Leaving New York

Chapter 31

The next day, Monday, was like any other day of the week. I made lunches for the boys then chauffeured them to school because of the rain. Later I made dinner--the same old grind. I finally had a moment to sit down relaxing over tea, then went for a walk at Parc Monceau. A billion stars exploded in the sky. Ernie was sitting at his usual bench.

"Hi, Ernie."

"Oh, hey—Jack, right?"

"You remembered."

"Yeah."

"How's it going?"

"Good. How's your hammer hangin'?"

"Oh, it's there alright."

"I'll say. What are you up to?" He winked at me.

"Just taking a walk. What are you up to?"

"You know—seein' if anyone's around."

"You DO get around."

"Meaning?"

"Nothing."

I sat down, feeling some odd attachment to him. He was like a cartoon character—the over-the-top good looks, his one-track mind, his friendliness.

"So, the service treating you well?"

"I'm sick of the Air Force, but I only got two more years, so to spice it up a little, I'm flying on the side at a charter service—nice props and a used G5. I fly on weekends taking people to the Riviera."

"Cool. The G5—the Rolls Royce of private jets, right?"

"Yeah. The newest one, the G650, will do 610 miles an hour. Fifty-eight million smackeroos."

"Jesus."

He grabbed my thigh, "How about a little fun?"

"No, Ernie."

"Suit yourself. Oh, what's your landlord up to—didn't you say he quit his job the last time I saw you?"

"Well . . . he needs a job. He was a stockbroker—but he wants to do something different."

"God, I'd rather shoot myself than do some finance thing. Sheesh. He'll figure it out."

"Yeah." I looked at Ernie's muscular thighs. I wanted to be with him—but his giant, warm body, was an STD time bomb. He leaned back, scratching his crotch. A tough-looking guy with a crewcut passed several times, nodding at Ernie while we'd been talking. He sat on a bench thirty feet away, staring at the Air Force pilot. Ernie nodded at him.

I got the drift. "Well, I guess I need to get home."

"Good talking to you."

"Thanks."

I started walking away, but after a few moments, I looked over my shoulder. Ernie was sitting with the guy. What an operator. I got home to Lion drinking four fingers of bourbon.

"I thought you're not supposed to be drinking that crap."

"Whatever."

"Are you going to take the gig at "Chemin Gorge?"

"Yeah."

"That's good. You are still going to AA?"

"Yes, Mother Jack. Kirby's supposed to pick me up tomorrow for the noon meeting."

Even though the guy was trying to pull his life together, I never really liked him. I went upstairs flopping in bed, feeling alone. I could have taken Ernie up on his offer, but after we finished, I'm sure it would have been, "adios, Muchachos." No romance, no tenderness, no love. I hated going to bars. I looked at my clock, eleven. Bars would be hopping; I'd heard about the "Bearsden" in the Marais. I looked it up on my phone; 'it's big, it's hairy and cuddly. This three-story bar on the outskirts of the Marais, further towards Châtelet, is a welcoming, fun establishment for bears and admirers. It is also especially loved for its wonderful staff.' I looked it up on Google Maps. Hmm, eleven minutes by car through the Tuileries, an hour to walk. I hadn't been out since I got to Gay Paree. I lay there wondering what it'd be like—how many people would be there; would I be too old? I hopped out of my bed of rumination, pulled on some jeans and a tight polo shirt, and went to find Gar to ask if I could use the car. I found Chloe, Gar, Deidre, and Lion playing gin in the library.

Lion said, "Well, howdy pardner—what's up?"

Chloe said," You look hot."

"Thanks. I was wondering if I could use the car?"

"No problem—where you headed?"

"Out."

"Out?"

"To a bar—the "Bear's Den."

Deidre said, "Oh, honey, you're gonna love it--they are going to eat you up." Deidre always complimented me.

"Thanks, Deidre."

Gar said, "The keys are in the bowl, bro."

"I won't be too late—I just need some air."

As I walked to the front door, I overheard Lion say, 'He's a little old to be going out, huh?" I almost went back upstairs to crawl into bed, but I persevered. I found the place easy enough on Rue de Lombards. Three stories tall, the ubiquitous Bear Flag hung on a pole, letting you know what was inside. An overweight, hairy guy took the ten euro cover charge, winking at me. It was more deserted than I thought it'd be.

I sipped my Coke, surveying the place. Since turning fifty, I always went to an "Eagle" or a bear's place. I loved the young guys at a standard gay bar, but I felt like ancient wallpaper. I'm not into leather, but I always did like a man a little rough around the edges. It felt good, getting out, being around my kind. A LOT of guys were obese—not my thing. Some were muscle bears, much bigger than me, and the bear 'cubs' (young, hairy guys), often quite handsome, usually under thirty, were well represented. I climbed the stairs to the packed third-floor roof deck. I worked my way to an open space along the long bar, looking at everyone "Stand and Model" (S and M). I always 'let' people come to me instead of chasing after them—I was shy. I'd always had luck with my strategy—Jimmy said it was because I'm tall. A guy approached me.

"Bonjour."

"Bonjour."

We spoke French as long as I could, then I had to say, "Je parle en peu Francais."

"Ah, you are American?"

"Yeah."

"From where?"

"New York."

"Ahh, oui. I like New York very much. The Empire State Building is my favorite."

"Cool."

"You look hot—my friends see you enter."

"Oh gosh, thanks."

"I am Claude."

"Jack." The guy rubbed his hand on my belly—too much closeness for a minute and a half acquaintance. He also had bad breath. I backed up a little without falling three floors to the pavement.

"You no like to be touched?"

"I'm just a little shy."

"Shy?"

"Timid."

"I'm bored here—we could go to my place. I have some good blow."

"Nah."

"It's ultra-pure." By then, two of his friends surrounded me. The short one had a beautiful body and a cute smile. Claude said we should have an orgy. The little one said, "Il a grande, j'suppose il a un gros pénis." Translation: They assumed I was big down there. They all seemed like they were all into drugs which was not for me.

I said, "If you'll excuse me, I need to go find the bathroom."

"Ah, oui—we'll be waiting, Jack." By then, the building was vibrating with trance music. I trotted downstairs, shoved my way through sweaty men to the front door, hopped in the car, and longed for my quiet bedroom. At the house, everyone was still playing gin, so I snuck upstairs and crashed.