Then go (fuck in) back to the car

I wanna say that I waited to email Bob to build tension. Truth of the matter is that work was kicking my ass and it was Wednesday morning before I even remembered that little slip of paper with his address on it. So I sat down at the communal 386, convinced dial-up to work by sacrificing a chicken (ok, not really, but if you remember dial-up, you know what I mean), and sent the first email.

Surprisingly, the response was pretty swift. After a couple back and forth messages we agreed to get together at five at the Beehive. I’ve talked about the ‘Hive previously at length and in great detail, so I won’t go too deep on it now, other than to say that it was, at that point in it’s existence, a coffee house. I slept at Chaos Central, but the fact of the matter was that the Beehive was my home.

Five o’clock saw me at the bar chatting with the guy we all called Father Ray, the manager. Ray was basically defined by two major things; he was a raging alcoholic, and a failed seminary student. At the time we were discussing Scotch, which twenty year old me had very little knowledge of.

I really wasn’t sure what to expect from Bob. Most of the guys I had been with had been very much camp and over the top flaming even in their street wear. We weren’t using the term “femboy” yet, at least in Pittsburgh, but the phenomenon of young men expressing feminine characteristics wasn’t all that strange to me from the things I’d seen with club kids and the Goth scene. Thing is, those guys were completely over the top, and Bob just didn’t strike me as… I dunno… brave enough to go that route.

Didn’t matter much what I expected. What I got was slightly spiky red hair, a smattering of freckles on clear white skin, and a fairly tight fitting t-shirt with a pair of slightly faded jeans which may or may not have intentionally accentuated that ass. I’m sure the lift from the heels on his Docs that made it pop just so was definitely unintentional. He looked unsure of himself, ready to bolt like a scared deer when he pushed through the doors. His eyes lit up when he saw me though, and he responded to my lazy grin with a wide smile of his own, showing slightly crooked by still attractive white teeth between his rather full lips.

“Ray, gimmie two large mochas.” It didn’t occur to me to ask Bob what he wanted, but he seemed equally pleased that I was ordering for him and paying.

After navigating the stairs, we ended up in the tea room, seated at the round table in the turret that had once housed a fireman’s pole in one of the building’s earlier incarnations. There was an element of privacy there that wasn’t always present in the ‘Hive, which was pretty much bustling non-stop with all manner of people. I was pretty well known there and it took us a few minutes to work our way across the floor, past the stage that housed poetry slams once a week, all the while Bob stood by patiently but awkwardly as I exchanged pleasantries with other regulars. When we finally took our seats he looked relieved but still nervous.

“So what are you planning on majoring in?” Ice breakers are hard, but asking about school, doing something to break him out of the here and now, seemed to be the best way to put him at ease.

It worked to a degree, and I found out that he was looking to go into theater. That was common ground, as I’d spent a fair amount of time on stage myself by that point, and it was enough to get the ball rolling. We talked about a lot of different aspects of it, ranging from acting to directing, and finally wound up on costumes, a topic he warmed to rapidly, speaking at length on sewing and make-up.

“So… do you make all the costumes you wear to Rocky?”

His cheeks tinted a very pretty pink, almost obscuring those freckles, and I was sure for a moment he was going to run away like a scared animal. “Do… do you like them?”

Make or break moment. “They’re incredibly well done.” I took a sip from my drink and brushed my hair back behind my ear, before looking up and making eye contact, willing my eyes to project warmth and maybe a little desire. “And you look fantastic in them.”

I watched his eyes dilate at the compliment and his blush deepen as a smile bloomed across his face. “You don’t think they’re… too much?”

I reached across the table and laid my hand over his. The size difference was noticeable, my big wide hands compared to his delicate fingers. He flinched at contact, but made no attempt to pull away as I curled my thick fingers around his palm. Time to go for broke. “I think that you would look good in a trash bag. You’re a very pretty boy, but you make for a beautiful girl as well.”

His smile widened even further, lighting up bright enough to illuminate the Fort Pitt Tunnel. That thousand watt smile was accompanied by a blush so heavy that I was pretty sure he was going to faint. He turned his baby blues down toward his mug and stammered out a phrase that must have cost him everything, “D–do y–you l–l–like boys?”

I squeezed his hand gently and reached out my free paw to lift his chin so he couldn’t look away. Richard Adams coined the word ‘tharn’ in his book Watership Down meaning frozen with fear, basically the old ‘deer in headlights’ look; Bob’s eyes had that look, wide with fear, ****. A pretty big part of me wanted to just wrap my arms around him until that fear went away. Instead I just answered. “I like beauty. I’m not picky about boys or girls.” Softly I let go of his chin and stroked his cheek with just my fingertips. He shivered and the look of terror came back into his eyes, though now it was tinged with curiosity.

“Gabe… I… I have to go.” He pulled away from my hand, and I let him go. I shot my shot. The ball was in his court. He got up from the table and started making his way into the tea room, as I lowered my head to my coffee.

Without the slightest bit of warning I felt lips on my cheek and a soft voice in my ear. “Thanks for the coffee… I’ll see you around.” And he was gone.