Chapter 2

“I don’t see any judges waiting to hold up numbered signs, do you?”

“True.”

The guy took my proffered hand and allowed himself to be pulled from his chair and led to the tiny dance floor. As I held him close for the slow dance, I noted with pleasure that we were roughly the same height—at six-four, I seldom ran into suitable men who were my size. I also noted that my dance partner smelled good—whatever he was wearing was both masculine and appealing.

“I’m Kevin,” I said. “Kevin Boxer.”

“David Majors,” he said. “Pleased to meet you.”

“You ex-military?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Rangers. Does it show?”

“Takes one to know one,” I said. “Me too.”

“Where?”

“Seventy-fifth Ranger Regiment, Iraq and Afghanistan,” I said.

“Me too,” he said. “I wonder why we don’t know each other.”

“As to the former, same regiment, different battalions would explain it, as to the latter, we’re working on it.”

I pulled David closer, and we danced until the music stopped, waited a moment for the second number to begin, and danced until it was over. After that, we returned to David’s table and sat with beers in hand. We talked for a while and played ‘Who do you know?’, as do most current and ex-military types. It developed that we knew, and had served with, some of the same people at various times. The similarities in our lives were amazing—we’d both joined the army right out of high school, and we’d been through the same training programs, only I’d been one year ahead of David, and we were both going to college courtesy of Uncle Sam, albeit at different schools. David worked in a distribution center operated by Winn-Dixie Stores, and I worked for one operated by Publix Super Markets, Inc., both jobs having been obtained because we’d learned to operate forklifts at some point in our army careers. A further parallel in our lives was the fact that we were both taking courses during the summer term that had just begun in order to speed up the process of obtaining our respective degrees.

Finally, I said, “Want to join me for dinner?”

“Sure,” he said. “Where?”

“Some place with good food and a fairly dark room where, if we want to do so, we can hold hands without being obvious.”

“Is there such a place?”

“Oh, yeah,” I said.

We left our unfinished beers on the table, and I followed David to the parking lot. That’s the best ass I’ve seen in a long time, and those well-worn 501s cling to it like the proverbial glove, I thought as he went through the door ahead of me.

There were only six cars in the parking lot, counting Clancey’s. I pointed to a Mustang and said, “This is mine.”

“Cool,” he said. “I’m right next to you in the Toyota. Where are we going?”

I named the restaurant. “Know it?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” he said. “Let’s go.”

David

As I followed Kevin’s Mustang, my mind was working overtime, mostly pursuing negative thoughts. God, Kevin is such a hunk, and the dancing was wonderful, but hunks want to be with other hunks, not guys who have ‘limitations’.

Stop it!!. Think positively. This will turn out okay. It has to turn out okay; one more rejection will push me over the edge

Twenty minutes later, we were seated across from each other in a booth in the darkest corner of a Luigi’s, a small Italian restaurant that was heavily patronized by the gay community. We ordered a bottle of Chianti and studied the menu.

Kevin

AN HOUR INTO our meal, I found myself beginning to fantasize just a bit about the rest of the evening and wondering what David’s preferences were in bed. That train of thought was interrupted when, David reached across the table, took my hand, and examined it carefully.

“You have unusually long fingers,” he said.

“So I’ve been told.”

“Does the rest of it follow?”

“Excuse me?”

“You know, long fingers, long something else,” he said.

“More or less. Why, are you a size queen?”

“Not at all,” he said, “but I have difficulty achieving orgasm. It takes a man who can ride hard and deep to get the job done.”

Well, that’s one question answered, I thought. “Is that an invitation?”

“You know it is,” he said. “Want to follow me home?”

“That’s pretty much a rhetorical question.”

“Yeah.

We finished our dinner and played a quick game of ‘grab the check’, which I won. Then I followed David’s Toyota from the restaurant to a section of Murray Hill that was a bit more upper middle-class than the rest of that neighborhood. He pulled into the driveway of a brick house that probably dated from the forties, and I parked beside him.