John
Woolfrey 1587
words
1729
Rue de la Visitation
Montreal,
Quebec, Canada
H2L
3C3
(514)
597-2189
The Pink Triangle
Copyright 2005 by Raymond John Woolfrey
From East of the Big Q,
a collection of gay short stories about Montreal
“Look, a lumberjack!” I said to Michael.
“What?!?”
“Over
there— On the dance floor. See ’im?”
“You
mean that stocky guy with the skinny kid? He’s trashed. Lumberjack!” he hissed.
“What are you talking about?”
“That’s
one of my favourite kinds of guy,” I gushed. “Look at him. Beefy without being
fat or overly muscular, not too tall, short black hair. Oh, man. Look at those
luscious, full lips. And, with that ex-treme-ly masculine two-day-old
growth of very black beard, don’t you think he looks like a lumberjack? Check
out the smile. Doesn’t it make you wanna jump him?”
“Well,
you can jump him, but he’ll probably fall over. I told you—he’s bombed. Why
don’t you go jerk off in the washroom or something?”
The
object of my lust must have seen me ogling him, because just then he spun
across the dance floor, slammed into me, grabbed my shirt and hauled me on to dance.
It quickly became all too apparent that Michael was right: the guy could barely
focus on me, and to keep himself from falling into the other dancers he grabbed
hold of me again. I wriggled free and slipped back over to Michael.
“You’re
right,” I said. “He’s gorgeous. But useless. Pity.”
It
was a balmy Sunday evening in late March, one of the first days of spring when
hormones run like maple sap and boys go wild after a long, cold winter. Michael
and I were at the very busy Queue Dorée, and there was lots to do—people to
talk to, men to cruise, and adventures to have. We split up to explore. I
wandered around on the lookout for friends and hot guys. After a while I came
to rest on the railing outside the washroom and watched the parade. Friends and
acquaintances passed by in both directions—some stopped to chat, others just
said hi. In between, guys cruised me and I cruised them—some I’d never seen
before, and others whom I cruise regularly but don’t dare risk the sexual
tension by connecting with (translation: I don’t dare risking rejection!). I
had a long chat with an old college buddy—like me, he had one eye out for eyes
out for him, the other eye regarding me intensely to assure me that he was
listening—which I knew he was. So was I to him.
After
an hour or two I wandered past the booths where I saw Michael sitting next to a
small, balding guy in his late twenties. Though they weren’t talking, they
looked as though they were together. I passed Michael and caught his eye. He
looked away quickly as though signalling he was busy, so I continued on to the
dance floor to check things out.
The
lumberjack was still there, grinding away, but gracefully, as though he’d
sobered up some. This made me want him again—that plus the beer that I’d drunk.
From the sidelines I watched the crowd dance, with an eye on my costaud[1]
friend. He was dancing with agility, rhythm and, to me, eroticism. His big,
beefy torso gyrated and his tight groin pulsed. Mr Sex. Eventually he stopped
to rest by the speaker just a few feet away from me. He gazed at the dancers,
occasionally glancing at me. After a few minutes he turned and smiled—in sharp
focus this time—I smiled back and moved in. Next we were touching and kissing
right where we stood. He flirted by smiling with his black, Indian-like eyes
and fleshy, sensuous lips. I asked him his name; he answered with a kiss. In
our jeans and T-shirts, he wearing a corduroy jacket and I a black leather one,
we danced crotch to crotch on the edge of the floor, both hard, sometimes
kissing, sometimes murmuring Ah, c’est bon and other protestations. We
rubbed our beard stubbles together and licked each other’s ears, making
slurping noises inside our heads. We ran our hands over each other’s backs and
chests. I squeezed the flesh of his fesses[2];
he pulled the small of my back toward him to rub my bone against his. Somehow
this went on for two hours.
When
he went to the washroom and didn’t return after several minutes, I panicked and
went off to look for him. I ran into Michael. “When you saw me at the booths
back then,” he said breathlessly, tacitly acknowledging his snub back then, “I
was getting the wickedest handjob ever. That little creep had me in multiple
orgasms for ages!” Then, noticing my anxiety, added wryly, “Where’s your
lumberjack?”
“You
saw us?”
“Who
didn’t! What’s the matter, he disappear?”
“No
… he just went to the washroom. … I
don’t know… ”
“Getting
lust-hormone withdrawal, eh?”
“Cut
it out!”
“Don’t
worry. I’m just teasing. —Jeez. That fucker got me off! Follow me. I know where
your bruiser is.”
I
brightened. Michael led me to the entry way, where costaud was arguing
with the doorman in front of the neon cum-dripping penis sculpture.
“Some
guy tried to pick up your man,” explained Michael. “When the guy wouldn’t let up,
your shiny knight warned him that if he didn’t go away he’d beat him up, and he
smashed his fist against his hand to show him. Then the guy ran up to the
doorman to complain, and the doorman tried to kick him out. Some other guy
came—the manager, I think—and made the doorman let him stay.”
Just
then my lover saw me and came running over, repeating what Michael had just
told me.
“‘Non,
non, non, non,’ je lui ai dit,” he said (No, I told him), acting out the
dramatic pleading look he’d given the doorman, while holding my hands to his
chest. “‘J’ai rencontré un ami et je
dois aller le retrouver (I met a friend and I gotta get back to him). Please.
Non. Please.’ J’ai crié comme ça: (I said it like that.) ‘Please,
non, non.’” He grinned into my face.
We
hugged, kissed and left (Michael had slipped away), glowering at the doorman on
the way out. The doorman glowered back.
Once
up on St. Catherine Street, my friend ducked into the doorway of another bar,
beckoning me to come in with him. We went up the stairs to a huge dance club
filled with the young and trendy. He swooped up a nearly full beer that someone
had rested on a speaker and a few feet farther on presented it to me.
“Merci
!” I grinned. How valiant, I thought, and how practical, since neither of
us had any more money. As we continued along the edge of the dance floor, he
quickly spotted another full one on top of the next speaker and grabbed it for
himself. A few feet and a dozen writhing bodies later, we came to rest in a
corner and laughed. Soon we started up again with our erotic dancing, holding
each other and rubbing our chests and crotches together, slurping on each
other’s tongues and mouths. I thought this was pretty daring for a pretty-boy
bar, even though several twenty-somethings were shirtless—and some had formed a
daisy chain, bumping and grinding into the ass in front of them, but in such a
clean way, no passion, lustless; as though acting out what desire looks like
but not having it themselves. I wonder if any of them were even hard.
Costaud
was looking only at me, and I felt like a cad for gawking at the others. So I
turned my back on them all and looked only at him until we left for my place.
But
romance can be exhausting when it’s drawn out over too long a time and fuelled
by too much beer: once at my place, my spent buddy collapsed on my bed and
passed right out. I had just enough energy to pull his clothes off—it wasn’t
easy to haul his tight jeans over those muscular legs—strip myself, and crawl
in alongside him where I passed out too.
In
the morning under the bedclothes we spooned and caressed and came and spooned
some more. The time grew late and we both had things to do, but I didn’t want
to leave this gorgeous, smiley man. I pulled down the covers and in the
filtered morning light explored his chunky body. He smelled so good all
over—sweet from the previous night’s dance sweat—and he still looked like a
lumberjack—especially naked, and even the next morning. His thick chest,
forearms and legs were spattered with short black hair, and he was naturally
muscled, with just the right amount of fat under the skin to prove he didn’t
get that way through weight training. After we came one more time he rolled on
his chest and I rested by head on his smooth, creamy ass, and my arm across his
big, broad back. We snoozed.
“Merci,”
I said at the door. “Merci,” he said in return. We smiled. “Thanks for
the romance,” I added, in English. He winked. “Thank you,” he replied.
We kissed each other gently on the lips. He left.
I still
don’t know his name. He never learned mine. And the only number I got from him
was the one I found earlier when I was exploring his body. On his inner left
thigh, just below his balls, a number was tattooed in black: 1964. His birth
date, I guess. And below was a pink triangle.
Author’s
note
This
story happened in 1990, and costaud won my personal Trick of the Year Award.
(Really) Ten years later, in 2000, I was making all-night love with this really
hot, naturally muscular guy, when, after about four hours, I finally noticed
it: a pink triangle with the year 1964 stamped underneath. Neither had
recognized the other until that point; in fact, he didn’t remember me. Needless
to say, he was the best sex of 2000 (I have long since stopped with the awards).
I can’t wait for 2010.
[1] Built, muscular
[2] Buttocks