Date: Sat, 20 Jun 2015 14:28:55 +0000 (UTC) From: Macout Mann Subject: AT FIRST SIGHT 1 This is a story about a continuing relationship between two men in New York City. It includes explicit homosexual acts. If you are underage or find such material distasteful, please read no further. If you do choose to read the story, please let me hear from you. Your criticisms are really appreciated. Write me at macoutmann@yahoo.com. The people and events in the story are totally fictitious, but actual locales are used to add realism. And by the way, I do know that Asti did close, unfortunately for music lovers and lovers of Italian cuisine. Whether you read the story or not, please remember that nifty.org needs your contributions in order to keep this service free and available to all. Copyright 2015 by Macout Mann. All rights reserved. AT FIRST SIGHT by Macout Mann I Jack's my name. Jack Crawford. I'm from Texas originally. Went to North Texas State to college. It has the best music program around. Majored in vocal performance. Graduated with honors. That was seven years ago. I came up here to New York after I graduated. Thought I could at least wind up in the chorus of a Broadway show even if I couldn't get a role. Think again. I did wind up in the choir of a midtown church. Nobody can live on fifty a week, though. I was about out of cash when I was lucky enough to get a job waiting tables at Asti in the village. Asti is famous, not only for the food, but because all the wait staff are singers, and ever so soften they break out into a chorus from a great opera, like "The Soldiers' Chorus" from "Faust" or "The Anvil Chorus" from "Il Trovatore." Right down my alley, since we sang most of that shit in college. Each waiter is also expected to sing a favorite aria from time to time. The tips are good, and living in Greenwich Village, I've never had any problem getting together with guys. I'd always rather do that even more than sing. I've always known I was gay. Found plenty of action in college. Never understood dudes that were looking for "a relationship," though. Fucking variety has been the spice of life, as far as I'm concerned. I've always gone from one-night-stand to one-night-stand. A repeat encounter once in a while. I'm pretty good looking, if I do say so myself. Black wavy hair. Blue eyes. Regular features and a sexy mouth. Good Irish stock. I'm over six feet, and have nice biceps, broad shoulders, a flat gut, and a thirty inch waist. Grew up on a ranch after all. And although my Italian vowels are good as anybody's when I sing, when I talk I do have a Texas accent that seems to turn these fucking Yankees on bigtime. My pouch appeals to 'em bigtime too. Like I said, the tips are good at Asti's, usually about twenty percent of the check. The food's pretty expensive. Gotta cover the cost of the union accompanists, since there's no cover. Of course nobody likes "one-tops," 'cause that means the tip is going to be only half what it would be otherwise at the least. So it had been a slow Wednesday. It's after nine-thirty already. I see that one of my tables is goanna be a "one-top," and I'm pissed as usual. Then I look over and see the most gorgeous dude I've ever laid eyes on. My dick twitches and my heart thumps. Hard to tell how old he is. Could be a college student. Could even be my age. These days people show up at fancy restaurants dressed in anything from tuxes to jeans, but he's dressed the way people used to, dark trousers, tan sports jacket, dress shirt, and striped tie. His clothes are probably Brooks Brothers, and they fit like they were custom tailored. He has a fashionable bit of fuzz on his face and chin, and like I said he's drop-dead handsome. "Good evening, sir. My name is Jack. May I get you a cocktail to begin?" "Thank you, Jack." His voice is smooth and mellow. "I'll have a Sapphire Martini up, very dry, stirred not shaken." When I bring his drink and he thanks me, his smile is overwhelming. Good thing my crotch is covered by an apron. Even so I think my hard-on could be visible to anybody that might be looking to see one. He orders a salad and Veal Scaloppini and later Spumoni and coffee. Throughout he is totally charming, and I of course am very attentive. I "just happen" to be standing by his table when we all break into the final chorus from "The Abduction from the Seraglio." The name on his American Express Card is Wilbur Fischer. When I return his card with the invoice, I say, "Thank you, Mr. Fischer. Do come again." "Thank you, Jack. You can count on it." He remembered my name! God, am I smitten! He also adds a better than usual tip. Of course, I know I'd never see him again. Friday is always our second busiest night. It was three weeks after I had served Mr. Fischer. I noticed I was getting a one-top right at the prime of the evening. I went to the maître d to complain. "Not my turn," I bitched. "Oh? He asked for you by name. I thought he must be a `special friend,'" the maître d leered. As I approached the table, I saw who he was. I had forgotten his name of course, but I immediately recognized him and my dick did too. This time he was dressed more informally...in designer jeans, a turtle neck, and a tweed jacket with elbow patches. "Hello, Jack." "Good evening, sir. Good to see you again. Sapphire martini?" "You remembered! Yes, please, straight up, stirred, not shaken." I am delayed getting his drink, because we have to perform the "Villagers' Chorus" from "William Tell," and when I return to his table he asks me how I came to be an opera singer. We chat pleasantly for a few moments before I have to take care of another party. Once again he is quite affable, spends freely, and tips well. And the maître d later treats me nicely by giving me more than my usual share of four-tops. After closing, I change out of my monkey suit--we have lockers at the restaurant--put on a sleeveless T and my favorite Lee Riders, then head over to Tenth Street to one of my favorite gay bars, Julius. It mostly attracts a regular clientele, not so many gawking tourists. And who is one of the first people I see? Mr. Wilber Fischer is alone at the bar. "Well, hello Jack." He welcomes me warmly and adds, "Fancy meeting you here. "Can I buy you a drink?" "I should buy you one...Mr. Fischer wasn't it? "Please call me Wilbur...and no, let me. What'll it be?" "Bourbon on the rocks will be fine." "A double Jack on the rocks for my friend," he calls to the bartender. When my drink arrives, Wilbur leads me to an out-of-the-way table, where he resumes the conversation he began at the restaurant. "So how did a rancher's son wind up going to college to study music?" he wants to know. I tell him the whole story. It doesn't have anything to do with my being gay. I love the outdoors, love ranch life, love riding horseback. But my mother was a musician, and we would listen to the Metropolitan Opera on a radio station out of Austin when I was just a kid. I started to sing whenever I could. I knew I could never become an opera star. I did do "Opera in the Ozarks" for a couple of seasons, which isn't anything to sneeze at; but there were a lot of singers there better than I was. Sure I can make a living teaching, but I'm not cut out for that. I came here thinking I just might make a living on Broadway. "So now I'm an operatic singing waiter," I tell him. "What about you? Are you from here?" "No I'm here doing a fellowship at NYU," Wilber says. "I'm from around Detroit, originally." "So you're one of 'the Fischers?'" I ask. "A grand, grand, grand, nephew," he laughs. "None of Hyram's mechanical skills or sales knowhow rubbed off on our side of the family. My dad's a patent lawyer, and I'm doomed to be an economist." We have a second drink and chat about growing up. Quite a difference between Grosse Pointe and West Texas. The Crawfords are not poor by a long shot. The Crawford Ranch is a little over 100,000 acres, and is fully diversified. Can you spell "Oil?" But it's really fascinating how different our lives had been, until we arrived in the Big Apple. Wilber's centered around the country club, the cultural opportunities of Detroit and Ann Arbor, then Exeter and Princeton. Mine around the vast open spaces, occasional trips to Austin and Dallas, and public schools and state college. Also, he's got to be getting some help from the family. You can't dress and live like he does on a post-doc's salary. As we get to know each other better, I am still bewitched by this dude. He's removed his jacket and his turtleneck shows off a shapely, really stunning torso. His jeans emphasize a package to die for. His personality oozes charm. His smile melts any reserve I might ever have had. "Your place or mine?" he suddenly asks. "I only live a couple of blocks from here," I say. He pays the check and we walk to my pad hand in hand. Can you believe? I'm "tingling all over."