wanting to sound judgmental or standoffish. "So you're gay?"

Evan looked down at his empty glass and finally responded quietly, "Yes, I am. Does that make a difference?"

I caught Barry's eye and made the universal circular pointy motion for another round. The second round took a little longer than the first because the bar had filled up a bit while we were there. I had noticed a few of the men looking over at us, and then whispering amongst themselves, so instead of answering Evan, I went off on a different tack.

"How often do you come here?" I asked.

"Every Friday and some Saturdays," he replied.

"So most of the people in here right now know you?"

"Yes, a lot of them know me," he answered. "But it's not what you think. I don't..."

I held up my hand, stopping him. The night was turning out quite differently than I had planned, so I figured I might as well have a bit of fun with it. And I wanted to torment Evan just a little, too. So I slid out of my stool, and placed my right hand on Evan's thigh. Sliding my hand up his thigh closer and closer to his crotch, I leaned into him. I could feel him stiffen up and almost lean away from me, so I leaned closer and then whispered in his ear, "Where's the bathroom?"

He told me and I sauntered away, and was followed by at least three people who cornered me in the bathroom and basically demanded to know who I was and what I was doing there with Evan. I just smiled and finished my business at the urinal and washed my hands and wished them all a good evening. As I made my way back to our table, I noticed that a small crowd had gathered there, but they all left as I approached.

"Your friends, sorry, your acquaintances, are very protective of you," I said to him as I climbed back into my stool. "Or do they treat all newcomers that way?"

He grimaced and said, "No, they're just curious. Curious about you. And curious about me and you, if you get my drift." He almost seemed embarrassed to say that.

"Well, I'm curious, too. Why'd you really bring me here?"

Evan squirmed in his seat before he answered. "I didn't want you to do anything stupid." He looked up at me and I could see the pain in his eyes. "I know what you're going through. I have friends who have gone through what you're going through, and I just wanted to be there for you."

I sat back and thought about that. The next thing I knew, Barry materialized and placed two more drinks on the table. "This one's on the house," he exclaimed before walking away. But not before looking back over his shoulder and winking at me.

I had to laugh.

I picked up my drink, looked Evan in the eye, and said, "Cheers!" He clicked glasses with me and took a sip and looked like he was going to choke on it, so I explained. "My goal for this evening was to have a drink with my best friend." His eyes widened. "And then hit a few more bars before I got too drunk to remember how to access the Uber app on my phone." I took a slug from my glass and continued, "But this is so much more enjoyable!" I drained my glass and finally answered his earlier question. "And no, it doesn't make a difference that you're gay. You're still my best friend." I paused and then added, "But on the other hand, yes, it does make a difference that you're gay, but not in a way that matters." He opened his mouth so I cut him off, "At least not in a way that I'm willing to talk about right now."

He nodded and we left it at that.

I leaned in to him and whispered, "Now tell me about some of these friends of yours. I don't mean to be rude or anything, but have you had sex with any of them."

Evan actually looked like the proverbial deer in the headlights when I asked him that, and it took him a while to respond. "I've only been coming here for a year or so, and no, I haven't been intimate with anyone here." He seemed to weigh his next words carefully, "There's only one person I want to be with, and it isn't any of them."

I looked around the room and noticed that the later the night had become, the more outrageous (for lack of another word) everyone's mode of dress had become. Instead of the ties and dress shirts that Evan and I still sported, there was now a mix of work boots, leather pants, silver chains, short shorts, white socks, ripped denim, leather vests, and t-shirts several sizes too small.

I looked over at Evan and exclaimed, "Heck, we're the one's looking gay now. I mean, who wears a tie to a gay dance club?"

He laughed and I continued the thought, "So how do you normally dress when you come out to play?"

Evan frowned and seemed to distance himself from me before he smiled and answered, "That's not something that I'm willing to talk about right now."

And that was how I found out I was wrong about my Fridays and about Evan. From that day forward, it didn't make sense for Evan to have a drink with me near work, and then go out drinking again later that evening a half a mile away, so we started doing our Friday happy hour at The Shack instead. One quick drink in 30 minutes near work turned into two or three drinks over two hours at The Shack, and I became a semi-regular there. In fact, I was so semi-regular that Evan's friends started to introduce me to their friends as 'Evan's straight friend from work.'

What was interesting was the fact that now that I knew that Evan was gay and that I didn't seem to have any issue with that, it tore down some imaginary barriers between us. Suddenly, sex and lust and love were allowable topics of conversation. We talked about Diane and even discussed some of his previous relationships. But he always seemed to want to change the subject before he talked too much about himself.

I had no such inhibitions. I told him about how all the girls in school thought me and my dimples were so cute, and then I mentioned that by the time I got into high school I was still only about 5 feet tall. I explained that I kept growing well into my mid-twenties and always looked 5 to 10 years younger than I really was. But that didn't help me in my late teens and early twenties.

"Bartenders stopped believing me when I handed them my ID," I complained, "So I just stopped going out to those regular, normal places and went out to some of the more 'accepting' places where too many questions weren't asked." I looked around The Shack. "Places like this." I shrugged and told Evan, "The girls all thought I was 'cute', and I had lots of girl friends, but I never had a long term girlfriend until Diane. Instead, it was the men, especially older men, who were always talking me up and trying to get into my pants!"

"Well, that sounds like there might be a few really interesting stories there, " Evan slowly stated.

At that point I knew I had to tell him the story about my first sexual experience, a story I had only ever told one other person - my wife. So I did.

"I had a paper to write for college, and I went to this newsstand on the corner of Madison Avenue and 42nd Street because they had papers from all over New York City for sale. Remember, this was back in the days before the Internet when information was a little more difficult to come by. I was writing a piece for my Journalism class about the German community that lived on the Upper East Side of Manhattan and that newsstand happened to sell this tabloid paper about that Yorkville community." I looked off into the not so distant past before coming back and settling my gaze on Evan's face.

"Well, I got into a conversation with the owner of the newsstand, a spry, older gentleman who I guessed was about 65 years old who invited me to go into the adjacent building where he had a small office, and where he could 'Show me a few magazines that might interest me.'"

I paused and thought back to that moment. I knew at the time what the man was referring to and I had a pretty good idea what he was suggesting, and it scared the heck out of me. But it also intrigued me.

"I paid for my paper, thanked him for his help, and left as quickly as I could," I explained.

I took a long swallow of my drink and then continued, "But I was back there the next week. I was relieved when I found out that he wasn't there and my breathing slowed, but then his assistant who was manning the stand told me what office number I could find him in. And with my heart pounding, I rode up five flights in the elevator, found his office door, and knocked on it." I had to stop for another slug of my vodka, and then I smiled and went on with my story.