Tales of the City 07 - Michael Tolliver Lives

suggested we head out for something to eat. I was ready to take him home by then, having already imagined the feral heat of that furry little body, but I thought it better to let him set the pace. He seemed like a certainty, and buddy sex was sounding pretty good to me, so why the hell not take our time about it?
    I went to pee before we left, and while I was standing at the trough, a guy in tribal tats and a grimy canvas Utilikilt was peeing like a fire hose at the other end. I’d noticed him earlier, watching me from across the room, so I wasn’t surprised when he spoke.
    “Listen,” he said, gazing straight ahead. “It’s none of my business, but…” He shook his dick a few times, then returned it to its Bat Cave under the Utilikilt. “If you’re looking to get fucked tonight, you’re looking in the wrong place.”
    “Excuse me?” I stiffened on the spot—and not in a friendly way, either. The nerve of this asshole, I thought. I had barely even glanced at him.
    “That guy you’re talking to,” he said, “is a transman.”
    I must have taken a little too long to answer.
    “He used to be a girl,” he explained.
    “I know what it means,” I said quietly.
    “No offense, dude. Just thought you should know if you didn’t. I met him once at the Sundance Saloon. There’s nothing down there.”
    He clapped his hand on my shoulder as he left.
    “Just doin’ you a favor,” he said.
    Leaving the toilet, I had a creepy sense of déjà vu. I remembered another guy, another total stranger, who once “did me a favor” by tipping me off that a potential playmate was HIV positive. I should have told him I was positive myself and had no use for his health warning. I should have said I found him ridiculously old-fashioned, since anyone in his right mind these days—especially around here—presumes everyone to be positive, and takes responsibility for his own fucking health, because there is no free ride anymore, you sorry-ass gossipy old leather nancy. I should have said all of that, but I didn’t. I just stood there gaping while he dropped his little stink bomb and sashayed off like a spiteful teenage girl. All he’d wanted, anyway, was to see the look on my face.
    Not unlike the queen in the kilt.

    Jake hopped off the stool as soon as he saw me returning from the rest room. He was about five-six or thereabouts, somewhere in the Tom Cruise range.
    “What’ll it be, buddy? Burritos or burgers?”
    “Either’s fine,” I said.
    As we left the Lone Star together, the kilt queen turned and watched us in undisguised horror.
    I gave him a thumbs-up, just for the hell of it.
    I won’t pretend I wasn’t walloped by the news. Jake’s masculinity was the very thing that had drawn me to him in the first place. It wasn’t some phony butch overlay; it came from deep inside, and it was totally devoid of irony. He didn’t even seem queer to me; he was more like some easygoing straight guy, a guy without trying.
    Except.
    I stole quick glimpses of him as we sauntered toward the taqueria. Under the streetlight his jaw looked just as strong and square as it had in the dark. I tried like hell to see a woman there, but couldn’t. His gait was a little studied, I guess, like a boy rehearsing his swagger on the first day of camp, and I towered over him considerably, but all of that just added to the charm.
    I wondered if his chest was bound or if he’d had surgery. I wondered if his nipples were funny-looking. I wondered if he’d had a penis made out of whatever the fuck they make penises out of. I wondered how often he picked up gay men and if he’d always preferred them to women and if he was scared shitless right now, wondering if I’d already guessed, wondering what I’d do when the other shoe dropped.
    At the taqueria we talked about gardening and the war in Iraq and the nifty new copper-clad museum rising in the park. He tried to talk about the Forty-niners, poor thing, but gave up the effort when it became clear that sports banter was not in my manly repertoire. When our talk turned to where we lived, I knew where we were heading.
    “I’m in the Dubose Triangle,” he said, “but I have roommates.”
    “Ah,” I said, realizing exactly what that “but” meant.
    “How ’bout you?” he asked.
    “I’m up on Noe Hill.”
    “No partner or anything?”
    “Nope.” I smiled at him. “Not for a few years now. I’m just out for fun these days.”
    He nodded solemnly for a moment. “I’m