TGIF’s & A Broken Nose

By: Jason Rimbaud

It was the year 1997. I was young, with luscious brown hair that fell past my shoulders. I was fit, hard bodied like only the young can have without exercise and down to fuck anything that captured my attention. But I was trapped in the midst of my only at night relationship with a straight boy named Jason and frustrated beyond belief. 

I was also at an emergency room at 3:45 am and being questioned by a policeman about injuries Jason had sustained in a fight. 

For those of you that haven’t followed this long outdated Blog, then you might want to read I’ll Never Wear Boxers Again to fully understand my relationship with Jason, my undercover lover.

During this particular year, at this particular time, Jason was balls deep in (love) with a female bartender at a local restaurant/bar called TGI Friday’s. You must remember, back then, TGI Friday’s actually had great food. Though they might have been better known for their “flare” bartenders and happy hour specials than anything. 

It was common on most nights where the forty plus seats at the bar weren’t filled with regulars. Due in no small part that they offered a subscription based trivia game called NTN Buzztime that you could play against other players all over the country. 

You’d ask a bartender for a controller, log in to your Buzztime account, and then play against other players in a plethora of trivia that normally lasted for thirty minutes at a time. I never participated in the sport theme trivia games but many a night, Jason and I spent hours playing that damn game until they kicked us out at closing. 

We had been going there for almost a year so we had gotten to know the bartenders and most of the regulars pretty well. I was also involved in a rather heated rivalry with another regular patron by the screen name of FitzFuc who was my only real local competition in my never ending quest to maintain my high score on Buzztime. 

You might not believe this, but my perfectly bald head is filled with useless information that makes me a devastating player at any bar trivia night. But I am finding more and more these trivia nights are less focussed on general trivia and more on themed nights which I find a bit boring. 

But in 1997 and for all other purposes, I was head over heels in love with Jason. If you went back and read I'll Never Wear Boxers Again, then you know how it started between us about a year earlier. 

And since we never openly acknowledged our lust filled nights, I was confused, lovesick, and angry most of the time surrounding this secret relationship. With the amount of alcohol we consumed, my undercover burgeoning drug use and intense feelings, I’m surprised we didn’t have more violent arguments. 

I’ll preface this story by saying I wasn’t the only one confused. Jason was in deep denial about his feelings for me and often used me more as a cumdump than a boyfriend. Though his intentions were probably more honorable than mine but both of us was stuck in this endless circle of sex, lust, anger, and hurt. 

At one time or another, each of us tried to break this unhealthy cycle we had created for ourselves. As a gay man it was easier for me to find a willing receptacle. All I had to do was go to any gay bar and dance around in my underwear, twenty minutes later I’d be thrusting into some random dude or bent over taking a dick in the backroom.

Jason had to employ a different strategy to find sex. His modus operandi was quantity flirting. He had figured out that sooner or later some random girl would agree to fuck him if he asked enough girls. So during this period, there were many nights he’d come home horny as fuck and needing to play around with me to scratch that itch. 

Over the course of our “relationship”, I lost count of how many times I would see some ugly skank slip out of his room and make that long walk of shame back to whatever rock he found them under. And some of these “girls” he should’ve been more embarrassed than he was for taking them to his bed, but that’s a him problem. 

With him being so deep in denial with his sexuality, those encounters might have been a way for him to justify the fact he wasn’t really gay no matter how many times I slipped inside his ass. As long as he was still sexing up girls, then he wasn’t really a fag but maybe bisexual.

And that was an important distinction for him to make, which he did often. Usually it was right before I put my dick in his ass, he’d look up at me and say, “I’m not a fag.”

What was I going to say? My dick was literally an inch away from the very place I wanted it to be. So I would always respond, “Me neither.” Then I’d do about the gayest thing one can do to another man. 

But I was talking about 1997. I was working the mid shift, 12 pm to 8 pm, so after going home and taking a shower, I met up with Jason around 9 pm at TGI Friday’s. He had been there since five so he was pretty fucked up. 

Our beer of choice at TGI Friday’s was Killians Irish Red Lager. They were served in a 23 oz chilled glass and we would normally knock back seven or eight before the night was finished. And in between each 23 oz Killians Irish Red Lager, we’d have a shot of our favorite drink. 

Okay, they weren’t technically shots. I think I should explain before we move on. 

Our shots were one of TGI Friday’s signature cocktail, the Malibu Baybreeze. This was a cocktail that had 2 oz of Malibu (coconut flavored) Rum, Pineapple Juice, and topped with Cranberry Juice in a ice filled 12 oz glass. 

For some reason we loved that drink back then. So after each beer, we’d order this cocktail and then race to see who could finish it the fastest. The only rule, we had to drink through the straw. My personal record was five seconds. 

Over a period of time, especially when they were really busy, the bartenders would grow tired of making so many of these cocktails, we had a habit of ordering them for several of the regulars. So for us, they started making us doubles and putting them in the 23 oz glasses. My personal record was about eight seconds.

I know what some of you might be thinking. There was no way we would have the equivalent of sixteen beers and who knows how many double cocktails and still manage to walk upright. Then you would be wrong, very wrong.

Jason and I were professional drinkers back then. We’d drink a solid five or six hours and then I would drive us twenty minutes back to our apartment. Don’t judge me, you do unbelievably stupid things when you’re twenty-two. 

From the day I turned 21 until I turned 30, each football Sunday, five of my friends would drive about 45 minutes away to this amazing sports bar called Kokomo’s. There were closer locations to all our houses, but one of my friends, Five, was in (love) with one of the waitresses at that location so he made us go there.

I can’t remember her regular name, but she also did strip shows in her private basement bar, and I remember her professional name, Velvet. Of course I’d remember her stage name. She was the only female stripper that ever gave me a boner. But that’s another story for another penis.

Even though we’d arrived for the first game of the day at 10:30 am, Velvet didn’t start until 3 pm. We’d make sure we sat in her section so when she did come on shift, she would always be our waitress. We’d actually eat lunch and also dinner because we wouldn’t leave until the late night Sunday game was over. We’d basically drink for about twelve hours.

Then we had our Friday game nights at my apartment. We’d all meet up at my apartment and play card games all night. It was standard practice for Jason and I to polish off two cases of beer and a 750ml bottle of Vodka. So our consumption was legendary in the circle of bars we frequented. Not only did we spend money like drunken sailors, we also tipped crazily. 

How could two twenty-two year olds afford to drink like this you might ask? Prices weren’t the same as they are today. We could get a pitcher of beer for $10, .10 cent wings, and $2 well shots. So our Sunday football all day tab was about $150 and we split that five ways. 

As a business owner, I am appalled by what I’m about to disclose, just remember times were different back then. Restaurants/Bars were making money hand over fist. Rent, labor, cost of goods, were maybe a third of what it costs now. Hell, bartenders/servers were only making $2.83 per hour because we really did live on our tips.

Because we tipped so heavily back then, our bar tabs started shrinking the longer we frequented any establishment. After drinking for six hours, it was normal for me to receive a twenty dollar tab. We’d each, Jason and I, tip the bartender forty dollars and call it a night. So for eighty dollars, the bartenders were basically giving us who knows how many free drinks a night.

Life was different, I had a 1200 square foot basement apartment with two bedrooms, a private entrance, and it cost me $800 a month. Jason and I split everything down the middle so our basic needs cost less than $600 a month. As a bartender in a very busy restaurant, I was making $200 in tips on a bad morning shift. Saturday lunch shift I was walking out with about $400, so I had cash coming out of my ears. 

There was one time after it got cold enough to warrant wearing a jacket, I grabbed one at random from the closet. When I put my hands in the pocket, I found tip money from the last time I wore it five months earlier. I had so much cash back then I had completely forgotten about the three hundred dollars. 

But we’re talking about 1997, one of the more violent arguments I ever had with Jason. So when I arrived at TGI Friday’s, Jason was fucked up and in a bad mood. He had met his bartender crush’s boyfriend and it finally sank in no matter how much he tipped her, she was not going to suck his dick in the parking lot at the end of the night. 

The other bartender, Nick, informed me Jason already had about eight beers and four of our “shots”. He was hoping I was there to bring him home. Nick had been a bartender for years and knew the signs of someone drinking in anger. But Jason was adamant that he wasn’t ready to go home yet and had no interest in stopping for the night. 

There lies the dilemma of any bartender with a regular heavy tipper. If they cut off the drunk person, they run the risk of losing that income, on the other hand, if they continue to serve said drunk person, they run the risk of an altercation in the bar or worse, an accident on the way home. 

I was only there for about ten minutes when Jason told me to fuck off and leave him alone. Remember, I was twenty-two, and you do stupid things at that age. So I did just that. I paid for my unfinished beer and I fucked off to the gay bars.

TGI Friday’s was located on Union Deposit Road, about ten minutes away from Stallions, the largest gay bar in Harrisburg at that time. By the time arrived, Jason had called several times. He was angry that I left him there and was looking for a “fight”. I wasn’t in the mood to indulge him in an argument. So I ignored him.

Stallions was a three level club but during the week, only the bottom level was open. The upstairs levels were the nightclub, dancing and drag shows while the bottom level was more like a neighborhood bar. There were a few pool tables, some arcade games, dart boards, and they hosted Karaoke on Tuesday nights. This was by far my least favorite level but it was the only one opened that night.

Brandon, the downstairs bartender, was a good friend of mine. He was early thirties and had a nineteen year old twink boyfriend named Nicholas, not Nick, Nicholas. Nickolas was short, maybe 110 pounds, with a flaming red mohawk and a lip ring. I always thought Nickolas was hot but as he was Brandon’s boyfriend, I stayed away. 

My last night in Harrisburg, some eight years later, I fucked Nicholas in a one room apartment next door to Stallions but that’s another story for a tired penis.

Brandon was average height, a bit chunky but very cute with short brown hair. He served me my first legal drink in a gay bar called Strawberries the night I turned twenty-one so I had a soft spot in my heart for him. Those first few months he kept me away from the pervs, creeps, and drug pushers and introduced me to a group of gay’s that I regularly hung out with as we made our rounds of queer circle. 

There were only about ten people there that night when I rolled in around 10pm. It was Wednesday night as I surveyed the crowd, I didn’t see anyone I knew other than Nicholas and Brandon. So I sat next to Nicholas and ordered my go to gay drink at the time, a Greyhound. 

Nickolas was newly out to the world. He was a little punk rocker whose usual attire at the time was red checkered pants, black leather work boots, leather harness and nothing else. He was also a huge flirt and on the prowl to bring in a third for their sexual escapades that normally happened in the bar after they closed. 

Don’t ask me, I just knew to keep my hands off his scrawny little ass. There was no way I was getting involved with that trainwreck of a couple no matter how many times they enticed me or how many free drinks Brandon gave me. And it was a lot. 

Brandon liked them young and later on, after they broke up, Nicholas told me that Brandon had urged him to get me in a threesome with them. Nickolas was hot, but something about Brandon just turned me off so I always declined. But I will admit, one of the only reasons I did fuck Nickolas eight years later was to rub it in Brandon’s face right before I left. 

This particular night, Nickolas was wearing a pair of black spandex shorts, black leather work boots and a smile. And the moment I sat down next to him, he jumped into my lap and kissed my cheek. I might have copped a feel of his little package as he squirmed around in my lap, maybe, but I’ll never tell.

It was strange for me to be there on an off night, as I had the reputation of only showing up when I was looking to fuck. So Brandon said something along the lines of, “What are you doing here on a Wednesday?”

“Relaxing after a long day.” Though Jason and I had been playing around for almost a year, I had yet to tell anyone about him. So I was dealing with all that emotion alone.

“Let me help you with that.” Brandon declared and poured us Purple Hooter shots. 

I had really only gone there because Jason was being an asshole and I wasn’t really looking to get hammered as I had an early shift the next day. But who could say no to a purple hooter. Not me, and after three greyhounds and two purple hooters, my will to call it an early night went out the window. 

Nickolas and I started a game of pool. Back then, I played pool all the time. My buddy “Five” and I spent at least three hours a week playing at a local pool hall with regulation sized tables. I was really good once upon a time. On a bar sized table, I was virtually unbeatable. 

Full disclosure, I loved playing pool with Nickolas, mainly because I would stare at his narrow ass every time he bent over to shoot. So as the night progressed, I was becoming increasingly horny and actually thought about taking them up on their offer to play. But that was as close as I would ever come to indulging their fantasy. Because a quarter after midnight, a tall slender boy with a caesar haircut, piercing blue eyes, and a sexual swagger walked in and asked if he could play winner. 

I took one look at this boy and flashed him a smile and said, “I’ll play any game with you.”

His name was Brandon, I know, confusing right. But he was known throughout queer circle as having all meat and no potatoes. And later that night I found out that was correct. He had an eight inch cock, straight and thick but little bitty balls that would have been perfectly fine on an eleven year old boy. Not a twenty-five year old man with a dick that could choke a horse, or a Jason.  

For sake of clarity, my friend, I will call Brandon 1. I could give Brandon 2 another name but where would be the fun in that. 

Nickolas quickly figured out that I wasn’t going to play with him so he went back to the bar to sit with Brandon 1 while Brandon 2 and I started to play. It was apparent from his first break, he was a great shooter. And after four games, we were tied, two to two. That’s when the night started getting interesting.

First off, the loser of the next game had to buy the next round. So when I went to the bar to order the drinks, I asked him, “Do you know him?”

Brandon 1 frowned. “He’s kind of a whore.”

“I like whores.”

I could tell Brandon 1 didn’t like the guy. I wasn’t sure if it was because he had intentions on me for that night or if Brandon 2 wasn’t really a good dude.

“Everyone says he doesn’t like to use condoms and he’s always staying for the afterparty at Strawberries.”

Strawberries was right next door to Stallions and was a little narrow bar that was famous for a group of guys to stay after closing and run trains on naive twinks and do copious amounts of drugs. 

Partipating in crazy sexapades didn’t bother me, but not playing safe did. AIDS was a huge deal and a guaranteed death sentence not to mention all the other STDs going around the gay community. As horny as I was, as dumb as I was, I was always careful to play safe. 

As the months went on, I found out that most of what Brandon 1 told me that night was a lie. It was true, Brandon 2 was a whore, but so was I. He always played safe and didn’t sleep around near as often as his reputation suggested. 

It all started because Brandon 2 had been seeing one of Brandon’s 1 friends that ended badly due to rampant drinking and drug use about six months earlier. A group of these older gay men were mad that Brandon 2 wasn’t a naive twink that could be passed around at those famous after parties at Strawberries. 

Full disclosure, a few months after my twenty-first birthday, I was that naive. But that’s another story for a naive penis. 

And the most interesting thing I found out about Brandon 2 was never mentioned at all. He loved watersports. 

Jason had called me several more times that night but I always ignored it. I fully intended to honor his wishes by fucking off and leaving him alone. And some time later, when Brandon 2 followed me into the single occupant bathroom and started sucking my dick, I figured I’d start forgetting Jason by riding Brandon 2’s eight inch cock. 

Brandon 2 still lived with his parents, so we couldn’t go back there. And I lived twenty minutes away in Grantville Pennsylvania, a place not easily accessible without a vehicle. So Brandon 2 didn’t want to come home with me. But I did manage to blast a load down his throat before I left with a promise to hook up again soon. That didn’t happen for another six months or so but it was worth the wait, let me tell you.

By the time I made it home, around 1am, I was pretty drunk and ready for bed. Jason had not returned yet and a part of me was worried. I knew he was fucked up more than usual and he would never leave his Jeep there so the odds of him driving home was rather large. 

But I was mad and being twenty-two, I shut my bedroom door and went to bed. I think I might have been asleep before my head hit the pillow. 

“Hey asshole.” 

I don’t know exactly what time Jason barged into my room, but I do remember coming awake and seeing him looming over me like some kind of vengeful angel. Before I could really blink the sleep from my eyes, Jason’s fist connected with my cheek and I fell back against the bed.

No matter who you are, getting sucker punched in the face awakens something primal inside you. I’m not a tough guy by any means. Over my lifetime, especially back in High School, I had my share of fights. I’m naturally strong and can take a punch without collapsing like a sack of potatoes. So it really didn’t surprise me that I immediately jumped out of bed and went into a defensive stance. 

I was still trying to process what just happened, and Jason lunged for me again. I’ll admit to all of you, there wasn’t a lot of force behind Jason’s first punch. Maybe it was because he was drunk and having trouble standing, or maybe he really didn’t want to hurt me. But when he lunged at me again, I didn’t have the same problem he did. 

My fist connected and I felt his nose break. Blood immediately began flowing down his face and he looked at me in shock. LIke he couldn’t believe I had actually punched him. Then his eyes filled with anger and he attacked me. 

We fell back on my bed, blood pouring down on the both of us, as we wrestled around for a bit. I slept naked, and not only was I self conscious about my nakedness, but I really didn’t want to hurt him. So I tried to block his blows and get him into a position where I could get away from him.

Then a wild punch connected with my eye and I decided enough was enough. I threw him off me and started punching him as hard as I could. I made sure not to hit him in the head, I focused all my blows on his back. All I really wanted to do was stop him from hitting me. So after about six or seven hits on his back, I jumped off the bed and stood there gasping for breath. 

Jason was groaning in pain, holding his broken nose as he tried to stop the blood. He was writhing around my bed and I grabbed a shirt from the floor and threw it at him. “Are you done?”

Jason put the shirt up to his nose and said, “I’m done.”

“Then get the fuck out of my bed. You’re bleeding everywhere.” 

It took him a few moments to gather the energy to get off my bed and stumbled out of my room. I slammed the door shut behind him and stripped my blood soaked bedding. After putting the sheets in the washer, I remade my bed and was just about to crawl inside when I heard Jason calling for me. 

As mad as I was about him attacking me in my sleep, I was still madly in love with him. And I could hear the pain in his voice as he called out for me. All the anger melted away and I ran out and saw him lying on the kitchen floor. 

He had a towel filled with ice clutched in his hand but was face down moaning in pain. 

“What’s wrong?” I asked. I know, he had a broken nose and I was asking what’s wrong. But I was still a bit drunk.

“I can’t breathe. It hurts. I think you broke my ribs.” Jason managed to say between breaths. 

That’s when I ran over and knelt down beside him. I lifted up his shirt and looked. I could see where I punched him, his skin was red and angry looking. The next day, the left side of his back would be one big bruise but that night, it just looked hot. 

His eyes were already bruising and the blood flow from his nose had pretty much stopped. He looked horrible. I immediately felt sorry for him. “I’m sorry.”

“After this, me too.”

“What do you want me to do?” I asked him as I tried to move him into a sitting position. 

“I think I should go to the hospital.”

“You can’t drive, I’ll bring you.” I offered. 

He looked at me and then reached out with one finger and hit the tip of my dick gently. “Maybe you should get some clothes on.”

On the way to the emergency room, Jason came up with a story to explain where he got his injuries. We both knew, the moment an ER doctor saw him, he would know he was in a fight and report it to the police. 

Twenty minutes earlier, we were trying to kill each other and now we were conspiring to lie to a police officer. The basis of the story, Jason was out at a bar somewhere downtown, and after he left, a few guys jumped and robbed him. Then he drove home where I decided he should go to the hospital. 

As we suspected, the ER doctor called the police and after they triaged him, the officer took his statement. Then as Jason was filling out the paperwork, the officer found me in the waiting room and interviewed me. 

This wasn’t the first time I had lied to a police officer and it wasn’t the last. And from the look on his face, the police officer didn’t believe a word I said. I have no idea what he thought really happened but our story was so weak, Jason couldn’t remember which bar he went to, nor where he was parked, nor could he offer a description of any of the attackers. But I think the main reason he didn’t believe our story was that Jason had his wallet in his personal effects when he was admitted.   

We were pretty quiet on the ride home. It was almost five am and he had to be at work at 8am and my shift started at 10am. He had a broken nose, a cracked rib and a bruised kidney, needless to say, only one of us made it to work that day. 

The explanation he gave me behind his anger never made sense either. Yes, he was mad that his bartender crush wasn’t interested in him, and yes he was mad that I left him at TGI Friday’s, and yes he was mad that I went to Stallions and got a blowjob from Brandon 2, but none of that was the reason he attacked me. 

After my shift the next day, I went home to check on him as well as to shower. He was propped up on the couch watching TV, bored out of his skull. When I went into the bathroom, he followed me and sat on the toilet as I showered. 

“What are you doing tonight?” He asked.

“Maybe go to Stallions.”

“Why don’t we just get some beer and hang out here. I’m off tomorrow.”

Truthfully, I was still angry that he had punched me. And I wanted to go back to Stallions to see if I could find Brandon 2 again. So I answered noncommittally. “Maybe.”

“If you’re going to just hook up, you could always fuck me.”

I started laughing. This entire situation was so ridiculous. Even in my young confused brain I knew what we were doing was bizarre to say the least. “You’re so banged up you can’t even walk. I’d break you.”

“I’ll just take some more pain killers.”

We ended up staying home that night. And somehow, we even took turns topping. We snuggled in his bed and I pretended we were a couple. It was nights like these, alone in the safety of our apartment, wrapped up in one another’s arms that kept this dream alive of us one day becoming a real couple. 

When we arrived home from the hospital, I helped him get undressed and put him to bed. I made sure his phone was charging and right before I turned off the light, I asked, “Do you need anything else?”

“After all this, the least you could do was give me a blowjob.”

There it was. Our relationship summed up in a single sentence. After I broke his nose, his ribs, and bruised a kidney, after all that, the least I could do was suck his dick. Any normal human would have run away from this situation. But I have never been normal and I didn’t run away. I sucked his dick.