As we drove the downtown streets, passing by the walking pedestrians were minding their own lives as they either brought their cats or dogs for a walk or hung their bags on their backs. Just as we moved past them faster than a cheetah, I realized that we never even got past the 24-hour mark of knowing each other, and we had already got onto the horny part of what seemed to be a budding romance between us. I looked at Gale and wondered, he’s literally an open book where anyone could come and go in his life—am I one of those people? If anything, we’re both serenading each other for the purpose of getting laid, with no intention of reaching for more. Maybe that wasn’t the case, or maybe it was just me. What matters at this very moment is that I like him, just as he is to me. Gale noticed I looked at him and he smiled a faint one before turning back to the road far ahead from us.

I remember how, once upon the swerving era of the 70s, one influential man courted his girl for eleven days. He told her that should he marry her, he would court her forever. I, for one, am not a fan of this man I am talking about, but his saying that to her is the only good thing that he did. I’m not talking about how he managed to attain a powerful stand in a populous land and how he played them with the palm of his hand alongside his wife, like Bonnie and Clyde. I’m also not talking about how they literally became the pseudo-mafia of such a land.  Go figure.

From the windshield, I saw a young boy in their front yard hanging from a tree like a monkey, trying to reach an apple from it. His mother came outside and scolded him to “get the fuck down there, Manasseh, you one cheeky little brat” before that guy went down and lost his footing. Luckily, she caught him right in her loving arms before pinching his ears to reprimand the poor boy. I chuckled, and Gale looked at me in confusion. “Oh, nothing; I just remembered something from my childhood,” I remember when I was a child, probably that guy’s age, I tried climbing up a tree and sadly fell from it, dislocating my arm in the process. It got healed, luckily, but its injury is visible with this asymmetrical right arm of mine. Oh, how I wished someone saved me that time. But, oh well.

Gale shrugged and moved on driving before we finally reached our destination—a bar.

Wait, what—?

“What do you mean, ‘what’, Art?” Gale shockingly asked, “Have you listened to me when I said my second job’s a macho dancer in a gay bar?”

It seems the phantom of puzzlement possessed my light-headed and malfunctioning brain cells a while ago; I never heard him say that during the whole ride! I opened my mouth to retaliate but shut it when I saw him scratched his head and laughed.

“Jesus Christ, Arthur. You really are something.” He hopped out of the car, leaving my satchel in the front seat, which I took. His carrying it the whole ride made my bag smell like his cologne. “I’m sure you’re above the MLDA, so I don’t think your parents or old pal—whoever it is, won’t mind.”

La taverne et restaurant du Apollo, or La Taverne as it is called, is blinded with tons of neon lights all around. From the outside, its bright signage invites people who want to have some fun inside their mysterious domicile. There is a quite-fancy restaurant on the façade, filled with numerous mouth-watering viands and appetizers served by many waiters dressed elegantly. The sparkling chandelier and the wood-tiled floors give off sophistication as our footsteps reverberate through the room. Linen-covered wooden tables of round, adorned with shining silverware are scattered in the area; many of them are filled with people peacefully eating their ordered foods. Like a necklace, plants of the brightest greeneries adorned the whole of the restaurant. We passed by them and into the security guard who was guarding the glass-paned doors. A security checkpoint, which is perhaps a result of some underage having access through the not-so-forbidden abode. Gale gave his ID and told him that I was one of his mates who’d be taking a night here. Upon verifying his list and the ID given, the guard looked at my ID before he opened the door. As he did, loud pop music banged my ears open and wide. I instantly covered them, yet Gale here seems to be unaffected by it. I gave up covering them when it never worked. At all.

Inside were men dancing and jumping, enjoying the music played by the DJ above, all while some were sitting with a few naked men crawling on them, flirting, obviously. There is also a stage in front, just below the DJ, where everyone, even from where I’m standing, could see all the dancers dancing naked. The whole of the bar is based on Greek mythological gods and goddesses, as the whole of them is filled with statues of men and women unclothed and evocative, as they should be. I’m pretty sure Apollo was a Greek god, given by the design of the place. Wait, I think he’s a Roman one. Oh, I don’t know, fuck that. On the side was a bar counter where a bartender was shaking a few concoctions on the cup for a customer, who, unsurprisingly, had someone clinging to the customer like a bear. This guy’s red as a rose and would probably get knocked off when someone punches him.

If I were to compare this to anything at all, it would be like reading what is supposed to be a cutesy romance novel by its cover, only to find out from the inside that it is all more about a lot of traumas yet to be unpacked and tons of drama and mystery shrouding it. What’s the point of judging the cover, then?

“I’m pretty sure this will be a pretty rough night for—!” I left my speech hanging in em-dashes as I found Gale nowhere to be found. “Gale, where are you?” The loud music drowned my equally loud voice, and all I could do was sit at the barstool on the counter, waiting for him to go out and watch him on his undies while impressing his customers with his chiseled body. I heard a ring on my phone. I opened it and saw a notification from Portfolio that I had a text from someone I don’t know. Curious, I opened it and saw Gale’s name, along with a friend request. I accepted it without any second thought and looked at the message that he had just left for me.

I’m sooooo sorry that i have to leave you art there, the manager just called me and hes literally wrekcing my ears because im so damn late t.t t.t

You could try and sit at the counter and order a few drinks,, ill coverrrrrr itttttttttttttttt <3 <3

Just as I was about to reply to his message, the bartender closed his distance towards me with a drink in his hand. “One cup of margarita,” he said. I was confused, but with his thumb, he pointed toward a rather cute man who was also alone. He’s in his hood and is so far away that I could not recognize an inch of his face. I smiled at the bartender, thanking him for it while also asking for a cocktail. Mango.  He nodded at my request and went away to gather the things he needed for that drink. Meanwhile, another man approached me and sat on the barstool beside me.

“You’re quite a cutie, did you know that?”

I know this kind of conversation opener. I have heard this flirtatious quote so many times throughout my entire life, as I was, I have to admit, a regular customer at a bar back in the land of the morning. Many of the one-time partners I have met on social dating sites always set their venue on a bar. Not even once had one of those partners not asked that question to me. Before, I was repulsed by this question because it felt like they only wanted my body. Now that I’m in my 20s, it’s like reading the palm of my hand. Facing this kind of guy, who I think is a top if we’re going to assume based on his muscular physique (although muscular bottoms exist), it felt like I was practicing my flirting skills, checking whether your Arthur is rust-brained already.

I chuckled and took a sip at the margarita at hand. “Top or bottom?” I looked at him in a way those kinds of people wanted me to. I know that I have Gale, but then again . . . we’re not really that past the point of being actual lovers, but more like de facto fuck buddies. Sans the fucking part, of course. He gestured his hand in such a way that his thumb and pinky finger stuck out while the rest were clenched. A versa, not bad.

In discreet gay signs, we have learned that there are signs that we could gesture so that one will know exactly what position he prefers. It was just released recently and has been accepted by many community members all around the world. What he just gestured is a versa sign; he’s fine taking and giving whatever his partner wishes. For a top sign, you need to stick out your thumb, index, and middle finger. For a bottom sign, the ring and pinky will do, the thumb tucked inside the index and middle. There are also variations, such as when you are a bottom but sometimes take the top role, you just do the bottom sign, clench the whole hand, then sign the top sign; doing the reverse will give you the opposite meaning.

I nodded and signed a top sign. “It doesn’t look like I am, but I am.” I then clenched my hand and signed a bottom sign before resting my hand on the half-empty glass of margarita. As if on cue, the bartender served my mango cocktail.

“That’s refreshing to see. One in his youthful ripeness, one desiring for youthful pleasures of the flesh.” I spat my drink and laughed uncontrollably. Is he a writer from the 1880s? I looked carefully at his attire: a beret of what color I couldn’t distinguish because of the changing lights of the bar, a long open trench coat (also with colors unknown), and an obviously khaki dress and dark pants entrapped with a brown pair of suspenders. Compared to the vibe of the whole of the bar, he stands out like a sore thumb. “What? I’m trying to be cool here!” He laughed, covering his mouth.

“Wrong era, Shakespeare.” I downed my margarita before pushing the empty goblet aside, holding the mango cocktail in my hand. Now that I took quite a closer look at him, he seems oddly familiar, but maybe it’s just me. I do not have the habit of remembering people’s faces when they are not directly talking to me. I stretched my hand to him for a handshake. “Art, a surviving descendant of Jane Seymour.” A white lie won’t hurt.

“Oh, I know you. I’ve met you already at The Espresso.” He caressed my hair with the back of his hand. “Arthur Seymour.”

Maybe it was the margarita, but I felt disoriented on the spot, and somewhat a surge of adrenaline flowed through my blood like haywire. Memories of past recollections rewound in my brain, but hazy as it is, my short-term memories could not recognize the man. Except I did. There was one recollection that matched his demeanor with the one I remember.

“Amadeo Lucas.” Oh, yeah, I smirked. That motherfucking painter. But wait a sec . . . if Amadeo’s in a gay bar, then doesn’t that mean . . .

A lightbulb went off inside my head. Oh. I see. A smug ran through across my face.