Ben Ryder - Side Line

by Ben Ryder

  I looked down the bar and saw nothing but smiles on the girls’ faces as they charmed the men with flirty, but brief, conversations. They worked their audience perfectly, as they always did, but with so many fit, attractive young men, there was an enthusiasm that I hadn’t seen before.

  I picked up a stack of cold beer and balanced it on a stool that had been left behind the bar. With so many arms stretching and hands grasping as their digits sought out free drinks, the scene looked like a zombie movie. I joined in handing out the beer, although my conversation wasn’t as welcome as the girls’ was. But I was able to get more beer out, and eventually the tidal wave ebbed as the men began to move away from the bar and toward more open space. The noise eventually followed them.

  As I came back into the bar carrying another couple of cases for the girls, I caught a glimpse of a man at the corner of the counter standing alone and waiting patiently to be served. The sight of him stopped me in my tracks. Up to that point, the guys had been little more than a sea of excitable faces to me, but this guy, as handsome as he was, looked as though he was in a world of his own.

  His profile resembled that of a London bruiser. He had short-cropped, dirty-blond hair that glistened when it caught the light. A slightly flattened but straight boxer’s nose and small crescent-shaped scar on the top of his cheekbone alluded to some past fight. Someone must have gotten in a lucky punch, as surely no one could have taken on a man of such a muscular build and won.

  “Hey, what’s your name?” I said, taking a beer out of the case and holding it out across the bar to him. His pale grayblue eyes flickered in my direction, alerted to my presence, and his stone-carved jaw widened with a smile that softened his face.

  “Damon.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Tampa, Florida,” he said, projecting his deep southern voice over the noise. “Good to meet you, Damon,” I said, bowing my head a little. I didn’t know whether I did it out of manners or subservience, as the look of him put me a little on edge, a rare feeling for me. I moved on to the next guy, who had been trying to catch my eye and already had his palm slightly cupped to receive his beer.

  “Where are you from?” Damon called. I was slightly taken aback. It was a cold day in hell when a punter paid any kind of interest in where I was from, especially when the girls were next to me.

  “London!” I called back as I tossed a beer into the hand of the waiting guy. Damon pulled his elbows up onto the bar and hunched forward with his ear turned as though he hadn’t heard. His shoulders rose and strained against the neckline of his shirt, stretching the material so that the dark green T-shirt’s sleeves grew taut on his flexing biceps.

  “I’m from London!” “Cool, I’ve always wanted to visit there. It looks like an awesome place,” he said as he ran his hand up the back of his bristled hair. “I doubt if I’ll ever get there, though. It’s too damned expensive.”

  “No more than New York. You should try and get there one day. It’s a grand place. And don’t believe everything you read—the beer isn’t always warm in England!”

  He held his beer up in a toast, knocked his head back, and took a couple of swigs. The only thing that could distract from the exposed vein running down his thick neck was the bobbing of his protruding Adam’s apple, which explained the depth of his voice. The collar of his T-shirt was edged with small silver beads. I momentarily traced their outline that led to the dog tags nestled inside his shirt, between his thickly muscled pecs. I inwardly smiled as I felt, for the first time in my life, the clichéd sensation of my knees momentarily wanting to give way.

  “I dig your accent, buddy.”

  “Cheers, guv’nah!” I replied in my best cockney brogue. “I like yours too. I’m a big fan of Florida. I hope to get myself a villa there one day.”

  “It’s damn hot there,” he replied.

  “That’s the point. It’s better than getting rained on every day in England.”

  Damon nodded his head as though he agreed. “How long are you guys here for?” “Just a week, then back home to Blighty. What about you?”

  Damon simply shrugged. “Who knows? I’ve already been here a month.”

  “You must be missing home by now, aren’t you?”

  “You have no idea. There isn’t a second that goes by that I don’t miss my family.” He said this with so much pride that if anyone dared to judge his homesickness as a form of weakness, he would defend his emotion in the blink of an eye—and a swing of a fist. To see such a big guy speak this way made him even more likeable.

  There was a bright flash that blinded me momentarily. Once my eyes recovered, I turned to see Siobhan wafting the instant photo she had taken of me and Damon in the air. She winked and turned to begin handing out more beer.

  “What do you do? In the military, I mean,” I asked. “I’m a staff sergeant in the Marines.”

  I laughed. “I’m not surprised a big fella like you is a Marine. Those Iranians haven’t got a hope against you guys! Have you been serving long?”

  “This is my eighth year and second war. I joined when I was nineteen.” I tried to picture myself doing the same when I was nineteen. I was out getting drunk in bars and driving down to the coast with friends in my first car every weekend, just because I could. There would have been no way on God’s green earth I would have been ready to tackle something so heavy at that age.

  I noticed a thick scar running about five inches up the side of his forearm, just below his elbow. It must have been an old injury, as it was raised considerably off his skin. It was too ragged to be from a surgical cut. I always found scars as sexy as hell, and the stories behind them only amplified my love of them, especially if they came from an act of something rough, like a fight or a sports injury.

  “War wound?” I asked, nodding toward his arm. He looked down at the scar and rubbed it roughly with the palm of his hand before nodding. “Yeah, something like that.”

  “Iraq?” Damon began to look uncomfortable, turning his forearm flat onto the bar so as to hide the scar. When he didn’t respond, I tried to keep the conversation going. “You know, a lot of people say it, but I really do admire you guys. You’re a hell of a lot braver than most. I hope you get the respect and the thanks you deserve. I mean that for all you boys.”

  “Thanks.” I heard Jackie call from the end of the bar, asking me to help her get some more beer from the cold store. I looked around to see all the girls empty-handed.

  “Girls, come have your picture taken with this guy,” I shouted to them. Jackie was still furiously giving away what she had left in her case.

  They all filed around the front of the bar and stood beside and behind Damon in their best poses. Natasha and Nikki went beyond the call by balancing their tits on each of Damon’s shoulders. The image was caught, and all the girls gave him a small peck on the cheek before filing back behind the bar.

  “You have lipstick all over your face.” I laughed as I slid the photo across the bar to him.

  “Really? Where?” I looked at him. I would have given anything to lean across the bar and swipe my thumb across his cheek like I was striking a match. “Don’t worry. Wear them with pride.”

  “Jay! Can you help me get some more beer?” I heard Jackie call with a little more urgency to her voice.

  I picked up the almost-full case of beer I had and slid it across the bar to him. “Here, take these.”

  “Huh?” “Take them and have a good night,” I said, making sure my passing wink was taken as confirmation of the goodwill gesture and nothing more.

  “Thanks, buddy. I really appreciate it!” he said, beaming and with almost too much gratitude in his voice. It had me wondering for a moment whether he was being a little sarcastic. He leaned over the bar and grasped my hand to shake. His huge rough hand enveloped mine, and I once again felt weak as I savored his touch. The shake was held longer than two men usually would, though I didn’t know whether it was because he was genuinely grateful for the beer or w
hether I held the grip for not wanting to let go of his hand.

  “We’re at Club Alpha tomorrow night—spread the word and bring your friends,” I called over my shoulder as I headed toward Jackie, who was already shifting empty boxes into the storeroom.

  “Jesus Christ, Jacks, did you see that guy I was talking to?”

  “That narrows it down, Jay,” she replied in a harried voice.

  “The guy I was just talking to, the one in the green Tshirt? You keep asking me what my type is—well, that one is what I consider damn near perfect.”

  Jackie leaned to one side to look around me.

  “Don’t make it so obvious!”

  “Okay, okay. But I can’t see any guy in a green T-shirt.”

  I casually turned around as though my attention had been caught and peered down the line of faces hanging over the bar, but Damon had vanished.

  Thursday

  STILL a little jet-lagged and exhausted from the night before, I managed to sleep through most of the morning. I must have been tired, as I managed to ignore the calls to prayer. I had vague memories of half-conscious dreams about beer, bars, and Damon, and was just about to give my morning hard-on the attention it deserved, when the phone rang.

  “Are you up yet, darling?” Jackie’s chipper voice told me she had been awake for hours.

  “Yes, I have my cock in my hand, and I am about to bang one out.” There was silence for a few moments in the receiver. I relished the idea of stopping Jackie in her tracks and embarrassing her.

  “What are you wearing?” Jackie said in a perfect imitation of a phone box pervert.

  “Nothing. I’m naked.” “Do you”—heavy breath—“want me”—heavy breath—“to talk dirty to you?”

  “Sure, I would love that. Be filthy.”

  “I am touching my silky labia.”

  “Noooooo! Okay, you win!” I pulled the sheet up over my shrinking erection. “What can I do for you?” Jackie returned to her usual voice, though it was a little higher with the giggle and happiness at her successful foiling of my morning delight. “We’re heading across the road to the Sunset Café for lunch. Would you like to join us?”

  “Sure, but I have to get to Club Alpha by 3:00 p.m.” “That’s plenty of time, darling. More than enough time to enjoy a generous portion of hummus. Meet downstairs in twenty minutes?”

  I jumped out of bed and threw myself under a cold shower. It wasn’t what I intended, but in my hurry to meet them, I hadn’t waited for the water to warm up. It killed off what remained of my hard-on.

  WE STAYED in the Sunset Café until it was time for me to head to Club Alpha to set up for the night. The venue was bigger than I imagined and held two bars, as well as a small stage area that doubled as a dance floor. We had promoted in much larger venues before, but I was still surprised to find a club of this size in a place like Bahrain. I was beginning to understand the company’s interest in the market. If this was one of the old clubs, the new ones being built were bound to be even larger, as was the fashion of the new nightlife in Dubai. Judging by the décor and the tall ceilings, the building obviously hadn’t originally been constructed to hold a club, but had an old-world charm. Somehow it felt as though it had been designed as a place of worship for a religion to which the locals hadn’t taken and was abandoned.

  I arrived alone late in the afternoon to prepare for the night. As I walked through the club, I saw scores of posters of the squad in their best cheerleading poses pinned to every post and bannered across every empty wall. Keen to get as many punters through the door as possible, Ahmed had decided to multiply the genuine posters and flyers that were sent to him and had made extras by running them through a color photocopier. The hue obviously hadn’t been set correctly, making the girls look almost orange. The posters made both the company and the girls look cheap, so I insisted they be removed. Ahmed was overly apologetic, which worked in my favor when I sought assistance from his barmen to assemble the Beer Box on the slightly raised stage at the back of the dance floor.

  The Beer Box was a twelve-foot-square frame of metal rods that formed a cube. Hemmed Side Line Beer branded fabric was slipped over the length of the rods, curtaining off the sides so as to hide the girls before their performance. Two large colored lights were attached to the top of the box and angled down, giving the girls a spotlight when they emerged from the slit in the curtain.

  Once I finished hooking up the sound system, and the barmen strung the sports bunting along the bar like a local sports team celebrating a win, I finally turned to Ahmed.

  “You will keep the club at capacity tonight, won’t you, Ahmed? I need to make sure the girls are safe,” I said, wiping my soaking brow of sweat. “And I don’t want to see you get into any trouble either. The last thing you want is for your club to be successful, only for it to be closed down by officials.”

  “Yes, my friend! I keep only to regulation.” Content with his promise, I made a final check of the equipment before heading out into the blazing sun to find a taxi.

  THE thick, hot air stagnated into the night. Back at the hotel, I showered again to wash the sweat off my body and the sandy dust from my hair before taking my razor to shave my balls clean, remembering the uncomfortable feeling of my nuts roasting the night before.

  As I stepped out of the shower, there was a knock. I streaked through the room over to my jeans and slipped them on, not bothering with suffocating underwear, and opened the door.

  “Hmmm, very nice. Lifting all that heavy beer has done wonders for you,” Jackie said as she walked into the room and ran a hand down my chest while her other clutched a bottle of wine. “Your usual Dutch courage?”

  “You’re a lifesaver, Jacks,” I said as I threw on a black polo shirt with the company’s logo branded on the chest. “How are the girls?”

  “They’re fine, ready to whip the troops into an absolute frenzy!” she said, pouring the wine.

  “I don’t think it’s going to take much. Judging by last night, they are thrilled to see any girl that’s uncovered.” “God only knows what the local women will think of the girls. Show a bit of flesh around these parts, and you’re a whore!” Jackie said raising her glass. “Cheers!”

  “Well, if nothing else, it’s going to be interesting!” I said, clinking her glass. “Are the girls on their way?” “Yes, they’ll be here any minute. I think they are just readjusting Emma’s hair. She had a bit of a disaster the first time round and ended up with curls like those creepylooking Victorian dolls. It really was quite frightening. Tara is already complaining that her hair is beginning to frizz in the heat and humidity, though how that’s possible in an airconditioned room with a weave made out man-made fiber is quite beyond me.”

  WE PILED into taxis, and upon arrival, Ahmed welcomed us into the back of the club and showed the girls to a private room where they could change. I stood guard outside, going over my spiel in my head until they were ready.

  Ahmed had agreed not to sell any other brand of beer that night and was delighted because of it. He was walking around the place with a huge grin on his face, knowing that in the two and a half hours since he had opened the doors of his club, he had sold over a fortnight’s worth of spirits to those who wanted to get in the mood and didn’t want to wait.

  I went out and looked at the crowd. Either the laws determining capacity in Bahrain were casual, or Ahmed had gone against his promise. The entire club was full.

  “We had better get this up and running pretty quickly before they get bored,” I said, turning to Jackie. “I’ll get them warmed up and give you the nod when I’m ready.”

  Jackie turned back from the bar and passed me a small shot of vodka. “Knock ’em dead, darling.” Downing the drink in one, I made my way through to the stage area and turned on the microphone. I looked back over the crowd to see hundreds of men, almost all with either cropped or jarhead haircuts. The concentrated scent of the wall of males hit me as I took my place and faced them. The collective smell of f
resh sweat, soap, deodorant, and spiritlaced breath changed every time I inhaled through my nose as it mixed with scores of different aftershaves. Even the air conditioning of the club couldn’t fight against the wave of warmth generated by the men’s bodies, and I could feel myself getting turned on. I tapped the microphone, giving Jackie the signal to bring the girls around to the back of the Beer Box, and began to feel the familiar sensation of adrenaline surging through my body.

  “Good evening, gentlemen!” My voice echoed as I received the usual thrill at capturing the crowd’s attention. “Side Line welcomes you to a special evening here at the Club Alpha! I hope you brought your thirst with you, as we will be handing out Side Line and our new Side Line Lite beer to you tonight, as well as playing a few games. Oh, and did I mention a special performance by the Side Line Squad?”

  The men burst into applause and stamped their feet as if on cue at the mention of the girls. “We are here to have fun, and we hope you enjoy tonight’s event. But before we move on, I would just like to have a serious moment with you all.”

  The odd chatter and murmurs were silenced as I paused before continuing. “We at Side Line would like to take a moment to acknowledge all the hard work, the dedication, and the courage you boys are showing and thank you for your continued commitment to keeping us all safe. We know that many of you will be shipping out of here soon, so we hope we can give you a great departure!”

  There was another round of applause, which I left to die out in order to give the girls a few more seconds to get themselves together. Jackie appeared from the back of the box and walked around the side of the stage to join the audience, tipping her head once. I ramped up the energy in my voice.

  “Right, boys, are you ready for the girls?” I bellowed. There was an almighty cheer.

  “Come on, lads, let them know you’re ready for them!” There was another deafening cheer.

  Jackie leaned forward from where she stood and pressed play on a music center that I had connected to the club’s sound system. An instantly recognizable drum beat I had heard a thousand times filled the air. Red and blue spotlights rigged up to the top of the box followed the rhythm of the song, which had been specially extended and remixed for the performance. I knew I had six seconds.