Christmas Wish

IT WAS a Saturday night, and The Male Box, Harry’s favorite gay bar, was packed. A dance version of “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” bombarded the patrons from all angles. There were men everywhere—lined up for drinks, dancing, waiting to dance, waiting for something more—but none of them was the man Harry Fielding was looking for.

“I don’t believe you dragged me here again,” said Cody, his best friend.

“I hardly twisted your arm,” Harry said. He was sure this was the night. It was the Saturday before Christmas.

“I hate it when we come here,” Cody said. “None of these men know we’re alive. That song from Chicago is about us.”

“Which song?” Harry asked, barely paying attention. The charity stand should’ve been big. Why couldn’t he see it?

“‘Mister Cellophane’,” Cody answered. “They look right through us, walk right by us….”

“I don’t give a shit,” Harry said. “Tonight, Javier is going to have to pay attention to me.”

“Yeah, right,” said Cody with a theatrical roll of his eyes. With anyone else it would have looked silly, but Cody somehow always carried it off. It was just one of the things Harry loved about his friend. “Why will he have to pay attention to you?”

“Because, Butthole,” Harry snapped, “he won’t have a choice. I’ll be sitting right in his damned lap. He won’t be able to ignore me.”
Cody shook his head.

Harry smiled wistfully. “I’ll finally be able to say something to him, Cody.”

“And he’ll be totally enthralled with your personality and turn away from his hunk friends?”

“Why are you being this way?” Harry shouted, and then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He wasn’t going to get mad. He’d been looking forward to this night all week. Javier was playing “Santa,” and ten bucks for a picture for charity meant he would be sitting smack-dab in the lap of his fantasy man. He’d be able to touch him. And if Javier looked anything like the Santas in years past, Harry’s fantasy wouldn’t be wearing much. Harry would get to touch quite a lot.

“I’m sorry,” Cody said. “I just know these guys, Harry. I don’t know why you obsess with their kind.”

“Their kind?” Harry asked, still searching for the Christmas display. The Male Box was a big bar, but not that big. “What ‘kind’ is that?”
“Clones,” Cody said.

“Says the hairdresser!” Harry laughed.

“Hairstylist,” Cody corrected with a wiggle of his hips. “At least we’re friendly. We’re real. Guys like Javier just don’t have anything to do with guys like us, Harry. They have a reputation to uphold. They can’t be seen—”