I try to focus on specific features to get my mind out of the gutter, so I start from the top. His hair is short and dark and even from here I can see silver sprinkled liberally at his temples and laced through the full trimmed beard that makes him look like a Clan Chieftain or a sexy Greek fisherman. I think I’d like to feel that salt and pepper scruff rubbing against my skin.
These fantasies are writing themselves.
Zeus isn’t as tall as the ginger tank beside him—maybe a few inches taller than me—but he’s still rippling with muscle and imposing in a way that screams contained power and good genes. Nature built that edifice.
I have the urge to move closer and take in more details. I need to know what color his eyes are and what he sounds like when he speaks. But instead I’m rooted to the floor, wondering how I could have gone twenty-six years without experiencing this kind of life-altering ache.
I want him. Now. Yesterday. In the parking lot. On my knees beside the dumpster. Bent over in a bathroom stall. I swore I’d never be that guy, but for him I think I’d be willing to go there.
You don’t know him.
No. I don’t.
I may hand out romantic advice for a living, but secretly I’d always assumed that the instant spark people talked about was bullshit. It’s never happened to me, and I see hot men all the time. I’ve dated some, ogled others. I’m friendly with a photographer that regularly emails me pictures of nude male models for inspiration. Sometimes they’re fans of my column and ask him to pass on their numbers.
I love looking at them, and my body reacts to the visual stimulation, but I’ve never been compelled to call or meet them in person. Instead, I take pieces of my favorites and mentally paste them together for a private session later. My regular Franken-fantasy has the UPS guy’s forearms, my old English professor’s hair and Wolfgang from Sense8’s self-confident penchant for nudity. The rest of the scenario is usually made up of rotating porn gifs and my vivid imagination. It works.
But I don’t think that’s going to cut it anymore. Not after today.
The intensity of my physical reaction to Zeus is causing me concern. Is it hot in here? Is my blood pressure rising? Can a person stroke out from excessive arousal?
Obviously it can kill brain cells, because I’m tempted to walk across the bar, take this unknown element by the hand and beg him do things to me. Rough things. Filthy things.
This is not me. I’m the easygoing, good time guy. The nerdy gay sidekick in the PG rom-com of your choice. I don’t do violent passion for bearded strangers, and I’m not about to go up and introduce myself and— I’m already on a date, for God’s sake.
I was on a date. But Billy Ray might not know it’s over yet and he’s still in the building. There has to be a rule. Like not swimming for thirty minutes after you’ve eaten. Don’t proposition a guy at a bar when the loser who just propositioned you is still sitting at your table.
I give Zeus one last defiant glance to test myself. Instant fail. Instead I’m swallowing a whimper as his stern expression transforms into a smile.
Because his smile is glorious.
But it’s not for me. He’s watching the giant wrap his fist around the slender man’s braid to bring him in for a kiss.
My mental iPod offers up an impressive record scratch when I finally realize exactly who he’s standing with.
Why the hell is my Zeus with a Finn?
He starts to turn his head in my direction and, before we can make eye contact, I find the willpower to look away. I force my feet to move again, wondering at my odd reluctance to let him out of my sight. This is ridiculous. I’m ridiculous. The probability that he’s straight or—with the stories I’ve heard about the Finns and their proclivities—ménage bound, is too high for me to be this much of a mess. Ménage. The thought is both arousing and soul crushing at the same time.
Either way, if he’s with them he’s not for me. He’s not out of my league, he’s in a different solar system. I need to be a grownup and move the fuck on.
“Fiona,” I call as I set my glass down with more force than necessary. “Emergency refill. Brady Stout. Stat.”
“Another pint of BS for JD, ASAP.”
The old men on the corner stools laugh and the sound buoys my spirits. When Seamus Finn turned half of this place into a microbrewery, he’d taken to naming his creations after members of his own family. Everyone was still getting a kick out of the clever gimmick.
My favorite, the stout, was christened for his cousin—aka the kissing ginger with possible dibs on Zeus. It’s a thick, Guinness-like offering that goes perfectly with my mood, as well as the chorus of drunken singers trying and failing to keep up with the energetic Irish band.