Chapter 1: First Taste: Whiskey and Wanting
The air in the bar was thick enough to chew, a stew of cheap whiskey, sweat, and the acrid tang of recycled dreams. The jukebox was stuck on “99 Problems” again, the bass line vibrating up through the worn soles of my boots, through the sticky floor, right into my bones. I wiped down the counter, the rag making a damp, squeaking sound against the lacquered wood. My tank top was a second skin, black and clinging to the sweat on my lower back.
I watched the room without watching. The usual suspects filled the booths in the back—men with sharp eyes and soft hands, their gazes like fingertips tracing the lines of every twink who shimmied past. It was a familiar ecosystem. I was part of the scenery.
Then I saw him.
New blood. You can always spot it. He was perched on a stool like it might bite him, his fingers tapping a frantic, silent rhythm against the side of his glass. His drink was still full. He had the kind of face that hadn’t yet learned to hide everything—dark, wide-set eyes that took in the room with a mixture of terror and hunger. Arab, probably. And a twink, for sure. The jeans he was wearing were sinfully tight, hugging a plump, perfect ass I couldn’t help but notice even from across the bar.
I moved down the line, collecting empty glasses. When I got to him, I leaned my forearms on the counter, the cool wood a relief. “You gonna drink that or just give it performance anxiety?”
He jumped a little, those dark eyes snapping to mine. Up close, he was prettier. Soft features, full lips that looked perpetually on the verge of asking a question. “It’s… it’s too weak,” he finally said, his voice softer than I expected.
“Whiskey sour’s too weak?” I raised an eyebrow. “What are you trying to kill, exactly?”
He flushed, a beautiful dusky rose creeping up his neck. “Not kill. Just… feel. Something stronger.”
I straightened up, tilting my head. “Stronger isn’t always better, you know. Sometimes it just makes you sloppy. And in a place like this, sloppy isn’t cute.” I said it with a half-smile, no judgment.
“What do you suggest then?” He looked at me, really looked, and I saw the curiosity there, peeking out from behind the fear.
I didn’t answer right away. I reached under the counter and pulled out a clean glass. I filled it with ice from the bin, the cubes cracking and settling. Then I poured filtered water from the tap behind me, the clear liquid swirling around the ice. I set it in front of him with a soft click.
“Try that first.”
He stared at the water like it was a foreign object. “Water?”
“Hydration is key,” I said, wiping my hands on my apron. “You’re nervous. Your hands are shaking. Alcohol’s just gonna magnify that. It’ll make you do things you’ll either regret or forget, and neither is a great souvenir.”
A guy a few stools down snorted into his beer. I ignored him.
The new kid—Omar, I’d later learn—picked up the water glass. He took a slow sip, then a longer swallow. “You’re not like the other bartenders.”
“And you’re not like the other patrons,” I countered. “You’re actually looking at the person serving you. It’s unnerving.”
That got a real smile out of him, small but genuine. It transformed his face. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” I rested my hip against the sink behind me, giving him my full attention. The music switched, mercifully, to something with a slinkier beat. “So. Omar, right? I’m Benji.”
His eyes widened. “How did you—”
“Your credit card’s on the bar next to your untouched drink.” I nodded toward it. “First rule of coming to a place like this: never leave your name out in the open. Second rule: never leave your drink unattended.”
He fumbled for the card, shoving it deep into his pocket, the blush returning full force. “I’m an idiot.”
“You’re new.” I shrugged. “It’s written all over you. The wide eyes, the fidgeting, the obvious internal crisis about whether your family would disown you if they knew you were here.”
He went very still. The noise of the bar seemed to fade around us, leaving just this one tense frequency between our stares. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only to people who’ve had the same crisis.” I said it lightly, but the truth of it hung there. I’d had my own version, wrapped in different cultural packaging but the same core dread. “The good news is, you survived walking in the door. That’s the hardest part.”
He took another sip of water, his eyes not leaving mine. “What’s the next hardest part?”
I laughed, a short, surprised bark. “Damn, you don’t waste time. The next part is figuring out what you actually want. Not what you think you’re supposed to want because you’re here, not what you think will piss off your dad or make your mom cry. What you want. From this,” I gestured around the hazy room, “or from anyone in it.”
The challenge hung in the air. He held my gaze, and for a second, the nervous kid was gone, replaced by someone far more determined. “What if I don’t know how to figure that out?”
“Then you start simple.” I pushed off from the sink and grabbed my rag again. “You finish your water. You watch. You see what looks good to you, what makes your heart beat faster for the right reasons. You see what looks like a bad time wrapped in pretty packaging.” I paused, glancing at the back booths. “There’s a lot of that here.”
“And you?” he asked, the words quick, like he’d been holding them back. “Which one are you?”
A smile touched my lips. Now that was a better question. I let my eyes drag over him once more, slow and appreciative, from his worried brow down to the tight denim stretched across his thighs. “I’m the complicated kind, Omar. The kind that serves you water and tells you to be careful.” I leaned in a little closer, dropping my voice. “But I’m also the kind that notices exactly how perfect your ass looks on that stool. So. Not simple.”
His breath hitched. The pulse in his throat jumped. There it was—the desire, sharp and clear, cutting through the anxiety.
I straightened up, breaking the spell. “Your water’s almost gone. You want another? Or have you seen something that looks good?”
He didn’t look away. He lifted the glass and drained the last of it, a drop catching on his lower lip. He swiped it away with his thumb. “I’m looking at it.”
The admission hung between us, brave and fragile. For the first time all night, the restless feeling that always gnawed at me under my skin went quiet. This wasn’t the usual game. This was something else.
The front door swung open then, a burst of cold city air cutting through the bar’s sticky heat. A group of laughing guys tumbled in, loud and already drunk, breaking the tension around our little island of the counter.
The moment fractured, but it didn’t disappear. It settled into his eyes, into the new set of his shoulders.
“Let me get that for you,” I said, taking his empty glass. My fingers brushed his, just for a second. His skin was warm. “Stick around. The night’s still young.”
I turned to the new crowd, my professional mask sliding back into place, but I felt his eyes on my back the whole time. The bass from the jukebox thumped back into focus, the condensation on the glass doors blurring the neon into beautiful, indistinct smears of color. For once, I wasn’t just going through the motions. I was waiting. And the next move, I realized with a jolt of something that felt suspiciously like hope, was his to make.
I served the rowdy new group, all slaps on the back and shouts for tequila shots, with the automatic smile I’d perfected. My body worked the taps and the register, but my focus was a homing beacon locked onto the stool in the middle of the bar. Omar sat up a little straighter now. He watched the room, his earlier panic softened into a kind of cautious study. He was learning the rules. Good.
When the chaos of the round died down, I drifted back to him. He’d swiveled on his stool to face the room, his back to the bar. I leaned close, speaking just above the music into the space between his shoulder and his ear. “See anything you like yet?”
He didn’t turn, but his head tilted slightly toward my voice. “Lots of things. Not sure if I like them. It’s… a lot.”
“It’s supposed to be. It’s a feast. But you don’t have to eat everything on the table.” I picked up his water glass, refilled it from the filtered tap, and set it back down beside his elbow. “Your pepsi’s flat, by the way. Can I get you a fresh one?”
He finally turned, that small smile playing on his lips again. “You just don’t want me drinking whiskey.”
“I don’t want you doing anything you’ll regret before last call.”
“What if I regret not doing something?” The question was sharp, pointed. It was the first real hint of steel underneath the softness.
I liked it. I leaned my elbows back on the counter behind me, mirroring his posture. “That’s the better regret. Trust me. So. You from around here?”
He shook his head. “Suburbs. Feels like a different planet.”
“It is. Why tonight? What made you get on the spaceship?”
He traced a circle in the condensation on his fresh glass. “Tired of the view from my bedroom window. Tired of… wondering.” He looked up. “You ask a lot of questions for a bartender.”
“I’m not just a bartender,” I said, holding his gaze. “And you’re not just a customer. Not anymore.”
The noise of the club swelled around us—the shriek of a laugh, the thump of the bass, the clatter of glass—but for a second, it felt muffled, distant. He was really seeing me, past the tank top and the practiced smiles. It was unnerving. Exhilarating.
“What are you, then?” he asked, his voice low.
“Right now?” I pushed off the counter. “I’m getting off in twenty minutes. My shift ends. That’s what I am.”
His eyes widened a fraction. He swallowed. “And then?”
A guy two seats down flagged me for a bill. I held up a one-second finger to him, my eyes never leaving Omar’s. “Then I usually go home. To my quiet apartment. And I listen to the city noises and wonder if everyone else is having more fun.”
Omar’s fingers stopped tracing the glass. He took a breath, as if steeling himself. “I have good weed.” He said it quickly, like he was throwing a punch he wasn’t sure would land. “At my place. It’s closer than the suburbs. Just a ten-minute walk. If you… if you wanted something less loud.” He paused, the courage seeming to falter for a second. “Do you smoke?”
The invitation hung in the smoky air. It wasn’t the blunt “you should come over” I was used to. It was tentative, an offering. An alternative to the loneliness of my apartment and the roar of the bar. It was a side door out of the usual script.
I looked at him—the genuine curiosity in his eyes, the slight tremble in his hands now resting on his knees, the hope he was trying so hard not to show. This wasn't a trap. It was an exploration. And for the first time in a long time, I wanted to explore, too.
A slow smile spread across my face. “Yeah,” I said, my voice dropping. “I smoke.”
“I smoke.” The words left my mouth, and the decision felt both terrifying and absolutely right.
The next twenty minutes dragged. I cleaned glasses, ran tabs, smiled emptily at customers, all while feeling the warm pinprick of his gaze on the back of my neck. When my replacement, Marco, finally swaggered in smelling of clove cigarettes, I didn’t even bother with a proper handoff. I just slapped his shoulder, mumbled “It’s all yours,” and ducked under the bar flap.
Omar was already standing by the frosted doors, looking like he was about to bolt. The neon glow from the sign outside painted the side of his face in pinks and blues. He’d put his jacket on—a nice, practical parka that screamed ‘suburbs’.
“Ready to escape?” I asked, shrugging into my own worn leather jacket.
He nodded, a quick, nervous jerk of his chin.
The cold night air hit us like a wall of static, washing away the sticky bar heat. It was a relief. The city sounds were different out here—less bass, more sirens and the distant whine of streetcars. We fell into step together, the rhythm awkward at first. Our breath plumed in the air between us.
“So, ten-minute walk, huh?” I said, steering us east, away from the club strip.
“More or less. I share a place with a roommate. He’s away for the weekend.” He said it like he was offering a crucial piece of intel.
“Lucky.” I let the word hang for a beat. “The roommate being away, I mean.”
He shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “Yeah.”
The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was charged. It was the kind of quiet where you can hear every thought screaming in your own head. We passed a shuttered bodega, its metal grate covered in fading flyers. I decided to break the seal.
“You know, you never answered my question fully. Back at the bar.”
“Which one?”
“The ‘what do you want’ one.”
He kept his eyes on the cracked pavement ahead. “I think I was starting to.”
“And?”
He took a deep breath. “And… I’m not sure I have the vocabulary for it yet.”
I nudged him gently with my elbow. “Try me. I’m fluent in several dialects of desire.”
That got a small, huffed laugh out of him. “Okay. You asked for it.” He squared his shoulders. “The curiosity… it’s not theoretical anymore. It’s like an itch. A real, physical thing. But the rulebook I got issued doesn’t have chapters for this.”
“Fuck the rulebook,” I said, easily. “Seriously. Tear it up. Use it for rolling papers.”
“It’s not that simple.” His voice was tight now, strained. “Everything is tied together. Family. Faith. Who I’m supposed to be. It feels like wanting one thing means setting fire to a whole forest of other things.”
I understood that more than I wanted to say. The eternal calculus of loss. “So what have you done about the itch, Omar? Before tonight.”
He was quiet for so long I thought he might not answer. The only sounds were our footfalls and the distant wail of an ambulance.
“Nothing,” he finally whispered. Then, louder, as if to convince himself of the truth of it: “Nothing, really. Just… thinking. Watching. Online, sometimes.” He glanced at me, his expression vulnerable and defiant. “I’ve only been with women. A few, in college. It was… fine. Nice, even. But it never felt like it was supposed to. It never scratched the itch. It just made me aware of a different kind of… ache.”
We stopped at a crosswalk, the red hand glowing against the night. I turned to face him. “And being with a man? That’s the itch?”
He met my gaze, the city lights reflected in his dark eyes. “Yes. But saying it out loud… it makes it a real object in the world. You know? Before, it was just a ghost in my head. Now, I’ve said it to another person. To you.” He looked terrified. He looked alive.
The light changed. We crossed.
“It doesn’t have to be a big deal,” I said, my voice softer than I intended. “It can just be a… test run. An experiment. No labels, no lifetime commitments. Just two people seeing if the chemistry works outside a sticky bar.”
“Is that what this is?” he asked. “A test run?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know what this is. I walked you home because you offered me good weed and a quiet place to sit. Anything else…” I let the sentence trail off, leaving the possibilities hanging in the cold air between us. “That’s up to you.”
He nodded, absorbing this. We turned onto a quieter, tree-lined street. The brownstones here were older, stately.
“This is me,” he said, stopping in front of a three-story building with a black wrought-iron gate. He fumbled for his keys.
As he unlocked the gate, the metallic screech loud in the quiet street, he spoke again, his back to me. “I’m scared I won’t know what to do.”
I stepped through the gate after him, into the small, shadowed front garden. The scent of damp earth and cold brick surrounded us. I reached out and touched his arm, stopping him before he could put the key in the main door.
“Benji, I—”
“Omar,” I said, cutting him off. “Look at me.”
He turned. We were close now, sheltered by the brick archway. I could see every fleck of uncertainty in his eyes. “You don’t have to know what to do. You just have to know what you want to feel.” I let my hand slide down his arm until my fingers just brushed his. “And you have to say stop if you want to stop.”
His breath was shallow. He looked from my eyes to my mouth and back again.
The world had shrunk to this dim space, the distant city hum our only soundtrack. He leaned in, just a fraction. An invitation. A question.
The main door of the neighboring house slammed shut, making us both jump apart. The spell snapped, but the connection didn’t break. It thrummed in the space between us, more potent than before.
Omar let out a shaky breath, almost a laugh. “The universe has terrible timing.”
“The universe is a dick,” I agreed, smiling. “Now, are you going to let me in, or are we going to keep confessing our secrets to the hydrangeas?”
He finally got the door open, warmth and the faint scent of sandalwood incense spilling out into the night. He held it open for me, his body blocking the light from the hallway for a moment.
“After you,” he said. His voice had changed. The nervous tremor was still there, but underneath it was a new layer of resolve.
I stepped past him, into the warmth, the door clicking shut behind us, sealing us inside together. The walk was over. The real conversation was just beginning.
The real conversation was just beginning.
The apartment was a warm, cluttered capsule, a stark contrast to the sleek, impersonal noise of the bar. Textbooks were stacked on a low IKEA coffee table beside a well-used hookah. The air smelled like sandalwood and faintly of cumin. Omar flicked on a lamp, shedding a soft, buttery light over the room. He shrugged off his parka, revealing a simple gray henley that hugged his slender frame.
“Make yourself at… well, wherever,” he said, gesturing vaguely at a sagging corduroy sofa. “I just need to…” He drifted toward a small desk, opening a drawer.
I toed off my boots and sank into the sofa. It let out a sigh of old springs. I watched him. The nervous energy from the street was still there, humming under his skin, but it had a new focus. He pulled out a small, elegant wooden box from the drawer.
He sat on the floor, his back against the sofa near my legs, and opened it. Inside was a dealer’s tidy arsenal: a sleek grinder, a pack of rolling papers, a lighter, and a small stash of dense, green bud. He picked up the grinder with a quiet reverence.
“You look like you’ve done that before,” I said, amused. The nervous kid from the bar was gone, replaced by someone executing a practiced, personal ritual.
A small, proud smile touched his lips. “I like things done right.” He cracked the grinder open, the sound sharp in the quiet room. The earthy, pungent scent of the weed bloomed instantly. He dumped the crushed herb onto a glossy magazine page, his fingers—so anxious before at the bar—moving with a surgeon’s steady precision. He pinched and spread the material, split a paper from its pack, and began to roll. His tongue touched the edge of the gum strip, sealing it in one smooth motion. He repeated the process, and in less than a minute, two perfect, tight joints rested on the coffee table like little sculptures.
He handed one to me. Our fingers brushed. His were warm. “Here.”
“Thanks.” I took it, impressed. “You’re a pro.”
He looked up at me, the lamplight catching the gold in his dark eyes. He chewed his lower lip for a second, a flicker of the earlier uncertainty returning. “So. I have a thing. When I smoke here. I, um. I like to be comfortable.” He took a breath, his gaze dropping for a second before meeting mine again. “I like smoking in my boxers. If that’s… is that okay with you?”
The question hung in the warm air. It wasn’t a come-on. It was a statement of preference, a request for entry into his private comfort. It was unbelievably, disarmingly honest.
A slow smile spread across my face. “You asking me to take my pants off, Omar?”
He flushed beautifully. “I’m asking if it’s okay if I do. You can do… whatever you want.”
“It’s your world,” I said, leaning back. “I’m just visiting. Be comfortable.”
He nodded, that resolve solidifying again. He stood up, and with his back to me, he pushed his jeans down his hips. He stepped out of them, folded them neatly over the arm of a chair. He was in a simple pair of black boxer briefs. He had gorgeous legs, slender but strong, and that plump ass was just as perfect as the jeans had promised.
He settled back onto the floor, cross-legged now, and picked up his joint. He lit it, the end glowing orange, and took a long, deep pull. He held it, then exhaled a slow, fragrant plume toward the ceiling. Some of the remaining tension seemed to leave his shoulders with the smoke.
He passed the joint to me. Our exchange was wordless. I took a hit, the familiar expansive warmth spreading in my chest. The quality was good—clean and sharp. I passed it back.
“You’re staring,” he said quietly, a hint of a challenge in his voice.
“Yeah,” I admitted, exhaling. “I am. It’s a nice view.”
He didn’t look away. He took another pull, held it, then spoke on the exhale, his voice softer, coated with smoke. “What do you see?”
I considered him. The sharp line of his jaw, the softness of his mouth, the curious, guarded intelligence in his eyes. “I see a guy who’s a lot braver than he thinks he is.”
He snorted softly, a surprisingly ungraceful sound. “Brave? I’m sitting on my floor in my underwear trying not to freak out.”
“You walked into that bar. You talked to me. You asked me here. You just told me exactly how you like to be in your own space.” I ticked the points off on my fingers. “That’s a fuck of a lot braver than most people pulling that shit in the back booths tonight.”
He passed the joint back to me. “What do they want? Those men in the booths.”
“The usual. To feel powerful. To feel desired. To forget their shitty day.” I took a hit. “To not be alone for a few hours.”
“Is that what you want?” he asked. The question wasn’t accusatory. It was genuine, searching.
The smoke curled from my lips. I looked at the joint between my fingers, the faint trail rising. “I’m tired of the usual,” I said finally, meeting his gaze. “It gets… repetitive. Empty.”
“So what’s unusual?” he pressed. He was leaning forward slightly, elbows on his knees. The light traced the line of his neck, the dip of his collarbone under the henley.
“This,” I said, gesturing vaguely between us with the joint. “Talking. Actually talking. The prelude without a guaranteed finale.”
He absorbed that, taking the joint from me for his turn. He studied the glowing ember. “I don’t think I could do the other thing. The… casual, meaningless thing. It would break something in me. I think I’d get too attached.”
His raw honesty was a physical thing in the room. It demanded the same in return. “Maybe getting attached isn’t the worst thing,” I heard myself say. The words felt foreign, risky.
He looked at me, his eyes wide and clear in the lamplight. “No?”
I shook my head slowly. “No.”