by Roe Horvat
Yeah, right.
I watched him load his bags, with the reluctant help of a ginger-bearded, fat taxi driver, just ten meters away. If I could move my feet, I could get to him in a matter of seconds and ask him to give me his number. But how would I justify the request? Hey, we have a free night in town, let’s have a few margaritas and suck each other off? He didn’t seem to like me much. Not that I blamed him.
He looked my way for half a second, not meeting my eyes. The door of the taxi closed, and the vehicle rumbled past me. Another insignificant meeting, another human being I felt a brief connection to and would never see again. If I had a list, there would be hundreds of them from all over the world.
I WAVED down the taxi that was next in line and went to the hotel. I got a room in the city center because the hotel closest to the airport was full. A convention or something. It worked for me. I’ve spent more nights at airport hotels than I could ever count.
An hour later I sat in my room showered and shaved, in my briefs, staring alternately at my bare feet and the wall in front of me. My replacement flight was scheduled tomorrow at 1315. That meant I had to be at the airport at 1200. It was barely nine in the evening. Plenty of time to get dressed and hit some gay bar in town. I just couldn’t muster the enthusiasm needed.
I played with my phone instead, checking my Facebook and some news, stalling. I used to avoid Slovak news while I was abroad. But recently my Facebook feed went haywire with shared articles and blogs, and I started following it again. It was self-destructive because nothing about the political and social situation said welcome back home.
I was angry and, although unwilling to admit it even to myself, a tiny bit scared. Mostly I was ashamed. Ashamed of my roots, of my family, my language and heritage, ashamed of the things I was given without having any say in it. Ashamed of being the East European gay guy who either hides in the crowd or runs as far away as he can, letting others fight his battles.
Nothing forced me to go back. I’ve been fine while dying inside for years. I’ve been a perfectly functioning human being, a solid member of society, until my uniform felt like sandpaper against my skin, and my consciousness was a rubber band stretched to its capacity around my neck. Burning, aching, ready to snap or suffocate me at any moment. Given a choice between death or insanity, I gave my notice, packed my possessions, and flew away. Turning back to the point where it all went wrong, I was hoping to fix the bug and start all over. My timing sucked, though.
There was going to be a referendum on registered partnership in Slovakia in February. A conservative Catholic organization called Alliance for Family was currently occupying the public sphere, making the air too dense to breathe for Slovak people, gay or not. Still, I wasn’t going to stand up with the others to try to sway the public opinion, campaigning, debating, demonstrating. No way. I’m so far from that kind of person, it’s not even funny.
I just wanted to quit being scared. Maybe if I faced it, I could even stop feeling ashamed. Maybe some of it was my morbid curiosity. Most importantly, though, for my sake, I didn’t want to care that much. It’s not like I could have been out and proud in Dubai.
WANTING TO escape the confines of the clinically furnished hotel room, I took a short walk. I did some window-shopping, but then it started raining again. In the freezing temperatures, the sidewalks were quickly becoming death traps. I crossed back over the Rhine River, walking over the Mittlere Brücke, Basel’s quirky trams passing me, and I ended in the hotel bar making the best of the lonely stranger cliché.
I stood at the bar waiting for a margarita when I saw him—my bumblebee from the Basel Airport. He sat in a leather armchair half-hidden in a corner, reading something on an iPad, headphones in his ears. The purple hat was on the table next to his tall, dark-caramel-colored drink. Rum and Coke? He was engrossed in whatever he was reading, so I could watch him safely.
He’d obviously showered. His hair was shiny, soft-looking, and tied in a small knot high on the back of his perfectly round skull. A few short strands fell into his eyes, and he put them behind his ear in a gesture that seemed just a little feminine. He wore another oversized T-shirt and dark jeans, and I saw a black Converse peeking from under the table. I wondered what his socks looked like this time. I hoped for something freaky, like green with pink polka dots.
I got my drink but didn’t leave my spot. I wondered if I could talk to him and how. He didn’t seem particularly open to a casual conversation, not to mention the casual hookup I was hoping for somewhere in the back of my mind. I scanned his forearms for tattoos but found nothing. The print on his T-shirt showed a quote from Doctor Who. That made me smile.
I took a pink straw from a box on the counter, put it in my drink, and smirked. I was plotting, realizing how rusty I’d become since flirting at bars in foreign countries had lost its appeal. I had to be nice, and that was hard. But then something about the guy made it easier for me, as if the thought of being sleazy or rude to him equaled drowning little kitties.
He lifted his head and looked directly at me. His eyes widened again. With fear? Why? I am no pretty boy; that’s for sure. But people usually don’t run for cover when they see me. I have a face one could call intense. My bone structure is a bit more pronounced than what would be considered ideal. My eyebrows are too thick, and live very separate lives from each other—when one goes up, the other one usually decides to go down or frown. I compensate for the bushiness of my eyebrows by keeping my dirty-blond hair buzzed close to my head. It’s practical. My mouth is broad with deep valleys that could be mistaken for laugh lines but are definitely not a result of extensive laughing. And my greenish eyes look mean. I guess, with a little tug here and there, I could be a mass-murdering clown. Maybe he was right to be scared.
I took the few steps forward and lowered myself in the second armchair by his table, never leaving his gaze. He stared at me open-mouthed, his blue eyes still blank with surprise.
I expected him to send me packing. The chance was fifty-fifty at best. But then he did that one tiny thing: he tugged the earphones down. An unintentional invitation, and I immediately felt hopeful.
“I’m not stalking you,” I said. At least I felt a tiny bit more inspired than at the airport earlier.
He narrowed his eyes, and there was a nervous twitch in his cheek. “Seems like it.” Oh, I liked him.
“Hey, I’m your fellow victim of this ridiculousness. Of course, they put me in the same hotel. Not my fault.”
“I’ve never said you could sit here,” he said slowly, his expression measured, bordering on cold.
“If I promise to be moderately entertaining, can I?”
He huffed, not quite a laugh, and took a gulp of his drink.
“Nice hat.” Once I decided I had nothing to lose, I was rather a loose cannon. But if you’d seen him, you wouldn’t blame me. The tendons on his forearms danced and glided when he put the glass down and fiddled with his tablet. I got distracted by the protruding veins on his hands, and then my gaze darted to his hair. I imagined untangling the rubber band and combing my fingers through the silky waves.
He flashed me a suspicious look from the corner of his eye. “It was a gift. For the trip.” Oh, he was talking about the hat. Right. He pretended to scan the room, but I could sense his attention was on me. He was tense, ready to spring out of his seat at any moment. I liked the guy a lot. That had not happened in an alarmingly long time. Maybe I enjoyed the challenge.
“You’re always this jumpy?”
He turned to me and frowned. “I’m not jumpy.”
“Sorry, I just thought you seemed stressed out. I hope you’re not missing anything important because of the delay.”
Sighing softly, he settled deeper into his seat. “No, it’s fine. I was just ready to get home.”
“It wasn’t a vacation?”
“No, mostly work.” He was silent for a while. Then he took a deep breath and continued as if taking pity on me and helping along with the awkward co
nversation. “I had time off in Zurich for a little bit, though. It was nice.”
“Yeah, I’ve been there. Maybe two years ago. Pretty.”
He was pale, with purplish marks underneath his tired eyes. His face was exotic-looking. His cheekbones were sharp but his jaw soft, his chin pointy and stubborn. He’d shaved and looked even younger, like jailbait young. He resembled a surly teen. Shit, I’d have to ask about his age. But something about his large blue eyes was ageless. Tiny wrinkles in the corners and on his eyelids told the story of many sleepless nights. He’d mastered the kind of sharp, intelligent stare that demanded respect even when he was obviously nervous. He was insecure but smart, maybe just out of his element.
“You want another?”
He looked at me, and I waited with my eyebrows raised. I felt like a petri dish under a microscope. He thoroughly dissected me with his pretty blues, his head cocked to the side. He tried but failed to look confident. I saw his fingers tapping on the edge of the table softly. He was still staring. I was three seconds away from some serious squirming when he nodded and exhaled.
“’Kay,” he mumbled, leaning back in his armchair, getting comfortable, rolling the earphone cables into a ball. No way were we done here. He’d easily let me buy him the contents of the whole bar, and then he would say thanks and head for his room with a half-hearted wave. A challenge. I couldn’t wait.
THE BAR emptied out slowly, and the bartender with a buzz cut disturbingly similar to mine eyed us evilly, willing us to go the fuck to bed already. I ignored him. My companion didn’t notice.
“Ondro,” I repeated for my bumblebee’s benefit.
“On-druh?”
“Just call me Andrew.”
“But that’s not your name!” He talked with his hands a lot when he became agitated.
“It’s close enough.”
“No way. You’re not calling me some weird Slovenian version of my name, so I should learn yours properly.”
“Slovak.”
“Beg your pardon?” He sounded remarkably British just then; it was adorable.
“You said Slovenian. But the language is Slovak. Spoken in Slovakia, population five million, capital Bratislava, former Czechoslovakia, split amicably back in 1992. Slovenia is a whole other country. Think of it like Nevada and Nebraska.”
He looked contrite at first, but then he flashed me an annoyed frown. He didn’t like me overexplaining. “I knew that. Slovenia used to be a part of Yugoslavia.”
“Not bad for a Yank.” I laughed.
He narrowed his eyes at me. “So, On-drooh.”
“Ondro. Say it like drop without the p.”
“Onn-droh.” He was genuinely trying.
“Close enough.”
He nodded to himself and continued the interrogation. “So you’re going home? From where?”
“Everywhere. Anywhere. I’m a steward. Or I used to be until last week. First, it was Frankfurt for a couple of years and then the Emirates.”
“Dubai?” Instead of awe, there was disdain. “For how long?” He asked as if we were talking about a nasty skin condition.
“Since 2009.”
“But… it’s illegal there!”
I lifted my eyebrows and stage-whispered, “You mean intercourse between individuals of the same sex?”
He scowled; I chuckled.
“You just can’t do it in public restrooms, then,” I clarified.
He remained dead serious. “I can’t imagine how that must have been.”
“Yeah, it was abysmal! I went four years without a quickie in a stall. Terrible!” I was already halfway down the statement when I heard myself being a jerk.
“You know what I mean,” he said indignantly.
We were on our second round. His cheeks were rosy, and he smiled every once in a while. He smiled like a toothpaste commercial. Pretty, pretty boy. And he wanted to talk. Like really talk. I realized I could be honest. I wanted to be honest for once. It surprised me and made me warm inside. God, I’ve been such a misanthrope lately. “It was pretty much the same as Slovakia,” I said. “Thousands of closeted men and fumbling encounters in the dark. Except there’s the threat of getting caught by the police. Some risk it, some never do. I preferred to keep to myself while living there. I was abroad most of the time anyway. Being a steward has its perks. People assume, and it’s easy to meet someone without having to put yourself out there. At the same time, nobody ever stays in one place.”
My companion seemed thoughtful. “Must be nice not having to out yourself every other day.”
“That is what the hat is about?”
“The hat is a joke. Self-irony maybe. It’s a gift from a friend, and I’ve only had it for this trip. Usually, it pisses me off when I feel like my sexuality defines all the other parts of myself. I know some guys just take it and make it their thing, queening it out and owning it. I seriously hate it. What does liking cock have to do with how I drink my coffee or what shoes I wear? It’s like you ask about a straight white guy and people say: he’s an accountant, lives close to Castle Hill, a great soccer fan, a bit uppity but a reliable friend. And then about me, they go: Him? Yeah, he’s gay. Period. That’s the most important thing, the defining quality. And everything else comes second or not at all.”
He was a breathing, talking oxymoron. The alcohol had this great effect on him—he said whatever came to his mind. Listening to him was enthralling. His head opened up, and everything was laid out on the table. “I studied in SoCal, and there is this whole overexcited culture wrapped around it. The shit you see in the TV shows? It’s just like that, I swear. Even my mom expected me to become a swishy interior designer who goes to the opera and calls everybody sugar. As if who I fuck and how had to be broadcasted by my clothes and hair, the music I listen to, the work I do. As if it means everything.”
It’s not like that where I come from, and it’s surely not like that in Dubai. I was used to being inconspicuous without my uniform—the perfectly average male. But I’ve been enough times in San Francisco, London, or Barcelona—I used to live in Frankfurt too—and I’ve seen my share of things.
“Because the whole society revolves around sex,” I said. “All the stories, books, music, movies, clothes, even food, schools, and workplaces. And politics! Everything boils down to mating and procreation. Only we call it noble things like finding happiness, family comes first, save the children, romance, and shit. It’s all about sex in the end. Humans are driven forward by fucking. So if the fucking you do differs from the majority, it defines you, defines your subculture and your place in society. People always talk about how what you do in your bedroom is private—it should be, but it’s not. It’s what everybody’s most interested in.”
He looked at me in all seriousness, his eyebrows knitted in a thoughtful frown. I knew I did not even agree with myself 100 percent. Undoubtedly, he wouldn’t agree. I reveled in his full attention. And when he digested my speech, thinking hard on his answer, the lines on his forehead deepening and smoothing out again, he was cute as a button on a little girl’s frock. He didn’t just wait for me to pause long enough to butt in. After what felt like years of parallel monologues, I had an actual conversation. With a hot guy. I was tempted to let out a celebratory whoop when I realized.
“I don’t agree with that,” he said. “People are defined by a lot of things. A lot of actions have nothing to do with sex, and it still makes you who you are. Like whether you voted yes or no for Scottish independence. Whether you stepped up when you saw a kid being bullied in high school. Whether you are a cat or a dog person.” So sweet. He smiled, gently screwing his hands in his lap, and then frowned. “Whether you believe in God or not.”
I was starting to feel rather jaded in the face of all this guileless naivety. I am jaded. And probably a nihilist. Time to joke it away.
“Religion is all about sex! It’s a set of rules about when and how and who are you allowed to fuck, with a Big Daddy as the overseer.”
H
e laughed at that. “Yeah, probably.”
I rarely care if my lack of belief annoys or insults anyone, but this man’s easy answer and laughter made me feel a smidgen of relief. And that made me tense again. I wasn’t supposed to care what he thought about my inner moral system. But just like me, he seemed to drift miles away in his head. When he started talking again, he had me mesmerized.
“It’s like there’s this paradox weaving through my life, connecting all the dots. I’m a man, Caucasian, an academic, both of my parents were moderately wealthy. I’m an American with the bonus of a British passport. A proper WASP. It doesn’t get any more privileged than that.” The bitter curve of his mouth told me that he somehow felt like he didn’t deserve those privileges. I didn’t dare to interrupt him. “It may sound ridiculous, but being gay is the only thing I have left. I could have been the worst cliché of a self-centered, white, rich asshole. So I can resent being defined by my sexuality, but at the same time, it gave me something genuine to fight for while growing up. Something to claim as my own to fight for, without feeling like a spoiled fake who thinks he can change the world out of boredom and lack of his own problems. It taught me compassion. That way, it defined me too. Am I making any sense?”
It was necessary I said something. And I didn’t want to. I was on very thin ice, and it seemed to be cracking.
“If we accept the premise that you are obligated to care for something more than just yourself, you are making sense.” I was disgustingly vague; I knew it. But admitting I was a cynic through and through didn’t scream “have sex with me.”
“If we accept the premise?” he scoffed.
I spent my life surviving, faking my way through the debris, counting my dimes and avoiding conflict. My life was about me and nobody else. Apparently, I didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as he did. Deflection, right the hell now.
“My family was Catholic. It took me a long time before I saw any perks of being gay. You’re saying there are some?”
