The B-Line: A Story About Hookups (Queer)

The B-Line:

"Hey, bae,

Don't wait up. I'll be home late."

Putting my phone away for the evening, I continue my outing with another round at the bar. "Another Whiskey Sour, please?" I ask the bartender.

From across the bar, I notice an attractive person who seems to notice me.

"Bartender!" I hear the person from across the bar call. The bartender migrates to them and takes their order (I assume).

Upon walking away from this fully bearded individual, the bartender approaches me with my drink and says, "A Whiskey Sour from the person across the bar." They then point at the cutie I've been checking for.

After the bartender places the drink down, I then raise the glass to the person sitting from across the bar as an expression of gratitude.

Suddenly, I hear my cell phone vibrate from my bag. Retrieving my phone, I look down to see who's calling – it's Bae.

"Is this seat taken?" I hear a deep smoky voice next to me while checking my phone. I decide not to answer Bae's call with the hope of the cutie from across the bar is now approaching me.

Putting my phone away, I look in the direction of the voice and see the person from across the bar in a wheelchair. They look beside me and see a folded wheelchair then smile.

"Cool wheelchair." They compliment. I returned the accolade on their lightweight yellow and black wheelchair as well.

"It would look better if TSA hadn't fuck up my arm handles. It could be worse, right?"

"Maybe, but this alone is not okay." I empathize. "Maybe we can roll up on them and fuck up the shit they need to get around."

"Oh, I definitely fucked up someone J's by rolling over them."

We laughed together.

"Hi, my friends call me B." They extend their hand to me, moving past the moment.

"My name is Jermel." I exchange an invitation to sit with me. B compliments how beautiful my name is. I blush then pull out the barstool next to me so they can sit.

B politely obliges, pulling the stool out with me to transfer themselves from the wheelchair.

While lifting themselves out of the chair into the barstool, I observe a great number of white people around us staring and gazing, especially the white woman now sitting beside B.

Quickly irritated, I stare at the white stranger with a, do you mind? facial expression. Uncomfortably, she locks eyes with me and then quickly turns her head away as if she was embarrassed about being caught.

Once settling, B straightens their midnight blue suede blazer with a light sigh and a smile, "How do I look?"

"Like gourmet caramel," I affirm, playing with the straw in my drink with my tongue.

"Don't compliment me too much. I may take it to the head." B grins fully.

"Please do." I flirt with an enticing smirk. What I really want to say is: You already got my head poking. However, I choose not to come on strong just in case B fucks this up.

B continues to grin. "Alright now." They blush. "What are your pronouns?"

"They, them, and theirs, yours?" I answer and then ask, dreading B's response and having to educate them about gender.

"Okay, fam! My pronouns are xe, xyr, and xym, but adopted binary he and his pronouns for "certain" spaces - if you know what I mean." B shares.

You are a wheelchair hottie and non-binary? Check, please!