Fiction
The Virgin Drink: A Polyamorous Romance (Chapter 1)
My fiancé had another hot date…
My fiancé had another hot date this evening, leaving me alone with a book and some uncomfortable emotions to keep in check. It wasn’t that I didn’t want her to have a date. I was just feeling a little bit lonely tonight. It had been a very long time, since I had enjoyed a date of my own.
Contrary to stereotypes, men aren’t the most popular commodities of polyamorous lifestyle.
The image of a man surrounded by a group of adoring ladies only happens in the dreams of masculine tourists racing through our community, before quickly burning out. Thankfully, I’m queer, which makes me a little less alone around here. The freedom to enjoy love and sex with anyone you want comes with the responsibility to become comfortable with loneliness. I don’t just date my fiancé and anyone else who comes along. I date myself quite frequently.
Tonight, I wanted to be on a date with anyone other than the book that I was reading to help me decide whether I should name myself after its villain. They say your chosen name chooses you, but this process just seemed like an endless literary quest to find the story that matched my soul.
I decided to treat myself to a quintessential masculine experience I’d never had before.
I wanted to buy a beautiful stranger a drink tonight.
As I walked down a dark street downtown, I tried to decide how to go about this. Buying that drink for someone here would be complicated in ways that were a little different from what the average cis man would experience. I figured I had two bars to choose between in this entire city.
The first was my favorite Irish bar. It appeared straight to the untrained eye, but the manager was a quiet pansexual who I knew would have my back, if something went wrong in an endeavor to compliment a stranger.
A small rainbow flag hangs from a corner window in the back, but most of us only know to come by word of mouth. If I was really lucky, they’d be serving up their fried duck wings with a delicious blueberry relish dipping sauce tonight.
It appeared straight to the untrained eye, but the manager was a quiet pansexual who I knew would have my back, if something went wrong in an endeavor to compliment a stranger.
The second was a trans-friendly gay bar that was our Saturday night community center for virgin drinks and a guaranteed calming atmosphere. They had a $4 kimchi mac and cheese dish that could cure any heartache, while filling up your stomach for a week. It was a secret hidden under other miniature “appetizers” that costed triple the price for those who didn’t come here often enough to know better.
I considered. What sort of person would I want to have this experience with? What could go wrong? What food would I prefer to console me, if I accidentally bought a chaser or an enthusiastically confused “gold star” lesbian a drink? Sometimes, a rejection can make you feel better understood than an acceptance.
I opted for the gay bar.
I chose a quiet corner in the back, allowing me to see everyone at the bar. For the first half hour, I just watched and read strangers, guessing their stories, wondering who was safest to approach.
Then, I saw you. You were wearing a dapper, formfitting suit with gold eyeshadow and copper lipstick that complemented the glowing highlights of your perfect face. You were stunning and full of the belligerent confidence required of an out and proud enby in Savannah. Our people survive here by either being very quiet or very loud. You were exactly the person I wanted to buy a drink for tonight.
Then, I saw you. You were wearing a dapper, formfitting suit with gold eyeshadow and copper lipstick that complimented the glowing highlights of your perfect face.
I walked over and sat beside you, setting my book down on the bar.
“You’re gorgeous. Can I buy you a drink?”
Your smile was coy, as you looked me up and down slowly, reading the story my presence offered up for consideration.
“Thank you, sweetheart, but I’m waiting for a client. I need to keep my wits about me.”
I smiled, winked, and wished you a good evening.
Wandering back to my quiet corner of the bar, I figured I was on a date with my book tonight, after all. I had just had the classically masculine experience of polite rejection. That was also an important part of my new socialization, even if it stung a bit. I reassured myself. I was a decent enough date for myself for the evening. Worse things could happen, than being alone. I could be with the wrong person.
I spent a few calm hours lost in my book, stopping only to assess the occasional yelling drunk.
Soon, I was so lost in the repressed homoerotic tension of an earlier time that I stopped hearing the loud cheers and arguments in the background. The author had eventually died for this book, so surely it was good.
My coffee sat untouched on the table, beside a now empty plate that served as my admission price for staying until closing.
I finally reached the page where I realized I couldn’t name myself after the sexy villain. It was a pity. I liked the sound of that name. The SparkNotes hadn’t mentioned that the villain was racist and anti-Semitic. This is why I probably shouldn’t look to Victorian novels to find my chosen name. Noted.
I sighed, looked up, and there you were, sitting across from me.
You nodded at my cold coffee and smiled.
“So, you mentioned buying me a drink. Make it a virgin.”
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