The Hotel Bar

"Good night, Clay," I whispered, pulling my hand away and smelling you on it.

"Good night, Jacks."

When I awoke, I expected you to be gone. Like I said earlier, I knew the straight guy story, you spend a night tripping the light fantastic, then you wake up the next morning disgusted, you may throw up, you skulk away, so you can pretend you didn't do any of the things that you had so enjoyed doing.

Instead, you were in the shower. I wanted to join you, to have you fuck me my favorite way, standing, my arms braced against the wall. But, I knew you may have been feeling differently in the light of day than you had felt in the dark of night. And, I didn't want to take any of the polish off what had been, for me, a magical night.

So, I wrote you a note:

Thanks for everything, Clay. It was great. Here's my number. If you're ever in Columbus, feel free to call or text. NSA. Jacks.

I didn't expect ever to hear from you, much less to see you. But, a little over a year later, when my memories of our night together had dulled almost to the point of disappearance, I received a text from a number I didn't recognize:

This is Clay, from Chicago. I know it's a long shot, but any chance you're free tonight? I'm in Columbus. We could grab a drink at my hotel bar.

To be continued....