Title: Becoming Andy Hunsinger

Author: Jere’ M. Fishback

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: Aug 14, 2017

Heat Level: 2 – Fade to Black Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 64200

Genre: Historical, friends to lovers, college, coming out, coming-of-age, historical, drug/alcohol use

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Synopsis:

It’s 1976, and Anita Bryant’s homophobic “Save Our Children” crusade rages through Florida. When Andy Hunsinger, a closeted gay college student, joins in a demonstration protesting Bryant’s appearance in Tallahassee, his straight boy image is shattered when he is “outed” by a TV news reporter. In the months following, Andy discovers just what it means to be openly gay in a society that condemns love between two men and wonders if his friendship with Travis, a devout Christian who’s fighting his own sexual urges, can develop into something deeper.

Excerpt 2:

Becoming Andy Hunsinger
Jere’ M. Fishback © 2017
All Rights Reserved

In 1976, gay bars didn’t exist in Tallahassee. But one establishment, the Pastime Tavern on Tennessee Street, offered a gathering spot for gay men, both students and townies. The size of five tennis courts, the Pastime had a U-shaped bar and a dozen pool tables in the rear. A woman known as Miss Kitty ran the place. She sold half-gallon pitchers of Budweiser for three dollars and bags of peanuts roasted in the shell for a quarter. Cigarette smoke in the bar grew so thick you couldn’t see across the room. The men’s toilet stank like an outhouse. Ammonia pucks resting in the urinals did little to lessen the rankness. The sink was rust-stained, and my shoe soles always stuck to the linoleum floor. The paper dispenser in the toilet stall rarely held paper. Above a battered condom machine someone had scrawled an observation with a felt-tipped pen.

“This gum chews mighty tough.”

I spent considerable time at the Pastime my senior year at FSU, and never once saw a fraternity jersey there. The place catered to nonconformists of every stripe: hippies, bikers, musicians, local artisans, and so forth. Gay boys gathered on the left side of the bar; they occupied stools or sat at tables with brimming ashtrays. They smoked cigarettes and sipped from beer glasses. Broken peanut shells littered the concrete floor around them.

The gays drank and talked while scrutinizing one another. Cruising for sex was a subtle process at the Pastime: guys didn’t touch one another; they only exchanged glances or conversed in lowered voices. Then, around midnight, young men paired up. They left together, and I always felt jealous, seeing them depart.

My first visits to the Pastime were uneventful. I’d grab a stool on the left end of the bar and then watch the goings-on. My sexual tastes ran toward slim guys with dark hair and eyes, young men who reminded me of Jeff Dellinger.

Some of these types frequented the Pastime, but whenever our gazes met they always looked away—a sure sign of rejection.

A few guys hit on me. A man in his thirties named Bob, with thinning blond hair and a sissy’s lisp, bought me a beer. Then he asked me home, but I declined. A chubby guy my age, who I recognized from campus, struck up conversation with me on a Friday night. He brushed my thigh with his fingertips, but when he suggested we leave the bar together, I let him know it wouldn’t happen.

I was desperate, but not that needy.

As time passed, I began to wonder if I’d ever meet a guy I found attractive—one who might also want me—but I had no success finding anyone.

Maybe my experience with Jeff was dumb luck.

Each Friday and Saturday night, I returned home from the Pastime, to my empty apartment, and then I lay on my mattress, staring at the ceiling.

Is this how it’s always going to be?

Sometimes I second-guessed myself; I wondered if maybe I had made a mistake in leaving the fraternity house. Maybe I wasn’t suited for the gay subculture. Was there something about me that gay men—guys my age, anyway—found unappealing? Was it so obvious I was a needy youth with little knowledge of the homosexual world and its rituals?

Nonetheless, I kept visiting the Pastime; I figured something would eventually happen.

And finally something did.

On a Saturday in early October, just before midnight, a guy my age took a stool next to mine at the bar. I’d seen him at the Pastime before, talking with various people, sometimes leaving with one guy or another. He was a bit taller than me and his black and wavy hair grew to his shoulders. He wore bib overalls and high-top Converse sneakers, but no shirt. A red bandana drooped from his right rear pocket. After he’d ordered a beer, he swung his gaze toward me, and then he spoke in a raspy baritone flavored by a southern Georgia drawl.

“You’re always alone when I see you here. How come?”

My cheeks steamed. What should I tell him? “I’m new at this,” I said.

He crinkled his forehead. “You’re new at drinking beer?”

I shook my head. “At meeting guys.”

A smile crept onto his lips. “Cruising’s an art I haven’t figured out. Some nights I win, other times I can’t catch a break, know what I mean?”

I nodded but didn’t say anything.

“I’m Aaron.”

I told him my name, and then we shook. His hand was warm and moist. Just touching him that way, in a public place, had my pulse racing. For a moment, I felt like a schoolgirl at a dance; I couldn’t think of anything more to say. Aaron sipped from his beer and smacked his lips. Dark hairs peeked at me from his armpits. His biceps looked like baseballs, and his big hands were large-knuckled. After turning toward me, he rested his feet on the stringers of his barstool. Then he gazed at me with a puzzled expression on his face.

“You’re as pale as a ghost,” he said. “Your hands are trembling, too. Why?”

I lowered my gaze. What an idiot I was. “I’m nervous,” I said.

“Don’t be,” Aaron said. “There’s nothing to be scared of.”

I took a swig from my beer. Then I watched bubbles rise in my glass while my pulse raced.

“Andy?”

I looked at Aaron.

“I’ll leave you alone if you want. I can—”

Say something; you’re losing him.

“I don’t want you to leave me alone. It’s just…”

“What?”

“I don’t know how to invite you to my place.”

Aaron snickered. “I think you just did.”

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Meet the Author:

Jere’ M. Fishback is a former journalist and trial lawyer who now writes fiction full time. He lives with his partner Greg on a barrier island on Florida’s Gulf Coast. When he’s not writing, Jere’ enjoys reading, playing his guitar, jogging, swimming laps, fishing, and watching sunsets from his deck overlooking the Intracoastal Waterway.