Sitting there at the back of the bar a few years ago watching the dancing, the music more of an echo than a pulse, the solitude of being alone with everyone was broken as he slid across the booth next to me. His thick denim-clad thigh was quickly against mine. He smelled the same brutish way he had 10 years ago. The throw of the gyrating dance floor lights cast hypnotically against his familiar face—wrinkles falling into shadows highlighting dimples. There was no need for the theatrics of catching up or being surprised. We smiled. Even after it all just faded away years ago we were still happy to see each other. They were about to leave, he said gesturing towards some hot young guy, face illuminated by his text screen, waiting by the door but he didn't want to go with out saying 'Hi,' nor without saying something he had wanted to for a while. With his hand on my leg, I reached for my drink, securing my lips against the straw as I moved in. The front of his face saddled up to the side of mine. With the brush of his stubble against the top of my jaw, his warm beer breath awash across my ear, he whispered slowly "We should have had more sex," stretching out each syllable, "I would have gone–further."
His bottom lip touched my earlobe on his last word. My breath gave out, I swallowed hard, choking on my ginger ale, letting the hard plastic cup find its own way back to the table top nearby as ice flew across our laps. I pulled back to face him. His eyes were a bit drunk but focused. He held eye contact as he slid away. With his hands beneath him he lifted himself up to go, his shoulders coming together, his button-up shirt went slack exposing the top of his chest. It looked different, less perfect, more inviting. The tattoo above his heart was obscured by hair I couldn't remember being there. Before he turned and walked away he cocked his head and dialed his smile up a few watts, his eyebrows arching to the heavens. All of it had worked. He had won. I sat there feeling wide-eyed, slightly winded, hot with desire, regret and wonder. It had not just faded away years ago as I liked to tell myself. I had killed it—tormented by what I wanted, and obsessed with not being one of "those gays" who let sex run their lives, I was too afraid of my own body and desires to let go. I watched him leave, desperately wanting sex to run my life.
I left the bar, letting the Edmonton autumn night air bite at, and then numb my ears as I walked down Jasper Avenue alone, remembering how I use to revel in watching other people walk towards parked cars, waiting cabs or the bathhouse, imagining what they would do to each other as soon they could. I would halt my growing excitement with judgment, consoling myself into thinking going home alone was the right thing to do, choosing to forget my fear of taking off my shirt or how I would let my dread and desire of what might happen stop me from indulging.
Even now, again, years later, walking home from the bar, Gaga echoing in the ether, Britney and Xtina busy with babies and Jasper Ave more alive than I ever, I pass the Macs on 113th and the glow of the telephone booth out front reminds the more things change, the more they stay the same. Sex and shame remain together. For all the leaps forward I make, or advances the gay rights movement puts forward as success, the most radical and enduring thing I can do is own my sex. Barrelling through my 30s memories of what could have been pile up in the recess of my mind: I don't want to get stuck. I want to let go, move forward, not be afraid of being "one of those gays" but rather enjoy being the queer man that I am. I think this means opening up, letting go, letting sex in and ensuring that sex circulates.
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