Hot Tramp

by Erik D'Souza

needs to know that he’s actually in tech support. His mere presence has gotten me out of several tight spots in the past.

  Bal doesn’t comment on the fact that breeders are entering his territory, many homosexuals dislike the presence of straight folk in their bars. Instead Bal inquires, “Do you guys come here lots?”

  “Sometimes. I like it here on Thursdays, when they have the drag queen competitions.”

  “You should enter,” he suggests.

  “Nah, it’s not for me. I can’t wear heels.” I want to change the subject, so I ask, “What about you, did you come with any friends?”

  “Everyone here is my friend. These are my people.”

  “Okay, sure.” I put off his comment, assuming that it is false bravado.

  “Look, I’ll prove it to you,” he says. “Point out a guy and I’ll tell you all about him. I’ll tell you more than you’d want to know.”

  “Sure, I’m game.” I’m always game. I aim my finger at a tall guy, dancing shirtless even though his stomach is as round as a punch bowl.

  “That’s Willy,” Bal says. “Awful name, but nice enough guy. He’s bisexual. He’s motto is ‘every hole is a goal’. He pretty much only sleeps with men. He says that he prefers women, but they never agree to fuck him. Men on the other hand will screw in the bathroom for less than the price of a drink. He’s pretty funny. Small cock though, I had pictured bigger, considering his height. Goes to show that you never can tell… you’re pretty tall.”

  I ignore Bal’s last comment and point out a short, Persian looking man, with thick chest hair protruding from his Armani exchange t-shirt and a watch that’s as big as a tennis ball. “Him,” I say.

  “That’s Alphonse. He’s Slovakian, left his homeland right before the velvet revolution. He calls himself a communist, but he’s pretty rich. Made his money dealing pot, but got out before any gangs could extort him. Smart, I guess.”

  I don’t know why, maybe because I’m getting caught up in this game, but I ask, “How big is his cock?”

  “Believe it or not, but I haven’t slept with every guy in this bar.”

  “You’re right, I don’t believe it. “

  “See now it’s your type that’s making assumptions about me. You straight cross dressers are all the same.”

  “It’s true; we have a very low opinion of gay guys and your uninhibited lifestyles.”

  “You’re just jealous of my promiscuous existence. Imagine what it’d be like if you could walk into a straight bar, pick whichever girl you’d like, approach her and ask if she’d like to screw. As fine as you are, you’d still get slapped in the face, because women pride themselves as being a little harder to obtain. Men, on the other hand, aren’t burdened with such notions as self-worth. We are primal and any opportunity for pleasure can be seized. Ask any guy here for a blowjob and he’d probably say sure.”

  “You’re right, I’m a little jealous” I admit. I want to remind his about Aids, but what’s the point, he knows the risk to his ways of life.

  I have been watching a slender, white girl, wearing the shortest red dress, shaking her ass on the dance floor. Even the queers are watching her as she gyrates; it’s almost an art form. Salome must have danced before Herod in a similar manner. My guess is that she’s a stripper with the night off. “What do you know about her?” I ask my companion, curious to know if he is as well informed about the women as he is the men.

  “That’s Mya. She’s bisexual too,” he enlightens me. “But I’ve never known her to have slept with another woman. I think that she pretends to be bi because it’s sexy. AS if she needed the help. That girl can sleep with anyone she wants. Hell, even I’d consider getting with her.”

  “I’m sold. You sure know a lot of people,” I concede.

  “Knowledge itself is power, Sir Francis Bacon,” Bal says.

  “Ahh, but you have only collected information and to quote Albert Einstein, information is not knowledge.”

  “I like you Eric. Are you sure you’re not gay.”

  “Pretty sure,” I say.

  “Too bad, you’d like it on this side.”

  “Perhaps,” I say. “But I wouldn’t like it inside me.” That’s the booze talking.

  We start rambling about work, and I won’t bore you with the details. The only thing duller than work is talking about work. And yet here we are, discussing policies and rumors and trading gossip about our co-workers. Luckily Johan soon joins us and comments, “picked up already, Eric.”

  “This is Bal,” I tell my best friend, as he takes a seat beside me. “We work together at PH.”

  “Sure you do,” Johan smiles and notifies the bartender that he needs a new pint.

  The music is getting very techno and I’m trying to disregard it. I haven’t drunk enough to enjoy such mono-rythmatic noise. I ingest my ale with haste, and the bartender offers to get me a new one.

  “Have you ever had a gin and tonic?” Bal asks. “Butchy here, pours a mean G n’ T.”

  Of course I’ve had a gin and tonic. What kind of question is that? I’ve never thought it to be special. But our bartender is grinning, “Bal’s right,” he says. “It’s my specialty. The trick is that I squeeze in a hint of lemon and a lot of love.”

  I don’t see how that would make such an impact, but still it would be rude of me not to order one now. And I’m Canadian, so it’s impossible for me to be rude.

  “I’ll have one too, Butchy.” Bal says.

  As our bartender leaves to prepare his specialty, I can’t help but ask a dumb question, “Is his name really Butchy?”

  “Hell if I know,” Bal says. “But I’ve been calling him that for years.”

  I want to ask if he’s slept with him too, but it’s one of those odd moments that I occasionally have, when I opt for discretion. I guess I don’t really care anyways. I get the point, gay men get to have lots of fun and have sex with strangers. But it’s a small community, and eventually there are no strangers left. Just guys that you’ve had sex with already, but can’t remember their names.

  Butchy returns with two blue highballs, each garnished with a slice of lime and a maraschino cherry. He slides them over with a smirk, obviously proud of his labour. “Thank you,” I say and take a sip. I’m not expecting anything more than a lemon twist in a watered down drink. Instead I discover the opposite. “Is there any tonic in this?”

  Bal laughs and I realize that he gets served stronger drinks than the average patron. Johan snaps up my glass and samples the highly touted concoction. “Nope,” he says. “That’s pure gin.”

  I’m not used to drinks this strong, until recently I only drank beer and the occasional glass of red wine. Hard alcohol is relatively new to me. It’s what we drank out of shot glasses when we decided that the night was special and should end with our heads buried in toilets. Bal doesn’t seem to mind its potency. It’s obvious that he’s a seasoned alcoholic. “I can guarantee you that there’s some tonic water in this drink, maybe not a lot, but definitely some,” Bal says.

  “If there is, I don’t taste it.” Johan says.

  “Let’s get a table and I’ll teach you boys something new.” There’s a free table not far from the bar, so the three of us grab it before someone else can. The seats are nice and plush, far more relaxing than the bar stools.

  Bal sits up straight in his chair, proud of the knowledge that he is about to share with us. “It’s comes down to science. Tonic water contains quinine, a natural white crystalline alkaloid. Quinine has the distinct quality of glowing bright blue in UV lights, of which there is plenty of in here.”

  I was not expecting a science lesson tonight. In fact it was the last thing that I had anticipated, but there you go, we all learnt something new.

  Johan seems less impressed. Something on the dance floor has caught his eye. I disregard the fact that he isn’t mesmerized by this blue, scientific tidbit. He nudges me, insisting that I see what he’s seeing. Two girls a
re making out on the dance floor. I recognize Mya’s dress. I guess there’s some bisexuality in her after all. As a red-blooded breeder I have little choice but to lean back and enjoy the show, sipping on my gin and taking in the moment.

  “Holy shit, that’s Scarlet,” Johan exclaims.

  I should have recognized my ex, but her face was obstructed. I like calling Scarlet my ex, because she’s beautiful. In reality we only dated for a couple of months, when we were still kids. Our relationship could have been described as awkward, and it didn’t take her long to say the words that everyone hates to hear, “We should just be friends.” I loved her so much I said sure. I just wanted to keep her in my life. Eventually, we did grow to be just friends. When I moved here from Montreal, she followed me. She’s the closest thing I have to a little sister, but technically not my sister, so it’s okay for me to watch her making out with another girl.

  “You boys are so typical,” Bal notes with mocked disdain.

  “What do you know about the girl that Mya is making out with?” I ask.

  “That’s Scarlet,” he reports. “Forget you ever saw her; she’s pure trouble.”

  “She’s my ex,” I admit, each word soaked with narcissism. And yes, Bal is correct again, she is pure trouble.

  “Ohh, now that’s a juicy bit of information,” he says. I’ve just become a little bit more interesting to my new friend. “It’s hard for me to imagine the two of you together.”

  “To quote the great philosopher, Willy,” I