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MyJockStrap

Common Ground

Trace circled the town green for the third time and began to worry about being late. His watch read 7:57 p.m., and he still had to find a parking spot and walk to the coffeehouse. Spotting an available space on the far side of the green, Trace sped up and pulled into the spot before anyone else could. He left the windows down and the doors unlocked as he jumped out of his truck. He could see the awning for Common Grounds in front of him, but he still had to cross the green to get to it. He scanned the sidewalk for Élan, but no one who fit Élan’s description was there. He wondered if this meant Élan was late or if he was already inside. Trace found himself unable to remember if they said they would meet inside or out. Becoming increasingly nervous, he could not recall if this preparatory discussion was had at all. Taking a deep breath, he calmed himself by reminding himself he was an adult who could simply enter the coffeehouse and see if Élan was there was or not. If not, he could then decide if he was going to wait inside or out. Trace reprimanded himself for having such provincial social concerns and reminded himself that constructing a new life meant taking bold new steps.

Reaching the coffee shop, Trace pulled the door open and stepped inside before his newly found courage failed him. His attention was immediately drawn to a blonde seated to his left, and his bravery faltered as he realized this guy had to be Élan, for he fit Élan’s description to a tee. Another clue lie in the fact the blonde was expectantly smiling at him. Trace shuddered as he realized he was already very attracted to Élan.

“Élan?” asked Trace.

“Hello, Trace.”
Trace walked extended his hand and hoped Élan would not notice it shaking: “I was afraid I was going to be late.” Releasing his hand, Trace awkwardly fell into the chair opposite Élan.

“It’s nice to meet you, Trace.”

“You too,” responded Trace. Realizing Élan already had a cup of coffee in front of him, Trace seized the opportunity it provided for conversation and a quick escape: “What are you having?”

“Decaf. I am tanked on caffeine as it is,” answered Élan.

“Sounds good. I’ll be right back.” Trace stood as he realized he should have spent more time saying hello before running off to get a coffee, but he was too nervous to care, and he could not steady himself under Élan’s gaze for another moment. He had found a reprieve, albeit a short one, for walking away, he fretted Élan was checking him out.

Reaching the counter, Trace requested a coffee and looked back toward the table. Élan smiled at him, and Trace returned the smile as he confirmed his attraction to Élan’s wet blue eyes and pleasingly pallid complexion. This combination struck Trace as particularly attractive, and he wondered if he had just discovered his ‘type.’

Returning to the table with a mug full of coffee, Trace deployed his experience as a waiter to avoid the embarrassment of dribbling coffee over the floor: Watch your destination not your hand.

Arriving at the table without incident, Trace’s dexterity with the coffee increased his confidence as he resumed his seat: “Well, I guess this settles who drinks more coffee. This is caffeinated!”

Élan laughed as he conceded: “I guess it does.”

“Have you been here before,” asked Trace.

“No, this is my first time. You must have since you knew about it,” replied Élan.

“I’ve been here before with friends,” responded Trace.

“Am I one of the many ‘friends’ you’ve met here?” asked Élan with a suggestive tone that took Trace by surprise and reminded him this was a first meeting.

Pondering Élan’s question, Trace realized he was just as curious about the frequency of Élan’s personal ad experiences: “Actually, no. You’re the first. The others were friends.”

“Can’t we be friends?” asked Élan.

Trace found the conversation suddenly very complicated, and he felt he had somehow contradicted himself. Unsure of how to answer, he opted for the easy out: “Of course, we can.”

“I’m just giving you a hard time, but I suppose I shouldn’t do that. You don’t know me well enough to know when I’m joking.” Élan smiled reassuringly before continuing: “How are you finding the ad experience? You said this was the first ad you placed, right?”

“Yes. So far, you’re the first guy I’ve met.”

“Well, that puts all kind of pressure on me,” Élan smiled as he spoke.

“Yes, it does,” replied Trace so instinctively he failed to realize the curt nature of his response.

Élan’s smile faded as he raised his coffee mug to his lips. Trace was forced to let the awkwardness hang between them a moment before he found a way to remedy his tactlessness: “Now I am giving you a hard time.”

“Ah, touché,” Élan remarked as he smiled appreciatively.

Deciding he had had enough joking, Trace decided to change the conversation: “Élan, do you mind if I ask why you changed your name?”

‘Not at all, but it’s not really an interesting story. I did it in my early twenties. I guess I wouldn’t do it now, but I had just come out to everyone, and I lost my job, most of my friends, and my mother didn’t want to have anything to do with me anymore.”

“All because you were gay?” interrupted Trace as he wondered over what price he would have to pay.

“Yeah, it was really not a big deal; the job sucked anyway, and my mother suffers from born-again amnesia,” explained Élan flatly.

“Does she talk to you now?” asked Trace.

“Only during her annual recruitment phone call to remind me I am going to burn in hell unless I change my ways.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” offered Trace.

“Thanks, but its really ancient history now. Anyway, I had just come out and found I needed a new job, new friends, and a new family, so I decided to take a new name, so I did. Then—I quit college, found an apartment, and started my business.”

“Why the name Élan?” asked Trace.

“I wanted something other than a proper noun. I wanted to name myself something I actually wanted to be—something I wanted to become. Élan means filled with self-assurance, and I definitely wanted and needed to become that.”

“It’s a pretty unusual name, but I like it,” commented Trace.

“It’s no more unusual than Trace really,” countered Élan.

“It’s English. It’s means brave,” replied Trace.

“Are you English?” asked Élan.

“By way of British occupation. I am part Irish,” answered Trace.

“And are you brave or are you trying to become brave?” asked Élan.

Trace pondered the question a moment before replying, “Both—I guess.”

Shifting his weight, Trace was uncertain if he was nervous because of the conversation’s content or Élan’s blue eyes that seemed to contain every shade of blue. He wished he could slip beyond the blue-eyed gaze for a moment to catch his breath and steady his confidence. As the conversation continued, he felt increasingly unsure of himself and became progressively more self-conscious, and for the rest of the evening, his attention alternated between the conversation at the table and the tedious conversation in his head as he wondered what Élan thought of him or what was revealed by the words that passed between them. More than once he found himself guessing at an appropriate response as the conversation in his head eclipsed the conversation at the table. Fatigued, Trace realized he had been completely unprepared for the work involved in dating, and he wondered at exactly which sappy love song was to blame.

Although he had enjoyed Élan’s company, Trace was pleased when he found himself walking toward his truck with Élan at his side. He was relieved to be in Élan’s peripheral vision, but he became gradually more nervous as he wondered why Élan had offered to walk him to his truck and if he had been remiss in not offering to walk Élan to his car first. Before Trace could ponder an answer, he found himself standing beside his driver’s door.

The two men exchanged what felt like awkward glances to Trace, and urged on by an intuition of relief resting on the other side of a kiss, Trace boldly stepped forward: “Are you gonna kiss me?” As soon as he finished his question, he pressed his lips to Élan’s before they could part in response.

Élan pulled back and laughed before returning his lips to Trace’s: “I guess I am.”

Both men were too tense in the public setting to proceed beyond pressing lips, and there was no exchange of tongues.

Breaking the kiss, both men surveilled the street for possible repercussive responses to their public display of gay affection, but their wariness was unwarranted, for no one was to be seen.

Trace pulled his keys from his pocket and squeezed Élan’s forearm: “I think we found some common ground at Common Grounds. Let’s do it again.”

“I’d like that,” replied Élan.

Driving home, Trace lowered the windows and relished the wind as his truck flew down the highway. He heady with the though of having just completed his first date with a guy. Tiring as it was, it ended with a kiss, and the memory of raced through his mind as he soared over highway and raised the radio volume. A popular love song came over the radio, and although he knew it was premature, he couldn’t help but project himself into the song, for this time, he actually had someone to take along.

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