Ode to Lata by Ghalib Shiraz Dhalla Page A

declares.
    “You have it?  How? Who gave it to you?”
    He leans over and whispers, “The bartender, silly!”
    “Him?” I ask, glancing at the one I’d been coveting.
    He nods.
    “I didn’t even see him give it to you!”
    “Neither did anyone else.”  He winks, flashing a folded napkin at me.
    “Well,” I say, “talk about one-stop shopping.”
    I shake my head, amazed that these transactions have been taking place right under my nose all this time.  Even more shocking is
who
supplied Roy with the coke: the same bartender who refused to serve any more alcohol to a totally wasted queen the last time I was here.  I had been so impressed with his resilience.  So responsible.  Resisting the dollar bills that were being shelled out in an effort to secure just one more drink.
    Roy tells me that I can get anything from this bartender.  Coke.  X.  Pot.  Name it.  Simply the best quality.  “Just place your order a week in advance, honey, and you can buy him too if you like.  No, wait, that only takes a few hours notice.”  Now my jaw really drops.  “Oh, come on!” he says. “Surely you’ve seen his latest ad in
Frontiers?”
    How well I knew those pages at the back of the magazine, crammed with ads for “models” and “masseurs.”  They were my solace when, after an entire evening of relentlessly looking for love, I returned home feeling not like the polished man that had slaved over his appearance before stepping out but a roach, scurrying home as daylight approached.  In that state of exhaustion, when it became difficult even to masturbate, I pored over the pages of the magazine, suspecting that the reason I was such a flop as a gay man was because everyone else had turned into hookers and porno stars.  A hundred and fifty dollars.  In or out.  Top.  Bottom (very, very rarely).  Nine inches.  Twelve inches.  Rock hard.  Second available.  Will travel.  Get your intake of meat for the week.  And always twenty-nine years old or under.
    As Roy leads me away from the bar, I take a last look at the bartender and wonder, how the hell am I supposed to distinguish him from anyone else in the magazine?  It’s not like they showed anything above the rippling chests and silhouettes of erect dicks throbbing through Calvin Klein underwear – faces cut out of the pictures to protect the innocent.
    Back in the bathroom, we file into the line and wait impatiently for a stall.  Some of them note our sudden return with curiosity.  Others just know.  Roy launches into a manifesto about the single life.  It’s not his overrated take on the pleasures of being accountable to no one that irritates me as much as his need to preach these views to everyone around us.  I wonder what Adrian is up to, contribute a few insincere remarks and pray for the line to move faster.
    Finally inside the stall, Roy unwraps the paper napkin and reveals the little plastic zipper bag.  He scoops the powder on a key and sniffs it.  First the right nostril, then a refill for the left.  He turns to me.
    I pause. 
Do I really want to do this?
Booze I can just regurgitate but this I’m going to be stuck with!
    But the monotony of the music and the phlegmatic attitude of men bound to their narcissism are rousing a feeling of ennui in me.  I feel a little tired.  My feet are starting to drag.  There is still a whole night ahead of me, and I know I must get by because I’m not ready to go home.  Or to the Vortex.  There is still the chance that I might be able to pick someone up without having to pay admission for it.  I feel the need for a little something to push me over the edge.  To ignite a spark for an otherwise mundane scene. 
    And to top it all off, Mummy will be arriving tomorrow.
    I lean toward Roy’s key to unlock the magic.
    Might as well unleash tonight.

CHAPTER 16
     
    BOYFRIEND
     
    Her British Airways flight has arrived on time.  Thank God.  Now customs.  That would take at least another