7.30 a.m.
Shania Twain's voice in "That don't impress me much" pulled Michael off whatever he was dreaming.
It sounded like a great idea when he set one of his favorite songs ever as his alarm ringtone, at first, but now he wasn't that sure.
No one really likes to interrupt their dream, especially with a max-volumed song. That's barbaric and no song in the world will heal that sensation, especially the most loved ones.
Cause you're going to end up hating it.
This time was no different, though he couldn't remember what he dreamt (if he actually dreamt of anything).
But Michael could perfectly remember what he did the night prior and he didn't like that.
Feet got off the bed, very reluctantly, and he just walked to the kitchen, where he would have found his source of caffeine.
--------------
He and his buds have always been historic friends with the whole club crew, so they're kinda used to that fashion of having fun: yet, somehow, they weren't ready when a girl who was partying with her friends, and was clearly wild because of how much she drank, targeted Michael for some teasing. She clearly was in the "I don't know what I'm doing, I'm Beyoncé" phase of drunk.
The teasing went further when she forced him to a wild and desperate makeout tasting of alcohol, while her hand brought his one right on her tits: poor man hoped for rescue, but his friends were clearly too busy dancing, to come to his aid.
She clearly wasn't okay, she clearly was issued, Michael could tell.
The girl passed out immediately after, assisted by her girls.
Michael gave them an upset stare but decided to say nothing: the young woman was looking very troubled, so lashing out at her wasn't looking like the best of the ideas.
Clark and Foster, his colleagues and also closest buds, approached the man: "Is it alright?"
He rubbed his beard, not much enthusiastic about what happened: that woman had a red flag floating over her head, the very second she walked towards him. Call it a superpower, thanks to his experience he could recognize issued people when he actually sees them and she absolutely was, but he couldn't get how their friends would let these issued people get drunk and not keep an eye on what they might do, especially in a club, including an LGBT club.
Michael was a gay man.
So did his friends.
A loud, proud, hairy gay man: one of those men who defy gravity and speed, when the right song comes out.
There must have been a scientific correlation all the time, between gay average bears scorning anything related to sport and movement, except when it comes to dancing to '80s and '90s pop hits, Michael and his buds were deadly serious about that.
It's not only a fun activity but also an important public service: in the latest years confusing straight, beefy bears for gay ones, has become quite common.
Stupid, sexy, straight bears.
And it's become quite common having straight dudes playing as the impostor in an Among Us run, except for a fact: lying to girls about their own sexuality with the sole purpose of fucking, is pretty sad.
By the way, his group's dance-offs have always been effective to unmask those fake gays.
"Excuse me... May I talk to you guys?"
A girl interrupted the noisy silence of the bearded man's waterfall thoughts: she was a friend of the "troubled", and the way her eyes were looking at him, she was also the "Let's not go looking for troubles" friend.
"May I help you?" asked Michael with a neutral tone.
"I just wanted to apologize for my friend. I love her, she's great, but she's not fine. I won't get into details, but she's not fine."
A sad smile showed up on his bearded mouth, as this girl did her best to save her friend's reputation in the eyes of a stranger: "If you're interested, we work in an association. My friend Clark here may help."
Clark introduced himself to the girl: "Nice to meet you. I have a list of therapists and counselors, even for free, in order to provide for mental healthcare for those who, the black community included, struggle to carry on with their paycheck."
Michael stood up: he was glad for the chance to be helpful to someone, but this was Clark's competence now and his ass was no more useful, so he waved his hand to Foster: "I guess I'm gonna leave."
"I'd leave with you," his friend sounded a little hesitant as the volume of his voice got lower, "but I think there's more to dig, and they may need legal advice, too."
He nodded affirmatively and left, waving at the rest of his bitches.
As he approached the exit, Michael noticed his "assaulter" standing next to the door, surrounded by her friends: luckily she was feeling better, so he walked past, without saying anything.
The door of the club was closed behind his back, the air of the night flew from his lungs to his mind, cleaning his inner side.
His hand called for a taxi, waiting for a cab to stop: something inside was urging him to a deep-down conversation with himself, but Michael wasn't ready.
A polite "Thank you sir" to the driver, before walking back home, his steps were digested by the silence of the night.
The door closed behind Michael's back and the big pink elephant in the room was floating all around and needed to be addressed. He picked a bottle of liqueur from the fridge and poured some into a glass, the truth was reflected in the dark liquid moving inside.
The hand just guided the glass on his lips, the mouth disclosed, and the alcohol just slid down his throat: bitter like the facts he was about to get.
He enjoyed that drunk kiss.
He enjoyed being "assaulted" and what made him really upset, was the fact she wasn't really herself.
He himself, an out and proud gay man, was blaming a drunk woman for being drunk and not sober.
So much for a gay rights activist.
Unacceptable, but...
But that's what it was, that's what he was craving and Michael didn't like finding out he was no superior to the pigs hanging out in the club, acting like they're gay: he was just like them, just waiting for a "prey".
His soul was naked, just like that glass: a refill was needed.
It wasn't the first time he had these primal and instant urges, but this wasn't like the other times, this was more aggressive.
But he couldn't succumb to the urges, he couldn't succumb to the instincts towards a woman's body.
He, himself, an out and proud gay man.
Michael closed his eyes, trying to remove and purify his inner filth. It wasn't working: the mind was picturing him and that woman, finally sober, in a naked, sexually hungry hug.
Gross.
The throat was aching, the brain as well: he needed more alcohol.
What was going on inside him, was that unusual attraction, really a tragedy?
He never was that gay man who hates women.
"I constantly fall in love with women," that's what Michael always used to say, "but sex is a different thing."
Sexual attraction for the opposite gender wasn't for him, it's never been for him, yet something was getting messed up.
Things do not just get messed up, though.
All his life, he advocated for his voice to be heard, for the voice of other people like him to be heard.
Being gay, for Michael, was more than just liking men: being gay was a mission, and he was so glad when he found other gay men with the same mission.
They created their community and their community became an association, with hundreds of affiliates.
Then, the association became their full-time jobs.
It was impossible for him to even think about the chance of being any different than that: it would have meant turning his back to not only his sexual orientation but to his whole life, as well.
But that was tempting him, so badly...
His cock needed to be jerked, he had to nut to that insane desire, just that time, just once.
"Fuck," Michael let his hand run over the crotch, his cock popped up: rigid, hard, hungry.
Just this time.
Just once...
----------------
The coffee was ready, an intense and delicious smell invaded the whole apartment.
Michael couldn't remember how drunk he got the previous night, but it definitely worked!
He was the same Michael, the same ol' gay bear: no more pointless strings attached to unknown women.
It was a good outcome, but he still didn't like how he could even have some sensations in the first place.
Did he really have to end up like an alcoholic?
Oh, so many thoughts, and it wasn't even 8 in the morning!
The smell of caffeine from the cup reclaimed the attention: Michael sipped his coffee in silence, looking at the suburbs out of his window coming to life.
And he felt like coming back to life, too.
-----------------
"Seriously?"
Talking on the phone and walking at the same time: why does that always look easy on others, but never on him?
At least he was feeling good: it'd been two months since that weird event, and luckily for him, Michael felt soooooooo much gayer than ever.
He still had fun nights at the club and great sex with some hot, hairy guys.
Unfortunately, it was like he couldn't find his soulmate, the hairy love of his life, the husbear he's always been looking for, but it's always nice to try!
And speaking of trying...
"I'm not going to buy a Christmas sweater! How come 'why'? We're in June! Wait, half... Half what?"
His coffee was getting cold, too bad!
"In all honesty, this is the first time I've heard of Half Christmas and I'd rather forget about this thing. I can survive only one Christmas in a year, not two... No, I don't hate festivities, I'm just glad we live in Australia so we don't have to suck off European and American traditions: we make the tree in our shorts and that's fine... No, I've been alive for forty years and I never cared about how cool would be Christmas in winter... Look, I'm minutes away from the office, can we talk about this in person? Thanks, later."
Michael closed the call and just began to swear at the phone: twenty damn minutes of pointless talking about something he could not care any less, who's the idiot who gave him his own number? Surprise, surprise: himself.
Sounded such a great idea, but he didn't consider Noah and his being so attached to fricken festivities... All of them fricken festivities!
And his coffee was cold!
He wished he could be less committed to a healthy workplace for his staff, but he still couldn't help.
But his coffee was cold!
Yikes...
------------
He stormed into the editorial office, trying to finish what's left of his coffee as he sat at his desk.
But...
"Morning, do you have a sec?"
"Almost done with my article!"
"I had problems with my computer, can I postpone the consignment?"
Michael stayed in his seat, looking at his colleagues, taking his last sip: "Oh, what a day!"
When Clark, Foster, and himself founded their association back in the years, he was really glad to help with the public relations, the online magazine.
It's not just a way to reward the men and the women who join them, Micheal meant to create a platform for information, not only for LGBT people but for every minority, ethnic and religious, representing the whole association's vision and mission.
An easy and predictable move, but it worked. Their web magazine was really appreciated and their "audience" grew along with the number of members.
Years passed by, their community grew, Michael wanted (and needed!) collaborators, in order to give an always better and improved magazine. That was the time when he met Morgan, the first woman to work with and for him: their paths crossed when she decided to leave her previous job in another magazine, a well-paid one, and work for them.
"In all honesty, Morgan," Michael was really concerned, "you gave me a lot of reasons to hire you, but I honestly have not that much, in terms of money and fame. Are you really willing to work with us?"
"Money cannot buy my pride and integrity. Being a feminist, just like being an LGBT activist is not always that easy, I'm sure you can tell. Then, imagine being a lesbian feminist and struggling with your new boss, who is a massive trans-exclusionary cunt and wants to turn all of her colleagues into massive trans-exclusionary cunts as well."
She was right: feminism needs to be inclusive and intersectional. Excluding trans women from that important community, is absolutely not what needs to be done.
He was glad to see they were on the same page. Morgan became part of the team, and she also managed to bring inside some of her ex co-workers.
