32. Bryant

"I hope you had a Merry Christmas?" Susan, one of the regular AA members, asks as I help her stack the chairs. As much as I don"t feel like being social, I really don"t want to go home right now. There"s too much of him there to remind me how fucking angry I am.

"It was alright. Quiet. How was yours?" I ask, deflecting the conversation away from me. She talks a little about getting to see her kids. They were taken from her after she got caught drunk driving with her kids in the car when they were three and five years old. That was four years ago, and they've been with her parents ever since. She"s been sober since the night it happened, but only recently started getting unsupervised visits with her kids again. She"s hoping she can get them back next year.

"You seem lost in thought," she says, and I realize I wasn"t listening.

"I"m sorry, that was rude. I"m a little off. Holidays, you know."

"Wanna go grab a cup of coffee and talk about it?"

"Thanks, Susan. I"m good. I have your card, though." She offered me her contact information after I started coming to meetings and admitted I"d relapsed. Of course, I haven"t mentioned that I"ve been drinking somewhat regularly, although not to excess like I did that first night.

She gives me a polite hug, and I head out to my car. I don"t go home, I just drive around, looking at Christmas lights. It"s peaceful. I don"t even turn on music, I just keep driving, letting my thoughts overwhelm the silence.

Honestly, I wish I could talk to someone about it. The student I fell in love with got engaged yesterday. I know he"s not in love with her. At least, I think he"s not. But they look pretty convincing in the engagement photos I saw on social media.

Why would he have sex with me in a bathroom, with a high risk of getting caught, if he was about to pop the question? Maybe it"s just something physical for him? It seems a little far to be just a cover.

I remember he said he loved me. He said it first. But I was drunk enough to let him top me, so maybe I"m remembering wrong?

Maybe he"s not gay at all, and the novelty, the experimentation, gives him something that a pretty girl with perky tits can"t give him?

I love him. I guess that makes me gay. Maybe I've always been gay, and didn"t realize it, and that"s why I never really had a meaningful relationship? I thought it was because I didn"t have the best example of healthy relationships growing up, since my parents hated each other and fought all the time. But now that I've met Jack, I"m wondering if maybe I was just looking in the wrong places.

My tires take me three towns over, and I pull up at a place that Google informed me is a gay bar. It doesn"t look gay from the outside. Although, honestly, how would I know what a gay bar in the middle of Texas looks like? I"m not trying to stereotype anything or anybody here.

I sit in the parking lot for so long that I expect the place to close soon, but when I look down at the clock on my dash, it"s only just after eleven, which I suppose is still early for a bar. A couple of very normal-looking guys wearing jeans and cowboy hats walk in. It must be some kind of cowboy bar.

With nothing else to do and nowhere else to go, I decide I may as well go in and see what it"s about. Can"t hurt anything. I grab my jacket and put a ball cap on, pulling it down low over my eyes. My job is already on the line. I don"t need to be recognized right now.

It"s dark inside, but clean for a dive bar. I have a seat at the bar and order their best scotch on the rocks. Then I sit with the bar to my back and look around.

It"s really just like any other dive cowboy bar, aside from the fact that there aren"t many women. There are a couple over by an electronic jukebox, and one or two at various tables. There"s an upbeat country song playing, and a few people are doing a line dance. It"s so… normal.

Honestly, the only thing that could out this place as a gay bar is the banner of tiny flags at the very top of the shelf behind the bar. That, and the shirtless guy in tight jeans slowly riding a mechanical bull. I can"t see much of his face because his black cowboy hat is pulled low over his eyes. He"s got one arm up, holding the hat to his head, the other holding onto the rope handle on the mechanical bull. The bull rolls and bucks, smooth and slow, and the cowboy rolls his body with the movement. His hips undulate, abs contracting and rolling. His skin is covered in a sheen of sweat that makes the light catch on each defined muscle. It"s definitely erotic. And I can see the appeal, but I don"t feel that spark of heat until I imagine it's Jack up there. I imagine how his abs would contract, how his hips would roll forward and snap, and my cock starts to press against the front of my jeans.

My eyes glaze over, and I"m lost in my own imagination. Until I become aware of someone standing right in front of me.

It"s the guy from the mechanical bull. He"s close enough that I can tell the glossy sheen to his skin is some kind of oil, not sweat. He"s young. Probably not as young as Jack, maybe in his late twenties. The hair that peeks out from under his hat is sandy blonde, and his eyes look to be a dark green color, but other than that, I could pretend that he looks somewhat similar to Jack. If Jack had a slimmer build. This guy has full lips like he does, but a thinner nose, a more pointed jaw.

"Like what you see, Daddy?" The cowboy says, looking at me appreciatively. My brain tries to morph his Texas accent into Jack"s Alabama twang.

"Daddy?" I say, lifting an eyebrow.

"Yeah, you"ve got that Daddy vibe. Like you might want to spank me and send me to your room."

"Is that so?" Am I really flirting with this guy?

"I haven"t seen you here before."

"I haven"t been here before," I answer, taking a deep swig of my drink.

"What"s your name?" He asks, leaning up against the bar and gesturing for a beer.

I hesitate. "Nick," I lie.

"Well, Nick," he says my name like he knows it"s not real. "Were you looking for something in particular?"

I"m not sure I understand his question, but I shake my head. "No, just stopped in for a drink. You… reminded me a little of someone I know."

"Oh yeah? This person have a name?"

"Jack," I answer honestly, because it would be a reach for this guy to put two and two together.

He leans in close enough that I can smell coconuts. Must be whatever oil he used to gloss his skin up.

"Well, isn"t that a coincidence," he says huskily. "That happens to be exactly my name."

I swallow, and he catches the movement. His hand comes up to touch my Adam"s apple, and I swallow again, letting him feel the movement. He makes a low humming sound, like he"s thinking of something, before leaning forward and whispering in my ear.

"Follow me, Daddy."

He walks away, towards the back of the room, and through a hallway. At first I just stare after him. Then I drain my drink and stand to leave the bar.

At some point, my feet curve around and follow Cowboy Jack down the dark hallway.

I don"t know why I follow him. And I don"t know what I"m expecting. I"m not drunk, and obviously I know he isn"t my Jack. But I"m… curious. Can I find the same connection, the same release, somewhere else?

I hear a little whistle, and look up to see Cowboy Jack darkening the entrance to a strange room. The music here is different, more intense, thumping, like dance music but slower. It"s dark, except for a dim disco ball type projection.

Cowboy Jack pulls me into the room. His hand in mine feels strange, but I let him lead me to the back of the room. From here I have a vantage point of the door, so I can see if anyone walks in, but I have a feeling no one really cares what happens back here. Cowboy Jack presses himself against me, and my back hits the wall. He ghosts his lips over mine, but doesn"t try to kiss me, which I"m thankful for, because I don"t want him to. He presses his lips to my neck instead, and I close my eyes.

"That"s right, Daddy, close your eyes."

"Coach," I correct him.

"What?"

"He calls me Coach."

"Alright, Coach," he agrees, and licks my neck. His hand trails down my stomach and cups my crotch.

I"m not hard, but my thoughts of Jack earlier still have me at maybe half mast.

"Well damn, Coach. I knew you"d be packing, but shit."

He doesn"t sound like Jack. He doesn"t smell like Jack.

But his hand, when he reaches inside my pants and pulls out my half-hard cock, is warm enough. And when I close my eyes and focus on only his hand stroking me, I can almost pretend it"s Jack.

It"s even easier to pretend when he stops kissing my neck and gets to his knees in front of me. When his warm mouth sucks me in, my cock doesn"t seem to realize that it"s not Jack. It grows harder in his mouth, and he takes me all the way back in his throat. He"s not doing that thing I like, that he always does, with his tongue around the ridge of my cock head. But he"s enthusiastically sucking, and it does feel good…

"Fuck, Jack," I whisper, and my hand reaches to fist his hair, knocking off his hat in the process.

My eyes fly open, because the hair I"m fisting feels nothing like Jack"s. And without his hat, this guy looks nothing like him, either. Which is also stupid, because I"ve never seen Jack wear a cowboy hat, or any other kind of hat aside from his football helmet.

What the fuck am I doing?

I pull the man off me, tuck my rapidly deflating dick back in my jeans, and all but run out of that bar.