My friends convinced me to attend a bachelor auction. It was a fundraiser for one of my favorite Gay charities so how could I say no?

Five men were lined up on stage when we arrived. The room was full of other men seated at small tables. We found ours near the side of the stage. Interest was especially strong in the man on the bachelor nearest us. I could see why. He was brawny and deeply tan and his white Lycra pants left almost nothing to the imagination. He was also short. I like short men.

He kept looking at me. I thought it was my hopeful imagination, but my friends said they saw it too. “Brian, you have to bid on him,” Derek said breathlessly and when the bidding on Bachelor #5 started, I did.

After $500, I stopped. “Too steep for me.” My friends huddled while the bidding went on. Suddenly, Derek made a bid and kept bidding until he won. $5,000! He really wanted the guy. “Congratulations,” I told him. He gave me a smug look: I won, you didn’t.

#5 hopped off the stage and approached our table. I thought I saw him look at me but figured that was my imagination again. He stopped in front of Derek, who pointed at me. “We bid on you for Brian,” I heard him say. I couldn’t believe it.

And I really couldn’t believe it when #5 pulled up an empty chair and squeezed in next to me. “I’m Tony,” he said butchly as we shook hands. His touch tingled from head to toe.

My friends are the best ever!

It was the summer I rode my motorcycle through Mexico and Central America. Sebastiano was another rider I met along the way. I told him he reminded me of Che Guevara and he laughed. He said he was a law student, taking the summer off like me. He and I rode together and slept together in open fields, comforting woods, and dingy posadas.

We kept in touch for quite a while, sending letters from my university to his, then emails, then texts. But eventually he didn’t respond. I heard rumors he’d gone underground, become a revolutionary. Finally, I saw his face on television. He was making a statement, making demands of his country’s government. A year later his forces had overthrown that government.

A few weeks after that, I received a formal looking letter in thick stationery. It was an invitation to Sebastiano’s inauguration as president. He added a personal note: “There will be a room for you in the palace.”

I wrote back just my rsvp and saved my questions for later. He answered them when we were in bed together. He gave me all the information I needed.

I turned my grocery cart into the cleaning products aisle and there he was, puzzling over a product. I couldn’t decide where to look: chest, arms, flat abs, cute knees?

“Could you help me?” he asked. I said I’d love to. He looked at me funny but went on with his question. “Would you use this?” He held up the product. It was a disposable and not recyclable toilet cleaning system.

“No,” I answered and told him why. “Better for the environment if you just use cleanser and a brush.”

“Brush?” he asked. Doesn’t everyone have a toilet cleaning brush? I showed him where they were.

“Thanks,” he said with a big white smile. “What do you think about steaks?” I told him I’m a meat eater. He said, “Great! How about we broil a couple at my house tonight?”

Moral: never pass up a chance to do a good deed. It might get you a dinner invitation.

An attractive man was sitting in a beach chair facing the sun, not the water. He had what we called back home a farmer’s tan—brown only where the t-shirt didn’t cover. As I walked by toward the ocean, he said distinctly, “Nice tan.” I assumed he said it but when I looked at him, his head was still turned up toward the sun, not facing me. The sunglasses were still in place. Maybe I’d been mistaken. I resumed walking to the water.

I swam my daily half mile out and half mile in and did some treading water close to shore just to look around. On the way back, dripping wet, I passed by the sun zombie again. I was thinking I hoped he had sun block on when the zombie spoke. “Need a towel?” He was holding one up, sunglasses still on, head still tilted toward the sun.

“Thanks,” I responded and used the towel to dry myself. I handed the wet towel back to him, not knowing what else to do with it. The sun zombie accepted the towel and draped it over one corner of his chair back, all without changing the position of his head. I started to go.

“Help me reapply some lotion?” he asked, barely moving his lips—and nothing else.

“Sure,” I agreed, turning back. I knew what I wanted to get my hands on, but I was sure he’d show me his back.

“Start with my chest,” he instructed. I did a very, very thorough job.

By the time I’d done his chest, arms, thighs, and the rest of his legs, we were old friends. “Stick around,” he said after I’d finished his toes. “I’ll need help with my backside.”

I stuck around. I’m excellent at backsides.

I was in the hospital for a night after elective surgery. My nurse was a big guy named Eric. He had huge arms! I knew, if Eric needed to, he could pick me up and flip me over no problem. Not that I thought he’d need to. I mean, I don't think you can get bed sores overnight. Still, it was comforting to know somehow, Eric could take care of me.

I stared so much at Eric's super muscular arms, of course he noticed. “Would you like a picture?” he asked. I thought he was being sarcastic but, before I could deny or even sputter, he popped into my private room's little bathroom. In seconds, he reappeared and held his phone up, displaying his handiwork. “What’s your number?” he asked and texted me a copy.

Eric's photo kept me company all through the night. Whenever I woke up, there it was. The real Eric was there too, checking on me, taking my vitals, and giving me pain medication and consolation. He has really warm hands.

Eric came in before the nursing shift change to say goodbye and wish me well. It’s comforting to know he has my number. Somehow, I think he’ll use it. If not...well, I have his.

i was talking my post-digestive lunch stroll along the Embarcadero when I saw a vision of masculine hotness sitting all by himself up ahead. I could tell he was a tourist, although from L.A. or further afield I couldn’t yet ascertain.

I formulated my opening line as I approached, but the tourist beat me to it. He stood and in Spanish-accented English asked where Pier 39 was. I blurted out, “Oh, you don’t want to go there.”

With an amused smile, he asked where I thought he should go. I mentioned the Castro and several bars throughout the city. “You show me?” he asked with a sultry look I guessed came naturally to him.

“Definitely,” I replied and we made a date to meet at his hotel that evening. We had a great time eating, drinking, and dancing. Alejandro paid for everything. He also wore the sexiest outfit ever seen on a male body—tight, revealing, and nicely tailored too.

At the end of the evening, we wound up back at the Hyatt Tegency in the glass elevator, going up to his room. Alex was holding my hand. “Benevenido a San Francisco,” I said before I leaned in to give him his first kiss of the evening. The tourist bureau would have been proud of me.

Three roommates and I share a house. One—Gavin—likes to walk around in his underwear. The rest of us don’t object because Gavin is very well built and we’re Gay.

Gavin also likes to sit in my grandmother’s rocking chair and read books, but he’s prone to falling asleep there. The first time this happened, the other three of us gathered around him, surveyed the scene, and looked at one another. “Who’s going to try to make him first?” Charlie whispered.

“We don’t even know if he’s Gay,” Frank whispered back. Charlie and I both gave him the arched eyebrow.

Charlie said he’d go first. Gavin seemed oblivious to his charms so Frank went next. Nothing. “He ain’t Gay,” was Charlie and Frank’s combined opinion. I went to IKEA.

The next time Gavin fell asleep in the rocker, I brought out my purchase and stripped down to my underwear. When Gavin woke up, I was sitting next to him in a rocker, reading a book in my underwear. He grinned and reached out for me. I closed my book and took his hand in mine. When he got up—still holding my hand—he let his book fall to the floor. I knew I was home free.

I’d never seen a black man with a mullet. He also had a great beard and a handsome profile, so I admit I stared. He noticed. “Like what you see?” he asked sarcastically.

I don’t know what got into me but I answered, “Yes,” before I could stop myself and look away. My yes surprised him and made him laugh. Good. Maybe that meant he wasn’t going to pound me into the ground. He had the muscles to do it.

Mullet man came over. “What’s your name?” he asked. He didn’t sound angry or threatening, so I answered instead of easing away.

“Dixon.”

He laughed again. More of a surprised snort really. “Is that a first name or last name?” First, I told him. He stuck out his hand. “Dixon, meet Dixon. My last name,” he explained.

His hand was strong and warm. I took another chance. “What are you doing now?” Dixon waited for me to make my offer. “Let’s have lunch.” He laughed again, put an arm around my shoulders, and off we went.

And that’s how the two Dixons met. My Dixon still has his mullet. I grew one too.

Alfonso Rivera brought his son to work today, although it wasn’t the annual day to do it. “Mr. Ramirez,” he said. “This is my son Mauricio.” I shook hands with a young man about eighteen or twenty, six foot two, and handsome--with a great smile and a knowing look in his eyes. Latino men always have that look around me. They can tell I’m Gay.

“Mucho gusto, Mauricio,” I said as we shook hands. He had a firm, “manly” grip and gave my hand a little extra squeeze before he let go—just to make sure I understood. I could smell the sex coming from him. He was at that age.

Alfonso brought my attention back to him and to what I knew was the business at hand. “Mr. Ramirez, you think you could give my son a job?” The son pulled back his shoulders, stuck out his already prominent chest, and flashed an even bigger smile at me. I had been in his spot before: eighteen and just out of school. I started at the bottom, worked my way up to crew chief, and now I was a supervisor. Not bad for twenty-six.

“I’ll give him a try, Alfonso, for your sake. Let’s see how he does today. If he works as hard as you, no problem. Make sure he has the right equipment.” Mauricio gave me a wink and a quick tug on his crotch. He thought he already had the right equipment. Alfonso and I shook hands, then Mauricio and I. He gave my hand an even harder squeeze.

I watched the kid during the day. I noticed he learned fast, used his initiative, and had a great body. Edgar, I told myself, do not make your decision on how hot he is, which he undeniably was. But his crew chief thought Mauricio worked well too so, at the end of the day, I told the father his son had a job with us if he wanted it.

“Oh, I want it, Mr. Ramirez. I want it!” the son blurted out. He sidled close, so his father couldn’t hear. “I’d like to thank you. Can I take you out for a drink tonight?” I told him no.

Mauricio’s been with us for a couple of months now. He’s a hard worker, just like his father. Surprisingly, he keeps asking me out every Friday. So far, I’ve always said no. This Friday though I just might say yes.

I was stopped at a red light, thinking about nothing, when I had a feeling somebody was staring at me. You can tell. So I turned to my left. This older—but good looking—guy in the Mercedes next to my Charger was giving me a onceover. I stared back until the guy behind me honked. The light was green.

The Mercedes and I kept pace with each other up to the next light, which turned red just before we got there. The guy in the Mercedes does sign language. He wants me to pull over. After the light changes, I do.

He gets out of his car and so do I. We lean against my car, getting acquainted. He says he’d like to take me out to dinner. We make a date, get in our cars, and pull back into traffic. He stops at the next yellow, but I speed through and wave.

It hits me. I don’t know his name. I don’t have his phone number; he doesn’t have mine. I look in my rear view mirror. The Mercedes is nowhere in sight.

I’m a little pissed but then the Mercedes catches up with my Charger. There’s a red light ahead. It’s all good.

He was wearing a hat, necklace, and not much else that morning in Honolulu. I’d left the hotel before breakfast to get my toes into the sand. My flight from Boise had landed too late the previous night for me to enjoy the beach and to enjoy the beach is why I’d come to Hawaii in December.

“Aloha!” I said as we passed, trying to get into the swing of things.

“Mahalo!” he replied with a big grin. He stopped walking so I did too.

“I’m from Idaho,” I reported.

“Cool,” he responded. “I’m from Kapolei.” I didn’t know where that was but it sounded Hawaiian.

He turned back in my direction and we walked the beach together until I started getting hungry. “Can I treat you to breakfast?” I asked. I knew the hotel had a buffet.

He snapped his fingers. “I know a great place!” We hopped on his scooter and he drove us to a hole in the wall on a side street. Bacon and eggs with a side of poi.

Dan and I spent every minute he wasn’t working together the next six days and nights. The morning I was due to leave he asked me to stay another day. “I’d like to introduce you to my parents,” he explained shyly. I had to get back to Boise and the 9 to 5, but I’m booking a return trip as soon as I earn more vacation days. Meanwhile, there’s Facetime, I guess. We’ll have to hang loose.

Mahalo, Dan. Ku’u Aloha.

I was outside, welcoming parents walking their kids to the first day of school. One dad was particularly visual, and the closer he got the better he looked. Flat stomach inside his purple tshirt, nice arms, great ass.

I recognized the twins he was walking. Sean and Steven Demarest. They’d been in my class last year. I thought their mother was divorced. Maybe she remarried. Things happen over the summer.

When the boys saw me, they waved enthusiastically. I waved back and said, “Welcome back to school!” To their adult companion I said, “It’s nice to see dads taking part.”

He laughed. “I’m not their dad! I’m their uncle. My sister’s sick. She really hates missing out on this.”

The next three mornings the twins and their uncle crossed the street and I watched. Darren—the uncle—and I got pretty friendly, chatting each other up and making our mutual sexual orientation clear. On Friday, their mother escorted them. “I’m glad to see you’re feeling better!” I told her. She waved goodbye to her boys and stopped to chat.

“My brother asked me to give you this.” She gave me a wink and a piece of paper. “He’s looking forward to hearing from you.”

I unfolded the note. It was Darren’s full name and number. I winked back at her and took out my phone. She laughed and left. The number dialed and he picked up. “Good morning,” he said, all bright and cheerful. I think he knew who it was.

He put the used coffee cup deliberately down on top of the trash can, rather than in it. I couldn’t restrain myself any longer. I had watched him wander the museum, to-go cup in hand, even sipping from it occasionally, invisible to guards and staff alike but not to me. No food or drink allowed, the sign read. What made him think he could flaunt the rules? Maybe I’d like a hot one from Starbucks while I perused classical Greek statues. I didn’t but that wasn’t the point.

And sunglasses Inside! It wasn’t even sunny outside. Overcast the weather person had warned and overcast it was. Look out any window!

“Excuse me,” I began politely. “Please put your coffee cup in the trash, not on it. You shouldn’t be drinking coffee in here anyway.”

He looked at the offending object, moved it to inside the trash can, and peered over his sunglasses at me. “Why do I bother you so much and why have you been following me?”

“You don’t bother me—and I haven’t been following you!” I sputtered. He sauntered closer. “You don’t. I didn’t!” He was right in front of me. His lips loomed nearer and nearer. He was going to kiss me! In the museum!

Before he did though, he asked, ‘“Want to go for coffee?” What could I say?

The man sitting next to me at the blackjack table kept winning all night, just as steadily as I kept losing. When my pile of chips was gone, it sank in I’d blown $500. That was my entertainment budget for the whole week, gone in one night. The burly man next to me had thousands of dollars sitting in front of him. He offered to loan me a couple hundred dollars worth. I was tempted of course but told him, “I better not.”

“Well, at least let me buy you a drink. Dealer, I’m cashing out.”

After our visit to the cashier, burly man—whose name is Mike—steered me to the membership-only bar, which we weren’t dressed for. Mike was in a black tshirt and jeans, both of which fit him rather well. I was in a hoodie and corduroys. “They won’t let us in,” I worried.

Mike rolled his wad of dollars and stuffed it in his tight pants. “Oh, they will alright,” he assured me and flashed his membership card at the host. She flashed him a toothy smile, called him by name, and ushered us in. At a table for two, Mike asked me what I wanted to drink.

“Dirty martini?”

He ordered two, one for me and one for himself. Eventually, I lost count of how many we drank. I remember Mike escorting me to my room, with me hanging on for dear life, and both of us getting naked. After that, everything was a little vague until the morning. I woke up with $500 on the bedstand and a note from Mike. “See you for breakfast, sweetie. Here’s my number.” I held the money in one hand and the note in the other, debating. Why not? I decided and punched his number in. At this rate, I might go home showing a profit.

I saw him every Saturday. He always smiled at me, but we never spoke. I was walking my dog; he was running with his. I’d either have to speed up—which I didn’t think Trixie would like, or he’d have to slow down.

No matter the weather, he always wore shorts. In winter, it was a heavy coat, knit cap--and shorts. In spring and fall, progressively lighter or heavier jackets. Summers he was shirtless. I liked summers. He had a trim runner’s body but I could tell he lifted weights too. His chest was defined and his shoulders broad. He had nice arms.

One winter day I saw him just sitting on a bench, bundled up in a hat, gloves, and heavy coat. Two other things were different: he was wearing sweatpants and his dog wasn’t with him. He looked depressed. Trixie was interested. So was I.

“Is everything alright?” I asked. He looked up, tears suddenly forming in his eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay. Do you want to sit?” He wiped his eyes and told me, “Bruno died.” I realized he meant his dog. Trixie must have understood too because she put a paw on his thigh. He rubbed her head and smiled.

“Would you like to walk with us?” I asked. He said he would. Since then, we’ve been walking together for weeks. Well, that’s not accurate. Now, we’re running. Jon adopted a new dog—Bowser—and convinced me and Trixie to run with them. Trixie doesn’t seem to mine. Neither do I.

Cosmo Clemente has two lives. By day, he’s a fashion influencer and designer with a growing reputation. By night—at least some nights—he’s a drag queen named Connie Chignon, with the hairdo to go with it.

We met first by day. I’m a buyer for Neiman’s and was reviewing his fall collection for possible sales at some of our stores. I saw possibilities for the limited mass production we needed but Cosmo didn’t agreed. “I’m not interested in ready to wear.”

“Then, why did you let me make an appointment? You’re wasting my time—and yours.”

He looked coyly at me, put his one hand on top of the other, and leaned onto them. “I wanted to meet you.” He fluttered his thick eyelashes coquettishly.

I stood, angry and ready to leave. “Well, now you have.”

Cosmo held me back by my forearm and tried to smile beguilingly. “How’d you like to see my show tonight?”

“What kind of show?”

“You’ll see,” he answered mysteriously. And I did. “Starring Connie Chignon!” in glittering low-cut gowns obviously created by Cosmo Clemente, although uncredited.

The thing is: I like Connie better than Cosmo. Enough to ask her out. I’m not sure how that will work, especially the next day when she’s Cosmo again but I’m willing to find out.

He had a pained expression on his face. We’d gone home together but hadn’t had the best night. He’d been really drunk and so, I guess, was I. The next morning I tried to dress quietly so as not to wake him but just as I was sneaking toward the door, behind my back he asked, “Want some coffee,” so I stayed.

Over his elegant breakfast table for two, we drank and stared at one another. What was there to say? He looked like he had a painful hangover. We hadn’t connected—hadn’t even had sex. Finally, he said something. Muttered it really.

“I must have really been drunk last night.”

That settled it. I hadn’t wanted his number but now I’d asked for it just to piss him off. He looked at me like I was crazy but grudgingly gave it to me and even asked for mine. After that I left. No kiss, no goodbye from either of us.

Out on the street, I held my phone up at his window in hopes he was watching and deleted his information. Immediately, my phone rang. “Why did you do that?” I hung up. He called again. “Get back up here. Let’s see what we missed.” He was leaning out his window on the second floor, shirtless and maybe pantless.

I shrugged and headed back for the door. Why not? Couldn’t get any worse, could it?

I couldn’t tell Samuel had such a nice chest the first time I met him. He was wearing a baggy shirt and the bar was dark. But when the shirt came off at my place, yowza!

“You’ve got great man boobs,” I told him. He looked embarrassed. Why? You have to pump a lot of iron to get a rack like that.

“Don’t call them man boobs,” he muttered. I was afraid he was going to put his shirt back on and leave. It had taken some conversation to get him to come home with me and I’m not used to that. I’m a pretty good looking guy and sexy—so people tell me. Usually, it’s right, left, score! But Samuel was hard to read. He didn’t give vibes he wanted me to shove off, but he stepped back when I moved in close. Still, there was something about him. That’s why I kept at it.

After the man boobs faux pas, I figured things might go better in the dark so I turned off the bed lamps. We were both out of the rest of our clothes in seconds. From then on, no problems. With Samuel, it’s definitely touch but don’t look. And no compliments on his chest.

I enjoyed myself and I think Samuel did too. He stayed for round three in the morning but took off before coffee. “I’d rather shower at my place,” he said, but he kissed me before he opened the door. He gave me his number too.

I just sent him a text. I hope he answers. Like I say, there’s something about him—and it isn’t just his man boobs.

The bus was crowded when I got on. There was a seat up front but the guy next to it was taking up half with his manspread. He smiled at me but didn’t pull his legs together so I worked my way further back.

My stop was one of the last so I put on my headphones and settled in to listen to my music and look at my phone. People came and went in the seat next to me. I paid no attention until somebody’s knee hit my thigh. I looked up sharply. It was the guy from the first row. He didn’t move his knee. I tried shifting my leg away. His knee followed. He was really manspreading now. His lips were moving so I lifted an earphone up. “I said, ‘how ya doin’?” he repeated. We started chatting. His name was Deacon. .

Eventually, we were the only people on the bus besides the driver. “My stop’s coming up,” I warned him. “When’s yours?”

“Oh, it was a ways back,” he answered. My mouth fell open. Deacon laughed. “I wanted to get to know you.” He bumped my leg for emphasis. I got the idea.

I leaned across him to push the stop request. He pulled his legs together to let me lean. “This is me. Do you know me well enough to get off with me?” I wondered if he got my double entendre.

He stood up to let me out. “After you, baby.” Guess I’ll find out.

(Read my longer stories in Gay All Year https://bookshop.org/p/books/gay-all-year-twelve-stories-richard-may/3f1e67d83db518eb?ean=9781915905376&bkshp-astro=t )

I was in an all-night laundromat at three a.m. I’d wandered home alone after the bars closed and couldn’t sleep so I decided to do my huge pile of dirty clothes.

I wasn’t alone. There was a drag queen with too many blonde curls and not enough makeup and another gay man with his own huge pile of dirty duds. It was a good thing there were only three of us because we were using all the machines. I worried about crunch time: when we needed to use the dryers. There were fewer of those.

OGM—other gay man—was washing everything in sight. He’d stripped off his pants, socks, and shirt and tossed them in a machine. He was down to a pair of black bikini briefs. How he had struck out at the bars I’ll never know. He was gym built and sex ready with wide shoulders, big guns, pumped up pecs, and thick thighs.

I don’t know what came over me. Probably I was horny. I told him, “Why don’t you wash the underwear you’ve got on too?” He looked at me like I was crazy.

The drag queen chimed in. “I’ll loan you a pair of my clean panties.” Whereupon, our hero removed the bikinis and added them to the machine. Be still my beating heart! When he slid into the panties, I went, “Ahhh,” in disappointment.

He looked me with surprised eyes, then grinned and gave me a wink. “I’d be glad to take them off for you after our washes are done.”

And he did.