I'm Not In Love

It was almost bar close.

I had met him and some of his co-workers at a local dive. The type of place that made your shoes stick to the ground, and was clouded with smoke. Back then you could smoke in bars, so I was generally used to it. 

I had never been there before, but did my best to play cool. He was three years older than me and none the wiser, but back then I believed he was.

I hadn't really dated since I moved up to the cities, due to the fact that I was still slowly coming out to some of my family and to myself.  I always knew I was gay growing up, but never wanted to believe it, in fear that God would strike me down where I stood and punish my family for it.

I had some grand idea that this so-called loving God would take the world away from me and my family by creating some sort of hardship or illness that would tear a hole in my soul. The effects  of twelve years in a private, Lutheran education. 

I walked to said bar, where he wanted to meet, so I could comfortably drink, and walk home after we were done.

I wasn't quite sure how things would turn out, but I had hoped for the best.

Back then, I was a fairly shy kid, who didn't like being pulled out of my comfort zone.

At the door of the bar, my ID was checked by a burly biker looking guy with a long grey beard, who sat on a stool. He waved me inside and I was punched in the face with smoke. It appeared to been cigarette night, because everyone in the bar was smoking. 

It took me a quick second, to focus my eyes and exhale the second hand smoke before I spotted him. 

Initially I thought we were meeting one on one, but it turned out he had invited some friends.

Our table was a large booth, made of splintering wood seats and a dirty table top. A plastic beer list with the words FAGGOT written in sharpie sat in the middle of the table.

The boy, introduced me to some of his friends he worked with. He explained that this was their local hang out. I considered making a "Cheers" reference, but quickly disposed of it. 

He got up from the booth and asked me what I wanted to drink. I told him I could buy it, but he insisted. I told him I'd be fine with beer.

He disappeared toward the bar.

I slid into the booth and looked at the beer list, while his friends talked to each other.

"I'm Afraid Of Americans" by David Bowie shouted out from the jukebox, which startled me.

His friends looked at me funny and laughed.

They offered me a cigarette, but I declined. 

The boy returned with a handful of shots and a beer bottle hanging out of his cut off jean jacket pocket. He insisted I take it, before it slipped.

He sorted the shots amongst us and moved in close toward me.

I really didn't want the shot, especially since the smell hit my throat before I could even pick up the glass, but I was completely out of my element, and I wanted them to like me.

The boy made a toast, knocked back the drink, and slammed the glass on the table.

The others followed.

I however, had a hard time opening my throat. It took me two attempts before the remaining liquid slid down.

I asked him what it was, trying not to make a sour face.

He laughed and threw his arm across the top of the booth, behind me. He whispered in my ear that it was his own concoction . 

I tried to make my wince into a smile, but couldn't get that terrible taste of the burning liquid off my tongue. 

I took a generous sip of the beer he bought me and sat back. 

The rest of the night I observed their brash humor. 

Occasionally they would ask me questions and I'd reply.

It wasn't until my third beer, that I'd realized I was drunk.

The boy had lit up a cigarette, puffed, and exhaled away from me. I took it from his fingers and generously inhaled. 

Everyone at the table was taken aback, but somehow I knew that it was the right thing to do.

When it came time to leave, I explained that I had walked.

He offered to give me a ride home, but I politely declined and offered to call us both a cab. 

The boy told me that he loved my innocence and that he had already intended on leaving this place in style.

He lead me to a bike rack and unlocked a vintage All  Pro bike. It was lime green with a white banana seat. 

He asked if I would pedal.

I agreed, so we hopped on, but I was way too drunk to get us moving. He laughed, trying to help us along, but it was evident that we weren't going anywhere.

He told me to switch.

I did, and began to worry I would fall off the back.

He told me to hold on.

We were off.

On the front of his bike was a transistor radio.

He flipped it on and fidgeted with the dial. 

I'm Not In Love by 10CC played.

He began to pedal more furiously.

I wrapped my arms around his waist and buried my face in his back as we cruised down a heavily populated street.

He told me to relax, and not be so embarrassed, but even the alcohol couldn't ease my insecurities in public.

We had finally arrived at my apartment.

He had offered to walk me to my door.

In the lobby we quietly waited for the elevator. 

Once it arrived, we entered.

I hit my floor.

Before the doors could fully close, I had him up against the wall.

I wasn't sure what came over me, but I couldn't resist him.

He tasted like menthol and the shot I had hated.

This time I couldn't get enough of the taste. 

 It was a ten second elevator ride, but to me it felt like thirty.

He ended up spending the night, but to this day I still recall that night as the night I let my guard down and began my transformation, into my true self.