Lynx Woods

...As we walked down Yonge toward the Harborfront, we passed four young guys, clearly couples, holding hands as they strolled down the street. Charlie stared and then looked thoughtful. I guess the guy wasn’t used to seeing such open displays of affection between men.

The grandiose edifice of the Fairmont Royal York Hotel came into view, and Charlie looked at the massive, twenty-eight-story structure with a bleary eye. “Hey,” he muttered. “I think that’s my hotel. Why don’t we fuck this shit and go there and drink?”

I realized that was a good idea. A bit more to drink and Charlie would be a handful I wasn’t ready to take on. No way I’d ever be able to carry him if he lost it completely and passed out.

We made our way through the lavish hotel lobby and rode the elevator to the sixteenth floor. Charlie fumbled with the door to his room, finally throwing it open with an exaggerated “hah!” and stumbled into the suite. He tottered into the bathroom, where he remained for a few minutes. When he emerged, his hair was damp and he looked slightly more alive. After staggering across the room, he fell back onto the bed.

For one minute, I thought for sure he had passed out. I found a Coke in the bar fridge and popping off the tab, drank half of it in one long gulp. By this time, Charlie was stirring again.

He opened one eye and stared at me. Suddenly, he crooked a finger at me. “You really gay?”

“Yeah. All my life.”

“What’s it like?” Charlie waved his hand around, slurring his words. “I don’t mean sex, but the other—jus’ bein’ different that way? People pointing fingers and callin’ you…things.”

I shrugged. How do you explain a lifetime of hurt and anger and bewilderment to a man who has never experienced it? Then it occurred to me that maybe Charlie had experienced it.

“It’s like being a Cherokee in a world that views you as a second-class citizen. Where even the religious people are telling you that their God hates you just for being that way.”

“Being gay is like being a Cherokee? Hah! What if you were a gay Cherokee?”

“Are you gay, Charlie?”

“Forget it, Tyler. Not gonna happen again. That was all a mistake in the past.”

“You’re not making any sense, Charlie,” I said carefully, wondering what he was referring to. I pulled a chair close to the bed and dropped into it. “What happened in the past?”

“Nothing,” he said too quickly. “Never did it…got married, didn’t I? That proves I ain’t…you know…Cherokee.” Suddenly, he started laughing.

Alarmed, I moved up to sit beside him on the bed.

Charlie grabbed my hand. His grip was punishing. “Oh, no, you don’t. You stay right here. Not gonna run out on me.”

“You need to go to sleep, Charlie. You’re too drunk for this conversation.”

Charlie wasn’t listening. He forced his eyes to focus on the wall across the room, then shifted to travel down my body, his gaze stopping on my crotch. “You don’t look gay, you know that?” He was so damned serious.

“Not everybody does. Most of us don’t, in fact.”

“You want to give me a blow job?”

“Jesus Christ, Charlie!” I scrambled off the bed and backed away.

“Hey, what’s wrong with being curious? I just want to know, is all.”

“Know what? You can’t be serious.”

Charlie sat up in the bed. The gleam in his eyes was no longer that of a vacant drunk. It had a feverish edge to it. “Tell me what it’s like, Tyler.” He began to rub his cock, which I was alarmed to see, was rapidly filling out the crotch of his Wranglers. “Or better yet, show me. You want to, don’t you? I saw you earlier…looking. Don’t tell me you don’t want to.”

“That’s hardly the point—”

Why the hell did he seem less drunk now than he had a few moments ago? Had he been faking it, pretending so he had an excuse? An excuse for what? Propositioning me?

What a bizarre idea. I licked my lips at the sight of his bulging crotch. Charlie was right about one thing, I had been looking. Just like I was looking now. Looking and imagining...