Page 19 of Torn
“Sweet and white.”
“Um, I keep an open mind about men… and tea.” Heat rose in my cheeks. Teddy was making me already feel oddly aroused and a little nauseous. I sipped the too-hot tea and surveyed the food they’d laid out for us. I leaned forward and pointed. “So, tell me what we have here.”
Philip obliged. “Egg salad,” he began, pointing to the sandwiches, which were cut into quarters with the crusts thoughtfully removed. “Vanilla scones. Cheese and pickle. Lemon tart.” Philip eyed Teddy with what I believed was fondness. “Teddy made the lemon curd himself.”
“My curd is delicious,” Teddy said.
“I’ll bet.” I eyed him.
We moved on to other topics of conversation, and I was glad. I was feeling decidedly unsafe around the predatory—and quite sexy—Teddy. We talked about the heat wave and what we’d do that evening.
BATH HADonly one gay bar, the Snooty Pig, and even that was only half a bar. Let me explain—the bar was divided into two main rooms. One entered through a common entrance and then decided which way to go. If you were of the gay persuasion—or, as Teddy said, preferred sausage over pie—you veered off to the left. If you only had eyes for the opposite sex, you headed right.
Each room was essentially the same, dominated by a long oak bar, behind which were mirrors and rows and rows of spirits. There were taps for cider, ales, and lagers. A padded bench ran in an L-shape along the back wall of each room, and that was about it for seating. Neither bar had bar stools. At the end of the bar was a wire display that held crisps in interesting varieties—like ketchup or marmite or even steak-flavored.
“I’d steer well clear of those if I were you.” Boutros eyed me. He patted my belly. “We don’t want this getting any bigger, now, do we?”
I frowned. “I’ll have you know I am only nine percent body fat.” I patted my flat stomach, making sure it was still there.
“And nine percent moral as well.”
I shrugged. “Depends on your definition of morality.” My morality included a particular type of kindness to strangers, usually administered lovingly while on my knees, on all fours, or on my back with my knees resting near my ears. This was a sweet kind of compassion—one enjoyed by both the giver and receiver (and those roles could shift delightfully back and forth).
“The restroom downstairs is common,” Boutros whispered in my ear.
“What do you care how it’s decorated?”
We picked up our beer from the bartender, Boutros reminding me once again not to tip, and moved to the back, where Teddy and Philip were already seated.
Boutros sat, while I hovered near him. In a gay bar, my main goal was always to remain clearly visible to anyone who might be scanning the crowd. “I wasn’t talking about the décor, you half-wit.” He took a sip.
“Well, what do you mean, then, when you say the restroom is common?”
Teddy overheard. “He means that the men’s loo is for both sides of the bar.” He grinned. “So mind whose purple parsnip you’re checking out!”
The boys collapsed into laughter. Once I caught onto what a purple parsnip was, I joined in.
Philip added, “Late at night, the blokes from the straight side of the bar—” He made air quotes around the word straight. “—can be more open-minded, if you know what I mean.”
Teddy said, “The later the hour, the more alcohol consumed, the more willing the man.”
I nodded. “Gotcha.” Setting down my beer, I said, “I think I’ll go take a piss.”
The men’s room was a disappointment. Perhaps it was too early, but I was the only one in the subway-tiled room with its long trough and two stalls. I lingered for a while, staring into the big mirror over the sink, fussing with my hair, hoping someone interesting and interested might pop in. I was not above adjourning to the stall with a “bloke” if he was cute enough, never mind that I’d “fallen in love” only the night before. And once in the relative privacy of that stall, I thought, smiling to myself, all bets were off on what was out of bounds.
After what seemed like an hour, but was really only a hopeful five minutes, I gave up, vowing to return later on when my bladder was full and my holes were more in need of filling and drilling.
I felt lucky.
When I returned to the bar, I saw my three friends engaged in deep conversation, their heads angled near one another’s. Boutros was rolling his eyes, Teddy was laughing, and Philip was morosely shaking his head. Not wanting to interrupt, and suddenly feeling the urge to be alone for a few minutes, I cut through the crowd in the bar and stepped outside. I hadn’t been alone since we left Brighton earlier that day, and I was really feeling the need for some me time.
In case you might not have guessed (and how could you with the behavior I’ve thus far recounted?), I’m a total introvert. A quiet lad. Shy, despite my shameless tendencies where good-looking men were concerned. Despite the ability to be outgoing (Boutros would say slutty), I truly needed alone time to recharge and refuel. If I didn’t get it, I could get… cranky. I was now approaching that point—it had come upon me suddenly and without warning.
Once outside, being by myself caused me to release a big, relieved exhale. I took in my surroundings once more. The sky was a lovely color—if I were to recreate it from a crayon box, I’d choose cornflower blue and lavender as my main choices, with a dash of orange near the horizon. Up high, a few stars twinkled. The street in front of the Snooty Pig was blessedly quiet, as most of the town’s revelers had already headed inside, choosing gay or straight or a mix of the two down below in the restrooms.
I found a bench a little way from the entrance and gratefully sat, stretched out my legs, and closed my eyes for a moment, breathing in the dusky night air. I wondered what the sleeping arrangements would be at Teddy and Philip’s, wondered further if I could keep my hands off Teddy, especially if he encouraged me. Resisting the advances of a good-looking man was as foreign to me, as, well, the country I was now visiting.
Not to be vain, but I truly wondered if Teddy could keep his hands off me. I’d seen the way he eyed me the moment we met. I knew the look because I had handed it out quite often myself.
