When the Jazzman Sings

He came out of nowhere, meandering along the nearly deserted, tree-shaded sidewalk to gain my undivided attention. I had just closed up my shop, Peck’s Antiques & Collectibles, and had paused in the doorway to momentarily rejoice in the nimble evening breeze pouring from out of the western sky. My mind had started a debate about how to appease my grumbling stomach. Slide a frozen pizza into the oven, or toss a macaroni and cheese dinner into the microwave? At that point in what had already been a long day, thanks to more than a dozen boxes of dusty merchandise I had inventoried, cleaned, polished, and put on display before calling it quits, neither choice held much appeal. The weariness seemed to have already crept into my bones, the same as the grime of the workday felt like it had infiltrated every one of my pores. While running a hand over my bearded face, I stifled a yawn. I decided I might just take a shower, grab a snack, curl up on the sofa, and immerse myself in the fantasy of some television show until I drifted off to sleep. No sense breaking from routine.

But then I turned my head, and that’s when I spotted him, the tall stranger with the dark hair, facial stubble, and muscular yet lean build. He wore a navy blue dress shirt with white pinstripes and had his hands stuffed into the pockets of his blue jeans. With the uppermost buttons of the shirt unfastened, and the sleeves rolled up nearly to his elbows, my gaze instantly noted his tanned skin and the light brown hair skimming what appeared to be a well-defined chest and beefy forearms. The shirt’s hem, untucked and fluttering as he moved forward, also provided a teasing view of the impressive bulge hidden behind his zipper. The clip-clop of his snakeskin boots against the pavement lazily dragged behind the tempo of my suddenly galloping heart.

In a flash, my weariness subsided. Amazing what just the glimpse of a handsome stud could do to a gay man who hadn’t seen any action in months. Or had it been years? Hard to remember, since one day seemed to roll into the next in this town.

But this guy had what it took to shake me to the depths of my soul. It wasn’t only his good looks, but his manly yet youthful aura that fascinated me and held me spellbound. I actually experienced one of those moments every gay man feels on occasion—a moment that had become all too infrequent for me, unfortunately—the ferocious urge to drop to my knees, spread my arms out wide, and praise the heavens for being queer. Somehow, however, I managed to stay on my feet.

I smiled at the tantalizing view sauntering toward me and wondered where the hell he’d come from. Oh, not that strangers in these parts were a rare commodity. With our small, sleepy town of Willowby, Connecticut, being sandwiched between livelier burgs and not terribly far from main thoroughfares leading to New York City and Boston, we saw plenty of out-of-towners pass through, especially folks seeking antiques. That was the main reason my shop, along with about half a dozen competing shops in the town’s business district, continued to see a modest yet steady business, year in, year out.

But this particular stranger seemed different somehow. With sunglasses shielding his eyes from the fading sunlight, he strode along Main Street without browsing the windows of the closed shops. He acted more like a “local,” a man who had already seen it all before, completely unlike the relic hunters I had grown accustomed to viewing this time of year.

But it couldn’t be possible, could it? Living in a town with a population of less than 2,000 residents, I thought I knew all the males hereabouts and I would have certainlyremembered someone who looked like him. Delicious, utterly delicious, the type of guy I’d been hungrily seeking to meet, and a sight for my jaded eyes. Once again, I had the impulse to sink to the ground and sing Hosannas to the gods for sending me this eye-candy to whet my appetite.

Yet I didn’t want to get my hopes up. After all, even though he ambled down the sidewalk in my direction, what were the chances he would strike up a conversation? And even if he did, what were the odds he would have any interest in me, let alone—?

“Excuse me,” he said, his broad, white smile reflecting the rays of the sinking sun. “I don’t mean to bother you, but I wonder if you have a moment.”

“Ah, yeah, sure.” Anything for you, buddy boy. Anything at all.“If you want something in particular inside”—I gestured to the door, then scrounged in the back pocket of my jeans for the keys—“let me know and I’ll be happy to reopen—”

He glanced at the windows of the store, then shook his head. “Oh, no, nothing like that. At least not at the moment.”

“Then what can I do for you?”

“I was wondering…” He slid his sunglasses down the bridge of his slim nose, revealing the most soulful hazel eyes I had ever seen. They twinkled almost as much as the twin diamond studs in his right earlobe. And his gaze looked me over, from head to toe. Meanwhile, a cockeyed smile cut a dimple into his right cheek.