Groovy Short Story: Can't Stop the Music

I'm sitting at a small cafe table. The place is quite popular—especially since all their hunky waiters started going topless. I go there for the home-cooked meals just like dear ol' Mom used to make, but most guys in this neighborhood wait in line for the beefcake. Of course, it's always crowded now—thanks to the hard nipples on display.

They will never be covered again.

So I'm sitting there alone feeling somewhat grungy in an old Provincetown T-shirt and a Cubs baseball cap (to cover the bad case of bed head). I didn't feel like shaving when I looked in the mirror this morning. Just didn't have the energy. It's Saturday, I told myself, and that seemed like a perfectly valid excuse.

Suddenly I hear Barbra singing: "My Man" from the film version of Funny Girl. That's odd. The cafe doesn't usually play show tunes for their customers' listening pleasure, even though I'm sure many of them—including myself—would absolutely love it.

Then I'm even more surprised when these two guys at separate tables stand up and smile at each other before embracing in a rather passionate kiss. For a crowded cafe in broad daylight, it's almost X-rated. Not that I mind. I'm no prude. I can enjoy a good porn flick just as much as the next guy—but usually it's late at night in the privacy of my own bedroom and two older ladies aren't sitting nearby having mint tea and meat loaf (I've seen them before; they always flirt with their young waiter and stuff their tip in his pants like he's a stripper down at The Lucky Horseshoe).

So these two attractive men are making out—right there in full view of everyone. Sometimes one gets to see things in the big city that you would never get the chance to in say a small town in Kansas or Montana. This is my rationalization as I try unsuccessfully not to stare at the couple, who are definitely crossing a few boundaries of good taste—not to mention proper etiquette—by going at it in such a public venue. But as I said before, I'm no prude. In fact, all of this amorous activity is making me extremely horny—and hungry. I'm suddenly ravenous.

"Hello."

As if on cue, my waiter has finally arrived to serve me. He's gorgeous with biceps to die for and a plate of warm cinnamon rolls in his hand. What more could a guy ask for?

"Ah! L'amour! L'amour!" says this magnificent member of the male species as he smiles at the two hunks in heat. "Doesn't it just make you want to retch?"

Actually it's making me feel a bit tight in the shorts, so I cross my legs and try to concentrate on the menu, since food is always a good substitute for sex—at least I've always thought so.

"Take it to a motel, Mary, 'cause this ain't no Holiday Inn!" the waiter yells at the startled couple, who quickly remove their tongues from each other's tonsils and leave the cafe together.

They're probably off to one of their apartments to make mad, passionate love, I silently predict with a sudden sad longing in my gut that doesn't disappear as I devour a cinnamon roll. It just sticks around and lingers, making me feel somewhat lightheaded.

"The nerve of some people," the waiter says before smiling down at me and asking: "Are we ready to order?"

I'd love to lick your nipples, I want to tell him—but, of course, I don't. I can't respond at all due to my recent mouthful of roll. As I digest, my sexy server continues: "Oh, that reminds me—yesterday when I was at the gym, I saw this T-shirt that said, 'If it's true that we are what we eat, then I could be you by morning.' Well, honey, I took one look at the sweaty owner of this provocative prose and decided to become a vegetarian."

"I'd like a cheeseburger please," I finally inform him, but he's still back at the gym.

"I'm sorry, but that guy didn't have the merchandise to back up the sale. I know, beauty is only skin deep, but if one is going to flaunt himself, is a pretty face too much to ask for?"

I'm about to inquire if I can substitute coleslaw for the fries that come with my burger, but my waiter is in a world of his own and I'm obviously not welcome.

"You don't own one of those stupid shirts, do you?"

Are you talkin' to me?, I almost ask, but instead I quietly shake my head (and wisely choose not to mention my 'Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy!' shirt).

"Of course not, a sweet guy like you wouldn't! And speaking of sweet things, aren't these cinnamon rolls just scrumptious!"
"You can have—" I begin to offer, but he's already a step ahead.

"May I? Thanks, I am famished!" The bare-chested boy bites into a roll and closes his eyes. "Oh My God, I've got heaven in my mouth, and it ain't gonna go home in the morning and forget to call."

As I wonder if I should eat another roll (since my burger will obviously not be arriving anytime soon), the cafe's music—Streisand's Funny Girl medley—suddenly changes to the disco beat of "Y.M.C.A."

And then I open my eyes.

Having to squint at the bright morning light shining through my bedroom window, I groan and pull the covers over my head as I sadly realize that it was all just a strange dream—and now the Village People from across the hall are declaring that it's fun to stay at the Young Men's Christian Association.

But NOT at seven a.m. on a Saturday!

I hate my new neighbor.

Okay, maybe hate is too strong a word. How about intensely dislike? Still seems rather harsh, doesn't it? But when one is frequently ordered in the early morning hours to shake, shake, shake your booty, a whole array of colorful words do suddenly spring to mind.

"Y.M.— "

The Village folks abruptly stop, and the soothing sounds of Peace and Quiet replace them. Will I now be able to go back to sleep and return to that wonderful weird world of topless waiters and mouthwatering cinnamon rolls and—

The kissing couple from the cafe now magically reappear at the foot of my bed to continue their amorous encounter, which I watch with rapt attention as they begin to undress each other while nibbling necks and rubbing denim bulges of increasing size—

A Taste of Honey (winner of the Best New Artist Grammy of 1978) now take the stage to perform their one and only hit and momentarily distract me from my dream lovers, who sadly disappear once again.

That's it! No more Mr. Nice Guy! I jump out of bed and prepare for battle (in a faded Krispie Kreme T-shirt and plaid boxers). This crazy boy has got a rocket in his pocket and he's ready to rumble!

I arrive at my neighbor's door to quietly knock with both fists—in order to be heard over the music—and yell: "For God's sake turn it down!"

Unfortunately, the door is not locked—or even securely shut—as my light touch easily opens it to reveal a lovely living room (very Ikea) and an even lovelier young man, who stops dancing to the music when he notices that he's no longer alone. I can't help but stare at the guy, who wears a look of surprise—and nothing else!

For a few awkward moments neither of us are able to speak (although our eyes say plenty as we check each other out with obvious glances). My naked neighbor finally picks up a remote from his black leather loveseat and stops the music. Peace in the valley is restored (except for my heavy breathing, which was initially fueled by fury but has rapidly transformed into unbridled lust as I optically wander from beautiful biceps to amazing abs to a dazzling dick of great dimensions).

The heavenly hunk now smiles at me as I suddenly remember the purpose of my unexpected visit and simply say: "Thank you."

I then quietly close his door and return to my apartment where I painfully die of embarrassment.

My friend, Russell, will later tell me: "Now let me get this straight, not only does the Dancing Queen turn off his disco beat, he even gives you a sneak peek at his coming attraction? My God, man, what more could you ask for? Buttered popcorn? FYI, mister: whenever a gorgeous naked man wakes you up, you say 'Thank you'—and offer him a blow job."

Another friend will also offer his words of wisdom: "Frankly, honey, I'm a bit confused by your reaction to the naked gentleman. I mean, by seven o'clock on a Saturday morning, most of us would be thrilled with a strong cup of coffee and Bugs Bunny."

And yet another pal—this one an avid show tune enthusiast—will be somewhat disappointed by my neighbor's choice of music: "Too bad he wasn't listening to Promises, Promises. A naked Burt Bacharach fan would be hard to resist."

They're all entitled to their opinions, of course. And perhaps I did waste a golden opportunity to get down tonight with Mr. Disco. But we all groove to our own beat—and mine just ain't that fast. And who knows, maybe one of these days when I'm sitting at a small cafe table eating a cinnamon roll, I'll lean over and lick my waiter's right nipple—and we'll end up at a Holiday Inn. Or the next time I hear K.C. and the Sunshine Band early one morn, I'll pop across the hall again.

And boogie.

Oogie.

Oogie.