Chapter 2
Barbara always establishes bad romances. Never does she stay with a man more than ninety days, calling them irritable, boring, beneath her, or useless. She believes I am her soul mate, even if I’m gay. The retired broker insists I am the man of her dreams and the only person on the planet who really understands her. And constantly she reminds me that if I didn’t like to suck orfuckcock, we would be hitched with a dozen or more children, living in Barbados on my millions.
Putting my breakfast task on hold, I sweep her fragile five-six frame into my hulking arms, squeeze the hell out of her, kiss her on top of her ruby red dye job, and say, “Barbara, darling, I have missed you.”
She pulls away, brushing a kiss on the base of my scruffy chin. A once-over of my body ensues and she says, “Still physically beautiful after all these years of friendship, my love. When are you going to turn straight so I can keep you forever?”
I shake my head and say, “Never. I like men way too much.”
She laughs, bats her emerald green eyes, and says, “That’s too bad. My heart lies with you, forever.” She moves up to the granite counter and helps herself to a cube of watermelon and begins to prepare herself a Bloody Mary.
I roll my eyes and say, “Don’t get all Titanic on me, baby. Ten guys will want to meet you over their sofas today for some rip-roaring sex.”
“Among other places,” she giggles.
“Exactly.”
* * * *
Barbara and I met in Philadelphia at Temple University. She was a freshman and I was a junior. The poor thing tried to hit on me in a philosophy class we had together, begging me to have a date with her. After a simple rejection we ended up sleeping with the same guy by accident, Stephen Bark, compared frivolous notes about the baseball player, and became the best of friends.
Following college, we both moved to New York City. I started Darlington Securities, a multimillion dollar company with chains in Sydney, London, and Frankfurt, as well as other cities. Barbara decided to take over Wall Street. And both of us obtained wealth, power, and grand achievements in just a short period of time.
When she turned twenty-eight she retired from Wall Street, decided to live in Barefoot Beach, Florida, and vowed to settle down with the right man. Twenty men later, she has yet to find Mr. Universe. But I give her credit where credit is due, she’s not about to give up and still gives it a try to land her Mr. Right.
I decided to stay in New York City, keep my business running, and visit her on a regular basis.
* * * *
Over breakfast on the verandah, we become looped on Bloody Marys. She and I catch up on our lives. She’s dating a guy named Paulo, who owns the Cabana Bar, a straight club on Pelican Street; this is where she met him. And I tell her I’m forever single, occasionally taking a guy home for a night, boffing his brains out, and disposing of him by dawn.
“What happened to the fireman, Storm?” she inquires.
Tony Espallda was a peach in every way, adorable to the core, cute as hell, but he liked cock a little too much and decided to cheat on me with two guys at the Musclehead Bar in the city, which ruined our two-month old relationship. I tell her, “I found out about the two guys in the back of the Musclehead Bar and dumped him.’
“No more fireman?” she raises her eyebrows with question.
“No more fireman,” I say.
“That’s too bad. I liked him. His little bald head was fabulous to rub for luck.”
“Barbara!” I snap playfully, and we giggle like girls, enjoying each other’s company. 3: Day 3, Chests Touch
Mondays are food collecting days in downtown Barefoot Beach. I eat breakfast, read the latest release of the Barefoot Beach Telegraph, a local newspaper, in my white boxer-briefs, drink a cup of straight coffee, and get a shower. Following the warm spray, I dress in a pair of shorts, sandals, and a canary yellow tight T-shirt, which shows off my nicely crafted pecs for downtown queer guys to ogle, crave, and want to touch.
The bungalow at 436 Buoy Way is walking distance from downtown Barefoot Beach. There is no reason for a bike, moped, or golf cart to use, although I have all three nestled at the bungalow. The walk is less than a mile long and the day is strikingly beautiful.
Barefoot Beach Market is a giant open cabana with ethnic sellers of Floridian fruits, palatable fishes, and other varieties of foods. The floor is sand and the stalls are filled with an assortment of tropical hues and flavors.