We finished up our job early so we closed the shop and I somehow knew a little happy hour pick up was a five o’clock necessity.
The proximity of the new art beckoned me to the rooftop terrace and bar. The sun was sinking in the west casting a golden glow splashing against the fading deep blue above. So much for aesthetics.
God, it was good to be done with the shop and studio for another day. The deadline for our next show was bearing down on everyone. The frosted stem glass with its lemon twist boded a welcome respite from the last ten hours.
There I was seated at a high-top surveying the view north and south of Denver’s own gay White Way, although it was not evident that it was so gay or not. As my gaze came back to the deck it fell upon an older man—I would have guessed him fifty years or something—reading the paper and having his own martini.
Not wanting to be caught checking him out, I quickly averted, as they say, my eyes. Only trouble was that this handsome “old guy” returned the glance. Putting his paper down, he looked up at me and simply said, “You like yours with a twist too.” Was that a question or an obvious fact?
Responding as though we had been friends for a long while, I said, “Always a lemon twist—can’t stand a dirty martini—no olives!” With that he got out of his chair and brought his drink over to my high top.
“I’m Howard Rafferty. Haven’t I run across you at the museum?” Suddenly my head was spinning and blood pressure was rising. “Be still my beating heart.” Almost speechless, I answered with a wide smile and a breathless, “Uh-huh.” By now you’ve got me figured out. I’m a pushover for older men. A little love handles or tummy never did any harm. He followed up with the usual come on’s, while in my mind at the same time I’m remembering last week’s fifty minutes with my Dr. Shrink. Boy did this slam me right between the eyes—after twenty-five minutes Dr Shrink said he felt I really had symptoms of a “Father-Son” complex. You know, unresolved conflicts in the subconscious over deep-seated incestuous desires by my struggling psyche. It was an alarming discovery at the time and now dreamboat Rafferty slid right into the puzzle part that Dr. Shrink had in mind. Come to think of it, Dr. Shrink was rather fatherly himself—but that could be another story for another day.
The martini was working its mightiest for Mr. Rafferty. Guess he’d been at the bar for Happy Hour’s opening.
The irony of this could-be fortuitous meeting as it drew to a climax was an invitation to view the original art on the walls of Rafferty’s suite. If I had been cruising a bar instead of just trying to relax before going to my apartment and preparing for meeting the boys at the X-Bar in an hour, no telling how much abstract expressionism would have overcome me.
Hastily killing the last of the cocktail, I thanked Howard, exchanged numbers, and explained I had to run so as not to be late for some other business.
Close, but no cigar!
Made it to the X-Bar and found a place at a table with my four other thirsty queens. Then went to the bar and ordered, you guessed it, another dry one with a twist from a very cute, sexy, and tattooed bar “tendress.” She sported a figure in her T-shirt that could put Venus Di Milo to shame, and MY girl had two arms—Venus could have had tattoos too if she could find those arms. She smiled so charmingly that I even forgot fleetingly that I was gay and in a crazy gay bar.
I was looking over the patio full of every shade and age of a cavalcade male pulchritude when she inquired what I would have. I told her, “Anyone of these” and quickly followed with my drink order.
My Venus looked at me and then surveyed the yard full of men and said, “One martini coming up,” and then said, “What a waste.”
Close, but no cigar.
© 28 September 2015
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