Benjamin Thompson

Redefining Duende

    Jesus Christ, what the hell do you wear to a gay bar? Peter rips a black cotton tee shirt off its hanger and holds it up to his neck in front of the mirror. Whether or not it’s proper attire for the evening, it looks pretty good with the olive cargo pants he’s already wearing, so black tee shirt it is. He grabs the bottle of green LA Looks gel from the top shelf of the closet, and squirts a hefty dollop into his hand. His dark brown hair becomes black and lustrous as he works the goo through all three inches of the thick mop. He spends ten or fifteen minutes trying to make it look messed up in a carefully styled way, but it has already begun to collapse under its own weight. He feverishly tries to perk it up again, and this time holds certain pieces in position, as if they will dry enough to hold in a few seconds.
    His roommate Andre walks into the room and starts sifting through the dirty clothes in the hamper. “Hey man, you seen my name tag?”
    “It’s next to the sink in the bathroom. You work tonight? How late’s Target open on weekends?” Peter can sense what’s coming next.
    “Yeah, picked up some extra shifts. I gotta make some cash so I can stop bummin’ rides off you all the time, know what I’m sayin’?” Andre laughs.
    “Um, I’m actually kinda busy tonight, think you could walk to work?” He hates to sound callous, but Andre’s car was repossessed over a month ago, and he has done nothing to get it back. Sure, Peter feels badly for him, but he is getting sick of always being on call for rides. He tries to soften his comment. “It’s really nice out tonight.”
    “That’s cool man. I’ll take the bus or something.”
    “It’s like half a mile from here, just walk your lazy ass,” Peter says sarcastically.
    “Fuck that, man! I ain’t leavin’ no half an hour early.” They both laugh as Andre moves off to the bathroom. Peter decides to investigate a bit, just in case tonight should go well.
    “So what time do you work till then?”
    “Why, you want the apartment or something?”
    “Well–no I’m just–”
    “Dude, it’s cool. I was gonna go out after work anyway. Just don’t let no one sleep in my bed or nothin’.”
    “Shit, Dre, there go my plans for an orgy.”
    “Know what I’m sayin’ man, no wonder you’re over there all pimpin’ your hair out.”
    “Hey now....”
    “Hey, I’m just messin’ wit’ ya, man.”
    Peter remembers how apprehensive he was just under a year ago, having moved from rural Minnesota to attend college in the big city. What a change it had been, from always being alone in his room to living with an inner-city black man nearly seven years his senior. He has come a long way. For just a moment, he considers telling Andre he’s gay. Maybe he already knows. Peter can’t really tell; they never tell one another much about their personal lives.
    Satisfied that his hair looks as good as it’s going to look, Peter brushes his teeth, gives his face a once over with the electric razor, and sprays on Curve cologne, a little more than usual. He steps back in front of the mirror to evaluate his final product. Yes, he looks pretty damn good. The shirt was a good choice; it fits well enough to accentuate his slim figure, but not snugly enough to reveal his lack of muscle tone.
    “Have fun tonight,” Peter says on his way toward the door.
    “Hey you too. Have a nice orgy, man.”
    “Ah-huh.” Peter rolls his eyes and smiles as he leaves the apartment and turns left down the hallway toward the elevator. A short ride from the second floor to the first leads him out the two heavy glass doors and into the parking lot, where his shiny red ‘99 Mazda Protégé waits to be revved. The late July evening is much warmer than Peter had anticipated, but the steamy air feels good against his arms, his skin having been chilled by the apartment’s too-efficient air conditioning. The good feeling passes; Peter starts to sweat as he slides into his car, the cloth seat pulling obnoxiously at his tee shirt. The air on MAX, he rolls out onto North Avenue and heads east toward downtown.


    Three days earlier, Peter walked into The Black Cat café to meet his best friend Sara. He had arrived fifteen minutes early, as usual, so he took a seat at a table with a brightly colored mosaic on the top. He sat facing the door, with a mural of a cornfield on his right. He looked to his left, at the two waiters who were making runs in and out of the kitchen, wondering if either of them had noticed his arrival. One of them, a stunning young man, took a detour to Peter’s table on his way to serve someone’s breakfast.
    “Hi there. My name is Steven. I’ll be right back to bring you some water.”
    “Okay, no rush.” Peter smiled excessively, and turned his head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of Steven’s butt as he strode to the next table. He must be new, Peter decided, never having seen him working there before. He turned back toward the door to see that Sara had not yet arrived, so he studied the mosaic pattern on the table, tracing the orange shapes, debating whether they were rays of sunlight or flower petals. He looked at the enormous chalkboard menu on the front wall, already knowing exactly what he wanted. Somewhere amidst the sound garden of clanking dishes and Sunday morning chit-chat, he thought he heard some 10,000 Maniacs playing, but it could just as easily have been some other early 90s folk song. He looked again at the door; Sara had just entered, and was making her way through the crowded tables toward him. They made eye contact, and Sara gave one of her stiff-wristed waves hello and a toothy smile as she took a seat at the table.
    “Hey there, girlie,” said Peter.
    “Hey babe. Have you been waiting long? I’d have been here a little sooner but my computer froze just as I was printing my econ paper, and ugh, traffic was–well you drove today....”
    “It’s no problem, I’ve been here for like five minutes. Anyhow I guess that’s what you get for taking summer classes your first year,” Peter said smugly.
    “At least you have time for a job, though, and can actually afford those preppie little Gap sweaters you always wear. I am so fucking bogged down with assignments. These two classes are taking more of my time then anything I took during the year. I just charge gas now; my checking is empty. Why did I want five extra credits anyway? Is it really worth making myself—”
    “So what you’re saying is breakfast is on me today.”
    “Oh, fuck you, Peter. You know I hate it when you pay for me all the time.”
    He watched her do her little eye roll, and then toss her fine brown hair behind her shoulder with one quick move of her head. Only eight months ago, that hair toss was part of what made Peter think she was the one, the girl who would bring about the elusive burst of heterosexuality he had expected to feel in college. She had seemed to be the perfect match for him, her infectious laughter and anal retentiveness delighting Peter from the start.
    “Have you been listening to a word I’ve said? Peter!”
    “Oh, sorry. So econ’s pretty tough, huh?”
    Steven returned, interrupting them by setting one glass of water on the table. “Oh. Will it just be you and your friend this morning?”
    “Yes, I’m sorry, I should have told you there would be another person,” Peter said in an overly apologetic tone.
    “Hey, it’s no problem.” He turned to Sara. “My name is Steven. I’ll be right back with another water for you. Can I get you two something else to drink? Some chai tea, fresh carrot juice?”
    “Just the water for me,” said Sara, smiling politely.
    “Could I get some chai tea please?” Peter asked.
    “Sure. Would you like it hot or cold?”
    Peter met Steven’s penetrating brown eyes. “Hot.”
    “You got it.”
    As Steven turned away to leave, Peter shouted after him. “Oh. Could I get some extra milk with that too please?”
Steven looked back and nodded with a smile.
    “Hot tea? It’s like a hundred degrees outside,” Sara said disapprovingly.
    Peter stared at his waiter as he swiftly made his way back to the kitchen. His round butt looked deliciously enticing in those black Dockers; a white towel tucked into his belt playfully slapped it as he walked. His white button up shirt, tucked in of course, set off his tanned skin and shaggy black hair under the bright skylights of the café.
    “Oh for god’s sake Peter, have some couth; could you be any more obvious?”
    “What?” he played innocent.
    “I’m starting to think you have some sort of waiter fetish. Every time we go out you spend more time smiling at Jonathan or Enrique or Steven or whatever his name happens to be more than you talk to me. And of course all of them either have to be gay or would probably do a guy if they had enough to drink. You know, there are probably a few straight waiters that—”
    “But they smile back.”
    “They’re waiters! They have to smile back. It’s all a game; they know if they’re nice enough to you you’ll tip them better, which, I might add, you always end up doing.”
    “Hey, all I do is—”
    “Double the tax and round up, yeah, yeah, I know.” She glanced up at the menu on the wall. “You just need to kiss a boy and get it over with.”
    “How do you know I’ve never kissed a boy?” Peter struggled not to sound pathetic.
    “Please.” She rolled her eyes.
    “You just heard this guy talk, though. Don’t you think he sounded a little gay even for a waiter?” he pleaded.
    She raised her eyebrows a bit. “Yeah...” she looked up at nothing in particular, “yeah I guess I could maybe see that. I don’t know though, I thought you were straight at first.”
S    teven had returned from the kitchen with, among other things, two glasses of water and a tall, brightly colored mug of steaming chai tea on a platter. How thoughtful, Peter thought, he put the extra milk in a small silver pitcher on the side, rather than mixing it with the tea. He smiled to himself, and then at Steven. Steven returned the smile, and pulled a plain white note pad and a black pen out of his pocket.
    “Have you two decided? Do you have any questions about anything?” Steven asked, looking first to Peter, then to Sara, and back to Peter.

    Wanna fuck? was the first question that came to Peter’s mind; he felt himself blush slightly. He looked at Sara for approval without turning his head from Steven as he spoke: “I think we’re ready. I’ll have a Belgian waffle with raspberries please.”
    “Mmm, that’s my favorite,” Steven said as he jotted down the order.
    “Oh really?” Peter tried to sound seductive. “Yeah, everyone always seems to get either strawberries or blueberries on a Belgian waffle; raspberries are totally where it’s at though.”
    The men shared a flirtatious laugh. Sara closed her eyes and shook her head in disgust just as Steven turned toward her and raised his eyebrows.
    “I’ll have the vegan breakfast combo number two, please,” she said curtly. Her voice was barely audible over the cackling laughter from the woman at the next table.
    “Would you like wheat, sunflower, or millet toast?”
    “Um, sunflower please.”
    “Great, it’ll be just a few minutes.” Steven looked once more at Peter as he walked away. Peter smiled at him, and then at Sara, who had a smarmy grin on her face.
    “You are so lame,” she whispered through juvenile snickering.
    “Whatever. Who’s the one that just told me to be more of a go-getter?”
    “All I said was that you should start looking for a nice guy to date; I never said try to hit on some random waiter.”
    “Say what you want, but I think he definitely seems interested in me. I’m not exactly the ugliest guy in here, you know, why is it so hard to believe that a ‘random waiter’ could flirt with me?”
    “I didn’t mean you’re unattractive, you know that.” They both quickly glanced at the kitchen after hearing the spillage of what must have been an entire drawer of silverware. “I don’t know, maybe he is interested in you. You’re the one always bragging about your gay-dar. If you get a vibe from him then ask him out or something.”
    “Oh yeah, that would be real smooth. ‘Thanks for the waffle Steven. Hey, are you gay, and if so do you want to go out sometime?’ I’m sure he gets that from guys in here all the time.”
    “Oh don’t be such a pussy. I know. I’ll go to the bathroom before our food gets here, that way when he brings it out you can talk to him for a few minutes.”
    “Do you not see how busy it is in here?” His voice was a forceful, impatient whisper.
    Sara stood up, “I’m gonna go have a smoke; talk to him!”
    “Oh for god’s sake, sit down.” Peter’s stomach began to flutter. He hated when Sara pulled shit like this; she was so mellow most of the time too. There was no stopping her this time either, there never was. She took such pleasure in making him feel uncomfortable. He pinched his thin lips and hissed after her, “Ooh, you’re such a bitch.” She just turned around and stuck out her tongue, completely contradicting her usual attempts at refinement.


    So there sat Peter, alone at the table, nervously tracing and retracing the patterns in the mosaic with his index finger, sipping his chai, prodding the canker sore above his left cuspid with his tongue, reviewing his plan to say nothing more than thank you when Steven returned. It wasn’t long before Steven emerged from the saloon doors that led to the kitchen, deftly balancing an oversized tray filled with plates. He wove his way through the maze of tables like an expert, arriving first at Peter and Sara’s table.
    He set a plate teaming with grains, fruits, and healthiness in front of Sara’s vacant wicker chair, mumbling to no one in particular: “Vegan number two...and...” he placed Peter’s enormous waffle on the table, “your waffle.” His hand still attached to the plate, he leaned in to Peter’s ear and whispered playfully, “I gave you some extra raspberries!” as if it were some juicy piece of gossip.
    Peter laughed, a genuine laugh. How else could one respond to such a ridiculously goofy comment? In a moment of boldness, Peter let his pinky finger brush gently but noticeably against Steven’s knuckle on the rim of the plate. He felt immediately sick, almost lightheaded. He had for so long been afraid of making the wrong move in a public place, perhaps being gunned down by an angry pack of fag-hating rednecks as a result. But this moment came and went: quiet, exciting, happy. Steven fumbled to pull a piece of paper out from under one of the plates on the tray, he handed it to Peter.
    “If you have time, the Black Cat is doing a survey to get some information about it’s customers, you know like what time you came, what you ordered, were you happy with the service, stuff like that. If you fill it out and drop it in the box by the door on your way out you’ll get a free piece of pie.”
    “Really? That’s cool. I don’t get the free pie today, though?”
    “No, you’ll get a coupon in the mail in seven to ten days. I guess it’s to encourage repeat business. But you were going to come back anyway, right?”
    Peter smiled and said, “Well of course” in a joking tone, even though he was quite serious.
    “Great. So yeah, just fill it out and drop it in the box before you leave.”
    “Sounds good.”
    “Great, enjoy your breakfast.”
    “Thanks. Steven.”
    They sustained eye contact for what felt like several more blissful minutes before Steven adjusted his hold under the tray and bounded off to charm the other customers with his beauty. Sara entered shortly after, reeking of cigarette, and began spreading the soy margarine on her sunflower toast as she spoke.
    “Well?”
    “Well what?”
    She rolled her eyes and heaved a huge, dramatic sigh. Did you talk to him? Or were you too shy?” she mocked in an effeminate voice.
    Peter just smiled and shook his head at his friend before his face lit up with excitement. “Hey, look. I get free pie!”


    Traffic becomes steadily more congested as Peter approaches the heart of Chicago’s north side. Cell phone in his right hand, steering wheel in his left, he interrupts Sara to yell an obscenity at the driver who just cut in front of him to make an immediate right turn.
    “What?”
    “Sorry, some guy just cut me off,” he yelled into the phone, as if the driver could hear him.
    “No, not that–you said he called you? How did he get your number? You gave it to him?”
    “Not exactly. It was on that survey card I filled out.”
    “But how did he get it?”
    “He pulled it out of the box after we left ‘cause he wanted my number.”
    “And you agreed to meet him? Peter, if you’re fucking with me....”
    “Dude, I’m in the car right now.”
    “That’s kinda psycho, he just broke into the box and stole your phone number? I don’t know about this guy, have you even–”
    “Hey, who’s the one who insisted I talk to him?”
    “Talk to him! Not meet him in the city to get raped or beaten or–”
    “Oh for god’s sake, we’re just going to a bar. Ah! Fucking old ladies! Sorry, there are these hundred-year-old women in Crown Victorias going like ten miles an hour. So anyways, what was I saying...? Oh, so yeah we’re just going dancing at this bar and then I’ll probably go home. Damn, some of these buildings in Old Town are pretty awesome.”
    “Just be careful, okay? Promise me you’ll call me if you need a ride home.”
    “I’m probably not even going to drink.”
    “Promise me.”
    “Okay, okay, I promise.”
    Quiet rumbles of thunder echoed over the sound of water dripping from the trees outside. Peter lay next to Sara in her bed, preparing to sleep next to her for the first time since they had started dating, two weeks ago. As they talked, Peter thought about why things didn’t feel quite right, why he felt so awkward being next to such a wonderful girl. He leaned over and gave her a peck on the cheek. A moment of silence passed in the darkness of the rain, and then she hugged him with a warm, reassuring smile. He could tell from the look on her face that he would not have to tell her, she already knew.


    The car’s icy air conditioning struggles to cool Peter’s nervous face. Okay, turn left onto Clark street...two blocks...ah-ha, there it is, the 7-11. He pulls into the cramped lot and parks in what appears to be the most isolated corner of the four, praying that this isn’t one of those places that doesn’t have restrooms. A handsome man wearing a red sleeveless muscle shirt and rather tight black leather pants leans against the side of the ice machine on the outside wall of the store smoking a cigarette, one foot on the ground, one on the wall. What a sharp contrast this is to the neatly groomed, black and white waiter. Deep breath, just relax, this will be fun. He steps out of the car and approaches Steven, who has started walking toward him.
    “Hey, sexy,” Steven says.
    “Hey.”
    “Have any trouble finding this place?”
    “Nope, you gave good directions.”
    “Yeah, the streets around The Male Room are really confusing; meeting here is easier. ”
    “Is it far from here?”
    “Naw, only a couple of blocks. We can walk if you just want to leave your car parked here. They don’t usually tow ‘em,” Steven said, winking.
    Peter looks around the small parking lot, not seeing any other parked cars. “So do you live around here then?”
    “Oh yeah, I live close by.” He pushes Peter’s open car door shut and raises his eyebrows, “Shall we?”


    Peter sticks close to Steven as they enter the bar. He can feel beads of nervous sweat starting to accumulate under his arms; thank god his hours of agonizing over what to wear were useful. He feels like he is being sucked into another world as the entry way opens up into a pit of light and dark, the blaring music reverberating in his chest and ears.

    Steven immediately takes Peter’s hand and heads for the dance floor; Peter follows warily. They squeeze through the crowds into a space scarcely large enough for one person to dance, let alone two. Peter leans in to Steven’s ear. “Is it always this busy?” Steven squints his eyes, struggling to separate Peter’s words from the pounding music. “IT’S BUSY,” Peter shouts. Steven nods his head and motions for Peter to start dancing. He cautiously begins to move his body, focusing intently on staying with the beat. He raises his stare from the dancing feet below him and scans the room. So many people crammed together makes him feel claustrophobic. Is there room for any oxygen? The people move in what seems like a single wave. Seeing individual faces is nearly impossible, save for those immediately adjacent to him, and even their faces are masked by the incessant flashing of various colored strobe lights.
    He begins studying the people he can see. Two men, probably in their thirties, wear only leather underwear and gyrate their hips in synchronous, vulgar motion. Peter makes momentary eye contact with one of them, and quickly averts his gaze. He looks at Steven, who has also been watching the two men. Steven widens his eyes and curls his lips in joking disapproval. Peter smiles, his first genuine smile of the evening. The dancing has helped him to loosen up a bit, but he feels out of place. These people all seem so garish, so flamboyant—in such striking resemblance to the tasteless bar scenes from tv shows like Queer as Folk.
    “Want something to drink?” Peter shouts. Again, Steven squints his eyes and puts his hand to his ear. Peter makes a drinking motion. Steven nods and gives a thumbs up, with both thumbs; he is cute like that. He takes Peter’s hand and once again leads the way, this time even deeper into to the sea of men, toward the bar. Peter makes darting eye contact with every few people he sees. One boy, who looks to be no more than eighteen, flashes him a wide smile as they brush against one another. Peter returns the smile and feels himself blush; never has he seen such a perfect face: the short, spiky, golden-blonde hair, the succulent lips, the penetrating eyes. His left eyebrow has a small scar or something that almost cuts it in half. His tan skin is marred only by the presence of a few sparse beautiful freckles, with one prominent one on his right cheek, just below his eye. So irresistible is the face, this presence. Peter immediately recalls the word “duende” from one of his late night perusals of the dictionary. This boy certainly has an unusual ability to attract or charm, so he must be what duende looks like. But the moment ends as quickly as it began, as his date’s grasp pulls with greater physical force than duende. They have reached the bar. A shirtless bartender approaches them; he has one eyebrow raised, looking somewhere between curious and seductive.
    “Whiskey sour,” Steven declares cockily.
    “Sure thing Steve.” Peter’s head jerks back slightly. Steve? They know one another? The bartender turns to him, seems to study him.
    “Could I get a Sprite please?” Peter asks politely. Giving only a slight nod, the bartender turns around, throws ice and various liquids into a blender, and a short time later returns to Peter and Steven with two red plastic cups.
    “Thanks,” Steven says, but the bartender ignores him and stares at Peter. Finally, he speaks.
    “First time here?” Peter feels his face get hot. He wonders, is it that obvious?
    “Yeah,” he blurts out.
    “What’s your name?”
    “Peter.”
    “What?”
    “PETER.”
    He offers his hand, “I’m Ross. You here with Steve?”
    Peter looks at Steven, who suddenly seems anxious to leave. “Yeah,” he says.
    Steven grabs Peter by the shoulder. “Come on, let’s go dance. See ya later Rossie.”
    “Nice meeting you Peter,” Ross yells as the two walk away. Peter just smiles, hoping that perhaps he possesses some duende too.


    The music moves Peter on the dance floor. The bass thunders, making his body resonate like a tuning fork, and he feels free. The air in the room has become heavy, saturated with the heady aroma of wet masculinity. Sweat pours down his face, but to wipe it away would ruin the faintly erotic tickle of each drop hanging from his nose and chin. Steven moves closer, so close that his body softly brushes Peter’s with each beat. One song blends into another; Peter recognizes this one. The sound is so erotic, so sultry that it snakes around the two men and pulls them even closer together. Steven pushes his pelvis against Peter’s thigh, the leather pants painfully sequestering his erection. Peter’s loose cargo pants cannot hide his excitement either. Steven leans in slowly, his eyes half open. He takes Peter’s lower lip in his teeth and pulls very gently. Dizziness sweeps Peter’s entire body in a single wave. The stimulation is almost too much, Steven’s hot breath, the music, the faint saltiness of sweat from Steven’s lips. Peter can hardly keep up with the music, his knees feel ready to collapse. His hands begin to cautiously explore the angles of Steven’s body. They creep under his shirt, which has turned from cherry red to the color of Heinz ketchup. Steven needs no further suggestion, and pulls the shirt off of his glistening body. Peter’s hands are more bold now; they slide from the thin hair on Steven’s stomach around to meet at his back, pulling their bodies into closer contact. The pressure on Peter’s crotch reminds him that he has been neglecting his aching bladder for too long.
    “I have to pee,” he yells loudly into Steven’s ear. Steven nods and points back toward the bar.
    “Want me to go with you?” he yells back.
    “No, it’s okay. I can see it. I’ll be right back.” Peter weaves his way through the men again, many of whom are now shirtless. He reaches two doors in the back corner. One has a plastic “MEN” sign on it, the other has what used to be a “WOMEN” sign, but the first two letters appear to have long since been scratched out. Peter wonders if it’s really another men’s bathroom. He has not seen any women tonight, but does this mean that there are never any? He opts for the door that surely leads to a men’s room.
    His senses have a hard time adjusting to the contrast of environment. The light nearly blinds him, and his ears continue to pound in the relative silence. Two older men at the sinks eye him briefly as they dry their hands. He steps up to a urinal, the one farthest from the door. A rush of sound floods in as the two older men leave. Peter does not hear anyone else enter while the door is open. The door closes. He hears soft footsteps approaching him, but does not want to be so obvious as to turn around and look. The steps stop at the urinal two to his right. He glances up to see the duende boy relieving himself. He pretends not to pay attention, but cannot resist a quick peek. Duende Boy looks straight down, as one does when he is trying to appear inconspicuous. Peter fumbles to zip his pants, flushes, and goes to the sink. Over the running water, he hears the urinal behind him flush. He looks up, into the mirror. He can see Duende Boy turn around and begin to approach the sinks. But he pauses for a moment, their eyes meet in the mirror. Peter feels queasy. The air in the bathroom seems saturated with adrenaline. Duende Boy smiles, opening a chasm of beauty, and making the scar on his eyebrow move slightly upward. He washes his hands next to Peter, who turns to look at him.
    “How’s it going?” Duende Boy says.
    “Not too bad,” Peter says with surprisingly little effort. They share another smile before the door flings open again, and a group of five men come in, three of whom are dressed in full drag. Peter makes his way out, Duende Boy close behind him. As soon as they are out the door, Peter looks back, but Duende Boy has already disappeared into the crowd. He takes a breath for the first time since he flushed the urinal.


    What time is it? Peter wonders, and tries to make the flashing lights illuminate his watch. Shit...five after midnight...no, one o’clock. Steven sees this, and stops dancing.
    “You ready to get out of here?” Steven replaces the red shirt on his fit body.
    Peter makes a face like he is making a tough decision, and nods. “Yeah, I think so.”
    Without another word, Steven takes his hand and leads him out of the maze and into the humid night air. Peter releases his hold on Steven’s hand immediately. They are walking toward the 7-11 and Peter’s car, taking large strides as if they are in some sort of hurry. Peter glances to his left as they pass an ally. There are no men getting their dicks sucked like there are on Queer as Folk, just emptiness.
    “So you coming back to my place or what?” Steven says loudly.
    “Well, I can give you a ride home, but it’s getting late, so I should probably go home too.”
    “Oh come on, I just moved into a studio. You have to at least come up and see it.”
    Peter unlocks his car, and decides against his better judgment to see Steven’s apartment. “Okay, sure.”
    “Alright then,” Steven says, fumbling with getting the seatbelt to click, as one who has had a few too many whiskey sours might do. Finally hearing the click, he reaches up to turn on the radio, and immediately tunes to some station of which Peter had never heard. Steven sings along loudly to the loud punkish sounds, saying most of the words a second or two too late. He occasionally interjects a “turn right here” or a “keep going straight.”
    Peter begins to wonder just how great of a conversationalist his date will be tonight. Maybe he won’t stay long after all. “Park anywhere on this street?”
    “Yep. There’s a spot!”
    Five flights of stairs later, Steven unlocks his door, and puts his hand on Peter’s back, almost pushing him inside. Peter can’t see much in the dark, just that it’s a pretty small place, especially for a studio. He hears the door lock, and turns around to see Steven’s figure approaching him.
    “Nice pla—” is all that comes out before there is a tongue exploring his mouth, the gripping erotic smell of alcohol breath flowing into him. The apartment is silent, except for Steven’s heavy inhalations through his nose, and Peter’s soft, involuntary moans. Steven wastes no time in removing his shirt. Peter feels obligated to do the same. The feeling of their warm chests against one another, and the pressure of Steven’s hands squeezing his back are almost orgasmic to Peter. He lets himself be pushed toward the bed, pushed down on the bed. Steven stops kissing him; he circles Peter’s nipples with his tongue, moves his tongue down Peter’s smooth stomach stopping only to circle his navel a few times. He puts his mouth on Peter’s pants, directly over the small wet spot that has appeared. Peter doesn’t know what to do with his own hands, so he rubs them over Steven’s forearms. With one swift flick, Steven uses his teeth to unbutton Peter’s pants. Peter begins to feel a little awkward, but does not resist as Steven strips off both of their pants and boxer briefs. Peter’s eyes are closed now, but he can feel Steven’s mouth working its way back up his body, eventually reaching his own mouth where it resumes kissing. He hears a drawer next to the bed open, and a clumsy hand rooting through debris. He opens his eyes to see Steven’s hand emerge from the drawer holding a condom and a small squeeze bottle. He is scared, not knowing what to do. This feels so incredible; he wants it. But sex with a total stranger? He feels trapped, no way out, but he wants it; he thinks he wants it. Steven’s mouth moves over to his ear, licking inside it before saying, “I want to fuck you.”
    “But I’ve never...at least not with a guy.” Not with a girl either, but Steven doesn’t need to know that.
“Mmm, even better,” Steven whispers hungrily into his ear.
    Before he can decide to say no, Peter has been rolled over onto his stomach, and he can feel Steven’s body lying of top of him. Something cold and wet drips onto his ass, and then pain, terrible pain. He makes a whimpering sound and tries to pull away, but he is sandwiched between Steven and the mattress. Should he tell Steven to stop? Maybe this is just what sex feels like. Steven begins thrusting more deeply. Peter buries his face in a pillow, lets out a muffled scream, grips the edges of the pillowcase as tightly as he can. Amidst the sound of his heaving breathing and Peter’s cries of pain, Steven whispers into Peter’s ear.
    “Yeah, you like that don’t you? You like the way I fuck your ass.”
    Tears are flowing from Peter’s eyes into the pillow, perhaps from physical pain, perhaps not. Within a few minutes, he hears a loud, breathless moaning from above him, and it stops. Without speaking, Steven stands up and pulls on his underwear. Peter rolls over and sits up on the bed, gingerly. He looks at Steven, who has lit a cigarette, and stares at nothing in particular for a minute. Standing up slowly, Peter walks over to the mess of clothes strewn about the floor, and squints through the darkness to identify his own. As he dresses, Steven opens a beer and grins.
    “So can I call you again sometime?”
    Peter stares at him blankly. “Call me what?”