Bear Hunting

by R. W. Clinger

  Let me know.

  —Toby Cartwright

  * * * *

  Toby stops writing, drinks a shot of whiskey, and thinks of Blue Danning. Frankly, he can still feel the professor’s plump dick inside his ass from the other night, all nine inches of it. And he can still smell Blue’s mix of semen, urine, and sweat. Calling the teacher is not out of the question, but Toby would rather be contacted instead of doing the calling. Isn’t it time he was hunted instead of doing the bear hunting himself? Can’t he make the rules at this sexual crossroads in his life?

  Tomorrow he just may mail the white boxer-briefs to Blue, returning the fabric to their rightful owner. Maybe Toby will keep them, though. They look good on his writing desk, only inches away from his Logitech mouse. They even smell better. The material has actually helped motivate him to create this evening’s blog. So maybe it’s a bad idea to send the boxer-briefs back to his one-night stand. Who knows?

  With the blog complete and already online for his valued readers, he decides to take another shot of whiskey. Before he knows it, he’s drunk and ready for bed. Sleep is so annoying, though, and takes up too much of his day. Can’t he stay up and create another blog for his readers?

  Sure. Why not?

  Fuck it, he thinks. Write hard.

  Part 2: Grant Stevens

  Chapter 11: The Whiskey Club

  June 2, 20—

  8:16 P.M.

  The Whiskey Club

  “You’ll never be on time, will you, Toby?” King says, rolling his eyes. He sits at a table that can easily fit four. A whiskey is on the table in front of him. He’s dressed in a V-neck T-shirt the color of charcoal gray, pressed slacks, and leather shoes from Barcelona. On his right side is a piece of arm candy named Beatrice Curt, who is nothing like her name. Bea, as she likes to be called, is his date for this evening, a beautiful long-haired vixen with cherry-colored lips and orange-brown hair. Bea wears a thigh-high dress with tiny straps, five-inch heels that say Fuck Me all over them, and has a clutch on her lap that matches her little black dress.

  “Sorry. Time got away from me.” Toby’s introduced to Bea. What’s strange about King’s girlfriends is simple: King usually dumps the ladies after sleeping with them a handful of times, and Toby picks up their broken pieces, becoming their best friend. It’s happened in his past almost a dozen times and it will surely happen again.

  “You’ve missed a song. Grant did a cover of Journey’s ‘Faithfully’. It was unbelievable.”

  There is a third drink on the table, Toby counts. King must have ordered it for him, which is no surprise since the gym guy is kind and is always thinking about him. Toby has a seat and takes in The Whiskey Club. He can’t remember the last time he’s been here. Probably five years or more, illegally drinking and fresh out of high school. The place hasn’t changed much, if the truth be shared. Red velvet lines the walls, crystal chandeliers hang down from the ceiling, and the dozen or more tables in front of the semi-circle-shaped stage are lacquered in black. Jarred candles make for inexpensive and fashionable centerpieces on each of the tables. Big-boobed waitresses in what looks like black and white lingerie wait on the tables, serving drinks.

  There are approximately fifteen patrons in all at the club. Some are drunk, high, or cheating on their wives or husbands. Two of the club members are smoking, which is rather rare to see in a Templeton business. There is one woman sitting alone behind King and Bea. She wears a diamond necklace and matching earrings that look real. Her hair is pulled up into a tight bun, pulling wrinkles away from her eyes. She sits with her legs crossed like a lady and just happens to be one of the smokers, enjoying a Capri.

  At a closer glance of the woman, Toby realizes that she just happens to be a he. While scrutinizing the smoker, he determines that there is a lot of fake going on regarding the queen’s appearance. Her cheeks are filled with Botox, her eyes sport emerald green contacts, and her breasts—large C’s, nothing big, but nothing small, either—are plastic.

  Not that Toby cares much about the transvestite, because he’s a liberal and has always thought outside of the social box. Faux, as he wishes to call the man in drag, is harmless, probably living a very happy life in the queer district of Templeton, and has no effect on Toby whatsoever. This is why Toby’s open-minded about various classes, sexual identities and careers. He’s rarely harmed, if at all, by these differences, believing the world a better place because of their existence.

  Chapter 12: The Musician

  Toby takes his whiskey off the table in front of him, consumes a swig, feels it burn the back of his throat with a pleasant sting, and soon comprehends why King invited him to be a third wheel at The Whiskey Club this evening. It just so happens that there are four musicians on the stage. A shaggy-haired man with tattooed arms plays the drums. A woman with wild black hair and bright turquoise-colored sunglasses plays the bass. The third musician to the far left is bald and in his mid-forties. He’s surrounded by three electric pianos. And the star of the hour, the reason why Toby is here tonight, stands in the center of the stage with a microphone next to his plump lips and begins to speak to the audience.

  He’s gorgeous, Toby thinks. Model gorgeous, if there is such a thing. The singer stands at five-ten, wears a snug white T-shirt with a V-neck, black jeans, and brown Timberlands. He has thick black hair that puffs up in the front like a Triceratops’s horn, and beams a wide smile, which stretches from ear to ear and shows off his bright-white teeth and beautiful gums that should be in toothpaste commercials. The singer looks to be twenty-four, definitely works out since he has the body of a mythical God, and looks almost boyish with his black eyes and wrinkle free forehead.

  “For those of you who arrived late this evening,” the musician says in a raspy yet enjoyable voice, and winks at Toby as he sips his whiskey a second time. “My name is Grant Stevens. I’m new at performing and hope you like what I have to play this evening.”

  Grant is one of King’s favorite artists. Toby knows this because the man constantly talks about the singer. Because King goes on and on about the young musician, Toby has learned Grant’s history, his mother’s name (Cynthia Lynn), and the release date of a new album called American Romance (September 13). Long story short, Grant was born and raised in Chicago, was Catholic, attended Lampada College outside of Chicago for four years and obtained a degree in music. After college, he came up with the bright idea to write a gay-themed song and create a video to go with it (“American Romance”), which went viral and spiraled out of control. The single was released and did quite well. Then it was followed up with Grant’s second single, “Away”, which also has done well.

  Grant’s third song, “California and Back” was just released. The video online has already gone viral. Fans of the musician across the United States have exceeded Grant’s expectations because of social media and has sent him into a flurry of star-struck stardom. Success is still brewing for the young and handsome man on the stage since it is predicted by Rolling Stones that his upcoming album will go platinum.

  Grant sings “American Romance” first, then “Away”. He stands behind a piano, grins like the cutest sonofabitch on the planet (a money maker that Grant probably knows will make him a fortune), and plays the crowd at The Whiskey Club. Following his second song, he stands, finds a bar stool on stage, sits down on the stool at center stage, and says, “I want to apologize for the boots this evening.” He shows off his boots to the audience. A man yelps at the back of the club with excitement like a school girl. Grant waves to him with two fingers, and says, “The boots are lucky. I think they’re becoming my trademark. Not sure.” He shares a chuckle, which comes across as being alluring and boyishly cute, and adds, “This next song was written while I was living in California with my father. I was seeing a guy named Tanner at the time. My father hated Tanner, even though I wanted him to like the guy. ‘California and Back’ is what came out of that difficult period. Enjoy it.”

  The lights are dimmed in the club
and no one breathes. Grant sings the ballad on the stool with a Martin guitar. The song is about acceptance, love with a young a man, and respect for a father.

  Toby thinks it melodious and kind. While listening to the song, he becomes numb, smiles, and seems to float off and into a different world, where being homosexual isn’t discriminated against, and the world is fueled by tolerance.

  Chapter 13: A Drink on Me

  “Thanks for coming out and seeing me tonight,” Grant says after singing his third release, grinning at his audience. He talks about his album coming out and how he loves to sing. He mentions that he’s fortunate and blessed to be doing what he enjoys most, which is singing to make people feel good. He thanks his followers and fans, calling them his family. “I just want everyone to know that I couldn’t be where I’m at without your support. You guys have been great about buying my singles. All your help has put my career at an unbelievable pace that I enjoy.” He makes a toast to the audience regarding their faithfulness. After the toast, he says, “I’m going to take a short break now, but I’ll be back in a few minutes to sing a few covers.” He exits the stage and vanishes behind a black velvet curtain, probably needing to take a piss, wanting to empty his bladder.

  “I love this guy,” King says, semi-drunk, having consumed too many shots of whiskey during Grant’s performance. His eyes are a little red as well as his cheeks. He turns his attention to Toby and says, “You know the guy is queer, right?”

  “I do,” Toby replies, nodding. “You’ve told me everything about Grant Stevens.”

  Bea chuckles while batting her beautiful eyes. The piece of arm candy whispers, “I know that David isn’t gay, but if he were, he’d be all over Grant, insatiable.”

  Maybe not realizing what he says, King admits, “I have a man-crush on the guy and would do him.”

  “Oh my God,” Bea says, and begins to snicker. She covers up her light laughter by taking a drink of her beverage, and acts as if she hasn’t added to the conversation.

  Toby is just about to tell Bea that he finds her ridiculously sweet but a waitress that smells like lilacs places a glass tumbler on the table in front of him. The tumbler has two ice cubes inside, and two fingers’ worth of Jack Daniels, which Toby guzzles.

  The waitress leans over, brushes her ruby red lips against his left ear, and whispers, “The drink is from Grant Stevens. Enjoy.”

  This interaction leaves Toby speechless. He doesn’t know what to say, nor does he know how to feel. He likes whiskey, though, and takes a sip, watching the waitress float away.

  King asks, “What did she say to you?” Both he and Bea are all eyes, intrigued by what has just occurred.

  Toby points to the drink and says, “It’s from Grant. He bought me one to enjoy. Wasn’t that forward of him?”

  King’s mouth is slightly ajar, probably more surprised than Toby. Because he is somewhat blitzed, he says, “Well fuck me sideways. Aren’t you an important little fag?”

  Bea snickers again, obviously entertained this evening.

  “I take what I can get,” Toby says, picks up the whiskey, consumes a sip, and places it back on the table, happy with this evening’s events thus far, and having no idea what is in store for him next.

  Chapter 14: Homework on You

  Grant returns to the stage and does a cover song by Elton John, “Born to Run” by Springsteen, and one by Bruno Mars. He also does a Lady Gaga tune and something by The Fallout Boys. During his performances, he stares at Toby from his stage, winks a few times, and grins at the blogger, noticeably having an attraction to him.

  Before Toby realizes it, the gig is over and it’s time to leave. He separates from King and Bea, who are going back to King’s apartment above his gym to mess around and spend most of the night together, or until King tells Bea to leave, being done with her, just as he has treated other women in his life prior to this evening’s date at The Whiskey Club.

  The night is warm and what Toby considers cozy. He thinks about taking a cab back to his Colonial, but a walk will do him just fine. The moon is almost full, there’s a slight wind that is tepid, and the prequel of summertime seems soothing.

  Just as he’s about to leave The Whiskey Club, he’s approached by Grant Stevens. He surprises Toby by reaching out and grasping his right shoulder from behind. Toby immediately stops, spins around, and sees the musician behind him, smiling as if it is Christmas morning. Grant wears the same outfit that he performed in on the stage. His face is somewhat damp, probably because he has just rinsed it off in the nearby bathroom that he shares with the patrons of the bar. And Toby listens to him ask, “Did you get my drink?”

  Toby hears, Did you get my twink? and shakes his head. In the process, confused and embarrassed, he asks, “What do you mean?”

  “The drink I sent you. Two fingers of whiskey. Did you get it?”

  Now Toby correctly hears him and nods. He feels like a fool, but whatever. Shit happens, right? “I did get it. Thank you. That’s your favorite drink, right?”

  “My vice,” Grant explains. “I need to cut back or I’ll turn into an alcoholic. My father says I drink too much. He’s always lecturing me about it. Maybe someday I’ll pay attention to him.”

  It’s Toby who is currently paying attention to the singer. His lips are slightly parted and his eyes are unblinking. The temperature inside the club feels as if it is over two hundred and fifty degrees Fahrenheit. Truth is he feels as if he is going to pass out, half stunned that Grant Stevens talks to him in person, and purchased a drink for him. He surfaces from his state of confusion and says, “We all have vices, Mr. Stevens.”

  “Grant. Call me Grant. Stevens isn’t really my last name at all.”

  “It’s Chapman. My friend told me a few weeks ago. He’s addicted to you and is probably one of your biggest fans. All he does is talk about you and your music. This week I learned that you have a younger sister and an older brother, and that you live in your parent’s basement because you’ve been traveling from city to city so much.”

  “Impressive,” Grant says. “Your friend has done some homework on me. I commend that.”

  “He told me tonight that he has a man-crush on you, which is kind of funny since he’s straight.”

  Grant keeps the wide smile on his pretty boy face and says, “You’re rambling, which tells me you’re nervous around me. Don’t be. I crap in the toilet just like everyone else.”

  “But you’re famous,” Toby mumbles. “You have over three million followers on Facebook.”

  Grant shakes his head. “None of that matters to me, Toby. Life’s a little more important than fame, singles, and money.”

  Toby’s face turns a sheet white, disbelieving that Grant knows his name. He wonders why and how, perplexed by such a menial and strange detail concerning the musician. He asks, “How do you know my name?”

  “From your Bear Blog, which I read daily.”

  “You read my Bear Blog?”

  “I do. Faithfully. Just like the cover I sang tonight. Frankly, I know a lot about you because of your writing, which I enjoy.” Grant holds out his right hand and says, “Nice to meet you, Toby Cartwright. The pleasure is all mine.”

  Toby pumps hands with the stranger. What slips out of his mouth is a surprise even to himself, “The weather is nice tonight, Grant. Would you like to take a walk with me?”

  The handsome musician nods. “I think I’d like that. Thanks for asking me.”

  Chapter 15: Walk this Road Tonight

  Downtown Templeton

  Larkin Road

  9:58 P.M.

  Toby has never been one to make the first advance in any relationship in his life. Not with his close friends. Not with one-night stands. And certainly not with Grant Stevens, the musician from Chicago. But laws of nature are meant to be broken, which is exactly what happens this evening on Larkin Road. Maybe it’s the whiskey that causes his inhibitions to miraculously disappear tonight, or maybe he subconsciously challenges himself to be imp
ulsive. No matter what the psychology is behind his action tonight—the motion of slipping his hand over the singer’s and providing it with a gentle squeeze—it’s all but too late to back out now, for fear of coming across as a fool or asshole.

  Grant’s hand feels gratifying within Toby’s. It’s a large hand with smooth fingertips and a wrinkle free palm. It’s a piano playing man’s hand, if the truth be shared. And Toby doesn’t mind that it’s tucked within his own, feeling warmth collected between them, mixing digits, wrists, and knuckles.

  Everything about this evening is tranquil and perfect. Nothing seems off kilter or questionable. The air is warm, the moon is smiling, and Larkin Road welcomes their company, offering its picturesque sidewalks, Tudors, and white-fenced yards. Toby feels as if he’s in a movie; something queer, romantic, and with an edge of funny to it. He’s never been one to act, although many of his gay friends do, on and off Broadway or in Hollywood. Two actually work in West Hollywood, laboring in the skin flick business and carrying out XXX moves with other pretty boy actors.

  This isn’t a movie, though, he understands. It’s too perfect to be a movie, too real. If he can only get his heart to stop thumping and trembling within his chest, crumbling his nerves. And his mouth is so dry, which bothers him, screaming for a glass or bottle of chilled water.

  Their shoulders rub together a few times as they walk down the street, hand in hand. Toby trips over a lip of sidewalk, finds his balance, and prevents a stumble. He’s always been this careless and clumsy around handsome men. On edge. Adrenalin-pumped. Unsafe. It’s a wonder he hasn’t killed himself on past dates, none of which really worked for him and didn’t allow him to fall in love.

  Love. Toby isn’t familiar with the term, action, or the emotion. It hasn’t occurred in his young world, and probably won’t for maybe the next twenty or thirty years. It’s not that he doesn’t believe in love, because he does. It’s simply that the right man hasn’t come along in his life. No one.