I felt conspicuous here, as if the few customers who'd forsaken clubs and bars for the sake of growling stomachs knew what we were up to, what we intended. But how likely was it that some drink-fuelled bum in the corner, high on MSG, would stagger to his feet and point at us, announcing to the entire room, "See those two guys over there? They totally want to fuck each other."
Not that I'd ever had that much trouble on account of being gay, but one never knew. I wasn't ashamed. Just wary. I'd never been given to public displays of affection, but wondered then how the public would react if I followed through on my earlier thought about grabbing myself a handful of Whatshisname's ass.
Jesus. I'm going to fuck a guy without knowing his name. My face ached with the effort required to stop myself grinning. That'll be one thing ticked off my sexual to-do list.
"Trust me. I've seen more culture in a pot of yoghurt," he said, breaking into my thoughts again. We'd neared the counter by a fair distance while I'd been daydreaming. "Or yo- gurt, however you pronounce it."
"I can understand why you chose to leave."
"What makes you think I chose to?" he shot back, with another one of those heart-stopping winks.
"Why did you?"
He shrugged. "Big, wide world out there. Why not see some of it?"
I couldn't help but get the feeling he was avoiding the question.
"Criminal record?"
"Ah. That's the one thing that sets me apart from most of my com-patriots. No criminal record. Or STIs, come to that. Or drug habit. Or alcohol addiction."
"Glad to hear it." Catching his eye made it difficult for me to suppress that damn grin. "So, you pretty much fail at living up to the national stereotype, then?" I asked.
"Och aye the noo," he threw back, and I had no fucking idea what that meant. "You want to sit in? I'm not given to shoveling chips in my mouth on street corners. Again, national stereotype-fail. Sorry, but I do have some manners."
"Glad to hear it. I'd hate to think I'd just picked up a guy who couldn't give a hand job 'cause his knuckles were scraped from dragging on the ground." And Jesus, didn't my face burn when someone who'd placed, received and paid for their order turned to find a seat and looked right at me, eyes widening in that telltale did you really just say that expression.
Anonymous Scot --- I had to think of something to call him --- sniggered uncontrollably to the point of barely being able to put his order in when we at last reached the counter.
"Are you from Scotland?" was the response to his request for chips, no, I mean fries, and a large coke.
"Yes I am."
"Do you --- "
"No I don't know Gerry Butler. And you should know it's Gerard Butler, not Gerard. Emphasis on the first syllable. Honestly, those movie voiceovers really get on my nipple ends. I can't believe I just said movie, not 'film.' I've been in this country too long. So. Where's my chips?"
"Fries?"
"Yeah, that too."
Shaking his head, the guy on the other side of the counter took care of...I had to pick a nickname for him; I didn't want to spend the evening tangling with bed sheets, condoms and clunky epithets. Anyway, the 9
Scarlett Parrish cashier ended up apparently bedazzled. And all because of the expert in how to pronounce the name of one of the movie stars on my "please God, let him be gay" list. Such charisma.
"I need to think of something to call you," I commented once we were huddled in a discreet corner booth away from the windows, away from the counter, out of earshot of other people if we were careful enough. I just had to remember not to too loudly proclaim my desire for a hand job, no matter what state his knuckles were in. The thought dried my mouth in an instant and I took a swig of soda, wishing it were something stronger. I could have done with a stiff one right then.
"Simple solution is to tell you my name."
"Ah, but that would spoil things."
"Would it?" He lifted his eyebrows, silently bidding me continue, and shoved a couple of fries into his mouth. He even made that look good.
Clearly, it had been too long.
"What's the big deal about f --- " He cut himself off, looked around us, then leaned across the cheap, Formica table. Shoulders hunched conspiratorially, he tried again. "What's the big deal about not knowing the name of the guy you're spending the night with?"
He was so blatant about it the breath caught in my throat. I opened my mouth to say something but no sound came out.
"Sorry, Scottish thing. After dark is 'night,' traditionally. I should have said 'evening.' Wouldn't have wanted you to think I was being forward, would I?"
"I, uh..." How far to go? How much to explain? "It's just something I'd like to do, and haven't so far, so..."
"What, you've got a sexual bucket list?"
"More like a fuck-it list," I shot back.
He threw his head back and laughed, drawing the attention of a few other customers. They blinked at us, shrugged, and turned back to their late-night snacks. "An anonymous shag is on your to-do list?"
"Right." I saluted him with my Coke before taking a gulp. "This would have been so much easier if I'd just taken you outside and not bothered with this petty conversation."
"Ah, but this 'petty conversation' enables you to get to know me." He smirked, and gestured at me with a chip. Fry. "Okay, I can see that freaks you out. Right, we'll just say it enables me to get to know you. "
"Why would you want to?"
"You have to think about these things,
