Just Call Me Lance Romance

I detect a pattern. I go to the Bike Stop on Saturday nights hoping to fall in love.

I know. Pathetic, right?

it's not that bad. I go. I talk to buddies of mine. I flirt. I give a 'Woof' to hot men I see. I have a beer (before switching to Coca-Cola). I smoke cigars. I have a good time.

But I'm not looking to hook up really.

I'm hoping to meet an extraordinary man. A man to steal my heart--and my breath--away.

Not necessarily... y'know... for ever. For a night will do.

One night, a million years ago, I was at the Altar. (The Altar, a short-lived NYC venue, will always loom large in my mind as the best you can do for a leatherbar.) Anyway, I saw these two guys. In their forties. Bearish guys. Although I don't remember anyone using that term back then. I happened to see them strike up a conversation, next to each other, leaning up against the bar. Soon they were laughing. Talking more animatedly. Standing now face to face. Then it was like they caught fire. Both had a glint in their eyes. By the end of the night they were kissing, deeply and passionately. Absolutely smitten with one another. Taking time out to sort of look around, grinning from ear to ear. Not quite believing their incredible good fortune. Pinching themselves to see if they were dreaming.

Who knows what became of them. Maybe they're running a tshirt shop in Provincetown now. Maybe that night they swapped numbers but never called. Whatever. Doesn't matter. They both had some time out of time. That night went on for eternity.

*sigh*

Last night, I became aware of another tragic mistake I made.

When I lived in Philadelphia fifteen years ago, I used to hang at the Westbury. There was this guy there, a bartender named Ron. Ron was beautiful. Built, bearded, hairy. Totally stunning. And such a sweetheart! Kind, considerate, warm, friendly.

Mostly, I would go to the Westbury to talk to Ron. I was pretty taken by him. But I figured that he was way outta my league. But I could dream.

So I would go to the Westbury, and Ron would give me free beers. And always find time to talk to me. One night, when I closed down the place, he offered me a ride home. Like I was gonna say no to that. No matter that I lived all of five blocks away. So Ron drove me home in his truck. We sat outside my apartment for about forty-five minutes talking, before I said something like, "Well, I've taken up enough of your time I guess," and ran upstairs to jerk off thinking about Ron. And then, Ron moved in across the street from me. And then, I moved to NYC.

After I moved, I got together with the Baron. "So," I asked, "How are things in Philadelphia?"

"You know who asks about you all the time?" said the Baron, "Ron, the bartender from the Westbury. He really had a thing for you. He always figured he wasn't your type."

Oh. Man.

By then, I was in yet another relationship with a congenitally unhappy guy. So it was all about shoulda woulda coulda.

Well, last night I was talking to a guy who used to be a bartender at the Bike Stop back in the day. I asked him if he knew Ron, a guy who used to bartend at the Westbury.

"Oh yeah," he said, "I knew Ron really well. He was one of my best friends."

"What ever happened to him?" I followed up.

"He's gone. He died about eight years ago."

Quite a kick in the stomach that was.

Okay. I was young. Just a pup then. And stupid.

Please, God, don't let me make a mistake like that again.

"Behold! i stand at the door and knock." Let me hear the knock. Let me stop what I'm doing and go to the door. Let me have the guts to swing that door wide open. Let me invite in the man standing outside.

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