The blue and white Bell Jet Ranger helicopter was closing on the oil rig, eighty miles into the green choppy sea off Port Fourcon, Louisiana. Jack told himself he wasn’t going back offshore again! Ever! Yet, here he finds himself, accepting another hitch — not on the platform he’s flying to, but on the one-hundred-forty foot supply boat tied up to it. Twenty-eight days of – fourteen days off.
Along with Jack and the pilot, were two rig-operators and a roustabout. None spoke during the entire thirty-five minute flight. As the chopper banked for the approach, the roustabout vomited into a bag handed out by the pilot before take-off.
Can’t even handle the helicopter ride. Sorry bastard – Jack thought to himself.
As the skids beneath the helo where touching down, Jack was already longing to be back in the gay bars of the French Quarter. Everything from the big dance clubs to the hole-in-the-wall spots. He thrived in that environment. Jack wasn’t attracted to the men in this flying box — not even a little bit — but he loved being wanted by the men in those bars. He’d been heavily desired by beautiful women in his past. Slept with plenty of them – but none could equal the ravenous intensity of unfamiliar gay men in heat. Jack found that most of the single gay men in the Quarter weren’t looking for love behind the eyes. Many, not even like.