"Ok, mes amis," Matt says, "I'm going to tell you about the time j'effrayé les chevaux."
Lane and I have driven 70 miles to San Bernardino to spend the weekend with my first boyfriend, Fred, and his partner, the 27-year old Cute Young Thing Matt. Their friend Jerome, a Daddy months away from becoming a Geezer, has joined us for dinner, and now we're swapping stories of dates from hell, supersized penises, and fantasy hookups.
I told about how Alan and I hooked up with the kept boy, Jerome told about how he almost had sex with his own father. Now it's Matt's turn.
"You frightened the horses?" I translate.
He nods "When Mrs. Campbell heard that gay people exist, she said 'I don't care, as long as they don't do it in the street and frighten the horses.' Well, mes amis, right in the bar, right before the very eyes of the scandalized patrons: J'ai mangé la saucisse of the bartender!"
We stare. The bartenders in gay bars are always extremely attractive -- and unapproachable. For one thing, they're at work. For another, they get hit on a dozen times a night. Once in a blue moon you might land a date with a bartender, but we've never heard of anyone doing it with him right in the bar.
Matt was a junior at Harvard, very cute, with dirty-blond hair, a nice physique, and a bulge that wouldn't quit. He was also rich, super-smart, and a world traveler. He could never figure out why his dull-witted classmates didn't want to date him.
One night he thought, I'm 21 years old, why not try cruising in a gay bar?
He went to Sporters Bar on Cambridge Street in the West End. It was a standard gay bar, with pool tables, pinball machines that show naked ladies instead of naked guys, the standard blaring dance numbers from five years ago, an over-dressed elderly lush at the bar, a lesbian couple sitting quietly in a booth, a scattering of gay men.
Two bartenders, one older, in a tank top, the other a shirtless twink -- rather too many for ten patrons. Maybe it gets busy later, Matt thought.
Matt sidled up to the twink, Anthony. He was slim and smooth, with dark hair and soulful eyes, rather cute in a pretentious way.
"What'll you have?" Anthony asked.
"Mais, c'est le problème!" Matt exclaims, tactfully pulling away. "You all know that I don't drink. I can't tell porter from stout, and I have no idea what's dry about a dry martini. What to order?"
He looked around. A lot of beer bottles. What beer brands did he know? "Um...Coors beer, s'il vous plait."
"Sorry, we don't have Coors," Anthony said.
"Quel dommage!" What other beer brand did he know? Think! "Um...Bud Light."
"Sorry, we don't have Bud Light."
Think! Just last summer, in Deutschland, my father ordered...ordered... "Radeberger!"
"Not too bright, are you, kid?"
Matt reddened. One thing he couldn't abide was an insult to his intelligence. Especially from a plebian bartender!
"Um...so, what's good here?"
"Depends on what you like."
"What do most people order?"
People were starting to stare. His stupidity about beers would inhibit his chance of meeting guys!
Desperate, he said: "See here, my good man. Let's make a deal. Just bring me a beer, any beer, and I'll go down on you right here at the bar."
Anthony chuckled and brought him something called a Rolling Rock Extra Pale. Matt handed him the money.
He took a sip and started to walk away.
"Hey, aren't you forgetting something?" Anthony called.
"He thought you were serious?" Lane asks.
"You didn't go through with it, did you?" Jerome says.
"Quel horreur!" Matt exclaims. "There's no way I'm going to go down on that miscreant!"
"I don't blame you," Jerome says, putting his hand back on Matt's knee. Matt stands to tell the story more dramatically.
After all the trouble of getting his beer, Matt realized that he had to go -- badly. So he said "Excuse me," left it at the bar, and headed for the bathroom.
While he was at the urinal, the other bartender came in. Matt never got his name -- we'll call him Sam.
Definitely Matt's type: in his 40s, Mediterranean, dark skin, lean hard muscles, black hair, goatee (top photo)
"Oh, not at all. I understand that a bit of hazing of the new guy is de rigeuer."
"He's a bitch!" Sam exclaimed, taking a subtle peek at Matt's equipment. "He wouldn't even have a job, except he's the manager's boy toy. Always harassing the customers, especially the Cute Young Things like you."
Finished, Matt zipped up and faced Sam with a cruisy smile. "Probably he resents the competition."
"Boy, I'd like to take him down a few pegs."
Matt reached out and touched Sam lightly on the chest. "I have an idea how we could do that."
So Sam sneaked Matt behind the bar, where he got on his knees. No one could see him except Anthony, who turned pale as Matt unzipped Sam's pants and went down on his Kielbasa+. Only for a few minutes -- Sam didn't finish. But he definitely ate a bartender's sausage.
San Bernardino, Fall 1993
"B.S.!" Jerome exclaims. "If Anthony was the manager's boyfriend, there's no way he'd put up with that."
"I may have left out one little detail," Matt says with a grin. "After I finished with Sam, I had a change of heart -- a penis is a penis, n'est pas? So I crawled over to Anthony and gave his Bratwurst+ a little of the same."
"Hey, these stories are supposed to be real!" I protest. "How could the bar patrons not notice you going down on both bartenders?"
"Oh, keine Zweifel, Monsieur Doubting Thomas. Allow me to demonstrate. The back of this couch can be the bar. Boomer, you stand there on the left -- you're Sam. And could I get a volunteer to be the despicably plebian Anthony?"
Matt glares at him. "I think Lane would make a good Anthony. Jerome, your role is that of unsuspecting bar patron."
He goes down on each of us in turn while we stand behind the couch.
I love it when guys act out their stories.
See also: 12 Fantasy Hookups; Matt Starts Selling Himself.