Prologue
The Hardest Decision I’ve Ever Had to Make


Single white male, 22, seeks a genuine soulmate to share this little adventure we call life. Loves music, sci-fi movies, and gazing at the stars.

                 There it is. Short, simple, and to the point. Maybe a little too simple. Maybe I should add more about my job or my education. A little more detail on my appearance?

                 Yeah, right. Like anyone’s gonna go for a short, fat, college dropout who works part-time at a movie theater. That totally screams catch of the century. I’ll have ’em flocking to my door with roses in one hand and an engagement ring in the other. 

No, what I’ve got is plenty. Just enough and not too desperate.

My best friend Donna once told me it’s better to let people get to know you for who you are. “Once they see what a devastatingly sweet, uncommonly nice guy you are, they’re never gonna let you go!” I agree with her—to an extent. You can’t toss someone aside simply because they don’t look like some mythical god. It really is what’s inside that counts. I know that sounds all Hallmark-dreamy and naive, but it’s true. Someone who’s the epitome of studliness on the outside can be the ugliest guy on Earth once you get to know him. Unfortunately, way too many people are hung up on appearances, and I stand as much chance of attracting somebody as I do colonizing the moon.

When I was little, I really did wanna colonize the moon. Or explore some distant planet. Or even just take a ride in the Space Shuttle and leave this miserable world behind so I could lose myself in the infinite possibilities of the cosmos. I haven’t done much to pursue my outer space dreams, though. I never felt like I was good enough to even think about applying to the space program. I mean, have you ever seen a whale in an astronaut suit? It ain’t a pretty sight. Whales aren’t meant to fly. Douglas Adams proved that.

I should stick with Donna’s advice: wait until I reel ’em in before I scare them off. Once we’ve talked on the phone for a bit they’ll be so enraptured by my personality that when we do meet my appearance won’t matter.

Yeah, right.

Scanning to the bottom of the form, I fill in my name and contact info. Underneath these lines is another box. This one is asking me to mark which category I want the ad to appear in: Men Seeking Women or Men Seeking Men. My mind is telling me to check the first box, but the pen in my hand hovers in between. I never dated much in high school. By much I mean not at all. I did ask a very good friend of mine, Sara, to the prom, but the whole evening I was just going through the motions. We went to dinner, we danced, we had our photo taken, and then I took her home. Not even a goodnight kiss. And then there was Wendy, a very “outgoing” girl who was on Student Government with me during my brief tenure at community college. She was into me right from the start. I have no clue what I did to make her think I was interested, but she ended up asking me out. All my buddies were pressuring me to accept, so I did. They said even though Wendy wasn’t someone you’d want to take home to Mom, at least she was a sure thing. “You need to get ya some o’ that hot ’n’ juicy!” they told me. When I started college, I was a tried and true virgin, and with Wendy I finally had the chance to prove myself just as macho as the pussy-crazed studs I hung out with.

After we went back to her place at the end of the date, Wendy started coming on to me big time—but I just couldn’t get excited. Even though she practically wrapped her legs around my shoulders, I felt nothing. In fact, I was extremely uncomfortable, so I made my excuses and went home. She barely spoke to me after that, and the following Monday she turned her claws on the Student Government secretary, Phil. With him she got what she wanted, so she started talking to me again. She even tried setting me up with her friend Beth, but nothing ever came of it. I could not understand why I lacked the urge to take things to the next level. Or, to be honest, I couldn’t accept the reason why. I told myself I was in college. I was an adult. Time to start acting like one.

So why do I now find myself failing at every turn? Yes, I’m an adult, but I still feel like a lost little boy on my parents’ back porch, gazing into the clear summer sky and wishing I could visit every last one of those distant stars. I have absolutely no idea where my life is going—or needs to go.

I slice two intersecting lines of ink across the second box. Before I can change my mind, I stuff the form into an envelope, seal it, stamp it, and toss it into the outgoing mail bin on the corner of the desk. I lean back, staring at the dull gray paneling covering the wall of the manager’s office. There’s no going back now. It’s time I put myself out there and see what happens. True love is what will give my life meaning. Finding that one special person to share my life with will finally bring me that elusive happiness I never realized was missing. Until now.

Chapter 1               
How My Life Changed Practically Overnight


                 Three days after I sent out the form, I receive a letter from the Prairie Haven Weekly telling me my ad has been approved. Along with the letter are instructions on how to access my telephone mailbox and retrieve my responses. I’m excited about this brave new venture, but I’m also nervous. So nervous I almost shove the instructions into the office shredder. It was stupid of me to send in the ad in the first place. Even stupider to check the second box. I can’t imagine what my friends will think if they ever find out. Nick and Roger are always trying to top one another on how many girls they’ve managed to conquer. Any time any of us brings up anything remotely having to do with being gay, they act like they’re about to pass out from a fatal disease. Once they discover their best friend is a certified carrier, they’ll either kick my ass or ignore me. Or both.

                 I just won’t tell them. I’m pretty good at keeping things under the radar; there’s no way they’re ever going to find—

                 “Whatcha got there?”

                 Shoving the letter in my pocket, I turn around to see Roger standing in the doorway to the office. I knew I should’ve locked it. Although Roger is pretty tall, he’s so quiet and demure that people often don’t notice he’s in the room.

                 “Oh, uh, nothing,” I say. “Just a note telling me my scholarship got taken away ’cause I failed geology.”

                 “That sucks, man. You gonna hafta leave school?”

                 “Not unless I find some way of paying for it myself.”

                 Roger snickers. “Working here? Good luck!”

                 “I know.” I cross to the safe against the wall opposite the door and start dialing the combination. “You guys all set to go out there?”

                 “We’re just waiting for you.”

                 I glance at my cheap plastic Target watch. “Oh, shit! We open in like, two minutes!” I fling open the safe and tug out two cash register drawers, which I hand to Roger.

                 “Aren’t ya gonna count ’em?” he asks.

                 “No time. Besides, Donna closed last night. I trust her.”

                 “You sure ’bout that? She can barely count to twenty two if she’s sockless and topless!”

                 “Whatever.” I push him out the door. “If it’s off at the end of your shift, I’ll take the blame.”

                 He heads back to the concession stand, leaving me alone once more. I shut the door and lock it. Returning to the desk, I sit down and pick up the phone. I pull out the instructions and dial the number that’s listed. A friendly, automated female voice then proceeds to guide me through the steps of recording my mailbox greeting.

* * * * *

The latest edition of the Weekly is out the following Friday, so I swing by the coffee house two doors down from the theater and pick one up. As I trot down the sidewalk, I open the paper to the back. I find the Men Seeking Men section and scan through the dearth of printed ads. There it is. Wedged between a 57-year-old husband and father who likes to wear his wife’s panties and a “hot muscle jock” looking for “hot times with other jocks—no fems or fats.” I guess he won’t be calling my voicemail.

                 It’s there. It’s out for everyone to see. There’s no way anyone could trace it back to me, but I’m still scared shitless they’re all gonna know. I quickly close the paper and tuck it under my arm before walking into the theater.

                 Donna sits on the bench beside the concession stand, fixing her hair. She’s a very pretty girl, but she never acts like it. Her wavy, dirty-blonde locks hang just below her shoulders, and even though she’s overweight, the extra curves make her even more beautiful. When she sees me coming, she looks up with a sweet smile. “Hey you! What’s shakin’?”

                 “Not a whole damn lot.” Other than the fact I just placed an ad looking for men to date. “Ready for this night to be over.”

                 “You and me both, babe!” She drops her brush into her purse. “Hey, what’re you doing after you get off?”

                 “Same thing I do every night—go home and go to bed. Alone.”

                 “I wanna go out! Let’s go somewhere after we’re done!”

                 “Where do you wanna go?”

                 “I don’t know, and I don’t care! As long as it has alcohol!”

                 “Well, you’d have a better idea where to go than I would. You know how much of a social life I have.”

                 “I do! That’s why you need to go out with me!” Donna jumps off the bench. “You know what we should do? We should go dancing!”

                 Dancing? Me? The only thing more frightening than a flying whale is a dancing whale. “I dunno about that…”

                 “Oh, come on! It’ll be fun! You ever been to The Safety Rail?”

                 Oh, god! She knows about me! She saw the ad and she realized it was me! “Y-you mean the gay bar?”

                 “Yeah, so? They play great music! And it’s about the only place in town where you can cut loose and just be yourself.”

                 “I don’t know about that. I think I’ll pass.”

                 She winks. “What, you afraid somebody’s gonna hit on you?”

                 I wink back and, without thinking, say, “I couldn’t get that lucky.”

                 She laughs. “We’re going! You have no choice!”

                 “All right, I’ll go. But I can’t stay out too late. I gotta be back here to open tomorrow.”

                 Donna and I make our way through the theater lobby to the office. Whether or not she suspects, I’m kinda glad she’s making me go to the Rail. Every time I drive past the place I get the urge to pull my car into the lot. It’s always been easy to suppress, though. The thought of walking in there alone, into unfamiliar territory, scares the shit out of me. At least with Donna I’ll have a comfortable rock to cling to. But I’d be a fat-faced liar if I said I wasn’t looking forward to it.

* * * * *

“Oh, my god, this is so unreal!”

                 I stand near the entrance to The Safety Rail, staying very close to Donna as I absorb the spectacle. It takes a while for my eyes to adjust to the smoky darkness, but once they do, I almost wish they’d un-dilate. People are piled practically on top of each other. Some sit on rickety chairs at rickety tables, leaning over their cocktails and whispering to each other over the hyped-up bass booming from a giant speaker shoved against the wall of the dance floor. There are only a couple people dancing. One pair looks as if they’re trying to merge their bodies together. At first I think they’re kinda cute, but as my eyes keep adjusting, I realize they’re both women. Brawny women with Billy Ray Cyrus hair and black Oxfords stuffed inside frosted Levi’s. Inside my own jeans, I feel my manhood start to shrivel.

                 “Wow, this place is packed!” Donna never fails to point out the obvious. “At least there’s room on the dance floor! Let’s go!”

                 She grabs my hand before I have a chance to protest. Dragging me to the center of the floor, where the entire bar can see me, she begins to shake her hips to the synthesized four-beat rhythm made only slightly less monotonous by the torchy voice of an African-American diva wailing a bunch of shallow nonsense about a great love that has now been lost.

Donna begins to cut loose, while I just shuffle my feet and sway my shoulders. It feels as if everyone is laughing at the chubby dweeb and his girlfriend pretending like they can actually move. I gotta remember to come up with a clever way to make Donna pay for sweet-talking me into this.

She pokes me in the belly. “Hey, you know what dancing is, right? It’s where you move your body to the music!”

“I am moving my body.”

“Please! Stephen Hawking moves more than you! Start shaking that booty or I’m gonna shake it for you!”

Donna grabs my ass and gives both cheeks a couple slaps. Just for the hell of it I turn around, stick it out, and wiggle it in her face.

She laughs. “I’d be careful waving my butt in the air in this place, if I were you!”

Now there’s something I hadn’t thought of…

I stand up straight and turn back around. I should just let go and enjoy myself. Maybe that’s been my problem all along. I’ve been way too fucking uptight. I’ve worked so hard at being such an honest, decent boy that I never learned how to have fun.

The music mixes out of the forlorn diva and into a new tune. It’s the same monotonous beat, yet the overlaying melody has a familiar ring to it. Suddenly, an image of Darth Vader standing in front of the window on the Star Destroyer flashes across my mind.

“Oh my god!” I squeal. “This is the Imperial March from Star Wars!”

Donna cocks her head and listens. “Oh my god! It is!’

Yeah, it is! It’s been sped up and brewed with all sorts of canned drums and noisemakers, but it’s definitely the same song. I can’t help but give in to the Dark Side. Eyes closed, I pump my arms and twist my legs in time with the music. I try and forget all those shadowed faces out there laughing at me. It feels good. The rush is like an intense orgasm, new and potent and seemingly infinite. It’s like the first time I discovered my penis had other uses besides disposing urine. I had no idea where it was going, but I knew I liked the feeling.

Just as I’m about to climax, the rush is cut off. The music stops, leaving only the chitter of conversation and the clinking of glasses to fill the silence.

“What happened?” I ask Donna between pants. “The record player break or something?”

She shrugs. “I’m not sure.”

Now that my eyes are open, I can see we’re the only two left on the dance floor. We stand there under the twinkling disco lights like a pair of sweaty doorstops, waiting for the music to start up again. Instead, a thin man in ripped jeans and a baggy tank top walks onto the floor. He has a microphone in his hand. He mumbles something to me that sounds like “excuse me, baby” as he takes his place in the center.

“Hey, hey, all you hos and bitches! How’s everyone doin’ this evening?” the man shouts to the crowd. “Y’all ready to get this party started?”

The crowd claps and cheers. Donna and I look at each other cluelessly as we vacate the dance floor. We find a semi-clear spot at the end of the bar and stand in the shadows.

“Yeah, I know y’all are ready for somethin’!” says the man in the tank top. “I’m Louis Style, your ever-lovin’ fantabulous host here at the Rail. But y’all can call me L. Style! An’ if you’re real lucky you can call me heaven in the morning!” He pauses for laughter. “I hope y’all are ready t’ be entertained, ’cause we got a special show for you tonight. All the way from St. Louis, Amanda Love is here!”

The crowd lets out an ear-splitting roar of whistles and applause.

“Oh, yeah, baby! We all loves us some Amanda Love, don’t we?” L. Style moves to the edge of the dance floor. “Joining her onstage tonight are Shanita Lay and Merry Magda-Queen! It’s definitely gonna be a hot one, y’all, so without further ado, let’s give it up for Miss Shanita Lay!”

More applause rings out as a door in the back corner swings open. Music begins to play, but it’s a slow R & B ballad…a song meant for two people to hold each other close and savor the unbreakable connection they’ve made. Maybe soon I’ll have made a connection of my own and this song won’t make my ears bleed so much.

Or maybe not. My romantic notions quickly dissolve when I see the Amazon that struts out of the back door. Her head held high, she steps gracefully around the tables in her three-inch heels. On her head is a pile of blonde hair that makes her half-a-foot taller. A silver tiara pokes out of the front of the pile, and the lights above the dance floor bounce off the sequins on her ankle-length teal evening gown, the neck of which plunges way past her cleavage.

“Man, what is that?” I whisper to Donna. “Some high-end call girl?”

“I think that’s a drag queen,” she whispers back.

For real? No way that can be a man up there! She’s got hips and lips and—and boobs!

I watch her (him?) glide around the stage, perfectly mouthing the sultry voice on the music track. It’s almost as if she’s really singing the song. Her hands and arms move to the crescendos in a miming ballet, gaining in momentum as the song reaches its intensity. Every so often, someone from the audience will walk up and hand her a dollar bill, which she accepts with a graceful smile.

Once the song slows to a lonely end, Shanita Lay bows her head and waves at the crowd. She then glides off the stage to the back room, a chorus of mild whistles and claps trailing behind her.

“Well,” I say, “that was…interesting…”

Donna nods. “That’s a word for it. Wonder how long this is gonna go on and when we can go back out there and dance some more.”

Unfortunately, the show doesn’t end as quickly as she wishes. L. Style comes back out to introduce the next performer, Merry Magda-Queen, who regales the audience with a dance number that receives lukewarm response. Amanda Love fares far better with her performance of “Proud Mary.” She’s dressed just like Tina Turner, complete with a nappy wig and fringed miniskirt. It really is a fun little show, and Amanda collects a hefty wad of well-deserved dough.

Near the end of the second round of numbers from the trio of men undercover, Donna decides she’s fed up enough to go home.

“You don’t wanna stay for the rest?” I ask.

She makes a face. “Hell, no! It’s obvious we’re not going to dance any time soon. Besides, those guys are way too pretty, and I’m starting to feel self-conscious!”

I tear my gaze away from Amanda’s rendition of “Last Dance,” complete with hunky backup dancers in satin pants. “Well, okay. I’m getting kinda tired, anyway.”

I’m not. I really do wanna stay. But since I gave Donna a hard time about coming out, it wouldn’t be fair to whine about leaving early. We worm our way through the crowd to the front entrance. Donna opens the door and steps out. Before I follow her, I circle one last glance around The Safety Rail. Something tells me this isn’t the last I’ll see of it.