3/31/2024 Something by Jon Pyatt vivek jena CC SOMETHING With those wolf-like, slate eyes framed by a swarthy black beard, his lithe, bare torso could have been an afterthought. He looks like Brutus from Popeye. He’s staring at me—again. I hold his gaze. I refuse to break eye contact, even as he walks toward me from across the bar. He looks me up, then down, and back again, as if I’m the only one in room. Now I’m certain he’s cruising me. “I’m James,” he says. 1 “You’re new here.” He’s right. I am new—new to town, new to this, not fully out of the closet. When I moved to Washington, I promised myself I’d be honest about my sexuality. I vowed to build a supportive community to make coming out to my family easier. So, I ventured out, all alone, to this bar for the first time on a freezing, January night. James stirs his drink, then sidles closer. It’s loud and crowded, but not so much of either that he needs to stand this close to me. Still, I lean in. His pits smell like sweat and Dial soap. As I low-talk in his ear, I allow my bare jawline to rub against his beard, but only for an instant. His bristles jolt me, sending an electric charge from my brain to my groin. His knuckle traces a circle on my bare chest. When James pushes back on my jawline with his, I get weak in the knees. Is there a name for this? I want to rub my face through his beard. I want to get his scent all over me, like a dog rolling in the grass. The part of me that would have once balked at public displays of affection is gone. Instead, I grab the scruff of his neck and pull him close for a deep kiss. Welcome to the Green Lantern, where shirtless men drink free every Thursday. * 1 I changed the names, appearances, and some locations in this essay to protect others’ privacy. I knew something had to change. Remnants of potting soil clung to the peach plaster walls of my San Diego bungalow. Terracotta shards from a shattered Easter lily pot spilled out into the hallway. Saffron-hued pollen stained its smashed, trumpet-shaped blossoms. My then-girlfriend and I had intended to take the plant to her mother for Easter brunch. Some might have fought; some might have fled. But I was frozen, speechless. My heart raced. My head pounded as her emerald Mustang roared to life. She revved the engine and popped the clutch, her tires squealing halfway down 49th Street. This wasn’t the first time Katrina had sped off after a frustrating sleepover. But it was the first time she’d thrown something at me. I took a few deep breaths, then swept up the dirt and broken clay pieces. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My face was wan and ashen. Bags hung beneath my eyes from yet another sleepless night of wrestling my demons and her disappointment. I didn’t recognize the person staring back at me. I had been sexually attracted to guys in high school, but I never really acted on it. I figured I was bisexual, and I hoped I could turn off that other part of me like a switch. If I don’t act on it, will it exist? In high school and college, I had lots of dates and plenty of girlfriends. Relationships would always start strong. I was a perfect gentleman: thoughtful, well-mannered, a great gift-giver. But third dates were the worst—the most anxiety producing. That was where the physical rubber met the emotional road. The wheels always fell off the wagon when things got physical. I rationalized. Maybe I just haven’t found my type? Katrina surely would have been the one, I’d thought. A whip-smart public defender with a dry sense of humor, she had both brains and smolder. She was sexy in that southern California way: tan, blonde, and perky in all the right places. She had given me a framed picture of herself in a yellow bikini that could have been ripped from a swimsuit catalog. Surely, I can be attracted to her. We were on a trip to Italy when we had our first flop. Sharing a hot tub in our Milan hotel suite, she failed to get a rise out of me. I blamed it on the jet lag or the champagne, but she blamed herself. “Tell me what you’re into,” she whispered, “and I’ll do it.” But there was nothing she could do, and I lacked the language and self-awareness to communicate my confusion. The pattern kept repeating. I did my best. I went down on her; it was the one thing I could do. She’d try to do the same for me, but it never worked. We dated for more than a year, and she never got me off. Not once. It took a projectile plant hurled at my head, for me to realize that I was not being fair to her—or to myself. Weeks later, she landed a new job in Palm Springs. I cheered her on. I helped her move. But something inside me had been set in motion. I needed to go on a journey, and I didn’t feel like I could reach my destination while working as a prosecutor in San Diego. “I’m taking a leave of absence from work,” I explained. “I’m selling my house. I’m going to travel. I need to figure some things out. And I’m going to do all of this under the assumption we’ll no longer be together.” We cried. It would take two more years before I could travel back to California to tell her why. * Decades ago, before geospatial hookup apps like Grindr and Scruff, every major city had a gay bar like the Green Lantern. I had joined a gay rugby team when I first moved to Washington, and a teammate had suggested I check it out. “You’ll like the guys there,” he said. “Just don’t look at the floor, and you’ll be fine.” He was right on both counts. Regulars called it the Green Latrine for its fetid gestalt. It reminded me of the Barracks, a bar I had stumbled upon in Sydney. After traipsing through Mediterranean bathhouses, Berlin darkrooms, and Thai drag shows, I finally discovered a place that looked like the break room at a pipe factory. Guys with bellies and beards wearing tight t-shirts, Levi’s, and boots, swigging bottles of beer and playing billiards. I swooned. I’d found my tribe. After ignoring my attraction to men for almost three decades, it was a relief to figure out—finally—what turned me on. The Green Lantern had a similar vibe, but more carnal. Amidst Washington’s staid and stuffy watering holes filled with tweezed, tattersall politicos, the Lantern was that dive bar where I could be myself. It could only be accessed through a back alley, which made lining up to get inside the thumping club feel depraved. The ground floor felt more like a local pub. Fully clothed patrons sat or stood around a large central bar. They mingled, stared down at their drinks, or gazed up at video screens. But to climb the stairs in the bar’s back corner was to ascend into a furtive, opportunistic darkness. Guys would strip off their t-shirts on their way up the narrow staircase and tuck them through their belt loops. As your eyes adjusted to see a single bartender, you might feel a nipple—or a hairy chest—graze your shoulder blades as someone squeezed by. Hands fumbled below the belt. Throw in free booze for an hour every Thursday, and the place gyrated like a vibrator. The trick—I would eventually learn—was to be upstairs just before 10 p.m., pay for a drink, and tip well. That kept the bartender coming back for the next hour. A person can drink a lot of vodka sodas in 60 minutes. Visiting the DJ in the corner was my other signature move. It was a way to engage the room, rub up against half the guys in the bar, and show folks you knew people—all while appearing to be on a casual errand. It pulled the same crowd every Thursday, and the men didn’t go for the rail liquor, the sticky floors, or the stench. Chances were high the guy you hooked up with last Thursday would be there again this week, looking for a new conquest, just like you. Casual hookups would morph into situational friendships or brunch outings. It became my training ground—a place to get comfortable in my own skin. There was no trying; there was just doing. Like stretching or yawning, sex became as natural as my mouth watering at the smell of a pizza cooking in the oven. It was Pavlovian. * It’s well past midnight, and far below freezing, by the time James and I sneak out of the bar, hand in hand, into the cold, January night. We make out in the dark alley. My lungs heave, ingesting James’ warmth and the biting, icy air in equal measure. A chill creeps up the wet, bare skin under my puffy winter coat. My t-shirt is still snaked through my belt loop. Plumes of steam rise from our open coat collars. “Where did you say you were from?” James asks, his breath forming tiny dragon clouds in the bracing chill. “Illinois.” “A Midwesterner. I can’t wait for you to meet my husband. You are so his type.” Husband. This is new information. My mind reels as I follow James across Massachusetts Avenue. No longer holding hands, I’ve stuffed my mitts deep inside my pockets. Something wells in the back of my throat. Am I disappointed? We stop in front of a stately condominium, its towering Greek columns supporting a circular portico. As James fumbles with his security fob, I begin to have second thoughts. This isn’t what I’d signed up for. I’m excited to be with James, but I now regret not having him all to myself. Still, I follow him inside to the elevators. With our backs pressed against opposite sides, we stare at one another. I feel the distance growing between the ground and us. James feels further away—mentally, physically—than he has all night. A twisting helix of emotions rises within me, as does a sense of trepidation about what I might be walking into. I stare at the floor. I’ve never been in a three-way before. Is there some kind of etiquette? James opens the door to a tiny studio apartment. His husband sleeps face-down on a pull-out sofa, the ropy muscles in his back glowing in the blue hues of an infomercial on a flatscreen. The top of a furry buttock peeks from behind a sheet. “Don’t wake him,” I whisper. “I can go.” We lock eyes. James kisses me, then shakes his head from side to side. He stoops to give his partner a nuzzle with his beard. “Ignacio, wake up,” he whispers. “I brought you something.” I swallow to keep the growing knot in my stomach at bay. My hands press deeper in my pockets as my eyes flit between the couple and the floor. Ignacio stirs, then reaches for a pair of glasses and squints up at me. His caramel brown skin stretches taut over sinewy shoulders and pecs. Through deep brown eyes, he inspects me, as if I were a piece of meat or a prize he’d won at a carnival. Then, he smiles and rises from the mattress. “Guapo.” James isn’t looking at me anymore. He’s watching Ignacio, with the dumb grin of a Labrador who’d retrieved a bone and wants to be told he’s a good boy. As Ignacio comes in for a kiss, he unzips my parka. James approaches from behind, nuzzling the nape of my neck with his beard. My knees buckle all over again. He removes my hands from my pockets and slips me out of my coat as my tongue entwines with his husband’s. That’s when it dawns on me. This isn’t about me at all. This is about them. I’m just the chew toy that’s been brought home to distract from whatever’s broken or missing. And I don’t care. Instead of feigning chemistry—as I had always done with women—I succumb to it with these two men. Instead of trying to be someone I’m not, I permit myself to be desired for who I am. It’s a relief to decouple angst and sex. Now, it can be purely physical—and the most natural feeling in the world. My eyes close as James and Ignacio gather on the floor beneath me. I feel my belt unfasten and hear my zipper open. My clothes fall in a heap. We laugh as I nearly fall over trying to get out of my boots. I feel four palms, twenty fingers, and two tongues as they pass me between their hands and mouths. Then we crash into each other, wash over one another, in every permutation. Tonight, we are three racing heartbeats, three unchecked impulses, melting into a release that never needs to be anything more than it is right now. * I will return to San Diego. Over coffees, or fish tacos, or strolls on the Ocean Beach pier, I will reveal my truth to former colleagues and roommates. Some will understand; some will not. Some will embrace me; others won’t. Some I will host in my home 20 years hence, and some I will never hear from ever again. I will drive through the desert. Katrina will look spectacular when I arrive. The smell of must and moving boxes will be long gone, our breakup an untidy memory. Her immaculate condo will be as put together as her makeup, black bodysuit, and Via Spiga kitten heels. We will share a glass of wine, then head out to dinner, like old times. Over a white tablecloth, a tuxedoed waiter will bring us steak. We will make small talk until I feel there’s an opening. “You look great,” she will say, noticing my weight loss. “You look lighter. You feel lighter.” “Let me tell you why,” I will say. “I’ve come to accept something about myself. I can finally be honest with you about something I’d long suspected.” She won’t say anything at first. She will fill the uncomfortable silence with a long drink from her wine goblet. Her eyes will release mine, darting to the far-flung corners of the room, that telltale sign she’s piecing together a puzzle. I will reach out to clasp her hand. “Go on.” “I’m gay,” I will say, “and I thought—after all we’ve been through—you have a right to know.” Her eyes will close, and a tear will slide down her left cheek. She will release my hand to bring the napkin up to daub the moisture. When they open again, she will study me. Her mind will spin and flip like a Rolodex, sifting through patterns and memories—fragments of feeling and insight to be reexamined in a new light. Then, as if she had finally focused the camera lens on her subject and pressed the shutter, that click of clarity might dawn in her mind’s eye. She will reach out to grasp my hand anew, and a knowing smile will swell on her beautiful face, now freshly unburdened. ![]() Jon Pyatt writes creative nonfiction and character-driven literary fiction. He is pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing at Wilkes University's Maslow Family Graduate Program, where he served as the Managing Editor for River & South Review. His work has appeared in The Milk House. Jon has previously worked as a reporter, a domestic violence and child abuse prosecutor, a political operative, and a congressional chief of staff. For more about Jon, please visit www.jonpyatt.com. Comments are closed.
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