Title: A City of Hopes Unrealized
Series: Seattle City Limits, Book One
Author: Howard Leonard
Publisher: NineStar Press
Release Date: 02/28/2023
Heat Level: 2 – Fade to Black Sex
Pairing: Male/Male
Length: 57000
Genre: Contemporary, Bartender, Established Couple, Friends to Lovers, Humorous, Interracial, Over 40, Therapist, UST
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Description
After ending a relationship that began in an era before social media, Alan finds that good friends, a thriving medical practice, and an abundance of dates with a vast array of intriguing men in progressive Seattle aren’t enough to surmount the shortcomings of his own insight.
From endearing Justin to cultured Bradley, to his fantasy man, Marley, Alan frustrates his friends and therapist by being better at ambivalence than connection. The characters in A City of Hopes Unrealized represent people we all know and, although uncomfortable, may even remind us of ourselves as we try to navigate circumstances we would never choose and might never even envision.
A City of Hopes Unrealized
Howard Leonard © 2023
All Rights Reserved
The prime real estate of this story is the Off, the third reinvention of a small bar not too far from the Boardroom. The Off has one of the few unpretentious kitchens on Capitol Hill, and a reasonably nice atmosphere. Booths and tables line the walls and the large front windows. There is a round fake fireplace in the middle and a few small end tables scattered nearby, a bar on the left side, and a kitchen beyond. Adding to the atmosphere are the servers, all men, all young, all seemingly gay, all with attitude, and all in black kilts. One man in particular, a man whose name I’d learn months from now, became my rock star. Fortunately, he tantalized me by being my server more often than not at the Off.
Rock Star has an unusual look. He has a touch of something in his demeanor that adds a mystique which captivates me. He’s tall, I’d guess six one or six two, and broad. His dark hair and black eyes are almost lost to his amazing dimples. The required kilt attire shows off Rock Star’s hunky, hairy legs. He has all of this without coming across as intimidating. He personifies that perfect combination of masculine and adorable. Not exactly the boy next door, nor the Montana cowboy, RS embodies a different flavor of fantasy perfection.
Being my characteristic ten minutes early, I claim a booth by the front window with a view of the door, the room and my server, Rock Star. It’s Sunday afternoon, early happy hour and I sit in my booth waiting to meet Mr. Sixty-Nine, a man whose age was not a deterrent, but a demographic which would identify him when he walks in the door. And walk in he does, a bright-orange shirt seeming to light his way. “What is this about shirts?” I snicker, possibly out loud. Orange, however, is not a fetish.
“Hi, Alan. I’m Stan.”
“Yes, Stan. It’s nice to see you.” Long pause. We pretend we’re getting oriented at our table, as a way to mask the awkwardness.
Owning my sense of being unmemorable, I begin. “I’m glad you knew who I was when I texted. Will gave me your number. I’ve thought about you on and off since Will’s dinner party and figured I should just ask if you wanted to meet me out.” My rehearsed phrase, “meet me out,” arguably was less a setup for rejection than “ask you out.”
“Thanks for being here.” I added.
“No problem,” he offers, which I take as a dismissive courtesy people have adopted, seeming to suggest he accepted my invitation begrudgingly. The phrase fits right into my creeping expectation of dismissal and resurrects the belief I carry of my own unworthiness. These feelings always find a way to sneak through my microscopically thin skin which is meant to hold my pathetic self-image beneath the surface. Even my recent budding regrowth of self-worth remains tenuous, and so a single word can push my real estate up, or more often down.
We ordered a bottle of wine, knowing at our age alcohol wouldn’t interfere with a night that would probably end before eight. The wine helped, and within a few minutes, the conversation turned to the inevitable talk of our aging cohort in the Seattle gay medical community.
“Even before Will’s party, I’d been aware of you for years. There aren’t too many of us older gay guys in medicine who’ve been in Seattle a long time.” My words were meant to compliment him by implying we are of the same generation, while simultaneously elevating myself to his social status. We then played the “do you know so and so” game. The wine allowed for commentary, which led to colorful stories.
As if I were decades younger than my chronological age, my alcohol-reduced vocabulary took a turn meant to suggest comfort, familiarity, or perhaps a nonthreatening tipsiness. I had been flirting with Sixty-Nine, or perhaps the wine was flirting with me, allowing me to express reasonably frisky feelings. I had done a different version of the same at Will’s dinner table, where Stan and I first officially met. Stan was randomly seated next to me at Will’s quarterly “triple-six dinner,” so named to honor the six p.m. hour, six unattached men, and a six-course meal. The times I’d been invited to Will’s were always lively. Six did seem to be the perfect number to promote conversation and wit. And as now, the wine poured at Will’s and my hand laid under the table and on and off Stan’s leg for him to interpret anyway he felt inclined. He never removed my hand, while he also only incidentally touched it once or twice, possibly unintentionally as he reached for his napkin. Now, in this moment at the Off, our conversation overflowed with energy.
“Oh my God!” I exclaimed, recalling a story from years ago. “I remember networking and going to meet John at his office. It had to be the early nineties. I thought we planned to leave the office and get coffee, but he walked me into his breakroom and we sat down on the couch. First, we talked about what we believed then to be the miracle new generation of HIV treatments and what he’d seen in several patients. I guess being more established than I, or since we were at his office, he got aggressive. I mean aggressive. I was absolutely unprepared when he got up, grabbed my hands and he pulled me to my feet. He kissed me. I mean he fuckin’ kissed me, butt grab and all. My upper body pulled away, but below the waist I pushed into him. And I remember starting to shake. Being the new guy in town and meeting this established legendary doc, I did not see any of this coming.”
“You obviously don’t know John.”
“Not at that point. I recall feeling the confusing mix of anxious and flattered. It never occurred to me to see John as predatory. But after I pushed my crotch into him, he pulled away, saying he was sorry and didn’t have time to go for coffee or anything else. He stepped aside and opened the door, knowing I’d be smart enough to leave. The words circulating in my head were ‘What the fuck’? But I left, feeling totally confused as if I had a reason to be ashamed.”
Sixty-Nine continued his own stories about John, stories only a close friend might know. I’d learned long ago there is no privacy among doctors, at least not between docs when it comes to talking with one another, especially after a few drinks. Talking about sex, dicks, the latest thing they pulled out of someone’s butt, in the office, the ER, or in their free time, was normal Happy Hour conversation between physicians, of course while never naming the star of their story.
As if to not risk a lull in the conversation, Sixty-Nine grabbed his phone and began to go through his contacts asking if I can think of any gay docs other than those whose names he was reading out loud. We talked about putting together a gathering so we’d all meet in one place at one time, but I think we both knew it would never happen. The idea was all about voyeurism. I suspected Sixty-Nine would go home and spend the rest of his evening googling the names I’d been able to add to his contacts.
We finished our wine, never did order food, and in my nice guy way I offered to walk Sixty-Nine to his car. Nodding to Rock Star as we left, I received no acknowledgment from him. He’d already been tipped, so I guess he had no reason to pretend to care.
On the way to Sixty-Nine’s car, he was obviously happy. He’d received more out of agreeing to meet me than he had anticipated. Once in his car, a way too big Lexus for this shrinking man, he turned to me, rolled down his window, and in a rare moment of self-consciousness, smiled and parted by offering, as if he were handing me a consolation prize, “Alan. If I knew I’d have this much fun, I’d have worn a nicer shirt.”
This would be our one and only date. I wanted more, but Stan didn’t seem to reciprocate. Despite his age and the reduced status his retirement offered, he was obviously pickier than me.
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Howard Leonard earned his PhD in Clinical Psychology in 1981. Dr. Leonard and his partner moved to Seattle, Washington, in 1983, where he began a private practice which he maintained for thirty-five years. He chose Seattle in part due to his belief the region would allow two men to legally create a family through the use of surrogacy, something largely unchallenged by gay men in the eighties. He has two daughters, now adults, and one grandchild. Howard and his husband, Robert, live in Palm Springs, California. Writing has become an important part of his life since retiring from clinical practice. A City of Hopes Unrealized is the first novel in the “Seattle City Limits” series. Find Howard on Facebook.
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