In August I flew from DC to Boston, rented a car, and drove down to Maine for a few days of summer hanging out with some friends who had rented a lakeside cabin in Oxford. Before I left DC I made some notes about a couple of gay bars in Lewiston, a town about a half-hour drive from the cabin, and decided Saturday evening to check them out.
As well as to give my friends a few hours of privacy, I told them I was going bar hunting and not to wait up, but I’d be back before it got too late. I drove out across the darkening Maine countryside, first to Auburn, then over the bridge to Lewiston, trying to follow my printed-out map to the far side of town where the first bar on my list ought to be.
I stopped at a bar in what looked like the right location, went in, and ordered a beer. But after a few moments, I realized that it was, in fact, not a gay bar; or if it ever had been, not anymore. For one thing, there were too many men and women together, and no men in groups or singles standing around looking at or for other men there for the same reason.
Anyway, to not look entirely conspicuous, I mostly finished the beer, then headed back into town, got lost, and finally asked a policeman where the bar was. Friends in DC once told me whenever they’re in a new town, they just ask a policeman where the gay bar is. The police always know.
After getting the officer’s directions, I found the second bar on my list, the Sportsman’s Grill. I didn’t know what to expect but as I entered, I noted that small-town bars all seemed to look alike: Cycles, the Deer Park Lodge in Maryland (now just The Lodge, at last fact-check), and this place. They all had no particular theme or décor, no one dressed in a certain way (such as cowboy hats), the patrons a mix of mostly men but also women, but little mixing between the sexes.
I fell into my usual, pass-the-time bar routine of sucking on a beer, skimming whatever was the local gay newspaper, and trying to stand fetchingly in different locations, all the while scanning for someone to cruise. In the middle of the bar was a tiny dance floor, maybe ten feet by ten, with tables around the sides. No one was dancing but I thought the music was really good, much better than the faceless noise they played in DC dance clubs. After a while, there was a decent-sized crowd in the Sportsman’s Grill but no one I was really interested in.
A little after midnight I began to think about heading back to the lake when a bear, the first one all evening, walked in. I was going to hold back, as I felt like being choosey and not diving after the first bit of facial hair that walked by on three legs.
But this guy was actually pretty cute, maybe middle-aged, and I thought if I didn’t go over soon, someone else might get him first.
I had figured out a while back that the important thing to remember when attempting a pick-up, is to not worry about the answer, but to just go over and say hello. You might get a yes; you might get a no. But either way, you find out what you need to know—it’s that simple. Like the great Frapkin said, “The nos don’t count, only the yeses.”[1]
And I got what seemed to be a yes. He introduced himself as Max and we chatted for a while. We seemed to be hitting it off.
To my surprise, the bartender then made his last call, which I thought was early because it was only 1 a.m., but Max explained this was the normal closing time after I said DC’s closing time was 3 a.m.
Max and I walked out together and once outside, he asked me if I wanted to come over to his place. He said he lived in Gray, about a twenty-minute drive. I agreed, adding that I might need to get up rather early and leave. So much for telling my friends “before it got too late.”
We got into our respective cars, and I followed him out of Lewiston to the Maine Turnpike. After only few miles, we got off at Gray, then turned down narrow, dark country roads, each narrower and darker than the last, and through increasing ground fog. Then we hit dirt roads.
Max’s house, however remote, was a pleasant surprise: large and roomy, and with a hot tub right off the living room. As we chatted, he gave me a glass of wine and a tour. He turned out to be really nice, well-spoken, and interested in architecture. Eventually he asked if I’d like to try the hot tub.
Max fetched a couple of towels and we helped each other out of our clothes and settled into the water. The hot tub was very warm and we got pretty heated up. After only a short soak, we got out, toweled off our steaming bodies, and he led me up to his bedroom. He set the alarm early for me and I joined him in bed. I forget exactly what we did for sex, but it was probably a lot of nice cuddling and cumming. Max’s body wasn’t spectacular but it was compact and manly, and Max was easy to like.
After only a few hours, the alarm went off and I dragged myself out of a sound sleep which required almost more will power than I possessed. Max and I did a quick good-bye hug and kiss, and I drove bleary-eyed up Route 26 to my friends’ lake cabin. I might have easily slept longer at Max’s, but I had to get back to pack and then drive up to Boston for my flight to DC later that day.
As soon as I stepped out of the car at the cabin, however, I realized that I left my jacket at Max’s house. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I needed that jacket, and I didn’t have Max’s address or phone or even his last name to look him up so I could ask him to send it to me.
I threw my stuff into the duffel bag and said a quick good-bye to my friends. I left the cabin much sooner than originally planned, to give myself time to find Max’s house again, which I did by somehow remembering the feel of each hill and turn from the previous night. (I have a pretty good sense of direction, did I say?)
Max seemed pleased that I had come back, and I wondered if maybe he thought I left my jacket accidentally on purpose. After thanking him and getting another good-bye hug and kiss, I left for Boston.
I wrote to Max once, as this time on my way out I was clever enough to note the house number on his mailbox, but I never heard back. And on subsequent visits to Maine, for some reason, it never occurred to me to again re-trace my steps to Max’s house. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.