When Mikey entered B.J.’s on Tuesday night, the energy was vibrant, heightened by a combination of testosterone and designer cologne. Tuesday Tunes had not yet begun, but an impromptu pre-show had started with Madonna’sLike a Prayerblasting and much of the crowd singing along—especially the choral backup parts, lively hands reaching high like a butch version of the nuns fromSister Actminus the habits. Mikey was early, grateful for the time to grab a beer and observe the lay of the land before the real singing began.
He hummed along under his breath as he wove his way toward the bar, making eye contact with men of all shapes and sizes along the way. A burly blond muscle-bear in a sleeveless shirt paused in his path, eyes pleading. He was two-fisting four mugs of beer and Mikey stopped, holding the surge behind him at bay to offer a brief reprieve. The man nodded, grinned his thanks, and kept going past him.
“Hey,” said Mikey. “Somebody owes you big time for that.”
“Don’t I know it,” said the man over his shoulder passing, biceps flexed with the task, Celtic band tattoo bulging.
“Why don’t the two of us just enjoy those beers here? Forget whoever suckered you into getting them.”
But the man didn’t hear him, or pretended not to... just another beautiful face, lost in the crowd.
Welcome to Tuesday Tunes.
He continued snaking his way through the crowd to the opposite end of the bar and one of his usual spots—near the wait station. There, he stood in line behind two others.
Cher’sAll or Nothingcame on and, even in the packed room, twirls commenced and, for the most part, were successful.
Mikey scoped while he waited, seeing plenty of pretty faces. In his mind’s eye though, none held a candle to George. George had been at the forefront of his thoughts ever since their impromptu Skype call.
What a call. Hot didn’t even begin to cover it.
But George was going out with someone else. As a friend, he had to respect that.
A friend would be happy to see George dating again, right?
He spotted another cutie by the stairs parallel to the line he was standing in. Solo singles were always on the periphery—corners, balconies, walls—distant vantage points for observation.
And looky over there by the window.
The man was a head taller than the others, standing out. Again, there was girth, this time clad in snug plaid flannel and a ball cap, likely shielding male pattern baldness. But such shallow vanities were no concern to Mikey, and this guy was way hot. Their eyes met across the room as if the man had picked up what Mikey had been thinking via telepathy.
Mikey smiled.
The man looked away.
So much for that.
For the most part, the place was full of familiar faces that were either in groups, already coupled, or had dismissed him in the past.
Damn. I might have to find some new stomping grounds.
It was a brief and frivolous thought because therewasno other place that made him happier. Mikey’s three favorite things were men, music, and beer—in that order—and there was no shortage of that at B.J.’s. Sure, it was a meat market, but that was part of the charm and why so many put up with the crowd, the long lines, and the inevitable odysseys to the bathroom. There was potential for adventure at every turn. But mostly present was an intoxicating euphoria—the fellowship of gay men belting out show tunes in unison. Similar, he guessed, to the bonding spirit of college fraternities or maybe that of military brothers. Mikey couldn’t quite describe the magic, but he wasn’t the only one who felt it. Tuesday nights were always packed with those seeking the same.
When he reached the bar, the shirtless, youthful bartender greeted him with a smile. “Hi, Mikey!”
“Hi, Chad. Who called out? I haven’t seen you on a Tuesday in a while.”
“Yeah,” Chad chuckled. “We’re actually down two. Permanently. You need a job?”
Mikey laughed. He’d never mixed a cocktail in his life. “You don’t want me back there. That would be a total disaster.”
“Well, if you know of anyone decent, please send him our way. We could use the help. You want the usual?”
Mikey nodded and Chad pushed the horizontal slide door at his hand, bending over the long chest-type cooler, and reaching in. His jeans looked like they had been painted on. He was a sweet guy, muscle-twink, not Mikey’s type at all, but many clustered at the bar were there specifically to salivate over him. He set a Budweiser down and Mikey handed him a ten, motioning that change wasn’t necessary. “Thanks, Chad,” he said. “I’ll catch ya later.”
He headed back to the staircase. The guy he’d noticed there had moved, but he wasn’t far, just a little deeper in the corner.
When he saw Mikey coming, he gave him an irritated glare.
