21-Year-Old Scotch - 2. Chapter 2

As Scott stepped out of the men's room, the opening notes of David Bowie's "Let's Dance" blared from the sound system. Scott was eager to follow Bowie's advice. He had always been a wallflower, too afraid that he would look silly or undignified if he dropped his inhibitions and let loose on the dance floor. He didn't feel so scared tonight, but as he scoped out the crowd for likely dance partners, he realized a bit of liquid courage couldn't hurt.

Scott squeezed his way back to the bar, growing ever more aroused as the bare skin of his chest slid along that of other shirtless clubgoers and the bulge in his shorts bumped through the hills and valleys of their protruding butts. Back in the future, he hadn't had an erection like this in quite some time, and even then he had needed the help of a little blue pill. Suddenly having the eager responsive penis of his youth again was like being reunited with a beloved long-lost pet, only Scott had spent far more quality time with his dick than with any dog or cat that had passed through the family home.

When he finally made it to the bar, he signaled Shemp, who raised a "gimme a minute" finger. He saw the bottom portion of an anchor tattoo peeking its way out from Shemp's t-shirt sleeve, a relic from the ornery bartender's service in the Navy if Scott had to guess. Scott realized that it was about the only ink visible in the entire establishment, aside from the blue circle with an arrow emerging from it which was stamped on the back of everyone's hand at admittance. Even Scott had a stamp, even though had no memory of entering the club...at least, not in this century.

Scott was amazed to be back in a time before every hip young guy or girl felt obligated to proclaim their individuality by getting something instantly regrettable permanently scribbled on their flesh. Come to think of it, Scott couldn't spot many piercings in the crowd either, aside from a few discreet hoops dangling from a few right ears. Nor did he see any intentionally shaved heads; those who were going bald had short haircuts or unsightly combovers or just lived with it. He also noticed that hardly anyone had the kind of ultra-ripped gym-honed physique which would become society's expectation of the ideal male -- and lead to considerable feelings of inferiority among those, like Scott, unable or unwilling to put in the time, effort and/or steroid consumption to achieve that fully engorged look. He could just imagine a future musclehead witnessing this assemblage and asking them as a group, "Bros, do you even lift?"

Scott felt a bit smug that the lithe runner's body he now inhabited made him one of the more defined specimens on display, even though he had no memory of the effort it had taken to get into this shape. He was acutely aware that his presence was drawing even more attention since he had re-emerged from the restroom bare from the waist up. For someone who was accustomed to going through life barely noticed, being hungrily sized up like a piece of meat was proving to be kind of a kick.

"Okay, kid," Shemp asked gruffly, "whattaya want now?"

Scott felt like having something light and fun. "How about a strawberry daiquiri?"

Shemp's disdain for any so-called "drink" that involved anything more complex than alcohol and water was easily discernible from his expression, but he was there to serve, not to judge. He called out, "Who wants to treat the birthday boy to a strawberry daiquiri?"

Halfway down the bar, one hand shot upward, clutching a five-dollar bill. Although Scott couldn't see anything of his benefactor past the wrist, he cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "Thank you!", hoping he could be heard over David Bowie and the chattering crowd.

He then noticed a profusion of red hair poking its way between the shoulders of two taller men. A freckled face followed, smiling in Scott's direction. "My pleasure!", the redhead shouted. He then receded back into the crowd and started to move toward Scott, who could track the ginger's progress through the ripple of jostling bodies. When the redhead finally pushed his way into view, Scott's pride in his new body took a severe hit. The young man was a couple inches shorter than Scott, but as prodigiously muscled as any fanatical gym rat from the 21st century. Although his face was engagingly boyish, with intense green eyes and an upturned nose beneath straight hair moussed into haphazard spikes, his body exploded with masculinity. Thick well-defined arms hung down from wide rounded shoulders, and a green fishnet tank top offered a barely obscured view of the topography of his carved torso on which a massive chest tapered toward a waist even narrower than Scott's. "Happy birthday," he said with a cocky grin. "I'm Art."

Scott didn't know much about Art, but he knew what he liked. Grinning like a dope, he extended his hand, which Art shook vigorously. His initial squeeze was painfully tight, but Art realized it instantly and eased his grip. His palm felt rough against Scott's, like one hand-sized callus.

Shemp arrived with the icy red daiquiri and told Scott, "You really oughta be buyin' a drink for the champ here."

"Champ?", Scott asked. "What of? Bodybuilding?"

Shemp bragged on Art's behalf, "Artie won all-around at the college gymnastics meet today."

Scott leaned back in amazement. "Wow! That's amazing, man! Congrats!" Art acted humble, shrugging his grapefruit-sized deltoids. Scott picked up his drink and raised it in a toast. "Here's to you."

Art lifted his glass of club soda and clinked it with Scott's, saying "Thanks."

Scott took a sip of his daiquiri through a straw and licked his lips. "Mmm, that's tasty. Reminds me of Funny Face. Remember Funny Face? They had that flavor, Freckle-Face Strawberry?" Scott immediately felt like an idiot for expecting a kid to get such a dated reference.

Art cringed. "Remember it? Whattaya think the bullies called me all through grade school?"

Scott now felt just as stupid for not realizing that, in his current reality, he and this "kid" were the same age and likely had tons of common reference points. "Sorry," he said apologetically, "didn't mean to bring up bad memories."

"No sweat, man," Art said, flexing an arm to make his biceps pop. "I'm pretty sure I could kick those guys' asses now."

They each took another sip from their drinks as they sized each other up. From the speakers, David Bowie faded out, gradually replaced by a funky beat and synthesized handclaps. Scott recognized the song instantly and was about to say something when Art said, "Do you wanna dance?", before Scott had the chance. Scott nodded and gestured for Art to lead the way, following him through the crowd by keeping his eyes riveted on the gluteal mounds shifting beneath the back pockets of Art's butt-hugging jeans. It had felt strange and wonderful to be asked to dance by another guy, but then Scott had never been the most alpha of men. Amanda had even been the one to propose marriage.

By the time they reached the dance floor and Whitney Houston was declaring at full volume that she wanted to dance with somebody, Scott's heart was beating so hard, he was certain Art would be able to hear it over the music. Scott began to swivel cautiously to avoid sloshing his daiquiri. He found his feeble dance moves desperately inadequate compared to the athletic grace with which Art's muscle-packed body moved. Normally Scott would have felt content simply to gawk unashamedly at the young hunk's compact form at such close range, but he knew this was no time to be a passive observer. He had to take advantage of this miraculous opportunity he'd been given to change a lifelong pattern of hesitation and regret. His only problem was that he couldn't think of a thing to say to Art which wasn't some paraphrase of "Goddamn, you're hot." Finally, he came up with a sociological observation. "I think it's great to see a college athlete like you who's brave enough to come out."

Art regarded Scott quizzically. "Are you fuckin' kidding me? I just wanted to celebrate tonight, so I decided to risk it, but if coach ever got wind that I hung out in a place like this, I'd be off the team like that!" He snapped his fingers with a flourish, in perfect time with the song.

"But that's not right. You should be free to be yourself."

Art looked dismayed. "What planet are you from, man? You think your coach wouldn't flip out if he learned you were here?"

"MY coach?" Now it was Scott's turn to be dismayed.

Art made a fluid gesture toward Scott's toned figure. "I figured you must be on the swim team or run track or something."

"Not that I know of," Scott said. Art took it as a wisecrack, but Scott was just being honest. If he was part of any organized sports, that fact was absent from his memory. In fact, he didn't seem to possess knowledge of anything that would have preceded the arrival of this version of himself at the club tonight. When he thought of his childhood and college days, he still could only recall someone who was sexually confused and painfully bashful, nothing that would have led him to be bold enough to enter this club, let alone be dancing in nothing but white booty shorts and sneakers opposite someone as fine as Art. He seemed to be rebooting his life from scratch, with a considerable upgrade to the chassis. Even if it only turned out to be a remarkably vivid dream, he did not want to screw up this second chance.

The cumulative effect of the evening's alcohol was starting to loosen Scott up. He took one last guzzle of his daiquiri, then set down the glass on an unoccupied table and moved closer to Art, bumping and grinding to the music. Although he lacked his partner's finesse, he overcompensated with overenthusiasm. When the music crossfaded from Whitney Houston into "Bad" by Michael Jackson, Scott laughed grimly and remarked with a slur in his voice, "Jeesh, doesn't this place play anyone who's still alive?" He realized a split-second later that, while this would have been a fair observation when he started the evening, it made him sound like a crazy person now that he had been deposited smack dab in the Eighties.

Art was puzzled. "Michael Jackson's not dead. He's just turning white. God, you're weird", he declared. Scott's stomach churned, afraid he was blowing his shot, but Art just grinned. "Lucky for you, I'm into weird."

Art unleashed a King-of-Pop-ish "Whoo!", shot his right arm defiantly into the air and launched into a perfect recreation of Michael Jackson's moves from the song's video. Every head snap, every hip swivel, every single crotch grab, he had it down. Scott backed away in amazement, and many other dancers stepped back to give Art ample room to strut his stuff. The young dynamo obviously relished the attention, and the instinct that propelled him to excel in gymnastics now pushed him to move beyond imitation into an exuberant free-form improvisation which intermingled the video's dance steps with handstands, cartwheels, and splits. Scott watched from the sidelines, awestruck. As the song ended, Art clenched an upraised fist, froze in position and demanded to know, "Who's bad?" The club erupted in applause.

As Art was engulfed in a swarm of bodies rushing forward to compliment him, Scott receded meekly into the crowd. For years, he had dreamt that some fit young jock would be attracted to him, but no way did he believe he deserved someone as spectacular as Art. As Scott turned back toward the bar, he heard someone calling, "Scotty! Where you goin'?"

Scott looked over his shoulder and saw Art waving him back. He pushed through the crowd until he was standing beside Art who was panting heavily from his performance, his skin shining with perspiration under the multicolored spotlights. Art swung a sweaty arm around Scott and pulled him tight to his side. "What'd you think of that?", Art asked, eager for approval.

Searching his mind for an adequate compliment to such a bravura display, Scott finally said, "It was...BAD!"

Art smirked and boosted himself on his toes to kiss Scott on the lips. Scott was so stunned, he didn't even think to kiss back, his lips as lifeless as a mackeral. Art introduced his well-wishers to "Scotty, the birthday boy," diverting some of their attention in Scott's direction. Scott found it fairly easy to field the standard casual small-talk questions coming his way. Yeah, he was studying at the university. Yup, he was a senior. When asked his major, he naturally was going to say business administration, but for some reason he heard the word "drama" come out of his mouth. He laughed with embarrassment and said, "Sorry, what I meant to say was 'drama.'" While the others laughed at his non-correction correction, Scott scratched his head, confused. As a kid, he'd had the occasional daydream about being an actor, and he did audition for a play once in high school, but his father had refused to let "any son of mine" do something so "fruity" and he had to drop out of the production. So what just made him tell these strangers that he was a drama major? Was that all part of the fantasy he was getting to live out tonight?

Before he could sort out his thoughts, Scott felt Art tugging him back onto the dance floor. "'Scuse us, guys," Art said to his admirers, sweeping Scott to the center of the crowd. Scott noted that it was yet another dead singer, but he kept that observation to himself. Frankly, he was finding it hard to form rational thoughts, as Art squeezed Scott's ribcage in his python-sized arms and thrust his crotch provocatively against Scott's reinvigorated erection. As the song reached its chorus, Art accompanied George Michael in declaring "I want your sex!"

Scott responded, "The feeling is mutual," lowered his chin onto Art's shoulder, relaxing his body so that it moved fluidly in unison with Art's every gyration. Scott slipped a hand beneath Art's mesh shirt and felt his way upward across his chiseled abs toward the gymnast's erect nipples. In response, Art stuck his hand down the back of Scott's tight shorts and slid his index finger down the trench of Scott's ass crack. Scott shuddered, afraid he would blow his load right there on the dance floor. "Can we go someplace a little more private?", he pleaded breathily into Art's ear. Art panted affirmatively.

Art smoothly maneuvered himself around Scott and slowly edged them off the dance floor, then dragged them down a dark hallway toward a door. Scott dragged his feet when he noticed the red lettering on the door. "It says 'Emergency Exit Only'!"

Art raised his eyebrows and said, "I'd say this qualifies." He flung the door open and yanked Scott outside into the alley, then pushed Scott roughly against a brick wall. "Shemp better not ever fix that alarm," Art said as he tugged downward on Scott's waistband.

Scott desperately wanted to give in to the passion of the moment, but the rough texture of the bricks scraping at his bare skin was causing him too much pain. He was gagging from the stench rising from the dumpster of a Chinese restaurant across the alley, and he spotted a homeless guy slumped beside the dumpster, observing their actions with great interest. "Hold it!", he begged. "There's someone watching us."

Art continued to push himself against Scott. "Yeah, that's Harold. Don't worry, he doesn't mind." Art called out a cheery "Hey, Harold," and got a smear of drunken gibberish in reply.

"Well, maybe I mind," Scott said, stiffening.

Art stopped and leaned back to look at Scott's expression. "Are you fuckin' serious?", he gasped between breaths.

"This just doesn't feel right," Scott said, surprised by his own behavior, wondering why he couldn't simply go along with the fantasy. But it no longer felt like a fantasy. It felt far too real. "After all these years, I guess I wanted something more...romantic." Art would never have believed just how many decades Scott had been waiting for this.

Art slumped in disbelief. "You saying you never done this before?" Scott shook his head apologetically. Art slammed his hand against a metal fuse box. "You coulda fooled me. You sure seemed into it in there."

"I was! I am! It's just..." He looked down and noticed a rat scurrying away from them, trying to get away from the noise of their fight. "Can't we go back to your place or something?"

Art scoffed. "Riiiight. Like my roommates would be totally cool with me bringing home some dude to fuck. And I'm sure word would never get back to Coach."

Scott was about to suggest that they go to his place, but other than seeing a familiar address on his driver's license, he had no idea how his current living situation might have changed in this reality. "We could get a room at a motel!", Scott offered cheerfully.

"You got the bucks to throw away on a motel? 'Cause I don't."

In the future, Scott had a posh hotel suite awaiting him for the night, charged to his AmEx gold card, but the few remaining dollars in the plastic sleeve hanging from his neck wouldn't get them very far here in the Eighties.

Art sneered, displaying an arrogance Scott hadn't seen before, or perhaps had overlooked while admiring his musculature. "I'm not lookin' for some romantic night with candles and shit. I'm just lookin' for a quick blow job. You know how many guys in there wish they were in your position right now?"

Scott knew. He'd spent his life wishing he was the one in this position. "So why'd you pick me?"

"I dunno. 'Cause you were cute. And new. Anybody in there worth fuckin', I already fucked." Art rebuttoned his 501s, tugged his tank top down and swept a hand through his spiky hair, then walked toward the door he had left ajar.

Scott called out desperately, "I can still give you that blowjob if you really want."

Art paused in the doorway and said, "Thanks, but I think I'll find someone who doesn't still have their learner's permit." He shouted, "Night, Harold! Maybe see ya later!", then stepped inside, letting the door slam shut behind him. The emergency exit door had no external knob, leaving Scott trapped in the alley with the homeless man. This was not where he had hoped the night was leading.

Furious at himself, Scott kicked over a trash can, scattering its contents across the pavement. Feeling the chilly night air against his skin, he reached back for the sleeveless tee he had tucked into his waistband, but it must have fallen out somewhere in the club. As he crossed his arms for warmth and began to walk toward the street, he heard some words burbling from the homeless guy's mouth. Scott paused to listen.

"He's built," murmured Harold, waggling a shaky finger toward the door where Art had gone inside, "but he's a fucking asshole."

Scott laughed. He extracted a dollar from his plastic sleeve and slipped it into Harold's hand. Harold smiled appreciatively, displaying all three teeth that he still possessed. As he walked away, Scott heard Harold croak. "For another buck, I'll take care of that hard-on for ya."

That REALLY was not the way Scott saw the night heading. "No, but thank you," he shouted as he strode quickly down the alley.

When he reached the street, a shiver of shock shot through Scott's system. What had happened to his car? An '85 Chevette was in the spot where he had parked his rented Prius. His anger dissipated quickly when the realization entered his foggy mind that the rental car was undoubtedly still safely where he left it...29 years from now. In college, he could never afford to own a car. He instinctively reached toward his front pocket for his cell phone, but found neither. He obviously wouldn't be calling a taxi or an Uber tonight either.

There was a house key stuffed among the loose bills and I.D. cards in his would-be wallet. Presumably it fit the lock to the place that matched the address on his driver's license. When he reached the street corner, he paused to get his bearings, then began the two-mile trudge toward his college apartment, wondering what surprises awaited him there.