John
Woolfrey 3881
words
1729
Rue de la Visitation
Montreal,
Quebec, Canada
H2L
3C3
(514)
597-2189
Baby Blues
Copyright by Raymond John Woolfrey
First published in Blythe House
Quarterly, Fall 1998
http://www.blithe.com/bhq2.4/index.html
From East of the Big Q,
a collection of gay short stories about Montreal
Sometimes we send our
snowstorms to that other Canadian city …
When
Michael won tickets to the aids organization’s Christmas-party
raffle, we teased him: “Trauma? You won a trip to Trauma? What was the first
prize?”
The deal
included a room in a downtown hotel. He offered to take me along on the
condition I left the room to him—in case he picked up any more prizes over the
weekend. I didn’t mind. I arranged to stay with my nieces and my sister-in-law,
Arlene, in the suburbs.
We went in
early January before Michael’s classes resumed. A bitterly cold blizzard hit
the Queen City the day we arrived and lasted into the weekend. Back and forth I
shuttled through the storm on slush-coated buses full of well-behaved people
from all over the world quietly coughing and sniffling and looking at nobody
else. At least the buses were heated—not like the subway, on whose cold and
damp platforms I waited in misery. I learned to appreciate the rubber tires on
Montreal’s Métro for the heat they gave off.
Michael and I
went out each night. Thursday, we went to a leather bar on the edge of
downtown. Michael got more or less lucky. I didn’t. When I got back to
Arlene’s, she and my nieces were still up watching tv. They asked me how it was. All I could say was, “Cold, and
hardly any people.”
At lunch the
next day he told me about his night. “He kept talking about his former lover
all evening,” he said, somewhat desolately. “We went back to his place up the
street and did it pretty quick. After that he told me I had to go because his
straight roommate didn’t like him to have tricks over when he was with a
girl—or something. So I took a streetcar—the Queen Street car, of course—and
slept alone on my king-sized bed.”
“At least you
got to use your room.”
Michael and I
went out again that night to another leather bar, but in the village this time.
A plump, grey-haired man dressed in regulation chaps, cap and harness drummed
up a lively conversation with Michael about Coronation Street—he was the
president of its local fan club. I left them alone. When I returned a half hour
later, Michael was in the company of a little guy with handcuffs. I went back
to Don Mills.
On the way to
the subway a female prostitute tried to hook me. I told her I was gay. “Well,
then, can I have twenty dollars for diapers?” she implored.
Arlene and the
girls were watching a Full House rerun when I got in. “How was it this
time?” they asked.
“Cold, and
hardly any people. But at least it was friendly!”
The following
day I learned Michael’s evening ended up much like the night before.
“Again, it was
quick. I’m beginning to think Torontonians like their sex the way they like
their city: fast and efficient,” he mused glumly over his coffee.
Saturday night
I was determined to go to a place that was not only warm but crowded. I figured
if a bar had lots of people, their collectively warm and hopefully hot bodies
would heat it up some, and in more ways than one. Even over the course of
Michael’s and my daytime wanderings around downtown I hadn’t seen anyone yet
who took my fancy—I was beginning to fear I’d left my libido in Quebec. Michael
had his mind set on the same bar we went to the first night, but I wasn’t
taking any chances. I decided on a popular dance bar in the village.
Through the
blowing snow I trudged to the bus stop that Saturday evening. It felt strange
to go out so early, especially as I knew I would probably be taking the bus
back in just three hours. It all seemed too orderly: the bars closing at one
and the subway at one-thirty. In Montreal, I often go out at two after an evening
of writing.
I waited at
the bus stop with my back against the wind and the hood of my parka bunched
around my face. Suddenly, out of the blizzard flashed wide, sky-blue eyes;
hockey skates flapped over a shoulder, and jogging shoes gripped the tire-ground
snow to light deftly in the powder beside me. He was small, twentyish, all
dressed in that kind of breathable nylon material used for sports clothes.
Around his neck hung yellow headphones. His hair—dark blond—was cut very close
along the sides, and about three inches long on top. The sweetness of his eyes
and boyish face were mercifully checked by a nose that was humped, like a
cartoon gangster’s. He rested a few paces upwind of me and lit a cigarette.
“Lotta snow, eh?” he offered, energetically.
I turned to
face him. I could see that he’d already learned how to melt the frost and get
his way by twinkling those eyes and crooking that smile. “Not a lot compared
with where I come from,” I replied: the obnoxious tourist, perhaps, but it was
true.
“Where’re you
from?” he asked.
I told him.
“Parles-tu français ? Est-ce que tu le parles
souvent ?” he asked. (Do you speak French? Do you speak it a lot?)
Not a bad
accent, I thought. “Mais oui. Où est-ce que tu l’a appris ?” (Of course. Where
did you learn to speak it?)
“I live in
Sudbury. I rent out snowmobiles there.” He spoke in that direct, strong way
that a man’s man uses: clipped speech, simple words and a forthright, cheerful
manner. All the while he shifted from leg to leg, holding his small, athletic
body rigid and proud. He brought his cigarette to his mouth overhand, his elbow
level with his wrist. A ball of smoke and water vapour popped out of his mouth
to engorge my head. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to blow smoke in your face,” he said,
his eyebrows raised high with concern.
“That’s okay.”
I wondered if hw knew what blowing cigarette smoke into someone’s face was
supposed to mean.
“I came down
to Tronna to see my girlfriend, and now I’m goin’ to my old man’s on the other
side of town. Where’re you headin’?”
“Downtown to
meet some friends at a bar,” I lied.
The bus came.
I wondered if I were expected to sit with him or whether I could be excused to
sit quietly by myself and read my paper—I didn’t want to be drawn into a
conversation about hockey. As the bus pulled up, he introduced himself as Dave.
“It’s warmest
in the back,” said Dave.
Uh-oh, I
thought, getting on first. I guess I’m stuck now. Still. he’s not bad to look
at.
Now that I’ve
been a grownup for some time, I don’t think twice about sitting next to people
on city buses. So I forgot the teenage etiquette that prohibits two guys from
sitting together lest people think they’re fruits. After I let him slide in on
the back bench next to the window, taking the seat next to his for myself, I
immediately realized my faux pas. Dave was swift to recover, however, by
gesturing that he couldn’t hear me well through his ear on my side, and he
suggested we should switch places. As we moved he slipped the required distance
of one seat between us and crossed his legs manly style—ankle on knee—to
protect the space, as well as his masculinity.
“Ever heard of
the ohl?” Dave asked.
“The Ontario
Hockey League?”
“Yeah. I used
to play with them in Sudbury. Eric Lindros was on my team. Now I got the
snowmobiles to rent out and the marina to run in summer.”
I thought he
was a little young to own a marina. And the ohl?
Well, it’s more fun to let people spin their yarns and then watch as their
stories get all tangled up.
“My wife works
there too,” he added.
Hmm, I
thought. It was his girlfriend before. Let’s see: “How long you been married?”
I asked, innocently.
“Since the
summer.”
“Any kids on
the way?”
“Naw, not
yet,” he said, tugging on his crotch.
He talked some
more about his life in Northern Ontario. “One of my mechanics is an old friend
of mine. We knew each other since we were kids.” Then, looking intently into my
eyes, he added, “And a little while ago, he told me he was gay.”
Here we go.
“ … but it
doesn’t matter to me, ’cause he’s the best damn mechanic I got!” A big, crooked
smile followed, as he leaned back and spread his hand on his knee, elbow out.
“So what about you— You married?” He pulled at his crotch again.
“No,” I said,
pretending not to notice. “I prefer the single life.” I wasn’t lying, but I
wasn’t going to be too easy. It might be fun to have a “straight,” but I could
see this one was going to take a lot of ritual. I also wondered if he might not
become dangerous afterward. His macho comportment was too studied, as if his
life depended on people thinking him real butch.
Dave banged
along that tack for awhile, questioning me about my sex life, but I didn’t give
an inch—I knew what he wanted to hear. The way I play this game, the challenge
lays in withholding the truth without lying.
Before long he
set up for the kill: “Did’ja go out this weekend?”
“Yeah.”
“What clubs
did you go to?”
According to
my rules, I told him the names.
“I never heard
of ’em. What kind of places are they?”
Oh, what a set
up! “Gay bars,” I conceded.
“Oh yeah?”
Smile and twinkle. “I kinda thought you might be gay when I saw you at the bus
stop.”
I’ll bet you
did: When you go fishing with those baby blues, you’re sure to get a bite,
aren’t you. Any red-blooded fag is gonna take a look at them beauties when they
pop out of a blizzard.
“So, where’re
you goin’ tonight?” Dave’s face was bright and earnest.
“The Pitstop.”
“Where’s
that?” he asked innocently.
“Just south of
Sherbourne station.”
“Oh yeah, I
know where that is. My father’s office is just across the street from it.”
I’ll bet it
is.
We arrived at
the subway stop. While part of me wanted to get rid of him—I really didn’t see
any great chance of bedding him—the other part wanted to see where he was going
with all this. I was fascinated. At least my weekend in Toronto was finally
getting interesting!
We sat on a
bench inside so he could have a cigarette and decide what to do. Even though I
didn’t smoke, I was glad to see someone break the law in this tidy city. Dave
pawed his basket yet again. What the hell did he expect me to do? I wondered,
blow him right here?
“You wanna go
for a coffee?” he asked, ever enthusiastic.
We tried to
think of where to go. I really wanted to go to the bar. Finally, I broke down
and asked what he was waiting to here: “Do you wanna come to the bar with me?”
Dave became
all smiley and aw-gee-shucks like. “Me in a gay bar? Me and my buddies went
into one by mistake once, and this guy grabbed me right here”—he pointed to his
favourite body part—“so I slugged him.” He grinned. “And if my girlfriend knew
I was goin’ to a gay bar, she’d kill me!”
Now it’s his
girlfriend again.
He looked at
his money. “I don’t have much, but I’ll give it a try. You gotta protect me,
though,” he said sternly. “I don’t want any guys comin’ on to me.”
“Just don’t
punch anybody out,” I warned him, as we went down to the frigid platform.
“You’ll be in our territory.” I preferred him to think I still believed
he were straight.
The train came
and brought us the four or five stops to Sherbourne. “Follow me,” Dave offered
when the doors opened. “I know where it is ’cause it’s right across from my
father’s office.” I smiled to myself as I filed out behind him. Once outdoors,
he pointed to his father’s office as we passed.
“Aren’t you
afraid he might be there now and he’ll see you going into a gay bar?” I baited.
“Oh, no— He’s
at home. I spoke to him before I left.”
I smiled some
more.
“You’re gonna
protect me, eh?” he repeated as we entered the bar.
All he checked
were his hockey skates. He kept his nylon and Walkman on. As we entered the
main bar, his eyes grew wide. We ordered beer, then he asked a smoker for a
cigarette.
“This is my
first time in a gay bar,” Dave announced, his eyes searching the guy’s face for
surprise. But the smoker only gave him a sarcastic look as he slid open his
pack.
“Gays are
okay, y’know. I got nothin’ against ’em,” Dave babbled, taking a cigarette.
“Hey,” he started, noticing a rather dowdy, not-too-youngish woman nearby.
Raising his eyebrows in what was meant to be a lascivious way, he added, “You
never know, eh?”
As he sailed
over to the woman, the smoker asked sarcastically, “What’s that?”
“I don’t know.
He followed me from a bus stop in Don Mills.”
“What’s with
all this macho stuff? And why does he pretend he’s straight?”
“Oh, some guys
have a hard time coming out, I guess.”
“Really!” he
said, rolling his eyes.
Dave rejoined
us, saying he wanted to explore the bar. Feeling cocky from his visit with the
woman, he started to lead the way, saying thanks to the smoker as we left him;
the smoker just looked away, shaking his head in disbelief.
Dave swaggered
through the bar with all the macho he could muster—caveman-like, hauling on his
cigarette as though it were a joint, and grinning, almost smirking, at the men
who lined the walls. While a few more eyes rolled, others gawked. I somewhat
enjoyed being seen with this little piece of exotica—as though he were a tough
I had tamed and I were taking him out for a stroll.
When we got to
the smaller bar I noticed they sold draft by the pitcher. I figured this would
make what little money we had go further. I ordered one. “This is my first time
in a gay bar,” Dave informed the bartender, playing the
innocent-straight-but-darling-boy routine.
The bartender,
who looked seasoned, didn’t miss a beat. “Wait’ll he sees the back room,” he
winked at me.
“Let’s go
now!” said Dave. I noticed he didn’t even ask what a back room was. We entered
an empty room with tv screens
showing the inevitable fuck film.
“Let’s sit up
there,” urged Dave.
We planted
ourselves on bar stools at a counter in front of the screens and took in what
was meant to turn us on: one stud was stuffing his semi-hard, unprotected cock
into another’s asshole while two more studs looked on pumping on their own
semi-hard cocks. All were groaning. I expected my “straight” friend to storm
out at any moment, but after a few minutes of this I turned and found him
slack-jawed with glazed eyes. “This is gross,” I said. “Let’s go.” Even if he
wasn’t a virgin, he probably hadn’t done much with men; I didn’t want him to
think this is what gay sex was all about.
He nodded, and
I led a dazed little hockey player back into the light of the bar.
“Let’s dance,”
Dave suggested, coming to.
“Okay.” Hmm,
he asked a man to dance…
He danced hard
and ferociously, hooking his arms as though he were fighting, the way Popeye
the Sailor might have done if he’d had dance music. But his rhythm didn’t match
the music’s—he whirled and twisted frenetically. The woman Dave was talking to
before stepped onto the dance floor with a guy, and Dave spun over to dance and
talk with her. I was relieved to be left by myself. When I looked over, I
noticed the girl and the guy laughing to each other, their faces looking incredulous
as Dave talked and twirled in front of them. “How d’ya like my dancin’?” he
asked me afterward, his hair plastered to his forehead from sweat. “Pretty
good, eh!”
“Uh, you’re a
real powerhouse,” I offered.
“Can you buy
some more beer?” he asked. “I’ll call my uncle and he’ll come over with some
really good weed and some money.”
His uncle?! I
figured his stories—and where they’d take him—were worth a little more beer. I
bought another pitcher. It, plus one more, would hold us until the one-am closing time. We took it to a high
table in a far corner and perched on stools behind it. Before long Dave wanted
to dance again. “Will you still be here when I get back?”
I nodded.
“Watch my
gloves, okay?” A pair of ski gloves lay on the stool.
“Sure.” While
he was gone, I studied the crowd for awhile, happy to be left to observe it. He
really was quite tiresome, I thought, his straight act and all. Why did he hang
around with me? For sex? An audience? Or just an accomplice. Even if I wanted
to go with him, where would we go? I sure wasn’t going to take him to my
sister-in-law’s house. And besides, there was still the possibility he’d get
ugly after coming and beat the hell out of me.
When he
returned, we talked a bit and drank some more beer. But Dave was restless. “I’m
gonna dance some more, will you still be here?”
“Uh, I guess
so.”
“You sure?” He
asked, sensing my discontent.
“Yeah, sure,”
I acquiesced. Right, I fumed to myself: The man goes off to wander while the
little woman stays put.
Then a cute
guy with short, curly black hair smiled at me from across the table. I smiled
back. He moved in. “Hi, my name’s Kyle.”
“Hi, I—”
“Can I have
some of your beer?” he interrupted, pointing to the pitcher.
Oh great,
another mooch. Why are Torontonians hitting up impoverished artist types from
Montreal? I poured him some. We made small talk. “What do you do?” I asked.
“I work on the
garbage trucks,” said Kyle.
Oh boy, a
garbage man, I thought, thinking of all the really hot garbage men that do my
street. My roommates and I would run to the front to see them flinging bags
through the air, muscles flexing, sweat running down suntanned torsos, and
shouting at the driver in a singing way: C’est beau![1]
The evening was picking up! “On the back?” I asked.
“Yeah. Look at
these muscles.” He laid out his forearms on the table—his shirtsleeves were
rolled up to his elbows. I felt them. Then, for good measure, I groped his
biceps. Both sets were big and hard.
Dave came back
dripping with sweat. “I called my uncle, and he’ll be coming soon with grass
and money.” He swayed.
I held back
from asking, Your uncle knows you’re gay? I figured that would only lead to a
long story I didn’t think I had the patience to listen to. I introduced him to
Kyle as I poured him another glass. “This is my first time in a gay bar!”
chanted Dave as they shook hands.
“Oh yeah?”
said the other. Not knowing what else to say, he added: “Not many people
tonight.”
Dave grabbed
the pitcher and poured some beer into his mouth. “Wait, it’s early!” he said.
“But I thought
you never been here before,” said Kyle.
“Uh, no! My
father’s office is across the street. He told me,” Dave murmured. Looking
sheepish about his gaffe, he staggered off with what was left of the pitcher.
“Friend of
your?” the garbage man asked.
“No.”
“Let’s get out
of here before he gets back.”
I thought I
might feel guilty about leaving Dave, but he was getting too smashed to do
either of us any good. Besides, a garbage man! “Sure,” I said.
As we waited
at the coat check, Dave passed by. “You leavin’?” he asked, with innocent but
blurry blue eyes.
“Yeah,” I
replied, glancing at Kyle. Then I looked Dave straight in the eye as if to say,
in language a “straight” guy ought to understand: A man’s gotta do what a man’s
gotta do.
Dave looked at
Kyle, gave his good-ole-guy grin at me, and stiffened up as if to reply: Yup.
And his buddies gotta leave him to it.
“It was great
meetin’ ya,” he said. “Too bad you can’t stay till my uncle comes. He’ll have
lots of smoke and he’ll pay you back for the beer you bought me.” He looked a
little dejected—and confused (I was leaving him alone in a queer bar, after
all)—but very drunk. He was a big boy nevertheless.
“That’s okay.
You have a good time,” he winked, swaying.
By the time I
got my coat, Kyle had already gone outside. I found him talking with a drag
queen taller than either of us. To my dismay he was inviting her to join us.
Lucky for me, I thought, she dourly but politely declined. I’d never unveiled a
drag queen before, and besides— I like my males in male drag. I looked at Kyle,
stunned. “Let’s go back inside for a quick look around,” he said.
“What! We just
left!” The evening had become all too bizarre, and no happy ending was in
sight: a country-bumpkin “straight” who had to get completely hammered in order
to come out just a little bit, a street-hardened sophisticate into who knows
what kind of sex, and, on top of it all, both of them were freeloading off me!
“If you want a threesome, forget it,” I shouted, heading for the subway. I’d
run out of money and he knew it—he probably wanted to hit on somebody else for
drinks. How come these people had good jobs but no money? I wanted to get back
to Montreal where getting sex is so much simpler.
The next day I said
farewell to my nieces and their mother—I was finally able to tell them that I’d
had an interesting evening. I saved the details for Michael after our train
started back to Montreal.
“I would have
ditched him right away,” said Michael, impatiently. “ ‘Takes one to know one,’
you should have said when he said he could tell you were gay.”
“Well, I
really didn’t wanted to get into a semantic tug of war.”
“Yeah, I’ve
been down that road before. Let ’em work it out on somebody else’s time. Pretty
boys—gay ones—can be had with a lot less effort than that and be a lot more fun
for their lack of hang-ups.”
“But it was
fun,” I said. “Even if nothing sexual happened. Dave gave me the most fun I’ve
had in a long time. And you know what?”
“What,”
glowered Michael.
“He even gave
me his number!”
Michael rolled
his eyes.