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Monticello Cafe‚ at 4 a.m.
The place was an absolute dive. I was constantly amazed that the health department allowed this place to stay open. But, there was something about drag queens serving 2 eggs over easy, bacon, hash browns, wheat toast (lightly buttered) and hot, strong coffee in the middle of the night that had a certain cache. The place would be filled with drunken gay men and drag queens of every ilk along with a few neighborhood winos so the atmosphere could turn mean faster than a Yellowjacket could slide down your throat with a nice cold Miller's Lite. I loved a Yellowjacket and a beer. It was the perfect combination when I made these forays into the city.
We would stop at the Monticello Cafe‚ before going home after a night of partying. We needed grease and coffee to absorb some of the alcohol before heading south. It also gave us a chance to unwind before watching the sun rise across the sound as we drove the last few miles toward a comfortable bed.
We were sitting in a side booth at the Monticello. Ben, Miss Fine Thing, Little Pig Man and me. I could not remember Little Pig Man's name. He and I got together every time we were both in Norfolk. I didn't call him Little Pig Man because he was fat or into yellow handkerchief activities. Rather it was because he was from Smithfield, home of the Smithfield ham. Plus, he just loved to be fucked.
Miss Fine Thing and Ben had been at a Fleetwood Mac concert earlier that night. I dropped Ben and Miss Fine Thing off at the concert before I headed to the beer bar. I walked in and I heard a squeal. Little Pig Man was in town. I hadn't finished my first beer when he said, "Let's get a room." I hated that we paid an all night rate and generally only used the room for a few hours. Of course, by the time we left the room would need a deep clean. I had been schtumping Little Pig Man since we checked in. I got my money's worth if you counted how hot and sexy the boy was. Not only was he about the best lay I had he would also squeal with delight when I would fuck him. It made me think I was back home on the farm. The people in the next room pounded on the wall a few times before they gave up and turned on their television. We were noisy fuckers.
We had completed round three and were propped up in bed when I said, "OK, it is time for me to go get Ben and Miss Fine Thing from the concert, do you want to have breakfast with us?" Ben and Miss Fine Thing piled into the back seat and were wound up from the concert. They were bouncing around jabbering about how wonderful the concert had been. I said to all, "Monticello Cafe‚ here we come."
Ben was a close friend who couldn't decide whether he was a rock star or an international surfer. His aspirations and self perception did not necessarily align with the reality of the rest of the world. He did have that cute boy look but it wouldn't be too many years before the constant sunning, the smoking and drinking would give him that 'rode hard and put up wet' look. Thankfully he was still young and could wear the skinny jeans, ripped t-shirt and Vans. His blond hair was a well designed mess. If I was attracted to young punk rockers, Ben would have been on my radar. Miss Fine Thing, aka Staci, was a portrait painter who was also the coolest straight woman around. She was thin with lush auburn hair, golden eyes and a quick wit. The fact that she was a dope head rarely entered the conversation. She protected her ivory skin from the damaging rays of the sun and was luscious looking like an English woman of a certain class. She looked posh and had a drawl that was a mix of southern society and received pronunciation. She saw herself as the consummate rock and roller and was always sad that she didn't get to Woodstock. She looked ever so chic is her silk top and trousers and 5" come fuck me pumps. She was always put together when she left her house.
Luckily, we arrived at the Monticello Cafe‚ before the bars let out and we got a booth on the side wall. The place filled quickly and I was getting the blow by blow about the concert. I was less than enthused because I really didn't know from white singing groups. It they weren't a bunch of black women singers or disco stars I couldn't care less. Ben was singing the Fleetwood Mac songs in his quivery voice and I was smiling while thinking, "He is making such a fool of himself. I am enjoying this. This white boy can't sing worth a damn and he is high as a kite and thinking he is so cool."
I glanced up and this big buff fellow walked up to the table, looked at Ben and said, "I only have one word for you: you're so cool." Miss Fine Thing and Ben were shaking with laughter at this man who couldn't count. Ben looked up and appraised this grade A beef standing at the table. Little Pig Man stared with wide eyed amazement.
I was thinking: he is not cool, he can't sing worth shit, and his moves are those of a spastic tow head white boy who doesn't have an ounce of soul. What do you see in him?
Ben then said, "That's three words, not one, and I am with my friends." Ben did not like for his space to be invaded and he wasn't drunk enough to appreciate the muscular arms. He wanted to be the star and do Stevie Nicks without being interrupted. He didn't want some big balooka with huge muscular guns to take center stage. It was all about Ben doing what he did best - centering the universe around his scrawny butt. All conversation in the Cafe‚ had stopped and people were looking at our table. He was creating a new fan base right in this hell hole of a diner.
The balooka looked at Ben and said, "Can I whisper something in your ear?" I was intrigued. Little Pig Man leaned in to hear every word. Miss Fine Thing was primping forgetting that every man in the restaurant was a queer, a queen or a wannabee and not after her. She just knew that in a few minutes a muscle bound man would come sweep her up the stairs like some latter day Scarlett O'Hara.
Ben looked at me and I smiled. This was getting to be fun. I had already knocked off a piece and wanted to know how Ben was going to handle this manly man. The guy was more than a little drunk, so when he leaned down to whisper in Ben's ear the entire restaurant heard, "I have a big bat." I looked and confirmed that at least the man was honest if not sober. Without missing a beat, Ben said, "This is my daddy and my mama, you have to ask them if you can fuck me with your big ole bat." Miss Fine Thing yelped, "I am not your mama. I am maybe your older sister....and not very much older at that."
The restaurant erupted in applause. Ben stood and bowed to his audience. Hell, he was better than Olivier. Little Pig Man was grinning from ear to ear.
The man was stunned that he was trying to proposition a good looking boy in front of his daddy. He kept apologizing. I simply smiled and said, "The next time we are in town, I will be glad to rent him to you for the evening."
Ben's look of triumph was quickly turning to despair.
I laughed, felt the balooka's arm, and said, "I can't wait until our next trip, and by the way, I will give you a good price."
I winked at the balooka, then I stood and headed toward the door.
"Heading South," I turned and said as we walked into the late night air.
I dropped Little Pig Man off at the hotel where he decided to stay in our room for the rest of the night. Ben and Miss Fine Thing sat in the back seat of the car all of the way home. It was a peaceful ride home with Ben and Miss Fine Thing sleeping. I listened to Sylvester sing, "Too Hot to Sleep" and I smiled as I saw the sun coming up over the ocean when I crossed the ridge at Kitty Hawk.
It was another wonderful night in the city but I was always happiest when I headed south to Carolina with my best friends.