in unison.
“Whoa, you think I was throwin’ meat to starving wolves,” Karl exclaimed. “He’s just another dime-a-dozen Marine ’mo.”
“You mean another conquest for you,” Eddie said.
“Naw, I’m through with officers,” Karl said.
“An officer?” Don asked. “Did Lance tell you his name?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, little buddy, I’m tired of playing twenty fucking questions. What’s his name?”
“Why don’t you go ask him yourself? He’s been cruisin’ you ever since we got here.”
“Hello, handsome. Don’t think I’ve seen you here before. Buy you a drink?”
Jay twisted his body to see who’d approached him, keeping his arms folded, though, as a way of retaining control. If the man was a worthy target, Jay would unfold his arms, lean against the bar and open up his body. He returned the man’s smile but replied, “No thanks.”
The long-haired man walked away, leaving Jay to his profiling. Of the dozens of men who’d cruised by, only a few could be servicemen. Fifteen years in Washington DC, with its heavy concentration of military personnel, had taught Jay how to weed out the real thing from the fakers in less than five seconds. The haircut wasn’t a good indicator—only amateurs believed they could spot a Marine or a Sailor that way. Hell, most sailors wore their hair longer than civilians did.
Jay was no amateur. He looked at a man’s gait and posture as the initial signs of legitimacy. Military men carried themselves with a unique combination of confidence and caution. They’d been taught to walk bravely through a dangerous world. Beyond that, though, were a man’s speech patterns and, most of all, his eyes. If Jay talked to a man and looked into his eyes, within ten seconds he knew with a ninety percent degree of accuracy if he was military or a wannabe.
Ten minutes later Jay spotted his first targets. Gay military men hung together in tightly knit groups. While that aided catching many of them at one time, infiltrating the clique was challenging. Through years of experience he knew how to gain their trust, always the key.
Prying himself between dozens of sweaty shirtless guys, Jay stepped onto the dance floor, where he removed his shirt and tucked it into his jeans. He smiled at a thin young man with a Navy tattoo on his chest. The man returned the smile, pointing Jay out to another Sailor. As much as Jay hated gay men’s music, he laughed at its appropriateness for his mission. I know what I want, and I want it NOW!
“Lance says that he’s hot but needs new clothes,” said Karl. “Gotta agree with my crazy ex.”
“Boys,” said Robbi, “go meet him before you strip him and play dress-up. I swear you act like high school girls. And stop calling Lance crazy just ’cause he tried to run over you.”
“I’m all for stripping him.” Eddie’s comment caught his three friends off guard. For a rare moment, the group was silent. They couldn’t remember the last time Eddie had expressed anything mildly sexual. “Go ahead, Don. I see that look in your eye.”
“Oh my God, Don,” shouted Robbi. “I’ve never see you blush before! This is so—cute!”
“What’re you waiting for?” asked Karl. “Take charge! If you don’t, someone else will.”
Don recovered from his momentary loss of composure. Patrick’s handsomeness wasn’t manufactured. Many men in Southern California worked hard to create an appealing—but ultimately clone-like—image for themselves, but not Patrick. He looked real! Don thought he’d lost the ability to be nervous about meeting another guy. He’d met hundreds of them, many on this patio, but seeing Patrick tonight proved him wrong. He felt like a jittery kid. As his conscious mind stalled, his instincts took over and he operated by reflex. Stepping forward, he saw that Patrick’s drink was empty. Grabbing a five, he sidestepped toward the bar, passing it to Lance. Lance, quick on the uptake, traded him a cold Samuel Adams.
Don paused then approached the other man. “Um, excuse me, is your name Patrick?” He raised his voice, emphasizing the name. As the man spun around, Don paid extra-close attention to his eyes. An unexpected greeting was as genuine as any moment of human interaction. In those seconds, before others had time to deploy their defenses, Don learned volumes of honest information about their soul.
“Yes—that’s—” the man stammered.
To Don’s delight, he saw the look. Men, even the most calculating and emotionally secretive, were universally bad at hiding signs of physical attraction. When men saw something they desired, an unmistakable and undeniable fire ignited in their eyes. Don was thrilled to see it in Patrick. “I’m Don, Chris’s friend. He said you were on your way out here.”
“Right! Hi—Don—I hoped that was you—I mean, from how he described you, I thought that might be you. Across the bar. With your friends.”
Don almost choked. Patrick was even more authentic than he looked. I hoped that was you. Don felt a giddiness he hadn’t experienced in a decade. His well-rehearsed pattern was to squelch unfamiliar emotions. Not tonight. He heard Eddie’s voice from earlier in the day telling him to get back out there. Rather than kill the tingling sensation and ignore the happiness, he decided to enjoy it all—ride it out and let it carry him someplace new. Maybe he’d go nowhere or maybe he’d get hurt—hell, he knew he’d get hurt somehow. Hurt was unavoidable over the long term—but hurt had to be better than the feelings of nothingness he’d suffered for years.
Patrick shifted nervously and Don wanted to put him at ease. “Hear you met my good friend, Lance. He’s another one of ‘The Few, The Proud.’” His voice trailed as their eyes met.
Visibly relaxing, Patrick smiled warmly and in a deep, soft voice said, “So you’re versatile?”
“What?” Don hadn’t expected a sexually forward comment from the reserved-looking man.
“MGD and Sam Adams—at the same time?”
“Oh—shit. Sorry, this one’s for you.” Don offered the premium beer to Patrick and took a swig of his own. He’d been so taken with the man’s warmth, dimples and eyes that he’d failed to use his prop. Then again, he hadn’t needed to. Patrick leaned back and rested his elbows on the bar, opening himself to Don, a sign Don didn’t miss. As he slid next to Patrick, Karl winked and gave him a thumbs-up sign.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Patrick said. “You don’t look like a gunny.” Don remained silent as Patrick inched nearer. Shyly, he clarified his statement. “Meant that as a compliment.”
“Thanks. You mean I don’t look thirty-three going on sixty-four? The Corps’s a hard life. Many of my peers haven’t learned that chain-smoking and nightly binges don’t make it any easier. And don’t take this the wrong way, sir, but you do look exactly like a pilot.”
“Because I dress like an officer?” Patrick laughed. “So I’ve been told.”
“No. I don’t mean you dress like an officer—which you do, but that’s okay. You can tell I’m not exactly Calvin Klein. I meant it as a compliment. Seriously Patrick—you’re very—” Don feared he was crossing a line—that his swirling emotions had carried
