2001-11-03 - 12:12 p.m.
Size Matters

Were I not so disciplined with this new smoking schedule—one cigarette every 45 minutes—it might not have happened.

I noticed him as soon as I walked into the bar. How could you not? My god, he was tall. And pretty darned cute too.

I met up with Jeff and Jeff’s lover Ray at that same old queer tavern last night. Joey showed up later too, as did Enrique and Damian and another tasty-looking young Latino friend of theirs who we’ll call Rico.

It was time for my next cigarette as soon as I arrived at 8 pm, but I waited for Joey to show up so we could have one together. Then, precisely 45 minutes later, I adjourned again to the smoking lounge; Joey was deep in conversation with Jeff—whom he hadn’t seen for ten years since the time Jeff flew out to help celebrate my 25th birthday—so I went by myself.

And there he was, this incredibly tall, slim, dusky-skinned guy. I thought he might be East Indian or Middle Eastern or something.

He immediately struck up a conversation with me. Introduced himself, Drew. I could not wipe the smile off my face. He had an incredibly deep voice and a shaved head. He wore glasses. He had beautiful dark brown eyes.

Drew, it was plainly obvious, was also very drunk.

Swaying to and fro, he lit a smoke and kept on chatting me up.

I learned that he is 20, and 6 feet, 8 and ¾ inches tall. I learned that he wears size 16 shoes. Glancing down, my eyes verified his outrageous claim.

“Wow,” I said.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said, with an intoxicating, intoxicated grin. “Everyone always thinks that height and big feet correspond to…you know. But it isn’t true.”

“Oh, I wasn’t going there,” I lied.

“Well you’re the first guy I’ve ever met at a gay bar who didn’t,” he laughed, looking deeper into my eyes.

Drew told me some interesting stuff about his background and interests and vocation(s), stuff I shaln’t relate here to protect his confidentiality. Suffice it to say, he struck me as a interesting fellow.

We chatted for ten or fifteen minutes before he sheepishly admitted that his bladder was about to burst. I said I should get back to my friends, but that maybe I’d talk to him later.

And that could have been the end of it.

But when I got back to the table, Joey and Jeff urged me to pursue him. I was pretty easily convinced. It was easy to follow Drew’s movements through the crowded bar, and fifteen or so minutes later he headed back to the smoking lounge. I soon followed.

Drew was noticeably more inebriated. But he remembered everything I’d said about myself, asked interested questions and continued to spill more stories about himself.

He used to play a lot of sports, he said. “But, you know, I’m still growing.”

“Oh really?” I said, confused, aroused.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said, laughing.

My face faked innocent surprise; obviously not very convincingly, as Drew doubled over in laughter.

Then he told me he’s an alcoholic. “I went to a few AA meetings,” he said, “and I always got stoned before I walked in. So I didn’t learn much.” He laughed. “But tonight is my first night to get drunk in about five weeks.”

I didn’t know what to say. When drunk people tell me they’re alcoholics, I never know what to say. But it was comfortable; there was this cosy sexy vibe happening. I just listened.

“I can tell you’re a listener,” Drew said. “And a good conversationalist. I’m a good conversationalist too. Right now, though, because I’m so drunk, I’m probably rambling. Am I rambling?”

“No, you’re not rambling,” I said. “I’m enjoying our conversation.”

He hailed the cute waiter and ordered another beer. He offered to buy me a drink too; I politely declined. He wanted to know why I wasn’t drinking, so I told him. “Wow,” he said. “It’s funny that I should meet a guy like you on a night like this.” I agreed.

Then I noticed that despite the fact I was surrounded by chain-smokers, including especially Drew, that I was still adhering to my spartan schedule. I was pleased with myself.

He had been standing all this time, and I was sitting on a bar stool. He sat down. Our knees touched. “There,” he said, smiling seductively, “That’s better. When we’re both seated we’re more or less the same height and I can look into your eyes. Your eyes are blue, right?” I confirmed same.

Drew had to pee again at that point, asked me to wait right there. He got half-way out of the lounge, then staggered back over and said “I’m really enjoying our conversation too, so please wait here, k?”

I said I would.

When he returned, Drew picked right back up where he left off. Serious-faced, he said, “I’m going to tell you why I really drink.”

“Okay,” I said.

“I drink to forget about my birth defect,” he said, searching my eyes for a reaction.

“Oh?” I said, picturing male and female genitalia crowdedly nestled between his big long legs.

“It’s called giantism,” he said. “Do you know what that is?”

“Um, yeah, kind of,” I said.

When I was a kid I read the Guinness Book of World Records, especially the sections about weird human bodies. Siamese twins, the world record for obesity and the world’s tallest man. So yeah, I knew a little bit about giantism.

“You see,” he said, “I’ve grown almost 2 inches in the past three months. I went from 6’7 to almost 6’9. My feet have grown a full shoe size in that same time.” He paused, took a swig of his beer and looked right at me. “I’m scared.”

“Wow,” I said.

He said he was five feet tall, as tall as his mother, when he was in kindergarten.

“The doctors tell me I’ll maybe live till I’m 30—35 at the most—so I drink to forget about that. And, you know, to have fun in the mean time.”

“Wow,” I said. Something was breaking open inside me; I could tell by the way he looked at me that my eyes were conveying more than my wows.

“Does that make sense?” he asked, downing the rest of his beer.

“I hear you,” I said, squeezing his big knee.

He ordered another beer, then asked what I was doing after the bar. “No plans,” I said. Drew wanted me to come with him to the dance club. I said no. “Well, how about we go for a bite to eat and keep talking then?” he countered. I said sure, fantasizing about chewing on his pouty red lips.

“Cool, well we can go once I’m done my beer,” he said, downing half of it in one swig. Then he had to pee again. I noticed he was swaying even more.

And I waited. And I had time to think. I could tell my face was glowing, a serious sober glow. This was not a fun, light-hearted time. This was not the beginning of anything. I was drawn to him, his story, his sexy, fatally-expanding body. I decided we would not have sex tonight, but that I’d love to cuddle him. I don’t like having sex with drunk people; he would probably pass out within minutes anyway. I wondered how comfortable he’d be on my hide-a-bed; my feet hang over the bottom and I’m only 5’10.

I thought about alcoholism: mine, his. I knew this was happening for a reason. I knew—and was so happy that I knew—that nothing conventional, like some dating or even conventional friendship connection would likely come of this.

This was a moment. A moment where maybe, just by being myself, I might plant a few seeds. No big AA lectures—that has never been my strong suit, nor did such lectures help me get my act together. Just me, present and listening and, if he asked, sharing more of my own story. And maybe, hopefully, some cuddling and kissing.

And I waited. And waited. And waited. I began to get concerned: Drew had been swaying majorly when he left. I envisioned him passed out in a washroom stall.

Finally, I exited the smoking lounge. He would have stood out above everyone else in the crowd, but I could not see him. I started to head for the men’s room but spotted him once I got on the other side of the pillar. Drew was standing—barely—over by the beer bar. Despite having left a half-full bottle of beer back where we’d been sitting, he had another half-full beer in his hand, and he was buying another one for some beautiful woman. I went and stood beside him. He looked over at me, smiled and said “Hi.” I realized that he did not recognize me. I stood there, not knowing what to do. I did nothing. He bought the beer for this pretty woman, took her by the arm, and wandered back to the smoking lounge without looking at me again.

A momentary flash of anger rippled through my body. And then I smiled, a knowing smile. This—none of this—had the slightest thing to do with me. My smile told me that it was time to leave. My friends had all left by this point; I was heading for the exit when I thought, No. I went back to the smoking lounge. Drew was sitting back in our spot up against the wall. I walked up to him, smiling.

“Hey,” he said, calling me by name. He recognized me in our familiar surroundings.

“Hey Drew,” I said. “I’m going to get going now. But it was great talking with you.”

“Oh? Okay. Well I am really glad we talked, too,” he said.

I gave him my card. We shook hands.

And I left.

Sadness and joy jostled inside as I sauntered home in the dark. As I marveled at the luminescence of story: what gets lived, what sometimes gets shared.