A strange encounter

It was on a rainy evening at a public house in New York when I met the man, and I shall never forget the tale he told me.

I should explain.

It wasn’t just any public house; it catered to men who fancied other men, one of several off-the-beaten-path establishments that had begun to surface in the Village and Chelsea in that era.

I was young, and fit, but nervous and timid about exploring my sexuality. A bit of fooling around with my college roommate after a party proved life-changing for me, and apparently forgettable for Bryan. My mutual silent agreement, we’d gone on as though it had never happened, at least in public, but in private, my very core was shaken with the unmistakable fact that I’d found myself at last. No more wondering about why women held little interest for me, or why I was drawn to sports—watching them, not playing them, of course. From then on, I found myself torn between wanting to go to the fraternity and other campus parties where sexy young men frolicked, and feeling terrified at being discovered as a homosexual.

Looking back, I was a reasonably good-looking and fit young man of twenty, and though I lacked confidence, I wasn’t lacking in wit or bearing. My fear was a private one, expressed largely through introversion.

And so, after many weeks of furtive exploration—there was no internet then, you see, and most of the rainbow world was hidden from public view, marked by signs you had to learn and keep secret—I had at last found the name of the place and ventured cautiously within.

Years later, such places would be identifiable by numerous means: rainbow flags, suggestive names, certain types of music, and so forth. But here, it seemed an ordinary, comfortable pub of the Irish or English variety, with a mahogany and brass bar, and a very fit and meticulously groomed lad in a tight shirt tending bar. The only thing that gave it away was the fact that every person in the room was male, and many of them were kissing openly.

I cautiously ordered a beer and found a seat with a nice view of the room, and sat there nursing it, gazing rather shamefacedly at the shapely bottoms and well-crafted arms of the lads here, or the wide burly faces of a few older gentlemen with snow in their beards who seemed to be old friends. I longed to fit in, but I barely knew myself yet, nor my tastes. My furtive reading had only sketched the rules of such places, so I’d resolved to test the waters by going, and watching. By the time I’d ordered my second beer, the place was filling up, and the mood shifted slightly. Or perhaps I was finally realizing that these were just people having a drink and a chat, not predators waiting to pounce or to judge.

Just as I settled in and began to feel comfortable, a very large, and very muscular man walked in, and mine was not the only gaze drawn to him. He formed a bit of a gravity well of his own, being both an extremely well-formed specimen (wearing tight trousers and shirt that accentuated his assets) but also an exceedingly handsome one. Just utter masculinity, raw sex appeal, served up for our approval. He smiled at the attention, then spotted a friend and wound his way through the growing crowd. He ignored the appreciative whistles and catcalls and settled in next to his friends.

“Gorgeous, isn’t he?”

I hadn’t noticed the thin older gent sidle in next to me, so his voice was a surprise. He was probably 70 if he was a day, but still handsome despite his crow’s feet and thinning hair. He must have been rather good looking in his youth, but I have to say, the lighting did him no favors. Still, his smile seemed genuine.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Peter,” he said, offering a thin hand in greeting.

“Barry,” I said.

“Nice to meet you. I take it your taste runs to the sporty types,” he smiled. “Mine does too. And that fellow… he is exceptionally nice to look at.”

I blushed, caught out.

“Oh my! Is this your first time at one of these places?”

I nodded like a shy toddler.

“Oh, my lad, welcome!”

I stammered a thank you and sucked back a fair amount of my beer after clinking glasses with him.

Peter smiled at me and took my hand.

“My dear boy, you’re safe here. I remember my first time. First you have to come to terms with the fact you fancy other boys, and then you have to figure out the code to make sure you can admit that safely, and then you have to work up the courage to approach one of them, or to say yes when one of them approaches you. Daunting.”

“Just a bit,” I admitted.

“Well, it’s always good to earn a bit of good will with the new blood, so you’ve got yourself a guide,” he said. “And don’t worry, you’re not really my type, so I’m not expecting anything untoward. But at least you’ll have a friend here, and that’s always a nice start. Plus, you’re cute.”

Before I knew it, Peter had ordered drinks for us and commandeered a table near the bar. He had a genial, almost professorial, manner to him that made me feel safe and in good hands as he explained various things to me: the straightforward etiquette of seeking companionship, the coded handkerchiefs, the terms I hadn’t figured out, and so forth. He was a pleasant companion and an engaging spinner of yarns, and insisted on buying.

Several hours passed and he had, I suddenly realized, learnt a great deal about me, without revealing much about himself. He must have sensed my sudden realization and the accompanying mild suspicion, because suddenly he shifted gears as though he’d read my mind.

“Ah, my apologies, young man, but I may have come on a bit too strongly. I’m naturally curious and wanted to be a reporter when I was your age. But it’s unfair to quiz you so, but reveal nothing myself.”

Before I’d even begun to reassure him, he insisted.

“It’s been a long time since I told anyone about this,” he said. “But I think it’s a story you need to hear. It may help you figure some things out.”

When I was just 19, I was much as you are now—recently discovered my boy-fancying nature, and too timid to fully embrace or explore my sexual impulses. There was a place much like this one, long gone now, but filled with a rougher clientele. Mostly dock men and sailors, which suited me quite well. I feasted as you have—with my eyes—until he walked in.

What a magnificent specimen he was. My god, I could spend my life just taking stock of that amazing body of his, from his glorious mane to the nails on his feet.

Allow me to describe him to you.

He was tall—but not freakishly so, a few inches over my own six feet. He had a gloriously full head of hair, spun of dark gold, reaching down to the top of his neck, and styled in a way that looked intentionally rakish, without being too messy. Thick brows over deep set intelligent, emerald eyes. A nose that conveyed authority; full sensual lips and a wide, smiling mouth. A perfect jaw with just the barest hint of stubble. Strong neck, wide shoulders. And the muscles…. Not the overbuilt form of a bodybuilder or strong man, more like that of a predator—lean but powerful. Arms of a gymnast, or baseball player perhaps, but just… just a little more than that. Under the tight shirt, a hint of the taught abs beneath—you could imagine tracing them with your tongue.

He wore comfortable trousers that hugged his perfect bottom, and accentuated a basket just shy of lewd. Sturdy legs and soccer-player’s calves, slightly oversized feet.

As I’d learn later, he also smelled fantastic—leather and herbs and iron, somehow, and his own natural musk. Perhaps they were the same.

He strode in like the confident god of sexual appeal he was, and every eye was upon him.

And then, he caught my eye and smiled, and walked toward me.

I had no idea how to react, and my first instinct was to look for his true target behind me somehow. Suddenly he was at the table where I sat alone, and he smiled as he gestured at the open seat.

“Hello. Do you mind if I join you?”

God, what a voice. Utterly masculine, a low baritone rather than an overly bass rumble, but it reminded one of a big cat’s purr. Confident, at rest, but full of potential for danger. To have it, and his attention, pointed anywhere in your direction was flattering, but to have that megawatt charisma aimed at you? There was no resisting it.

I stammered out an affirmative, and the gorgeous man sat.

“Call me Peter,” I said.

“Lovely to meet you, Peter. Allow me to buy you a drink,” he said, and silently signaled the bartender, who wasted no time bringing our drinks.

Have you ever connected with someone so immediately, so deeply, that you skip right past the awkward stage where you’re feeling each other out verbally, and go right to those deeply personal conversations? Our conversation was like that—talking of everything, my hopes and dreams and likes and dislikes, all drawn out of me with no discernible effort. On some level I couldn’t believe he was talking to me, and so I never noticed that somehow I was the one doing most of the talking.

Somehow in the background, the rest of the noisy bar seemed to drift away, and it was as though the world barely existed beyond the confines of our table. His voice rumbled away to encourage me to talk, his magnificently beautiful body filled my gaze, and his intoxicating scent suffused my nostrils. My manhood grew increasingly stiff as I tried to hold his attention.

“I like you, Peter. Why don’t we leave here and continue elsewhere?”

I don’t remember leaving the bar, but very shortly I found myself in a comfortably appointed room not my own, with the strong hands of my new friend helping me disrobe while his lips teased their way around my face and neck.

Just as I’d been smitten by the sight of him, I felt drunk with the very scent of him, and his touch was almost too much to bear. I felt my manhood surge and begin to leak with the want of him.

“Ah!” I said. “I don’t even know your…”

“My name? Just call me… John,” he said. I could guess it wasn’t his proper name, but somehow that didn’t matter. Within moments he’d touched my member, and caressed my bottom, and kissed my lips… and whatever name I moaned in my ecstasy, it was probably his.

Peter leaned back in his seat, smiling at the recollection. He somewhat discreetly adjusted himself with an apologetic look, and then sipped from his glass. I finished mine, and was about to offer to buy us both a refill when the bartender materialized with two fresh glasses.

“I asked the bartender to look out for us,” he said by way of explanation. “He knows me well. I know you were drinking beer, but please try it.”

It was my first sip of really good whiskey, and I was glad I’d only sipped. That stuff was strong—but it had amazing flavor, and it warmed me as beer never had. It was delicious, and I said as much.

“I’d love to buy the next round,” I said.

“No no, it’s my treat. Besides, unless I miss my mark, it’s likely beyond your means. I keep a bottle here for myself. It’s a rather rare bottle, and older than you are, but you’ll agree it is well worth the cost. I’m pleased to treat you to a glass.”

“Thank you,” I said sincerely.

I didn’t dare ask, though it occurred to me to wonder how much the drink was worth. I didn’t know much about whiskey, but this reeked of class and quality. Later I’d find out it was worth about $500 a bottle, well beyond my means at the time. I felt grateful, in the moment, for the chance to taste it. We wasted a few minutes discussing the tastes and scents I’d picked up, and I seemed to have passed some quiet test.

“I shall have to watch out for you, my lad. You could develop a rather sophisticated palette, and I’d feel guilty spoiling your enjoyment of lesser spirits.”

“I don’t drink much, but one thing I picked up in college was that cheap booze isn’t usually worth it. And you get fewer headaches from the better stuff.”

“Sound advice. Now where was I?”

We made love with abandon, for hours. He was insatiable, and in his care, so was I. When he entered me, I could have sworn he grew within me. When I entered him, it was as though his body was built for naught but my pleasure. His touch was electric and addictive, his taste incredible.

One reason I liked that bottle you’ve just tasted was because it somehow reminded me of him, some faint echo of his scent.

But I digress.

Imagine my surprise on waking the next morning to find not the golden-haired adonis I’d spent my evening with, but a shorter, stockier, dark-haired man, staring at me with dark emerald eyes.

They were the same eyes, I realized, only to then gasp as they continued to darken to a deep mahogany brown.

“Don’t worry, it’s just me,” the stranger said. “You’re Peter and you called me John.”

“But… but how?”

He sighed and smiled as he reached out to caress my hair. “It doesn’t matter. I could never explain it in ways you’d understand.”

He was, objectively, still incredibly attractive, just shaped very differently. His scent was ever so slightly different, and he had larger, meatier muscles, but he was also shorter and far hairier than he had been.

“Just accept that it’s me, and perhaps think of it as… a change of clothing, perhaps.”

Somehow, I managed to do that. And my reward was another day spent in the arms of the second sexiest man I’d ever seen up close. I was no fool.

For three days, I didn’t leave my apartment—we made do with what was at hand, or called for delivery. And on each morning, I woke up held by a new set of arms, yet embraced by the same man.