Chapter One

 

The Dry Spell Diaries

by JD Green

 

Dear Diary,

Confession time.

When I first agreed to publically document the arid Sahara that is my sex life, I had a few reservations. A few reservations, a few manly panic attacks, a few dozen arguments with my editor… But despite initial concerns, I promised to climb out of my hermit’s cave and go on a date or two, sharing the details in this diary for your amusement and edification.

I freely admit I was hoping to get something out of it in return. Based on the title, I think everyone knew what I wanted that something to be.

It rhymes with trucking.

I never imagined I would still be in this dry spell six months in. All men love trucking, right? Even more unbelievable is the fact that I’m starting to seriously think about giving up my search in favor of commitment instead.

That’s right. I used the C word. Not one of my old favorites like cock, copulation, concupiscent or cum. Commitment.

I’ve never been against it, but it wasn’t what these diaries were supposed to be about. Yet, here we are. I think I’m finally ready to start a long-term, monogamous relationship.

I might even be in love.

Sure, it’s with an Irish pub…but the heart wants what the heart wants.

*pauses respectfully for the incoming deluge of side eye*

It’s not exactly a lie. Hot men and cold beer make Green a happy boy. And Finn’s Pub has both in spades.

Longtime readers know about my macro obsession with microbrews and the man candy attached to this place via blood and marriage. Add a friendly LGBT atmosphere and some great local music? If this pub were a man I’d already be picking out cock rings.

With so much going for it, Finn’s should at least be—if not my inanimate soul mate—my perfect destination for romance. And by romance I mean mutual attraction that inevitably leads to… We’re all adults here, right? Can I stop saying trucking now?

Too bad that’s not in the cards tonight. At least, not with the guy I’m loosely calling my date.

The drought continues.

Nothing to see here but stilted conversation mixed with excruciating silences. I’m writing this during one of the many lulls so you can appreciate how bad it is in real time.

I can take a lot, but I’m not sure I’ll make it through this night without crying Uncle. Think I’m exaggerating? In the last hour, I’ve been considering worse forms of torture to make myself feel better.

I’ve gone through everything from having my balls slowly nibbled off by schools of carnivorous goldfish, to being trapped on a twelve-hour flight beside some nose-picking troglodyte underlining his fifth copy of (Blah) Racist Political Assertion (Blah) to pass the time. 

Good book title. If it’s not already taken, I’ll write it in my spare time. All the spare time I won’t be spending having sex. Ever again.

Three strikes, T. You’re a dear friend and there’s nothing I love more than watching that Australian drama about women in prison with you snuggled up on Mr. Lumpy. (My couch, you perverts.) But sadly, you know nothing about what stirs this gay man’s soul.

Want to hazard a guess as to which soul I’m referring to? Yep. The one in my pants.

Which brings me back to the guy who will never get in my pants. I won’t name names, but his mullet wants me to call him Billy Ray. He is the last straw on the giant haystack in the barn of my matchmaking failures.

I went too far with that metaphor.

I’m done being set up. It never ends well. Sometimes it never ends at all. Seriously, has it only been three hours? If this night goes on much longer it might throw me into voluntary celibacy for the next seven years. In Tibet.

And now I’m thinking about Brad Pitt. You know, because he was in that movie Seven Years in…never mind.

Am I a magnet for the creepers of the world? Do you people look at me and think, “I’ve got a cousin who still lives with his mother and hasn’t clipped his toenails in five years because he wants to be Wolverine. Oh and he’s gay, so I bet he and Green would hit it off.”

It takes more than dick to make that my type.

That word might be the crux of my problem. Maybe no one can find me a match because I don’t think I’m an actual type myself. Unless None and/or All of the Above is an option.

I don’t know why it’s such a difficult question for me to answer. But because it is, I’ve decided to put it to you. If you had to choose, what type do you think I am?

Call it a challenge. I’ll share some stats and you can tell me what you think. Unless you believe—as I secretly do on days like today—that types are a fallacy concocted by the same charlatans who sold us Valentine’s Day and pheromone cologne? You’ll give it a shot. Think of it as contributing to a worthy cause.

The Get Green Laid Foundation. Donate early and often.

Game on.

I’m a six-foot, twenty-six-year old man who’s been blessed with a fast metabolism and some decent muscle mass, which is good since at heart I’m a couch potato that lives in flannel pajama bottoms and stocks ice cream—Moose Tracks please—and bottles of barbecue sauce in my kitchen at all times in case of an emergency craving or the apocalypse.

I don’t usually eat them together, and I never expected Armageddon until this last election cycle, but I’ve always been prepared. Just in case.

I read science fiction, gay erotic romance, historical biographies and wilderness survival guides—my foster brother, Stewart, writes those, and I consider that a necessary evil, since quoting his books to him verbatim gets me out of his annual camping trip.

In my defense, I love nature. What I don’t like is the idea of my brother forcing me to start fires with two sticks and a ball of my own hair. Not to mention all his hopefully unrecorded TED talks about urine.

Did you know that urine is basically the coconut oil of survivalists? Good for everything from tanning leather to dyeing fabric? You could even distill it to make potable water if you were desperate and dehydrated enough. I’m not saying you should gargle that shit or use it to condition your hair—notice I said I’m not saying that. But at some point I’m afraid Stewart might, and then I’d have to ship him to the nuthouse and change my number. That could make for awkward family reunions.

Moving on.

I was raised in Washington—think Seattle not DC—but I spent my college years braving the deep red heart of Texas and dating a closeted cowboy before deciding to try the East Coast on for size.

Everything about me is literally all over the map.

Try filling out that online questionnaire. Or at least, try to do it without getting matched with a lily-livered cowpoke that dumps you for a rodeo queen the night of your graduation. After receiving a life-altering blowjob from yours truly.

Yeehaw.

Tale of woe aside, my dry spell isn’t voluntary. I didn’t make a vow of celibacy as an act of self-flagellation in remembrance of that dill-hole Rod. It just happened. Or didn’t happen. And then it didn’t happen some more. In fact, it’s been not happening for so long I’m worried it might be a permanent condition.

Unfortunately for me, pickings are slim and our city’s infamous Finn clan is running out of family members…

 

“That is so hot,” My date says, startling me back to the present. “You text faster than anyone I’ve ever seen.”

“Thanks?” A texting compliment? That’s a first. Though it’s the fiftieth time he’s used the word hot in a sentence. I email my unfinished article to myself for later, and offer an apology. “Sorry about that. When I get an idea I tend to—”

“Whatever,” he interrupts impatiently. “I told you I’m not interested in sharing life histories. I’m not here to talk. Not that we could hear each other in this wannabe hipster dive if we were.”

Unfortunately, I can hear him just fine. Also, since I’ve been told more than once that my reading glasses, my hair and the usual tightness of my jeans are all the height of hipster fashion, I should probably be insulted for all the wannabes of the world. In case I am one.

“I’m surprised you don’t like it. Finn’s is an institution with two generations worth of local history. You grew up around here, didn’t you?”

He glances down at his phone distractedly.

Does he think he’s being subtle? That I can’t hear the game he’s been playing on that thing all night? He didn’t even bother to turn down the volume.

“It was better before the old man gave it to his kid,” he finally responds. “Not as crowded. Now there’s never a good seat, the music blows and they don’t serve anything decent. We should have stayed at your place.”

That was never on the menu. I’m about to say so out loud when his hand cups my knee under the table and squeezes suggestively. His fingers are freezing and I notice at the same time that his upper lip is sweating. Why is he so nervous?

“Why don’t we get out of here while we still can? Find something else for you to do with your mouth.”

“Excuse me?” I no longer feel sorry for him. At all.

“When Toni told me how hard up you were, I thought this might be a pity fuck. But you look like you could be a model or something with all that girly hair and those big brown eyes. I’ve had half a chub all night. You’re really hot.”

The romance. Make it stop. At least use a different adjective.

“Toni didn’t tell me that much about you.” She’d skipped important descriptors like sleaze ball and jackass and never-in-a-million-years.

“She wouldn’t,” he snorts. “But you’ll find out all you need to know as soon as we get somewhere I can unzip in private. You ready?”

And I’ve officially had enough. I would dump my drink in his overheated lap and say something clever, but I’m not big on scenes, he’s not worth the wit and my beer is gone. I opt for walking away instead.

I stand, keeping a tight grip on my empty mug so I don’t “accidently” fling it in his direction. “I’m staying. I’ve got friends at the bar I need to say hello to. But I get it if you’d rather call it a night.”

He studies my glowering face for a full thirty seconds, then sighs and goes back to playing on his phone. “No, that’s fine. We have time for one more drink.”

We have time? I’m not sure how long it’ll take him to figure out his time is up, but I have no fucks left to give. This date is over.

I’m still muttering to myself about dense pricks with bad haircuts when the crowd parts and I see what might be a mirage. The kind that makes me instantly forget about the Billy Rays of the world, and has my mental iPod rocking a medley of songs about hot, sweaty sex.

I wouldn’t be surprised if the three men I’m hallucinating were waiting to receive individual keys to the city for improving the view and increasing tourism. I subtly glance around for a cameraman. Maybe this is a new marketing campaign for the pub?

Unable to resist lingering for a moment of silent appreciation, I swiftly take in the redheaded giant and the lean, longhaired temptation at his side. But my attention stutters and stalls when I get to the older man in the trio.

Did I say man? My mistake. I’ll be damned if that’s not Big Daddy Zeus himself.

I think I found my type.

I volunteer as tribute. Or born again virgin sacrifice. Does Zeus like virgins? What about younger men who are ready, willing and able to worship at his shrine?

Or bend over and call him daddy. Whatever he’s into. I’m easy.

What you are is a sick little freak, Green.

If having to subtly adjust myself in public as my inner voice slut shames me doesn’t make me turn away, I’m not sure anything could. Something about him demands my attention. A pull I can feel from across the room, a hard tug from the pit of my stomach.

Lower.

Lust at first sight is a new experience for me, and I’m not sure I like the sensation. I definitely don’t understand it. Why him? The bar has been full of eye candy for hours and I’ve reacted the way I always do. Observe, appreciate and move on. But I can’t move on this time. I’m stuck and every molecule in my body is pointing at this one specific man like a dog catching a scent.

It doesn’t make sense.

He “smells” unattainable. Unattainable is your jam. Remember Chad? Remember Roddy?

Those are unfair comparisons. My reaction to Zeus leaves my high school crush and my last rodeo clown in the dust. My first blowjob, the one that blew the lid off my head and confirmed my sexuality, comes closer to what I’m experiencing now. But I have a feeling it’s only the tip of this potentially filthy iceberg.

Filthy is the right word for all the things I’d like Zeus to do to me.

There’s a distinct possibility that he’s out of my league and I’m not tall enough to ride his rollercoaster. But just because I’ve never experienced anything like it doesn’t mean I don’t want it as badly as Jack secretly wanted Rose to scoot over and share her flotation device at the end of Titanic. Because of course he did, and I can’t believe people are still arguing about that twenty years later.

On any other day I’d be making a list of all the reasons I’m right about that, but Zeus is attempting a casual lean I don’t want to miss. It’s not very successful, since even in faded jeans and a clinging, navy blue t-shirt, there’s nothing casual about him. His posture is too good, for one thing. There’s steel in his spine. Unbending. Resilient.

This is crazy. The way he stands is turning me on. Maybe it’s the out-of-place awkwardness of it. It makes him seem less like a figment. It also tells me he doesn’t seek out bars like this very often. The weekend crush is too rowdy and crowded for a guy like him.

He’s used to being in control. I’m only guessing, but it must be true since I have the strangest urge to salute him…then take off all my clothes for a thorough inspection.

Military? Cop? BDSM Dom? I’d bet money this man is in charge of something involving orders and uniforms. Maybe handcuffs, but that’s not a given and I’m not that lucky.

I try to focus on specific features to get my mind out of the gutter, so I start from the top. His hair is short and dark and even from here I can see silver sprinkled liberally at his temples and laced through the full trimmed beard that makes him look like a Clan Chieftain or a sexy Greek fisherman. I think I’d like to feel that salt and pepper scruff rubbing against my skin.

These fantasies are writing themselves.

Zeus isn’t as tall as the ginger tank beside him—maybe a few inches taller than me—but he’s still rippling with muscle and imposing in a way that screams contained power and good genes. Nature built that edifice.

I have the urge to move closer and take in more details. I need to know what color his eyes are and what he sounds like when he speaks. But instead I’m rooted to the floor, wondering how I could have gone twenty-six years without experiencing this kind of life-altering ache.

I want him. Now. Yesterday. In the parking lot. On my knees beside the dumpster. Bent over in a bathroom stall. I swore I’d never be that guy, but for him I think I’d be willing to go there.

You don’t know him.

No. I don’t.

I may hand out romantic advice for a living, but secretly I’d always assumed that the instant spark people talked about was bullshit. It’s never happened to me, and I see hot men all the time. I’ve dated some, ogled others. I’m friendly with a photographer that regularly emails me pictures of nude male models for inspiration. Sometimes they’re fans of my column and ask him to pass on their numbers.

I love looking at them, and my body reacts to the visual stimulation, but I’ve never been compelled to call or meet them in person. Instead, I take pieces of my favorites and mentally paste them together for a private session later. My regular Franken-fantasy has the UPS guy’s forearms, my old English professor’s hair and Wolfgang from Sense8’s self-confident penchant for nudity. The rest of the scenario is usually made up of rotating porn gifs and my vivid imagination. It works.

But I don’t think that’s going to cut it anymore. Not after today.

The intensity of my physical reaction to Zeus is causing me concern. Is it hot in here? Is my blood pressure rising? Can a person stroke out from excessive arousal?

Obviously it can kill brain cells, because I’m tempted to walk across the bar, take this unknown element by the hand and beg him do things to me. Rough things. Filthy things.

This is not me. I’m the easygoing, good time guy. The nerdy gay sidekick in the PG rom-com of your choice. I don’t do violent passion for bearded strangers, and I’m not about to go up and introduce myself and— I’m already on a date, for God’s sake.

I was on a date. But Billy Ray might not know it’s over yet and he’s still in the building. There has to be a rule. Like not swimming for thirty minutes after you’ve eaten. Don’t proposition a guy at a bar when the loser who just propositioned you is still sitting at your table.

I give Zeus one last defiant glance to test myself. Instant fail. Instead I’m swallowing a whimper as his stern expression transforms into a smile.

Because his smile is glorious.

But it’s not for me. He’s watching the giant wrap his fist around the slender man’s braid to bring him in for a kiss.

My mental iPod offers up an impressive record scratch when I finally realize exactly who he’s standing with.

Why the hell is my Zeus with a Finn?

He starts to turn his head in my direction and, before we can make eye contact, I find the willpower to look away. I force my feet to move again, wondering at my odd reluctance to let him out of my sight. This is ridiculous. I’m ridiculous. The probability that he’s straight or—with the stories I’ve heard about the Finns and their proclivities—ménage bound, is too high for me to be this much of a mess. Ménage. The thought is both arousing and soul crushing at the same time.

Either way, if he’s with them he’s not for me. He’s not out of my league, he’s in a different solar system. I need to be a grownup and move the fuck on.

“Fiona,” I call as I set my glass down with more force than necessary. “Emergency refill. Brady Stout. Stat.”

“Another pint of BS for JD, ASAP.”

The old men on the corner stools laugh and the sound buoys my spirits. When Seamus Finn turned half of this place into a microbrewery, he’d taken to naming his creations after members of his own family. Everyone was still getting a kick out of the clever gimmick.

My favorite, the stout, was christened for his cousin—aka the kissing ginger with possible dibs on Zeus. It’s a thick, Guinness-like offering that goes perfectly with my mood, as well as the chorus of drunken singers trying and failing to keep up with the energetic Irish band.

I could live at this bar. I wasn’t exaggerating that much when I said I was in love. The drinks are good, the mood is lively and I always get a warm welcome from the regulars. It makes me wish I drank more, so I’d have an excuse to linger and listen to their stories. Sometimes you do want to go where everybody knows your name.

I bet a lot of people secretly think of the old sitcom Cheers when they find a bar they like. I can’t be the only one.

The one thing that could make this moment better is the absence of the guy at my old table. Or Zeus deciding to take his place. Because he’s gay and he knows I exist.

#DreamonGreen

I will.

Fiona tilts her chin in my date’s direction. “When are you going to bounce the bozo, JD? You’ve looked miserable all night, and I already lost my bet on how long you’d last thirty minutes ago.”

Fiona and I audited a class together a few semesters ago and the two of us just clicked. Partly because we’re both the kind of people who graduate from college—me with a double major and her with a master’s degree in psychology—but keep compulsively returning like educationally starved junkies. And, yes, partly because she mentioned she worked here and it was a good excuse to visit while researching the same things she claims to on a nightly basis.

Observing men in their natural habitat is our secondary obsession. A truly good bartender and a man who gives relationship advice for a living need to do a lot of research. It’s all very innocent, you understand. For work.

“I already did my bouncing. Sort of,” I finish glumly, since the bouncing would be more effective if he actually went away.

“You don’t sound too sure.” A good-looking man with wavy blond hair and pretty blue eyes sends Fiona a grin over my head, joining the conversation. “How does a guy sort of end a date?”

“Don’t tease him, Wyatt. JD is a gentleman, and gentlemen have a hard time ditching their dates just because sex is off the table. Pay attention now. You might learn something.”

“Are you saying I’m—you mean the brunette last week?” His expression instantly transforms into offended with a side of panic. “Fi, a guy at the firehouse set us up, but we didn’t spark so she decided to go home alone. In a car that I paid for. I didn’t ditch her and I am a gentleman.”

That was…adamant.

“You don’t have to convince us, firecracker,” Fiona scoffed, shooting me a look that tells me this is their normal banter and she’s enjoying it. “But we’re talking about someone else’s sex life today, not yours. You’re being too nice again, aren’t you, Green? I can always tell.”

“No I’m not. I told him he could leave if he wanted to and I glared. A lot. It’s not my fault he didn’t catch on. He probably still thinks we’re hooking up tonight.”

“You glared?” She laughs in delight. “God, you’re so cute. I dated a Canadian like you once. Dirty and creative but unbelievably polite. Some men, however, are dickheads that need a more obvious kick to the curb.”

Maybe so, but if growing up with nine other boys taught me anything, it was when to pick my battles. And when to hide in the attic with a good book until they forgot I existed.

I am still upset that he didn’t think he had to do anything tonight but show up. That he assumed he’d get laid because we were both breathing and in the same room. But it’s not like I haven’t experienced it before.

Guys like that—straight, gay or in between—think getting off is the point so dating is a waste of time. Why put in the effort to wine and dine a talking glory hole?

To a Billy Ray type of man, I’m the happy meal after choosing the drive-thru. The movie he watches online so he doesn’t have to put on pants and leave the house.

The age of instant gratification is making everyone too damn lazy. Especially when it comes to romance. Nobody works for anything anymore. Nobody pays attention to the details.

I check on my mullet man, notice he hasn’t moved at all, and turn back with an eye roll for my audience. “I’ll start the curb kicking after this drink, if it’s all the same to you. I’ve got time and he isn’t bothering anyone. I think he’s still working on his high score at Candy Crush.”

Wyatt choked on the beer he’d been swallowing. “Wait. He’s been playing a game on his phone during your date? And he still expects to get laid?”

He stands while he’s speaking and I notice how lean and muscular he is. And there’s a tattoo on his biceps that makes it clear he’s a fireman and proud of it. Nice.

Why can’t Toni hook me up with a guy like this?

“Idiots like that give the rest of us a bad name. Hold my beer, folks. I’ll be right back.”

My eyes go wide, and Fiona watches my expression transform while she pulls her multi-hued hair back into a ponytail.

“What is he doing?” I whisper, equal parts horrified and enthralled.

She grins at me. “Taking out the trash, hon. Finns are good about that kind of thing.”

Wyatt is a Finn too? 

I should have known. All the good ones in town are taken, straight, or belong to that family. I wonder where Zeus fits in?

Stop thinking about him fitting into something. Watch the show instead.

“He can’t throw someone out for being a shitty conversationalist.”

“Hell yes he can. And the boss would back him up if he were here. Even the more commitment-phobic members of their clan have certain behavioral standards. And they’re all overprotective of their family and friends.”

My confusion must be easy to read because Fiona kindly covers my hand with hers. “You’re my friend, JD, and this guy wasn’t treating you with the respect you deserve. I’ve been watching your face all night, so don’t deny it. That’s all Wyatt needed to know to do the right thing.” Something flashes in her eyes as she watches him tap Billy Ray on the shoulder, her tongue poking out to fiddle with her lip piercing thoughtfully. “It’s sweet, really.”

It is. Sweet and unexpected. And after less than a minute of whispered conversation, my so-called date is tossing a few bills on the table, grabbing his phone and disappearing out the door.

He didn’t look for me once.

Insulting? Probably, but I feel more relieved than anything. Sure, I’ll need a ride home later, but that ride won’t smell like cheese or have cold, wandering hands.

Bonus.

I hear Fiona telling two servers nearby to take over before she leans her elbows on the bar. “Why are you still frowning? This is good. You’re now free to join me in a study of all things Irish and male. Too bad you were sick for St. Patrick’s Day. We could have written a paper on the copious alcohol consumption, kissing and booty pinching that occurs each year to celebrate a religious zealot with a snake phobia.”

“A snake isn’t always a snake.”

She wrinkles her nose. “And a cigar is never just a cigar. In my professional opinion, Freud can suck it.”

“Who can suck what now?” Wyatt slides back into his seat with a shit-eating grin.

“Cigars and snakes and shitty dates. We’re speaking in phallic symbols,” I explain, lifting my glass in his direction. “And on that note... Hail the conquering hero. As handsome as he is noble and brave.”

“It was nothing. Really. No big deal at all.” Wyatt’s smile wobbles and he hunches his shoulders, getting that uncomfortable look I’ve only seen on heterosexual males when gay men give them compliments. It’s funny, but I still feel sorry for him when Fiona laughs at his expense. He did do me a giant favor.

“That wasn’t a come on, I swear. All it means is your next drink is on me. And thank you.”

“No drinks. I mean, you’re welcome, of course. And I’ll drink, but you don’t have to buy me a drink. Not that you couldn’t if you wanted to, but I get a discount anyway so…”

“Poor Wyatt,” Fiona croons as he stammers. “His family of big, strong, strapping homosexuals has traumatized him. He thinks being gay is contagious.”

“If only.” Did I say that out loud? Apparently, because they both start chuckling, and I watch the fireman’s shoulders relax again, along with his smile. Good.

Wyatt nudges me apologetically with his elbow. “You know I don’t really think that, right, JD? Fi likes to pick on me, but I’m man enough to admit that you’re a handsome guy. If I swung that way, I’d be on all that in a heartbeat.” He waves his hand toward my face and body. “Unfortunately, I’ve only got eyes for this one bartender I’m trying to wear down.”

I’m getting that loud and clear. I’m also getting that Fiona is keeping Wyatt at a friendly distance, which is strange since she usually goes after what she wants. I’d wonder about it, but when she puts another drink in front of me—did I already finish that last one?—I realize that this is not the night for me to pry. She knows what she’s doing. Probably.

“To the ever-stout Brady,” I say instead. “Thick, potent and the only thing I’ll be swallowing tonight.”

Wyatt spits his drink across the bar and onto Fiona’s chest, but before I can tease him about it, the beer’s namesake arrives and starts patting him helpfully on the back.

My embarrassment is close to crippling as my gaze travels up a thick tree trunk of an arm to monster biceps and a set of shoulders Atlas would envy. Crap, what is it with me and the mythological references tonight?

“I’m already spoken for,” Brady Finn says with a friendly smile. “But I’ll assume you’re talking about your beer.”

“Never assume, big guy.” This from the boyfriend. He appears right beside Brady with a wicked curve on his lips. “You are thick. And potent. But I’m the only one who gets a taste.”

“You’re making him blush,” a new voice observes quietly.

No.

He can’t be here. I was good and resisted temptation. I walked away. When I glance up to verify his presence, the blush he’s referring to blazes hotter across my cheeks.

Zeus.

And I’m dead. I’ll just sit here and hope the floor opens to swallow me up soon. Or they all disappear. Whichever comes first.