fuqahuzi

I'm leaning against the wall near the door at Dirty Sally's, nursing a beer. It's about noon on Sunday. This is a Labor Day weekend so the crowd is even bigger than usual. I'm a little shy in bars. Especially crowded noisy bars. It doesn't matter. I can just hang out in a gay bar and a guy will hit on me. I'm not handsome, but I am tall, rugged, and moderately athletic, dressed in blue jeans and a tight tee-shirt. Also, I'm available. Right now. That's important for a lot of the men in Dirty Sally's, especially on a Labor Day weekend. A black man in his late 20s comes up to me. He's wearing civilian clothes—sneakers, khaki pants, and a long-sleeved tan shirt—but he has a military haircut and bearing. He's probably stationed at Fort Hood but it could be one of the bases in San Antonio. "Hi. Can I buy you a beer?" he asks. Of course he can. His name is Nick. We talk about nothing significant over fresh beers and then leave. Of course, he doesn't have a place, so we go to mine. I take my