You stop in Port Arthur because Port Arthur is not Port Charles and you want to stay near water.

You check into a Motel 8 because you can’t find a Holiday Inn and you don’t want a Hilton. You share a room again because neither one of you wants a room to yourself. You’re tired of sleeping alone.

Chris takes you out to celebrate your moment of truth. You’re not sure where he found the place, but you think he might have asked the hotel clerk who liked he would know of the type of place Chris was looking for.

Twenty minutes later, when he stops in front of a rainbow-covered bar, you’re sure.

You sit in the back in a little booth. You’re gay, yes, but that doesn’t mean you’re entirely comfortable with a gay “crowd.” You’ve been to gay bars before, yes, but only when you weren’t with your straight band mate, and only when you were looking for someone, something to alleviate the loneliness.

Chris looks even less comfortable than you feel, but you think that he thinks he’s hiding it well, so you let it slide.

He orders a rum and coke from the waiter in the tight white t-shirt. You’re not sure what you want really, so you just nod and say “two.”

When the drinks come Chris holds his up for a moment, waiting for you to do the same.

“To winning bets,” he says, taking a long sip.

“You had a bet?”

He nods.

“With who?”

“You’d rather not know.”

“But…”

“Trust me, C. You don’t.”

You let it slide because you know that when he starts drinking more, he’ll be willing to tell you anything.

He’s on his fourth drink while you’re still on your first. You don’t think he’s really noticed that you aren’t matching his pace.

Madonna comes on over the speakers and he nods to your shirt.

“Why Madonna?”

You shrug. “Just because.”

“But why?”

“She’s strong, you know? Independent. She… I guess she reminds me of everything I ever wanted to be.”

“You want to be female?”

“I like guys don’t I?” And you think that’s the first time in a long time you’ve caught Chris completely off guard.

Eleven empty glasses are lined up in front of Chris. He got the idea long ago that if he kept the glasses in front of him, he wouldn’t drink too much because he’d be constantly reminded of how much he’d already had.

It never actually worked and was mildly annoying when there were more than two people at the table, though that hadn’t happened in what seemed like a really long time.

“I’ve thought about it before,” he says.

“Thought about what?”

Chris waves his hand in front of him, to the side, encompassing the whole bar. “This… this life. Thought about guys.”

Hope is a burning pain in your chest; a rush of feeling that you are powerless to stop or control. You’d never guessed, couldn’t have possibly hoped.

“I don’t know though,” he’s saying.

“Like, actually thought about or just… idly wondered?”

“Actually thought about. Like…” he sighs. “Got hard thinking about.”

“Woah. Um… I think…”

“Yeah,” he says, dropping his twelfth empty glass to the table. “I think so too. God. Yeah. Haven’t actually talked aloud about this. How can I be a guy’s guy if I want the guy?”

“What?”

“I’m not the… you know…” Chris stumbles for the word. “Stereotype!” he yells when it comes to him. “I’m not the stereotype. I mean, no offence, C. But we all knew for a reason.”

“None taken.”

“I’m not… yeah. I’m not a stereotype.”

“Well… and I mean this with affection, you are starting to resemble a leather freak. Sometimes.”

For a while he just stares at you, and you wonder if you’ve crossed some boundary that you weren’t supposed to. Then he laughs and you start breathing again. “Oh fuck you,” he says, though the smile on his face never dies.

He’s in the passenger seat because he can barely walk and you’ve only had three drinks the whole night. You vaguely remember the way back and hope that eventually you’ll stumble across the right motel.

“Does it hurt?” he asks.

“What?”

“You know… what you do. Does it hurt?”

Oh. “Um… sometimes. The first time, yeah. After that, it’s a little easier.”

“Isn’t… isn’t it too late for me to have a… you know… a sexual crisis?”

You shake your head and say no. It’s never too late to discover yourself.

You get back to the Motel 8 and half carry, half drag Chris into the room. He tries to help you take his shoes and pants and shirt off, but he ends up hurting more than he helps. You finally get him situated in the bed, spread across it, under the covers. You sit next to him, on the edge of the bed.

You try, but you can’t quite stop your hand from reaching out and touching him. It cups his cheek first, then runs down his neck to his shoulder. Traces down his arm to his hand. Almost like it isn’t a part of you anymore, like you’re just watching it move.

You look over at the other bed, empty and untouched, the sheets still tucked tightly under the mattress. Kicking off your shoes, you stretch yourself out next to Chris. He stirs as you lie down, wraps an arm around you as he stretches the other further out along the mattress.

You close your eyes and the last thought you have before you fall asleep is that sleeping with him is everything you thought it would be.

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