Sure, working at a bar that never closes sounds fun, until you’re pulling 14-hour shifts five days a week as security, bar back, stocking, cleaning, and on-the-fly maintenance man; doing drugs just to get through work because by the time you clock out, sit down and have a beer you can actually enjoy, it’s 6:30am, the sun is fully up, it’s already 80℉ and 92% humidity outside, and you have to feed and walk two dogs, eat, and sleep, all in A rapidly shrinking seven-and-a-half hour window.
And sometimes you’re just sick of being at your job, $1 beers be damned.
This was one such Sunday morning. I had survived another week babysitting people on their worst behavior, and I couldn’t fathom being in this bar anymore. Thankfully, the leather bar on the next block was also a 24/7/365 establishment, and y’know what, that should be quiet on a Sunday morning. Off I go, cash in hand, sweaty, reeking of beer, still running on the powdery fumes that got me through the work week.
Stepping through the front doors into the relative darkness of the bar carried the tinge of excitement that comes with every unchaperoned visit to a gay bar. Sure, mostly deadened by physical exhaustion, but still, what’s behind this door, I think to myself. Well, for starters it’s one of the many barflies of the local gay scene. 6’6”, British, and either a Gift-Giving, home-invading scumbag, or a guy who’s had a string of bad luck and bad encounters with manipulative loud-mouthed liars happy to play the victim. Honestly, in New Orleans it’s a tougher call than you might think; small town, low inhibitions, high substance intake. Talk about a perfect storm. (Oh stop booing, it’s clever!)
Slide onto a stool at the bar, PBR thanks, cash down, bottle up, big swig followed by a satisfied sigh. Fuck am I glad it’s finally the weekend, said proudly to no one in particular.
You just get off, then? Perceptible accent, but nothing goofy or overwrought.
Hook, line, and sinker.
Sure, at this point I have no intentions or goals, just merely the lustful id of a sleep-deprived, thoroughly un-sober, homosexual male. So we chat. We chat well into my third beer before moving out back to the covered smoking patio; take that, natural sunlight! Somehow, standing next to this burly, limey giant, who resembles Bill Burr (but definitely attractive), and we’ve reached that part of male flirtation where we’re both indulging our oral fixations while visibly groping/rearranging our genitals through the front of our jeans. He finishes his beer, sets the bottle down, and grabs me by the back of my neck like I’m some snotty teenager acting up in shop class.
Come on, now.
You lead the way, fuck am I always this bratty?
Roughly 15 steps later and he’s pushed me ahead of him into the bathroom. Hand loosens on my neck, then tightens on my shoulder. Knees, now. Oh, okay, so we’re doing this, that’s cool, I’m game. Turns out the rumors are true, he’s at least 9” soft, and about as thick as a 16oz can, so, y’know, God Save the Queen indeed. He shoves his cock into my mouth, grips the back of my head, and says one word. Swallow.
He unloads his bladder full of fresh recycled beer into my mouth—warm, slight tang but mostly just reminds me of shower water—across my tongue, down my throat. There I am, Sunday morning on my knees in a bathroom drinking some man’s piss. While another man watches in the doorway. A challenger approaches.
Don’t worry, I’m almost done, said with such matter-of-factness, like he’s just using a payphone or studying a street-map. The stream loses force, volume diminishes, and next thing I know he’s patting me on the back of the head, good boy, retrieving his cock from my mouth, zipping up his fly, and exiting the room.
All yours.
At this point I find myself so aroused and bewildered simultaneously that I’m not even sure what man-number-two looks like. No words are exchanged. Merely a faggot (me) serving a man (him) as the universe intended; as the universe, or fates, or whimsy, or whatever so often does, the morning is capped in a trio, in third, a Hat Trick for the Horny Trinity. Man number two finishes, is replaced with man number three, and—I am proud to mention—I haven’t spilled a drop, gagged, choked, or generally behaved like an immature, unqualified supplicant. It helps to enjoy the things you’re good at.
All alone, catching my breath, feeling the cold tile through the knees of my jeans. I manage to stand in one fluid motion, both legs stiff but not yet asleep or locked, and try to stroll out of the bathroom as convincingly nonchalant as possible. Illusion shattered immediately.
Your tab’s on the house, champ, as the bartender sets another cold beer down for me.
Hallelujah.
Thomas Boettner is originally from South Carolina; he has lived in Anchorage, Minneapolis, New Orleans, and currently Providence, RI with his dog. His first book, Bar-Hopping Towards Armageddon, was graciously published in 2022 by Blamage Books. You may know him better by his primary Power Electronics project, Straight Panic.