without me continually dragging her back down. I wanted her to be happy because I doubted she could ever be that with me.
“You guys are busy tonight,” I said to Leah, conversationally.
She set another pint of beer in front of me. “The start of a new school year is always good for business. A whole new crop of freshmen.” She grinned mischievously. “Or fresh meat .”
“Now you sound like Troian,” I said, shaking my head but smiling. She was always teasing me that freshmen were the only reason I never took her up on the offer to work with her in Hollywood.
“Where is that pocket-lesbian tonight?”
I shrugged and twisted my glass on the bar top. I played with the condensation on the outside of the pint glass and drew patterns with my fingertips. “Date night with Nik, I think.”
“Gross,” Leah said, echoing my cynical thoughts. “Those two are so sweet, it makes my teeth rot.”
As she walked away to attend to another thirsty lesbian, I took a moment to appraise the friendly bartender. Leah was nice. She had a good sense of humor, was educated, and had a nice ass. I could do much worse. I had done much worse.
I grabbed my beer and twisted back around on my stool to watch the people out on the dance floor. Peggy’s always drew a mixed crowd on weekend nights and tonight was no exception. It was the only gay bar in about a 50-mile radius and it pulled patrons from all over. Tonight’s dance floor was packed with an assortment of co-ed women, no doubt from my school and other area universities, a few skinny-jeaned men, and a handful of older lesbians who, after a few beers, danced unapologetically with little rhythm.
It had always amazed me that such a supposedly conservative area could boast such a large, vibrant queer community. When I’d first been hired I’d been concerned that I’d have to stay Closeted until I found a job at a different, more liberal school. So far my sexuality had been a nonfactor, especially in the English Department. It made me feel more confident about my decision to pursue tenure at this school. Tenure went both ways; the school needed to commit to you to stay on permanently, but you also needed to commit to the school as well.
The crowd on the dance floor seemed to part, affording me an unobstructed view of a tall blonde on the dance floor. My approving gaze immediately went to the woman. I had a type and tall blondes were certainly it. My pint glass nearly slipped out of my hand when I realized I knew the tall blonde.
Hunter.
What was Hunter Dyson doing in a gay bar?
The slightly elevated dance floor was crowded, but Hunter was tall and her blonde head of hair poked up among the masses. Under the shroud of dimmed lights and flashing neon strobes, I allowed myself the indulgence of really looking at her, something my guilt-complex hadn't allowed me to do in a while. The music was a remix of some Top 40 song I’ve heard overplayed on the radio. Her eyes were bright and she threw back her head, laughing. She wasn’t the most provocative dancer I’d ever seen. Actually, she danced just like I imagined she would. Her movements were hesitant, contained, like she was afraid to break out of her comfort zone. I didn't recognize the other girls who danced with her in a loose circle, their strategic formation challenging only the bravest souls to try and infiltrate their group, but they all looked to be about Hunter's age so I suspected they were also students, maybe fellow classmates from the nursing program.
There was a very real possibility that she wasn't gay. I was sure that a number of straight co-eds from my campus came to Peggy's because there wasn't a bouncer outside checking IDs, and I couldn't really recall having seen any of the bartenders ask patrons for proof of their age, either. Even Troian had boasted proudly about not having her ID checked and she looked about 12. That was part of the
“You guys are busy tonight,” I said to Leah, conversationally.
She set another pint of beer in front of me. “The start of a new school year is always good for business. A whole new crop of freshmen.” She grinned mischievously. “Or fresh meat .”
“Now you sound like Troian,” I said, shaking my head but smiling. She was always teasing me that freshmen were the only reason I never took her up on the offer to work with her in Hollywood.
“Where is that pocket-lesbian tonight?”
I shrugged and twisted my glass on the bar top. I played with the condensation on the outside of the pint glass and drew patterns with my fingertips. “Date night with Nik, I think.”
“Gross,” Leah said, echoing my cynical thoughts. “Those two are so sweet, it makes my teeth rot.”
As she walked away to attend to another thirsty lesbian, I took a moment to appraise the friendly bartender. Leah was nice. She had a good sense of humor, was educated, and had a nice ass. I could do much worse. I had done much worse.
I grabbed my beer and twisted back around on my stool to watch the people out on the dance floor. Peggy’s always drew a mixed crowd on weekend nights and tonight was no exception. It was the only gay bar in about a 50-mile radius and it pulled patrons from all over. Tonight’s dance floor was packed with an assortment of co-ed women, no doubt from my school and other area universities, a few skinny-jeaned men, and a handful of older lesbians who, after a few beers, danced unapologetically with little rhythm.
It had always amazed me that such a supposedly conservative area could boast such a large, vibrant queer community. When I’d first been hired I’d been concerned that I’d have to stay Closeted until I found a job at a different, more liberal school. So far my sexuality had been a nonfactor, especially in the English Department. It made me feel more confident about my decision to pursue tenure at this school. Tenure went both ways; the school needed to commit to you to stay on permanently, but you also needed to commit to the school as well.
The crowd on the dance floor seemed to part, affording me an unobstructed view of a tall blonde on the dance floor. My approving gaze immediately went to the woman. I had a type and tall blondes were certainly it. My pint glass nearly slipped out of my hand when I realized I knew the tall blonde.
Hunter.
What was Hunter Dyson doing in a gay bar?
The slightly elevated dance floor was crowded, but Hunter was tall and her blonde head of hair poked up among the masses. Under the shroud of dimmed lights and flashing neon strobes, I allowed myself the indulgence of really looking at her, something my guilt-complex hadn't allowed me to do in a while. The music was a remix of some Top 40 song I’ve heard overplayed on the radio. Her eyes were bright and she threw back her head, laughing. She wasn’t the most provocative dancer I’d ever seen. Actually, she danced just like I imagined she would. Her movements were hesitant, contained, like she was afraid to break out of her comfort zone. I didn't recognize the other girls who danced with her in a loose circle, their strategic formation challenging only the bravest souls to try and infiltrate their group, but they all looked to be about Hunter's age so I suspected they were also students, maybe fellow classmates from the nursing program.
There was a very real possibility that she wasn't gay. I was sure that a number of straight co-eds from my campus came to Peggy's because there wasn't a bouncer outside checking IDs, and I couldn't really recall having seen any of the bartenders ask patrons for proof of their age, either. Even Troian had boasted proudly about not having her ID checked and she looked about 12. That was part of the
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