Double Coverage

Chapter 3: Lund’s Sports Bar

Chapter 3: Lund’s Sports Bar

12:17 P.M.

It was common practice for a straight or queer hottie jock of the Vipers to find his way into Xavier Lund’s bar, order a beer or something strong to drink, share a few autographs with his fans, and enjoy the offerings of the establishment. Lund’s was a typical bar with very little light, lots of wood beams, seven flat-screens, a wall of illegal poker machines, and beautiful women as a wait staff.

Xavier’s niece, Francine Foxxe, worked fulltime at the bar. Had I been straight, she was the woman I would have married, labeling her an exquisite queen. Her long red mane stretched down to the nape of her thin back like Rapunzel’s, and her Irish green eyes gleamed of good things I could only dream of in Oz. She sported an adorable dwarfish nose, toothpaste commercial smile, and a galaxy of freckles across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. I was not one to ogle a woman’s body, but it was hard not to sometimes admire Francine’s voluptuous figure, which included an hourglass shape of thin muscles and protruding bumps in all the right places.

Sometimes Francine wore black horn-rimmed glasses. The glasses only made her more beautiful. A thousand straight guys who walked into Lund’s would have agreed with me, without any trepidation. Today was one of those glasses days. She lighted up with a heartwarming smile upon my entrance, floated up to my side, and hugged me with all her strength. She kissed my cheek, accidentally rubbed her girls against my chest, pulled away from me, and said, “Here you are, Johnny Knight. The man of my dreams.”

Francine scrutinized me yet again, a common action in our shared lives. She critiqued my wardrobe and frame as if she worked for GQ or America’s Top Model. She eyed up my six-two frame, one-hundred-and-eighty pounds of muscle, and cocoa brown hair. Of course she approved of my black skinny jeans, designer T-shirt, and Italian loafers. And unlike the beefy straight guys in the bar who stopped by for lunch, she reached for the leather belt at my center, gave its silver E-shaped buckle a pull, and said, “I love the new belt, Johnny. Where did you get it at?”

I told her about the sale on Gosslin Street at The Rotunda Hide, an expensive boutique for queers and foxy ladies like Francine to enjoy. “There’s a forty percent off sale on all spring and summer merchandise. I lucked out and found this belt.”

She and I had had quite the past. Both of us were thirty-years-old and knew each other for most of our lives. We attended Milton Elementary together, Milton High School together, and Milton College together. We lived together for three years in a small apartment when we were in our early twenties until her father was hit by a city bus and died. She moved in with her mother to console the woman through her hardship and grief, and I met the soccer player who asked me to marry him and then cheated on me three days later. Francine Foxxe was my best friend, straight soul mate, and the woman whom I wanted to be the mother of my imagined and precious twin boys, Coyle and Doyle. Never had we slept together, nor intended to, and probably wouldn’t, but I still wanted her to have babies for us, and to create an alternative family in our futures.

Francine hated children and called them fiery demons. Being one of seven siblings, she loathed the idea of “family” and had no intention of ever getting married or reproducing; so much for my happy ever life with children. Instead, she relished short-term relationships with sexy Italian men who knew how to kick and pass a football. She was not a w***e but did have the tendency to go from one jock to the next, finding joy in their sweat, abundance of muscles, and piggish charm.