Climb Every Mountain

I am standing three deep at the bar trying to get any bartender’s attention. My right foot is lunged forward in a very small space between two hulking gay men. They collectively weigh 350 pounds of pure muscle. Each is wearing a fitted tank top with a witty and slightly crass saying on it, one written upside down, intended for the reader to read while sitting on the face of the man wearing it. I cannot get more than my foot in between them as their shoulders are a rolling hillside of sinew, fibrous tissue and veins running down into the canyon of their backs, solid and firm. They are both drinking green martinis in up glasses and laughing in high-pitched voices about Something Britney Said on Stage. They have perfect, blinding teeth. I watch as the nearest bartender comes sauntering up, looks right at me, then through me to a hulking tank-top-wearing Mary slightly off my right side. A drink order is shouted over me at a considerable decibel level and I am left to wonder how much longer I will think this evening was a good idea.

The Hooker with a Heart of Gold is standing just a pace behind me. He is in a pale orange tee that is fitted and plain, devoid of any saying upside down or otherwise. His shirt would be an ocean on me. I catch his eye and raise my brow to say, “I can’t believe this is taking so long.” He reads my mind and approaches the bar. We do a little bar dance that involves a bit of casual groping, a quick inhale of his scent and exchange places. The Hulks are still at the bar sipping their cocktails and debating Britney’s Boobs. What size are they now? HHG makes his move. In an astounding feat of gay plate tectonics, HHG’s rolling shoulder hillside crashes into and becomes a part of the Hulks’ mountain range. They all three acknowledge each other, share a brief laugh about cup size and HHG slips past the fault line of their conversation right into perfect position to order our drinks. The five minutes I wasted are made up for in just under 45 seconds. It pays to bring shoulders like that to a gay bar.

I suggested that we go out tonight. It has been more than three weeks since we have seen or spoken with each other. Either he called me or I called him; whichever you believe makes no difference. We talked for a bit and then I asked him if he would like to get a cocktail to catch up. He counter-offered that we should go out together to find guys. He stressed that this would be an activity shared amongst friends. I took a moment to assess my pride. As we are barely seeing each other I didn’t see the harm. I figured it was like going out alone with a safety net; if I come home without a single catch, there will be something in the freezer that we can defrost and devour. So I agreed. I bought a bottle of Vodka. I drove to his house. We made a drink and chatted. About an hour of nothing particularly important brought us to the point we are at now.

I take the drink HHG has ordered for me out of his hand. He leaves some cash on the bar, passes through the valley he created between the Hulks and returns to my side, slipping his arm around my waist.

“See anything good?” he asks.

“Not particularly,” I reply. This is not a lie either. I have been scanning the room looking for something I would rather have wrapped around my waist. Thus far I have come up with zilch.

“What about you?” I ask, “any takers?”

“Nah,” he says with a wink.

Oh, I’m on to you HHG. I know your little game. If you think I’m gonna be the first to break, you are messin’ with the wrong ‘Mo. I smile and say, “Well, it’s early. Give it time. I’m sure you’ll find someone.”

I once told HHG that I rarely go to bars with my gay friends to look for a quick fling. Not that my past isn’t peppered with such sundry incidents; I am simply now more interested in having a conversation with the people I came with. He acted incredulous and promised me that the next time we went out he would show me how to get back in the saddle. Back on the horse. Back to the shore.

We are floating in a sea of men all wearing the same tank top. The waves of dance music combine with the waves of men’s cologne to create a sensory experience that is overwhelming and disorienting. HHG and I have spent the entire evening talking to each other. We have not met a single new person. “Come on,” he says and puts his empty drink down on the nearest table. As he reaches across me, his chest comes close to me and I again am enveloped by his less obvious yet more attractive scent. Perhaps it is just familiar. I am struck by how easy it is to be so enamored of one part of a person. I have barely scraped the surface of HHG only because I have become so incredibly involved with it. I only see the very top layer of him. I am a one eyed man with no visual cues for depth, no sense of foreground and background. I see only what everyone else can see.

We escape the rollicking music and discussions of Britney’s Ability to Throw Her Hair Around and make for a quieter place where we can…

There are people who climb mountains to study what is at the top. Some climb because it makes them feel like they have achieved something few have or ever will. As I lay next to HHG I consider my motive. It is action. The opposite of rest. To be moving in a direction, some direction, that feels like up even with no clear understanding of what is at the top, or how far down it would be to fall. I want to be higher than I am, more than I am, standing on something firm and solid that I can stick a flag in and claim, an expeditioner. Discovery. A new and better view from a place I’ve never been. I just have to remember to be careful on the way down.