Page 7 of This or That
“You got everything you need?” He lights up a cancer stick without bothering to ask if I mind.
Well, let’s see… I’m getting paid to do a job I love, have my travel expenses covered, and might very well snag a deal with his label before the boat arrives in Rio. Oh, and let’s not forget the cruise is for singles only! That means I can score easy pussy or willing dick; messing with the customers is even part of the plan. After all, I’m on the rebound after Anna and I decided to terminate our friends with benefits arrangement that our mutual friends dared to call a relationship. Whatever we had at first—carefree, passionate, and unbridled sex—became flavorless over time. We agreed that we were too young to overlook the lack of passion between us… What’s the point in having a friend with benefits when there are none, right? She may have also hinted that she was looking for something more meaningful. When we met, we became fast friends. Now, I’m a bit lost. Despite the fact that I know it’s the right decision. Despite the fact that we text almost every day. Despite the fact that we became like brother and sister. I mean, what you’d expect from siblings, aside from my own. This change of scenery is perfect…
What is there to complain about?
“Sure do.” I ignore his nasty habit; we’re outside, and the smoke stays away for the most part. I haven’t seen much of Nicolas since we embarked and am glad we bumped into each other. Standing with our elbows over the railing, we’re not quite facing each other, mesmerized by the ocean between Barcelona and tomorrow’s destination, Malaga. I stifle a sigh and feel the weight of his stare.
“You okay?” he inquires and waits for me to carry on.
This cruise might land me the deal that I’ve been waiting for. My pulse quickens at the mere thought. His cigarette isn’t what’s bothering me, rather the lingering doubt that coils around my insides. I can’t meet his eyes for the longest time. He smokes in silence until I say my piece. I clear my constricted throat in hopes it’ll keep my tone in check. “Tonight’s gonna be the real test.”
Barely dressed people come and go behind our backs in a scene reminiscent of spring break. The website mentioned that it was reserved for people under thirty and all sexual orientations were welcome. I snickered at that, knowing full well that most of my gay friends prefer strictly gay events. Who was I to criticize their marketing skills? If I can work and meet people who are as sexually open as I am, that’s icing on the cake!
We remain undisturbed by the rowdy voices behind us. It’s happy hour, and the bartending staff concocts a wide variety of cocktails for the occasion. I enjoy being on the other side of the fence this time. Bartending at the club has been great, but this is my dream career. This is why I studied business. This is what my future will be if Nicolas gives me the extra push to rise above the noise.
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, the first night was a huge success.” He nods at my matter-of-fact words. “It could’ve been beginner’s luck, you know.”
“It’s funny,” he replies, patting my well-defined bicep through my denim jacket. It’s May, but the ocean combined with the speed of the ship make evenings downright chilly. “You never struck me as doubtful.”
“Oh, I’m not!” I know I’m talented. If not, he wouldn’t have spotted me in the first place. “I have to be on top of my game. Patrons are demanding, and I’m not the only DJ on board. There’s a reason why they call this Coachella on the Sea…” I trail off, not quite remembering what the website labeled it. “I want to be the best. I want my music to set the ideal mood for their hookups or soulmate scouting.” I snicker at that since it’s a foreign notion for me. “Keeping it fresh every time I perform is quite a challenge, don’t you think?”
“You’re right.” He takes a pull on his cigarette, then shrugs. “But you know what you’re doing.”
We make small talk about how his label is expanding, and he eventually mentions that this venue is new to him. Shortly after, he redirects the conversation to my musical influences. I can’t deny that country music is a huge part of my life as well. Wearing a cowboy hat as a trademark makes that fairly obvious, but he’s interested in electro, not country singers.
“Come on, let’s go toast to your success!” Without waiting for an answer, he herds me towards the massive bar. Everything’s larger than life on this ship. The bars. The clubs. The pools. “It’ll loosen your nerves,” he declares as we clink our champagne glasses.
The conversation flows, and I nod at regular intervals to prove that he has my full attention. He’s as passionate about his job as I am about my music. We’re on our second glass when I discern that he also has a passion for fumbling his man bun.
He must notice my stare—or he’s a gifted mind-reader—because he snorts before saying, “It’s not my favorite look either!” He winks knowingly. “I have to look a certain way in my line of work.” He shrugs. “I should get rid of it.” His sentence comes out as a question and I’m so baffled that I keep quiet. “Right?” he presses.
I gulp what’s left of my beverage to buy some time. “You’re asking the wrong person, Nicolas. I’m not here to judge or give advice on a hairstyle,” I force myself to reply, fidgeting.
“Not asking for either, but your opinion is welcome.”
“Is this a test?” I ask warily. It’s a lose-lose situation. If I tell him that he looks great, he’ll think that I’m kissing his ass. If I don’t, he’ll think that I’m an ungrateful prick. Damn, I loathe these types of situations.
“I value honesty is all. No test.”
Why? Why me? Why now? I can’t tell him that I’m confused as to why he’s obligated to change his appearance to play the part. Not that it’s bad, but the forty-something man is a force to be reckoned with in his field whether he wears one or not.
Marching towards the bar again, but for water to clear my head this time, we remain quiet for a bit. I quench my thirst while his eyes focus on me. Once again, he doesn’t press the issue and opts for another route.
My discomfort hasn’t subsided. “If you’re not happy with it, you should get rid of it. You should be the one to rule your life, not your job or anything else. That’s my two cents.”
“See, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Thank you.”
“Glad I could help,” I joke before informing him that I should get ready for my set.
He waves goodbye. “I’ll see you in a bit, Hunter.”
On the way to my cabin, I dwell on our exchange. He can’t know that I despise restrictive boxes and typecasting. I’m not twenty-five yet, but I’m already way past that. I won’t pretend to be someone I’m not to please others… That doesn’t mean that I’m disrespectful or try to impose my views, rather that I detest being told who I should be. By peer pressure. By unspoken rules. By a narrow-minded society.
He called me Hunter, like others have done in the past. But tonight, it makes me think of Mr. and Mrs. Hunter, the two individuals who gave me life.
Refusing to conform to their definition of the perfect son is what instigated our first argument, which was followed by countless others that tore our family apart for no valid reason, if you ask me. As the oldest of five, I was expected to rightfully inherit the prominent family-owned business. It seems that my parents didn’t appreciate finding me lip-locked with one of my buddies and couldn’t care less that it was in the privacy of my bedroom that they entered without warning. It seems that my parents couldn’t fathom that kissing a boy didn’t automatically translate to their son being a so-called faggot, not that it should matter anyway. It seems that my parents couldn’t accept that being bi was a thing, not a pretense to avoid being labeled gay. Yup, I’ve always been attracted to a person, not a specific gender, and hadn’t fathomed it would be an issue. To them, it was. They shamed me. They called me names. They spread hate. In turn, it led to my eviction from the family home and financial support over ten years ago. My brothers and sisters might resent me for refusing to comply, but I wouldn’t know since I lost touch with all of them.
