Quandary

Copyright 2007 Herb Cat. Do not reproduce or distribute this story without the author's permission.

Please note: this story depicts oral and anal sex between male adults. If this offends you or is illegal to publish in your jurisdiction, or you are under the age of 18, read no further.

The characters, locations and incidents in this story are fictional. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

As an author, I welcome feedback on my writing. Please send any comments about this story, positive or negative, to Herb_Cat@mailcity.com. Thank you.

QUANDARY

Charles is in a quandary and you, my reader can help him.

Charles sits on the bar stool and sips his Jack Daniels. What am I doing here? he keeps asking himself. He nurses his whiskey and glances around. Much of it is typical watering hole. Dark lighting. Spinning bar stools. A few small high tables. A handful of booths. Two bartenders, Joe and Frank, repeatedly wiping the bar with towels and asking everyone what can I get you. They seem to sense when and with whom to be solicitous, and for the most part leave Charles alone with his drink and his thoughts. It's Monday evening and the place isn't crowded. A few other men are also at the bar, and three or four pairs of men occupy tables and booths. But certain aspects of the place reinforce the fact The Dark Horse is unlike any bar Charles had been in before. There were no females around. The two bartenders wear bandanas on their necks and Joe keeps calling everyone Sweetie. The C&W is a little too loud, and occasionally one or two pairs of guys get up and two-step around. Over t! he mirror behind the bar is a sign Horse Thieves are Hung; to the right of the caption is a noose and to the left a drawing of a hunky dude in a Stetson, a vest, jeans and chaps that highlight his ample package.

Charles tries to discretely study the other men. They range from mid twenties to early forties. Most look like they work out a few days a week. They're dressed casually in jeans, but Joe and Frank are the only ones who carry out the western motif in their clothes. None of the patrons come close to looking as sexy as the hung horse thief but most aren't half bad looking. Not that 26-year old Charles is interested of course. He realizes if he encountered any of these guys on the street he'd assume they were straight. They have no stereotypical weak wrist mannerisms or voice affectations. They aren't at all like his friend Peter. They talk about baseball not ballet. He is curious if he could develop a working gaydar and how long would it take. But then he wonders again, Why the fuck does a good all-American, elementary school teacher, soon to be married, hetero male, have to sit by himself in a gay bar?

Charles continues to nurse his drink and decides to focus his mind on Gwen. They met the September before last at the new teachers' orientation. Just out of college, she was starting her career with a third grade assignment. He had already taught fifth two years in another district, but when he saw the opening for a speech teacher at Monroe Elementary, he applied and was accepted, happy to be out of the classroom, to be working one-on-one with students in the field he was trained for. They began dating and immediately saw they had a lot of common interests: music, travel, the outdoors. With two girl friends, she had hiked part of the Appalachian Trail after she graduated. He had biked through Ireland one summer. He told her of his plan to bike through Peru some year and asked if she'd like that. Their fellow teachers quickly caught on that the two youngsters, both cute and blond, were an item, and Monroe didn't have any of those antiquated policies against faculty member! courtships. On the anniversary of their first date, he gave her an engagement ring.

Charles is comfortable with Gwen, even though in the past he always felt awkward on dates. In High School and College, through peer pressure, the goal had always been to score. Gwen made it clear she would stay a virgin until their wedding. He feels relieved somehow, knowing what the limits are. He can just enjoy her company and not have to wonder how far she would go or whether he could perform. Now in the bar he considers his own virginity. He's gotten more than a few blowjobs over the years, and a couple girls let him fuck their asses, because that way they couldn't get pregnant. But at 26, he has not done pussy yet. In a way he's still a virgin.

He begins to picture his life with Gwen. A house in the suburbs not too far from their school. A garden. A dog. A couple sons. Summers biking or hiking in different states, different countries. Joining a church. Singing in the choir. He thinks about their nights together. In bed. In each other's arms. Learning together the techniques, the positions, the pleasures of vaginal intercourse. And he smiles thinking of his wedding night with Gwen.

Yet the thought doesn't stir up his prick. In fact, while he loves to cuddle and kiss her, he is rarely aroused by her, even when recently she let him fondle her tits under her blouse. But then he didn't often get hardons on dates with other girls either. Once in college he was out with his roommate Sam celebrating a big football victory. Walking, or staggering, back to the dorm, Sam described the first time he got laid. The high school cheerleader captain. On the beach in the evening. The air was warm. The hormones were hot. The beach was deserted. They both took off their suits. Kissed. Hugged. Petted. And ended up fucking. "I popped her cherry. Man, it was so sweet! So Charles, When did you lose your virginity?" Charles came up with a Bill Clinton answer. Well, it all depends on what you mean by virgin. Since Sam majored in French and Charles in Speech, both had an interest in semantics. When he said he'd never had pussy, Sam told him maybe you're queer! They both lau! ghed and forgot about it.

Charles recalled Sam's comment last year when he was working with little Paul Grimes Graham, a third grader with a stuttering problem. He knew from the records, Paul was adopted at age four, after going through a series of foster homes. That history of insecurity, being taken away from one family after another could well explain his speech problem, but Charles learned in college that his job was not to play psychologist. He tried all the usual techniques with Paul, including ending each session by writing a silly tongue twister on the whiteboard and taking turns reading it, first slowly, then faster. It made Paul laugh. Charles always made them up on the spot, so one day he wrote The Great Green Dragon groaned at the gray Grasshopper. Except he omitted the r in gray. Paul slowly read it the way it was written, then asked if all grasshoppers were gay. Charles' face reddened and he fixed the error. He didn't feel like getting into a discussion of insect sex but wondered ho! w much a eight-year old knows about the meaning of gay. Paul then asked if Charles was gay. No, he protested, perhaps too strongly. For weeks after that he wondered if the kids saw something in his mannerisms. He wondered if there were rumors going around school. He was worried. In this day and age when the papers have a story every week about some priest or teacher who gets caught with a young boy, Charles knew he was vulnerable to false accusations. After all, his assignment required him to be alone with one student at a time, in a small room with the door closed. A rumor could kill his career. And the horrible thought kept nagging him, what if they were right. What if other people saw something in Charles which he refused to recognize in himself. What if he was gay? Is it possible to be half-gay?

Soon after that, Paul's parents were scheduled for a conference to discuss their son's stuttering. Two men walked in and introduced themselves as Jim Grimes and Rod Graham, Paul's two fathers. They were both keenly interested in the boy's progress and wanted to know what they could do to help him at home, without of course just adding more stress. Jim and Rod finished each other's sentences like so many couples who've been married a while. Charles was relieved because he realized Paul's interest in his sexuality was a matter-of-fact curiosity, no different from other students who ask him if he is married or has kids or, during December, whether he is Jewish or Christian. He admired these two men for being out, for having a warm, loving partnership, and for taking in a boy who needed a secure environment in which to grow.

Charles was no longer concerned about how his students perceived him. And once again he could perceive himself as the ultimate straight dude, about to wed the lovely Gwen. But this comfortable bubble was burst once more a few weeks back. He went into the men's room at Monroe and saw Josh, the boys' gym teacher taking a leak. He could have gone into the stall and pissed in the toilet, but instead waited to take his turn at the urinal, looking at his colleague with the square jaw, crew cut, rippling muscles, a physique to die for. Charles stood a few feet behind him and studied the jock's lats and traps through his t and the tight shorts on his glutes. He asked Josh about his workout routine and Coach, as the kids called him, invited him to come by the gym after school some day and he'd show him some exercises. Josh left and Charles unzipped to do his business, when he realized he was hard. Shit! Why the fuck did he get a stiffy then? Did Josh turn him on? Had Josh seen hi! s tent? Charles hasn't yet stayed after for that private lesson. But now that he's engaged, he feels he better sort out his sexuality once and for all.

He decided Peter was one person he could talk to. For a few years, Charles has sung bass with the Harmoneers, a chapter of SPEBSQSA. Gwen kidded him, Isn't that music for like old guys? He admitted that most guys who sing barbershop style are over fifty, but there are a few young men among the five dozen Harmoneers. In fact, the group is happy to see fresh young faces who will carry on the tradition of close fourpart harmony. So they welcomed him into membership. Peter also got a welcome though somewhat cooler than Charles'. At 31, Peter sings tenor, a part always in demand. Peter is a nurse and very public about the fact that he has a partner, Clyde. But even if he weren't out, no one would need a gaydar to assess his sexuality. A lot of the older members are visibly uncomfortable around him and don't speak to him. Others give him an occasional verbal jab but he takes it all in stride and throws the jokes back at them.

It wasn't easy for Charles to approach Peter. He was going to talk to him after the weekly rehearsal last Thursday, but lost his nerve. On Friday afternoon, though, he summoned his courage and called Peter. Clyde answered, said Peter was out, and could he take a message. Charles said it was something personal, and then regretted saying that. Later, Peter called him back and Charles explained he had something very private to discuss. Peter was the only person he could talk to, but he had to swear not to tell anyone. Peter was amused at all these verbal acrobatics. He was glad Charles couldn't see him smiling. Finally he convinced Charles to let it out already.

"I'm not sure whether I'm totally, uhm, straight. I have to talk to you about this. I have a million questions about being gay and you're the only one I can trust." He'd be seeing Gwen all weekend, so Peter agreed to meet him Monday night at The Dark Horse. That's tonight.

So where the fuck is he? Charles has been waiting over half an hour. He's feeling more and more uncomfortable in this place. He had told Joe or Frank, he forgets now which, he was waiting to meet someone. God, he realizes, that sounds like a date. Why did they have to meet here? Why not in the library or Starbucks? Why not at Peter's house, -- no, he'd feel even more nervous talking to both Peter and Clyde. He feels a buzzing on his thigh and recognizes that his cell phone is on silent ring. He hopes it isn't Gwen. He can't talk to her right now. She'd hear the noise and he can't lie to her right now. He looks at the screen. It's a text message from Peter. "Sorry. Held up at hosp. B there soon." Shit. Charles is angry. Why couldn't he talk to me? Let me respond. How long am I supposed to wait? He swigs the rest of his drink and asks Joe for another. Sure, Sweetie.

What really is holding him up, Charles wonders. Some medical emergency? A plane crash? A sudden epidemic? Or is Peter having a fling in the linen closet with one of the orderlies. This is the first time Charles thought about Peter's fidelity to Clyde. But maybe he does cheat. He's heard that gay men are notoriously promiscuous; that monogamy runs counter to their psyche. Maybe not so different from straight men actually. Hell, is that why Peter wanted to meet here? Maybe initiate a liaison with straight Charles, the groom-to-be. Charles doesn't find the idea abhorrent though. That might be a welcome outlet for his repressed homosexuality. He begins to fantasize how every Thursday after rehearsal the two of them could stop by a motel, their motel, and have a quick toss in the sheets before heading home, one to his Clyde, the other to Gwen. No one need be the wiser. If Gwen suspects Charles of cheating he can look her straight in the face and tell her there is no other wom! an. Obviously, Peter would be the bottom, that's what the term is, right? For Charles it wouldn't be all that different from the oral and anal sex he's already had. How different is a male mouth from a female. A guy's ass from a gal's. Charles began to play the semantics game again. What would Sam say? If Charles is always the top, is he really a fag? He vaguely recalled reading that in some cultures, -- was it Latin America? ancient Rome? -- only the bottom is considered a queer. The top is just as macho as any straight guy. The thought of a weekly tryst with Peter is beginning to appeal to Charles, but maybe the alcohol is screwing with his brain. After all, Peter has never given him any reason to think that's what he has in mind.

"Your date stood you up?" The startling question knocks the fantasy right out of Charles' head. He looks up, but neither Joe or Frank is nearby. Then he realizes there's a guy on the stool next to him.

"Oh, Hi. Sorry. I was lost in thought, I guess. No, he's going to be late, that's all. He sent me a text mess." Then Charles feels obligated to add, "And he isn't a date. Just a friend. Someone to talk to. I don't date guys." He regrets that last line. But the stranger doesn't seem to take any offense. In fact, Charles wonders if he too is straight. He looks a few years older than himself. A few inches taller. Dark hair. Charles thinks to himself, Tall, Dark and Handsome, and smiles. The guy says his name is Danny, and Charles tries to make a joke "Like in my glass" but then has to explain the Jack Daniels, and he's sorry he even tried. But Danny laughs and assures him it really is funny.

"I'm Charles. Do I detect a brogue?"

"You're good. Yeah. Born in Ireland. But I left when I was three. Most people don't pick up on any accent."

Charles explains it's his job to listen carefully to speech patterns. He asks where in Ireland he was born. Tullamore. Danny is amazed he'd heard of it. Charles describes biking through the Slieve Bloom Mountains. The talk about Ireland takes his mind off Peter and Gwen. He likes Danny's easy-going manner. He laughs at his native Irish wit. "You married?" he blurts out without thinking.

"Nope. Single. Got a flat a couple blocks from here. I stop by the Horse most nights. See who's new. What's happening. Hey, pal. Can you keep a secret?" Danny is grinning. Charles nods. "My name ain't really Daniel. It's Brendan. Hell, did I catch some shit in school. The kids kept calling me Brenda. I knew if they suspected I was gay I'd really get the crap beaten out of me, so I worked hard not to show any sissiness, if you know what I mean."

"So, you knew you were gay back then?"

"Oh, for sure. By sixth grade at least. But I didn't come out 'til my second year at Notre Dame." Charles is impressed. The Fightin' Irish. Danny has Joe refill both their glasses. "So, Charles, when did you know you were gay?"

OK, now you're really in deep shit, Charles tells himself. Well, you might as well tell all. Danny has been honest about himself. So he explains about his engagement, his misgivings, the untimely hardons and lack thereof, and that he was meeting Peter to try to sort it all out.

"Look, Charlie." Charles bristles slightly. He hates when people called him that. You don't call Prince Charles Charlie. You don't say Charlie Dickens. If someone said Charlie Atlas, he'd get sand kicked in his face. But tonight Charles lets it go without comment. "Charlie, we don't know if Peter's ever going to get here, but like I said, I live nearby and I'm single. You're more than welcome to come home with me and I'll show you everything you always wanted to know." Charles shakes his head. Says he'd better wait for Peter. Danny grabs a napkin, writes down his address, and presses it into Charles' shirt pocket. "Well, you might change your mind. I'm going home now, but if you want, come over later. Don't worry about the hour. I may be undressed but I'll sure open the door for you."

Charles watches Danny head for the door. Watches that handsome ass gradually get smaller and then disappear. He almost jumps up to run after him but he doesn't. He remembers Gwen. He remembers Peter. Or more precisely he remembers the fantasies he had tonight about each of them. Alone again, Charles begins to analyze what Danny had said. He spoke of showing him everything he wanted to know, not telling him, but showing. He talked about being undressed when he arrived. Fuck, the guy was making a pass. Charles is flattered that a hunk like Danny might find him attractive. He starts to modify the fantasy about Peter and picture weekly trysts with Danny instead. But then a new fantasy begins to grow. He sees the house in the suburbs again. The garden. The dog. Even the sons. But this time, he is sharing this home not with Gwen but with Danny. Full time. Why not? Two guys in a committed relationship. Like Peter and Clyde. No, more like Jim and Rod, two perfectly straight-acti! ng men sure of their masculinity enjoying sex with each other. Of course, once again Charles is letting his imagination run away on him. Danny never gave any indication that he wanted anything more than a one-night stand, if even that. But to Charles the picture is enticing.

He finishes his drink and realizes he needs to piss something bad. Frank directs him down the hall. Uh oh. He is always annoyed when bars and restaurants use some cutesy alternative to Ladies and Gentlemen. Like Roosters and Hens. Skirts and Trous. Frauleins and whatever. When you're half-drunk and your bladder is bursting you don't feel like deciphering some code. Now he faces two doors, Privates and Horse Thieves. He tries the Privates door but it's locked, so he pushes open Horse Thieves and is relieved to see a bank of urinals. He parks in front of one and unzips. As his bladder lets loose, he remembers the sign above the door. Damn, of course, horse thieves are hung. The locked Privates room must be for the occasional female who wanders into The Dark Horse. Or maybe even a drag queen.

In his desperation, he didn't realize the urinal he chose was adjacent to another one in use. Normal etiquette calls for leaving a space or two in between, especially when as is the case now, there are no partitions. Charles glances to his right and sees a huge hairy brute with his eyes shut, intent on something. When he glances down, he discovers the object of the brute's concentration. He is jacking off the biggest piece of meat Charles had ever seen. Well, up until now he hadn't seen all that many dicks. His roommates in college. A few in the shower at the gym. But they were all in a state of relaxation. Charles' eyes are glued on this monstrous tool. The brute is using only a thumb and one finger on his right hand to do the work, so Charles can see the entire appendage in all its glory.

"Yeah, you like that, don't you, Boy!" Of course, the brute's voice is deep and gravely.

"Sorry, didn't mean to stare." Charles voice cracks as he speaks. He turns red and tries to turn away.

"Take a good look, Boy. Don't look over there. This is what you want to see." Brute is now facing him directly. Charles can't help himself. He's done pissing and so now he turns to face his tearoom mate, and stare at the Cock with a capital C. It is pointing up toward Charles' face. It may be nine inches long and as thick as the shot glass he was drinking from. Two hairy balls as big as kumquats also hang outside the brute's jeans and massive amounts of dark black hair cover everything but the shaft itself.

"It's, uh, very n-nice," Charles hears himself saying. He tries to remember the tricks he'd taught kids like Paul to gain control of their tongues, but at the moment he can't think about anything but the Cock.

The Brute places a hand on Charles' shoulder and begins to press down. "Take a closer look, Boy. You know you want to." Charles feels his legs give way and he is now kneeling on the sticky floor tiles. Kneeling in worship. His face inches from the the Cock, he can smell it. He inhales deeply. A musky, pissy, cummy, all testosterone smell. "Touch it, Boy. Pet it. Squeeze it." Charles finds himself obeying the Brute. As if he is under a spell. He runs his fingers along the tight veiny skin. He wraps them about the shaft and feels its mighty pulses. His thumb gently rubs drops on precum from the piss slit. "That's the way, Boy. You're a good boy." The Brute puts both his hands on Charles' head and pulls him closer. He rubs his oozing cockhead across Charles' face, coating his cheeks, forehead, eyelids, with precum. He doesn't need to give the next command. Charles naturally closes his eyes and opens his mouth.

"Come on, Mike, you know the rules." It's Frank's voice. Charles opens his eyes. "We've told you a hundred times, not in the men's room. Get your asses out of here, both of you. This is a respectable place. If you two want some action, rent a room." Charles stumbles to his feet and stammers We're not together. His cock is still hanging out of his fly and is rock hard. He tries desperately to stuff it back in and heads out through the door. He checks to see if Peter has arrived. He knows his khaki pants have two dark wet circles at the knees. He tries surreptitiously to make his way back to the bar, but self-consciously thinks everyone is looking at his knees and knows the Brute (Charles can't remember what name Frank called him) has thereby marked him as his territory.

He sits down, and Joe hands him another drink. Says he thinks he needs it. Charles' hands are shaking. He feels his face is burning up. Then he realizes he didn't wash the precum off. It's now drying there. He looks down toward the other end of the bar and there sits Brute, smiling at him. Charles quickly diverts his eyes. His cock is still not limp. It is struggling inside his khakis, crying to come out. What if they hadn't been interrupted? Charles knows he would have sucked the Cock. Knows he would have liked doing it. Knows he was meant to do it. Why the fuck did Frank have to walk into the men's room at that moment? Charles swigs the drink and wonders why life is so fucking confusing. He wishes someone would make all his decisions for him, tell him what he should do. He looks again at Brute and a new, more powerful fantasy takes shape. He sees himself getting up, going over to the Brute and saying Take me home. Like a puppy dog. He sees himself becoming Brute's Boy,! his Bitch, his Slave. He will call him Master or Sir. Brute will order his life for him. Give him his assignments like he gives his students their homework. And no matter what Master tells him to do, Charles will obey knowing Master knows best. Perhaps Master will have him tattooed. Permanent marks of ownership, not like the wet knees that will soon disappear. Maybe a chain tattooed around his wrist or his neck. And when his students ask what it means, he will be humiliated in front of them, but he will obey Master's command to tell them he belongs to another man.

Charles looks again at Brute, who is still smiling at him. He almost stands up, but suddenly he thinks of Gwen. She would be ashamed by his behavior. He might accept humiliation but he couldn't inflict it on her. He doesn't want to hurt her. He loves her. Or at least he thinks he does. He is sweating profusely and reaches for a napkin to blot his sweaty precummy face. The napkin reminds him of the address in his shirt pocket.

As Charles sees it, he has four choices: 1. Walk out the door now, admit he is straight, forget all these foolish fag fantasies and begin to plan a life of marital bliss with the virgin Gwen.

1. Wait for Peter to arrive and take it from there. Maybe just talk things out with him, including all that's happened tonight, and see what advice he has. And not rule out the possible occasional one-nighter if Peter is willing.

2. Take out Danny's address and see what toora loora loora the Notre Dame lad has in mind.

3. Sell himself, body and soul, to the Brute if he'll still have him.

This is Charles' quandary. What do you think he should do. Write and tell me which option to choose for the next installment. Please mail it to Herb_Cat@mailcity.com. Thank you.