A long time ago, the angry young Xander you already know and love was working as a waiter/bartender at the Fruit Bat & Crocodile Café in Atlanta. It was a nice joint. It catered to the after-movie, after-theatre crowd - we got busy at ten or so, and stayed that way until closing at 3 a.m. Needless to say, it fit my night-owl lifestyle perfectly.

I’d been there for a bit more than a year when Lauren started. Now, if you’ve tended bar or waited, you know how incestuous a restaurant “family” is. Everybody is fucking everybody all the time (usually drunk as the sun comes up). When someone new enters the mix, there’s practically a stampede. Well, as it happens, I slipped in first to meet our new executive chef.

Mondays were usually dead - no theatre, no symphony - so it was a shock when the night positively exploded. We were slammed from around eight until after midnight, so everyone on the small staff was totally beat when the time came for me to line up the shooters for our shift drink after the rush. Everyone in the front of the house knocked theirs back, and I poured an extra one to carry into the kitchen (and another for myself, natch).

I made my way to the back and found Lauren cleaning the pasta machine. We talked for a bit, and I handed her the drink - a kamikaze, probably. We clicked glasses, and I took a good look at her as she drank it down without even a wince.

Lauren wasn’t traditionally attractive. She had this total tomboy vibe that I was into, though. Great eyes that were gray and catlike and hadn’t seen any makeup for a long, long time. Her breasts were very small, and her figure wasn’t very womanly, but God, she had great arms. Sinewy and covered in a multitude of tattoos. She had a number of piercings as well, but it would be a long time before I knew that. Her shoulder-length brown hair stuck to her head - it was hot as hell in the kitchen.

“I’m gonna go down to Dark Horse when we’re done here,” I said. It was an after-hours tavern that catered to restaurant and club people after they were off. “Want to come?” Lauren hitched up an eyebrow at me.

“I’m pretty beat,” she said.

“How about some other night? We’re both off on Wednesday.” Now Lauren actually smiled. She let out a laugh.

“Like a date?” I grinned. I nodded. She kept the smile wide. “You know I’m a lesbian, right?” I blinked at her. I should have known. Generally, I was pretty good about being able to tell these things. But not this time. I stammered some lame apology, but she laughed it off and said she took it as a compliment.

Fly, fly your thoughts...

A year passes. My grungy rock band breaks up (over a girl, of course). I decide that the life of a bartender isn’t enough for me and apply to a bunch of colleges. Every one but Brown accepts me, and having read Donna Tartt’s “The Secret History,” I choose a little liberal arts school in New England with a great financial aid package.

Over this time, Lauren and I become great friends of a kind I hadn’t had before. She became my girl-buddy. The one woman I could sit around doing shots with and discussing my various sexual exploits. We’d both slept with a few of the same women at the café, and sometimes (terrible, I know) we would compare notes. We were pretty close in the acquaintance way that co-workers can be. So by the time she threw out the bait to see if I’d bite, I already had one foot out the door. I suspect she waited until then just for that reason.

We were at the bar after another busy night in the middle of the ungodly hot summer of 1993. One by one, the other waiters left for the night. The manager was in back counting receipts, and only Lauren and I were left out front. We were shooting the shit about one thing or another when she grinned at me and said, “You know what I really want to do, Xander?”

“Another shooter?” She laughed. I nodded, and I poured.

“But also,” she waited until I leaned on the bar across from her. “I’d really like to fuck some straight boy with my strap-on.” I can only imagine what my face must have looked like. I drained my shot. Poured another.

“Really,” I milked the word for all it was worth.

“Yeah. Always have. It just seems, I don’t know, hot. If I found the right guy, I’d even let him fuck me.”

She held my eyes, making perfectly clear that the straight boy she wanted for this little experiment was me. I stared back at her, debate raging in my head. I was as far from homophobic as you could be. I had even had a gay experience or two, but there’s this social taboo about a macho guy taking it up the butt. All the same, the stirring in my black trousers was really all the answer I needed.

Besides, Lauren was a friend. And I still thought she was attractive. And a good bartender wants to make the customer happy.

“You know,” I said, “that sounds like it could be interesting. Especially if a nice dinner and a lot of wine were involved.” Lauren laughed, and we finally made a date for our next mutual night off at her place.

The dinner was nice. I’ve never liked seafood much, but Lauren made this dish with mussels, garlic, and white wine that was out of this world. We laughed and talked all through the meal just like a regular date. And drank, much more than her. First a cocktail, then a bottle and a half of wine. Then another cocktail. I was getting trashed. And desperately horny.