Thirst: Unexpected Attraction, #1

Description

TEASING WAS ALL IT was ever supposed to be...

On summer break from his graduate studies at the university, Kirk is surrounded by irresistible and enticing men when he lands some temporary jobs off campus. 

But all Kirk can really do is flirt with these guys.  They might be quite rowdy, macho, and playful, especially at the neighborhood pub where Kirk works as a bar back during the late night shift.  Ultimately, however, they're not attracted to other men.

Or are they...?

One thing is certain for Kirk.  He desperately needs big life changes and a fresh start.  Burned out from being overly devoted to his studies, as well as being financially strained and extremely lonely, he feels rock-bottom empty.

Read to discover whether Kirk, against all odds, finds that one of the men, once considered hopelessly out of reach, might offer him surprising fulfillment. 

Epigraph

"WHEN IT IS DARK ENOUGH,

you can see the stars."

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

Preface

WHILE THIS BOOK IS a work of fiction, there are some crucial elements based on my own past.  The inspiration for Thirst and the new Unexpected Attraction series emerged from my vivid recollections about same sex boundaries as a young adult.  Navigating and maneuvering through these challenging and individual boundaries, which were very fluid and veil-like with some men, and seemingly insurmountable rock walls with others, generated feelings and experiences ranging from humiliation to euphoria. 

I also remember quite well from those volatile days how expectations about my fate and fortunes seemed both hazy and dynamic.  Life directions were never clear.  Monumental choices were sometimes based on rush judgments or misunderstandings.  The future was in constant disarray. 

This book is devoted to the notion of charging ahead and courageously following trails to wherever they may lead.  Ultimately, as with so much else in our lives, relying on hope or chance is not enough.  The opportunity for meaningful fulfillment requires leaving comfort zones, pursuing divergent paths, and taking big risks. 

Jaylen Florian

September 29, 2019

Chapter 1

Summer break from the university began with an emptiness so vast and bleak I imagined it could swallow me whole.  At times I felt like I was gasping for hope, struggling to avoid being fully devoured by despair. 

There was trouble on almost every front.  Excessive studying during the spring semester had left me burned out.  I feared my graduate degree—I was working toward a master's degree in history—was in peril.  From January through May, while trying to hold a vital scholarship that paid much of my tuition and expenses, I had devoted most waking hours to books and research, at the expense of my friendships, health, and love life.  My body had softened from lack of exercise, straying further away from the lean and agile physique I had maintained throughout my high school years as the captain of the baseball team.

Despite obsessive devotion to my college grades, I ended up losing that scholarship when I finished the semester below the top twenty-five percent in my graduate department class, compared to my peers, and my finances were suddenly derailed.  And while the few friends I had left on campus departed town for the summer, pursuing prestigious internships in exciting cities, I was essentially broke and broken, stuck in a dreary duplex rental I could barely afford, licking my wounds and desperate for a quick recovery.

Though personally I was a wreck, change was viscerally in the air in 1992.  Everyone could feel it.  Virtually nobody knew what was coming or could predict that we'd soon be consumed by the internet, mobile phones, and a new economy.  On some levels, arguably, it was a simpler time.  Eventually, my fortunes changed in the summer of '92.  By the end of August, against all odds, I'd snagged my first real relationship and boyfriend.

In June, however, plain old survival was foremost on my agenda.  I landed a day job at a video rental store.  The chain is now defunct, but at the time it was part of a colossal business empire, and our local store was a fine place to work.  Stacking VHS tapes and working the cash register, among other basic duties, was a cakewalk, and a welcome respite from academia.  The store's air conditioning was always cranked up, by design, to increase customer rentals, and I didn't really sweat the silly khaki pants and blue shirt uniform.  The pay, nonetheless, was minimal.  Upon getting my first paycheck I nearly lost my breath from shock. 

So, immediately acquiring a second job—an evening job—was an urgent priority.

It was at the crack of dawn on a humid Sunday morning when I bought a newspaper from the convenience store near the university.  I studied the classified ads listings while sitting in a rusty lawn chair amidst the weeds behind my duplex.  It was too cloudy to sunbathe, but at least I could easily read the tiny font on the newsprint in the muted sunlight.  Aimless and frustrated, nothing appealed to me.  I couldn't even narrow my search down to specific employment categories and ended up reading everything, growing ever more alarmed that I needed a financial miracle just to pay my bills and stay afloat. 

Hours later, I had only two long shot prospects.  I used a pair of scissors and cut both job listings from the pages, careful not to slice through the phone numbers at the bottom of the ads.  One was for a midnight restocking shift at a grocery store and the second was for a bar assistant at a place called Sigaro.

I tried the grocery store first.  After having my call forwarded three times, finally reaching a manager, I learned the stocking position had already been filled. 

I hesitated before calling Sigaro.  Though twenty-two, I didn't frequent nightclubs, bars, or lounges of any kind.  Alcohol just didn't appeal to me.  I had never liked the taste, nor the unnecessary expense.  I wouldn't refuse a glass of beer or a shot of whiskey at a party, but that was about the extent of my experience with drinking.  With this in mind, I nearly ripped the Sigaro listing to shreds.  But two things intrigued me.  First, what was a bar assistant position?  Perhaps the job involved accounting, marketing, or another kind of backroom duty that might help me somehow in the future with a new skill.  Second, the listing mentioned that Sigaro was located in the tony neighborhood of Rugged Heights.  With the bar's name translating as cigar in Italian, I envisioned an upscale cigar lounge for gentlemen and ladies, like an evening country club.  I called the listed number and a man with a gravelly voice answered on the fourth ring.  When I told him I was responding to the ad in the paper, he told me to drop by.

Can I make an appointment? I asked.

No.

Is there a time frame when I can arrive and be interviewed?

Just come by, the man answered, suddenly irritable.

When?

Right now. 

The line went dead.  But I still had my phone pressed to my ear, wondering if I should call back.  What was I supposed to wear?  What should I bring?  What about the rate of pay?  The hours?

Screw it, I thought, and finally hung up the phone.  I'll show up in person and just see what happens.

Chapter 2

Quickly showering and picking out the only things in my closet remotely suitable for a country club-like atmosphere, which included a tweed blazer and crisp white button down shirt, I dashed from my duplex in time to catch the ten o'clock morning bus.  Though the windows were down, permitting occasional breezes to whirl inside the old bus, I was uncomfortably hot in my jacket.  I noticed sweat beads had dripped from my forehead, off my eyebrows, onto the manila file folder holding a copy of my resume.

Fortunately, however, the trip to Rugged Heights was a direct route and involved few traffic lights.  Though it was only twelve minutes away from my duplex and the university campus, I had not been there before.  I just knew it was one of the newer and nicer neighborhoods in town, spread across some rolling hills and valleys near Bluestone River.  With each passing mile on the bus I noticed the improved landscaping in the road medians and along the sidewalks in front of the homes and businesses.  Other changes were evident, too, including fewer cars and pedestrians, no potholes or graffiti, and much less billboard advertising.

Guided by my map, I exited the bus a block away from the river, on the outskirts of Rugged Heights, at the intersection of Marigold Parkway and Horizon Ridge Drive.  Sandstone-like block walls enclosed large residential homes on the west side, while a health food market and a gas station were across the road from each other on the east side.  Based on the address, I knew Sigaro was on the east, but I couldn't find it.  I walked south, past the health food mart, circling around an adjacent sports store and floral shop before returning to the intersection.  Going north, I noticed a small strip of businesses in a narrow building squeezed behind the gas station, abutting a pristine wooden fence separating the commercial space from a series of bungalows scattered throughout a lush, park-like setting.  Sweating even more profusely than I had been on the bus, I drifted closer to the strip of businesses but thought there must have been a mistake with the posted address in the newspaper listing.

Sure enough, cramped between a nail salon and a swimming pool supply store was a weathered wooden door with a matching sign above it, the name Sigaro painted in olive green.  Dejected, I stood in the quaint parking lot for several seconds, pondering when I could catch the next bus home.  Realizing I had at least a twenty-five minute wait for the next ride, I decided to press ahead and go inside the bar for a minute.

I expected the old door to creak, but it glided open easily with a firm pull.  My eyes began to adjust to the darkness—there were no windows in Sigaro—and I realized the entire establishment was likely less than five or six hundred square feet.  It consisted of an L-shaped bar to my left, surrounded by barstools, and three booths covered in crimson-red vinyl lined the wall on my right.  The bar and tables were black, with chrome edges, and the unadorned walls were dark grey.  There were no televisions or monitors of any kind.  Elaborate displays of whiskeys, bourbons, and other bottles of spirits were the only visible ornamentation. 

It's a dive, I thought.  A damn hole in the wall.

On the phone, at the far end of the bar, near a slim hallway leading to the bathrooms and back rooms,