What I know about wolves

Chuck sat on the stool in the New York pub. He'd taken the train to New York to see “The Boys in the Band” and cocktails at the Carlyle. Chuck sighed toward the end of his weekend. New York was always a chance to get away from his routine and look at the men from Greenwich Village. Trouble was, most men in their 50s didn’t do that. They were married with grown children and a wife who cooked pot roast every Sunday. But he came to New York, prowling for man. Hell, he didn't have to be all that young or pretty -- didn't matter to him -- but he had to have a man on this trip. He'd go to confession tomorrow, say his Hail Marys, and head back to Philadelphia in time for Gunsmoke. But tonight, he had to have a man.

He walked into the bar in Christopher Street. They asked him for the password and he gave it. He'd been there any number of times, his own city ritual. He walked down the stairs into the room and sat at the bar. A man sat next to him, nursing a gin and tonic, wearing a dark blue jacket, thin matching tie, bald like a bowling ball, about Chuck's age but with a spare tire. Chuck ordered whiskey and soda.

"Where you from? I come from Chicago, but last year I lived in Santa Fe. Did love it there. Been in San Francisco, Key West, Baltimore too. Ma grew up in Cleveland and she met my father, who was a traveling salesman for Roebuck’s, and we all ended up in Chicago. You have to love Chicago, my friend -- second only to New York, is what I say."

The man wouldn’t stop chattering, but Chuck stopped listening. He focused on the whiskey soda, smiled, looked across the corner at another man. The bald man still didn't stop talking. Some nonsense about the Oldsmobile Motor Company. Chuck looked at the man across the way. Perhaps ten years younger, powerful barrel chest, a beard, dark blond hair, chiseled jawline. Chuck couldn't take his eyes off him. Chuck smiled at the fool next to him and said something, didn’t matter what, but averted his eyes to the bearded man.

The bearded man looked his way, nodded to him, and walked to the exit. The man's backward glance before exiting gave Chuck all the invitation he needed. Chuck came upstairs and onto the street, looking for him -- nowhere to be found -- but then he heard a voice behind him. "Hey," the voice said, "I'd like to see your hotel, know what I mean?"

"Sure do," Chuck stammered. Even better-looking out on the street.

"Good. Thirty dollars, then."

Chuck didn't have the money, so he went back into the bar and sat on the stool. The bald man resumed his story about a musical he'd written based on "The Miracle Worker." Chuck listened more closely this time.