Across A Crowded Room

I watched him. Every Saturday night, he came in. Every Saturday night, I came in. And every Saturday night, we left separately. He to his house or apartment, and I to mine. Yet, I continued to come to Gay Parry with the hopes of meeting him. He came in at 9pm on the dot. He’d dance on the dance floor alone, and whenever any man advanced, he’d simply maneuver away. It only made him more desirable to everyone, especially me. He came in the same time and would always be dressed to kill. His garb read Abercrombie and Fitch, his blond hair flowing whenever he swirled and bumped in time with the rhythm and my heart. His muscular arms rippled within the tight fitting shirt, and slight bulge beckoned from his fancy white khakis. He never glanced my way, though my eyes never left him. I wouldn’t even dance. My body remained planted safely on a stool near the bar. I’d inhale whiskey by the double shot, succumb to my lustful thoughts, adding myself into that space he kept empty, and find myself at home, releasing my angst down the drain, as he felt my lathered body. Then I’d return to the monotony of a checker for Albertson’s. It’s my store, after all.
I found myself in the luxury of Santa Barbara, where snobs demanded their service, and “beautiful” women expected my heterosexual response. Both left disappointed.
Again, Saturday night. Again my desire perused the contours of his innermost thought. I speculated and investigated, but solo, as ten dollars worth of alcohol became fifty.
“Why is he so hard to get?”
“How could I ever hope to get him?”
“Does he have a boyfriend?”
“Is he just a tease?”
Questions, questions, questions. But never answers.

“Hello and welcome to Albertson’s. Can I take your club card?”
“Here you go, sonny.”
Scanning the dinosaur’s card, I ran her items through. Pantyhose, Oreo cookies, milk, bread, condoms…
“Great. Everyone’s getting action except me,” I thought to myself, as I continued.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a flash of blond hair. My attention divided, I was brought back by the complaint of the seventy year old artifact within my line.
“You scanned several items twice, you idiot!”
Shocked, I stared at the screen. Three times, I ran her Dreyer’s Fat Free Vanilla, and twice her English Muffins. Correcting the mistake, I took her credit card, finished the transaction and returned to my visual search. It being eleven at night, I had more than hope that he’d come to my lane. I was the only one open, after all. And wide open.
Again, blond flew past my peripheral. Again, I moved too late to clearly match him with my line of sight. A twenty five year old punk, possibly a drug addict, approached me and inquired, “Do you know where the Ho-Hos are, dude?”
“Aisle seven… dude.”
He gave me a dirty look before proceeding to the aisle specified. I returned to my search but was again interrupted by a voice.
“Is this line closed?”
I turn my head to see none other than him. The beauteous hunk himself. He wore an Abercrombie and Fitch sweatshirt and blue jeans. As usual, his short hair hung down over his perfectly proportional head, adjacent to his slender, sexy neck. His chest and six pack stomach were hidden, but for my mind’s ability to envision them. Yet, his amazingly powerful shoulders still flowed past my undeserving irises. Allowing my eyes to search his, I found the blue too intense and looked away.
“Of course not, sir.”
I cleared my throat, due to the previous sentence’s higher toned feature. He only smiled. And - oh! - what a smile it was. Pearly white teeth set straight as the gates of heaven, contained within lips, pink with life. I held together, though internally, I melted into swirls of yearning. His items were few. His attributes were not. Without another word, I rang up his groceries, took his money, returned the change, and watched him leave. Even his firm rear end proudly boasted the divine hand of God, as it shifted within the jeans with each step. To my surprise, I was drooling. And in front of me stood the punk from earlier. In silence, I rung his order and ignored his muttering “faggot” on the way out. Boys will be boys. Or like them.

Again, Saturday. Around eleven, I remained at my perch, close at hand to the bartender, who was cute in his own way. He handed me another double shot of whiskey, as unknown lover danced away the night. His body expressed itself in ways James Joyce could never hope to. I longed for the opportunity I had blown days previous. For that chance to justify a conversation. The ability to experience a memory with the subject of countless fantasies, whilst naked, covered in soap and lonely. Then for once, it happened. His eyes turned to me, and we locked. Recognition graced his chiseled face, memory his deep blue eyes. And he smiled. I froze, not able to do so much as lift my cheek bones. He returned to his solo escapades, and I to my drink. Not another glance. Not another look. Life returned to normal, and by the time I was home, my pants could no longer contain the volcano that lay dormant no more.

I saw him at the store again, that week. Again, Wednesday at eleven at night. Again, few items and no conversation. This cat and mouse game bore deep into my brain, begging for some response. Obviously, if it were up to me, nothing would happen. Yet, he refused to make more of a move than to ask if the line was open. Other than that, no other conversation piece joined us together for even the slightest interaction. But that Saturday, he glanced over at me and smiled for the second time. Unlike previous, I was able to blush. Progress, some would say. That night, he joined my fantasies of making love on my balcony. That is, until my snoopy neighbor yelled obscenities at me. I finished in the shower, as before.
The third week, my determination swelled more than my libido. When he placed his items on my check stand and positioned himself in front of me, I took my opportunity. No one followed him in line.
“I’ve seen you at the club a few times.”
He brought his luscious head, holding golden hair and an elegant visage and met my eyes with his.
“Yeah,” he responded, not wavering in voice or stare. “You’re always at the bar, sucking down whiskey.”
“I’d like to suck you down,” I thought to myself.
“Just haven’t the desire to dance,” was my vocal response.
“And why’s that?”
“No partners that appeal to me.”
Smiling, he responded in calm tone, “Who needs a partner?”
Grabbing his bag, he made for the exit, spinning around briefly to finish, “Just dance.”
And he left. Alone at the check stand, I contemplated his words. “Just dance.”

Moving around on the dance floor, I felt awkward at first. But after a while, I felt at ease and able to conquer the world. For song after song, I swayed my arms, jiggled my feet, and lost myself in the music. So much so, I never caught sight of my blond haired beau as he slipped up to me and danced in front of me. Around the club, eyes focused on us, dancing in unison, parallel in movement and thought. Caught up, I grabbed his waist and pulled him closer. Then I whispered in his ear, “I think I love you.”
“I wish I felt the same” was his hushed reply.
I was stunned, but he held me closer and uttered softly, “I’m not gay.”
Mist frothed my eyes, as I contained my surprise, misery, and anger. “What are you doing here?”
“I have a self esteem problem.”
“What!”
All eyebrows raised, when my consternation showed in one syllable. He shushed me, giving me a gentle squeeze.
“I don’t like to dance around girls, but I love to dance. This seemed the best option.”
It all connected. He never danced with men. He was beautiful, but he never brought a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend for that matter.
“Where’s your girlfriend?”
“Despite what you think, not all good looking men are attached.”
I allowed a single tear to drift on the wings of gravity and sorrow from my face, landing lightly on his hand. He allowed his grip to slip enough to face me. His kind eyes fell at my despair. He wiped the tear with his hand and held me again.
“Of any man I‘ve ever known as a friend, I’ve loved you the most.”
My chest felt compressed, due to a shrinking heart. My breathing grew heavy, and my head burned from massive self-deprecation.
“Your love is not enough,” I voiced faintly, before slipping from his tender embrace. Exiting Gay Perry, I never again spoke or even laid eyes upon a love I had not even the pleasure of knowing the name of.

Weeks later, I sat against the bar, imbibing the fourth double shot of the night, continually staring at the floor. I would not have come, but for the music. It held sway to my better notions and caressed me through my melancholy.
“Just dance.”
I struggled, momentarily. My heart grasped the concept, however and demanded of my mind and body complete cooperation. I set down my double shot of whiskey and stood. I moved out to the dance floor, slowly but surely easing into the wave of passion that music prompts. And whenever any men directed themselves toward me to join in my zealous ballet, I skillfully maneuvered from them.
“Who needs a partner?” I mused, internally. “Just dance.”