The Man Club

by R. W. Clinger

  I nod. “Clear as vodka.”

  “Perfect.”

  “Tell him to stop by the club. I’ll have an opening for him immediately. He can work at my side.”

  She smiles. “Exactly what I want for him.”

  I smile.

  “The money,” she says. “Take it.”

  I push the wad of bucks back to her and shake my head. “The money is a generous token, of course, but I can’t take it, at least not for the discussed reason of helping your son, Jane. Our youth is important. As older adults, we have to lead them. I will make sure Tucker is comfortable at the club, and social. Before he knows it, he’ll have a few good friends, lots of laughs, and a better grip on his social life. The club tends to bring men together. And I feel confident in saying that Tucker will be in good hands. We are not a boring group by any means and good medicine for any man, particularly Tucker.”

  Jane agrees, happy. She doesn’t stuff the wad of money away, leaving it on the table for me. She finishes her second martini.

  Our meeting adjourns.

  She walks away.

  I stare at the thick envelope of cash and draw it towards me.

  How interesting life is sometimes. How enlightening.

  * * * *

  Name: Phillip Fae

  Club Member Number: 782-287-022

  Stage Name: Daddy

  Date of Birth: September 7, 1980

  Occupation: Bartender

  Height: Five-ten

  Weight: 160

  Hair: Salt-and-pepper

  Eyes: Light brown

  Status: Married for fifteen years to Arnie Bishop

  Special Notes: One of my best friends who always has my back. I mark him as the yin to my yang, but we’ve never connected sexually. The young men who frequent the club call him Daddy because he’s older, wiser, and he has a hairy, massive chest. Plus, he has gray temples.

  * * * *

  February 21

  The funeral is at Cason Cemetery on Mission Avenue, seventeen blocks away from the club. Phillip stands on my right side in a suit that makes him look like he’s a middle-aged fashion model. The day feels like a freezer: cold, icy, heavy moisture in the air. There are approximately forty gatherers at the funeral, most of whom are relatives. Bare cheeks turn a fiery red, teeth clatter, and hands shake because of the twenty-degree weather. Pastor Andy Harnell stands over the mahogany casket, reading from his Bible. No one at the gathering, except for Phillip, of course, knows that Andy and I had a fling. Some time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, when we were much younger, silly, and often drunk.

  Phillip and I make an attractive couple together. Some probably think we’re lovers. He’s married to Arnie Bishop, though, an architect who travels around the world ten months out of the year, always busy. This is why I attend his Uncle Barry’s funeral with him. Arnie’s in Lima, Peru, planning to build a skyscraper. It’s a billion-dollar project that’s been keeping Arnie away from his husband for the last three months. The long distance is starting to take a toll on Phillip, and he’s complained almost every day for the last twenty-one days. “I don’t feel like I have a husband. I’m not married anymore. Sometimes I think Arnie has dumped me for his job and traveling.”

  Phillip’s worked at The Man Club since it opened. Truth shared, he and Arnie are silent partners, investing in the place during my first brainstorming plans to start a club. They own twenty percent of the profits.

  Pastor Andy says something about life and death, dust and love. My mind drifts…

  Phillip recently told me, “I think Arnie’s having an affair behind my back. For the last year, he’s been jumping from one country to the next with his assistant, Sasha.”

  Sasha Domokovky is in the wrong business. The twenty-three-year-old should be in movies because of his thick black hair, Olympian-cut frame, and heavy Russian accent. Sasha’s a winter prince, a nickname I devised for him: classy, handsome, charming, and aristocratic. He’d make a great villain in a James Bond movie. He’d make a beautiful lover to Ryan Gosling in a well-made and -written queer love story, a possible remake of Doctor Zhivago. Sasha is the guy everyone (men and women alike) wants to make love to, at least once in their lives.

  I tell Phillip exactly how I feel. “Arnie will never have an affair on him. He’s the most faithful man on the planet. Adultery isn’t in his vocabulary. Trust is the basis of your marriage with him. Don’t think otherwise.”

  Phillip reaches for my hand, cups it. He doesn’t sob like his mother, Regina, Barry’s older sister. As Pastor Andy continues his Bible-spiel, Phillip provides my hand with a gentle squeeze.

  He leans into my side and whispers, “I need a coffee.”

  “With some bourbon?”

  “You’re reading my mind.” With his free hand, he reaches in front of him and places it on his mother’s right shoulder. He provides the shoulder a comforting squeeze. Then he leans into my ear again and whispers, “Does Pastor Andy have a big dick?”

  I’m not taken aback by his question. He’s probably nervous, willy-nilly in the stomach region, and needs to lighten up a bit because of the tense day. I understand his wacky emotions. “Eight inches long and two inches thick. God was good to him in the cock area.”

  He silently chuckles.

  I silently chuckle.

  Although older than me, and chunkier, Pastor Andy is still handsome. He has a Girard Butler face and the free-willed wit of Kevin Hart. The only reason we didn’t marry was because of Jesus, who stepped in and took him away from me.

  “Didn’t he fuck you in the Templeton Regional Museum, and the two of you got kicked out of the place for life?”

  True story. “Yes. We wouldn’t have gotten caught, but he’s not quiet during sex. One of the security guards heard us and…”

  Mrs. Regina Fae spins her head in my direction and scolds me with her teary-filled stare.

  I try to smile, nod an apology, and shut my trap.

  Pastor Andy continues his religious garble about the Gates of Heaven opening and St. Patrick being a greeter, welcoming Uncle Barry into eternal bliss. My mind drifts to The Man Club and how Phillip (aka Daddy) doesn’t wear a shirt, sporting his hairy and tank-sized chest for big tips while working his eight-hour shifts. I can’t count how many young men (and visiting women) flirt with him.

  It’s clearly unthinkable how many frisky patrons say to him, “Come back to my place and let’s go for a ride together.”

  Nor can I count how many times Phillip is touched by these sexually relentless drinkers who have had one too many cocktails: pinch one of his nipples, roll fingertips between his nicely developed and hairy pecs, and attempt to shove three or four fingers down into the rim of his tight jeans while leaning over the hip-high bar, attempting to discover his man-treasures and erotic glee/bliss.

  Like Andy with his traveling assistant, Sasha, Phillip is faithful. He doesn’t go home with a beautiful man or woman, sharing a night of heated and sloppy sex. Never does he agree to sneak off to the club’s bathroom and perform blowjobs on beefy and sleazy construction workers. Never does Mrs. Gregson, Mrs. Gunther, and Mrs. Golitter, all middle-aged regulars at the club, get to rent Phillip for an hour or two of sexual play. Bottom line: Phillip is monogamous. Like Arnie, Phillip will not have an affair on his husband. Infidelity doesn’t occur in their relationship. This, I count on.

  After Uncle Barry’s casket is lowered into the ground and handfuls of dirt are tossed over the coffin’s fine wood, Phillip says to me, “I know it’s only eleven o’clock in the morning, but I need a strong drink over coffee.”

  “What do you say we go to the club and drink the afternoon away? My treat.”

  He agrees, semi-smiling. It’s the first step to surviving his uncle’s demise.

  * * * *

  The blue note card is in my suit jacket. I find it on the drive to the club with Phillip at my side. While stopping at a red light in downtown Templeton, I take the card out and read it:

  I like how the su
nshine sparkles in your eyes. Thinking of you. Car

  Phillip asks, “What’s that?”

  “Uplifting words from my tenant.”

  He asks to read the card.

  I let him.

  Phillip chuckles, hands me back the card. “Car really likes you. I’d say he has a heavy crush on you.”

  “He doesn’t. He’s always writing notes to me. I find them everywhere.”

  Phillip plays nice and doesn’t object. Maybe it’s because his uncle has died.

  I tuck the note away where I found it and continue to drive.

  My uneventful day continues.

  * * * *

  Name: Tucker Marcell

  Club Member Number: 782-287-029

  Stage Name: Undetermined at this time

  Date of Birth: January 31, 1999

  Occupation: Undetermined at this time

  Height: Five-eleven

  Weight: I will guess 170, maybe less

  Hair: Ginger-red

  Eyes: Green

  Status: Too young for romance; too innocent (as far as I can tell)

  Notes: none at this time; I hardly know the kid

  * * * *

  Later this day, inside my small office, I realize Tucker Marcell has never spent a day in his life being shy, backward, and socially inept. I don’t think his mother, Jane, knows who he really is; Tucker must severely keep this hidden from her. He’s not at all awkward about his sexuality, quiet, or reserved, and comprehends the dangers of her son’s attributes.

  Contrary to what Jane thinks, Tuck (as he requests I call him) is forward, very much alive, and fun-filled. The youthful ginger undresses down to his bare bottom on the opposite side of my desk: strong shoulders, pumped biceps, and freckles galore. His chest is V-shaped and swollen with an eight-pack of cut and tight abs. The kid sports the largest nipples I have ever seen on a man, bigger than quarters, three times the size of the club’s dancers. Strings of orange hair fall down from his puckered navel, into a bristly patch of pubic triangle that needs trimmed.

  “Look at these nuts. They should be in porn.” He shakes the nuts, barely able to cup them in one palm because of their hugeness. The nuts are impressive: drooping, decorated with springs of orange pubic hair, and twice the size of my own nuts.

  “You’re right,” I tell him. “Remarkable. Those are some fine nuts.”

  “The dick isn’t so bad either, is it?”

  I have no objections. It’s a mighty fine looking dick: six inches soft, cut, purple-veined, sexy, and growing upright and hard at this very moment.

  He admits, while sporting cherry-colored cheeks, “I can shoot a load over my head. Do you want to watch? It will splat against the wall.”

  I shake my head, clear my throat. “I don’t think you’ll be doing that with our clientele, Tucker. It’s not that kind of place.”

  “Tuck,” he corrects me again. “Everyone calls me Tuck, except for my mother. She’s fussy and uppity, though. We don’t have that in common.”

  “Tuck,” I correct myself. “To tell you the truth, you’ll be behind the scenes at the club. I’m going to have you work directly under me.”

  “I work well under men.” He snickers. “I can be versatile. It all depends who wants me. Sometimes I like to have two dicks inside me at the same time. Yours will work. And Titan’s. He’s a sexy motherfucker. I’d like to ride that piece of dark meat.”

  I roll my eyes, thinking he’s far too young to be associated with The Man Club. One simple problem: he’s not a man, just a boy-thing. Yes, he has the body of a man, and the dick and balls of a porn star, but he’s immature and is in the sexual peak of his life that causes him to think with his dick. All men go through this, of course. It’s not criminal behavior, but it is awkward. I make a note to myself to keep a tab on him, whatever he does, and with whom. I don’t want to piss off his rich mother, who can have my club closed in seconds.

  I clear my throat a second time and say, “I was thinking more on the lines of you being my assistant. Running errands. Keeping my schedule tight and clean…”

  “Speaking of tight and clean,” he interrupts me. “Check this bottom out.”

  To my surprise, he spins around, bends over, and…shows off his rear to me. He’s correct, of course. The bottom is clean and tight: peachy-perfect, hairless, bulbous. I don’t want to feel the erotic tingle that occurs between my legs, but I can’t help myself when he reaches behind him with both hands and pulls his buttocks apart. What he shows off isn’t offensive: a pink-tight slit sitting above the swinging balls between his thick thighs.

  Over his right shoulder, he offers, “You can try it out if you’d like. I don’t do bareback, but I’m sure you have a condom somewhere in this office. Slam your dog into me. I’m ready for it.”

  “Enough. Stop. You must have some dignity.” I stand behind my desk and tell him to get dressed.

  He listens.

  Once he’s fully clothed, I ask him, “What’s the real reason you’ve left Temple, young man?”

  He grins from ear to ear, foolish, but not so innocent. “Utter boredom. I fucked every queer there and half the straight guys on the football team. It wasn’t a challenge for me. I want a bigger school and bigger men to conquer. Temple guys are pussies. I want a real task and need a stronger challenge.”

  “Your mother says you weren’t doing great in your classes.”

  He laughs. “You can’t have high grades when you have dick after dick down your throat, Mr. Beare. Had I attended my classes and studied, I would have done well. My thoughts, cock, ass, and actions were elsewhere, though. I wanted to fuck every hour and every minute there. Learning was the last thing I went to Temple to do.”

  “Do you think The Man Club will be a challenge for you?”

  “I doubt it. I can bartend, be a waiter, dance, or do tricks. I know the guys fuck around in the three upstairs room. I can please the male clientele that way, if you want. Whatever you tell me to do, I will, and I’ll conquer it.”

  He won’t be conquering Titan, Rocco, and the other employees at the club. These men will eat him up and spit him out. Titan’s a tyrant. And Rocco doesn’t take anyone’s shit, particularly a kid’s. Nor will he be alone with the club’s clients in the upstairs rooms. My dancers and those rooms are off limits. Definitely!

  “Just so you know, Mr. Beare, I’m aware that my mom is paying me to work for you. She doesn’t keep secrets very well. Ten K isn’t bad earnings for two months of the pleasures I can offer your club. If you think about it, you’re making a fucking killing off of me.”

  I tell him about his language.

  He promises to tone it down.

  “What kind of pleasures can you offer this club?” It’s a stupid question, but what can I say? I’m not used to very young employees.

  “Blowjobs for your dancers. Turning your straight guys gay. Sharing my bottom with dancers who want it, and showing the club’s clients a good time with my mouth, bottom, and cock.”

  Maturity causes me to laugh at him. I raise an eyebrow and ask, “You plan to do all this while being my assistant?”

  A thick sneer spreads across his face. “Whatever it takes? I’m yours for sixty days.”

  I think about how the club will change him from a boy-thing into a man. Titan will tell him off and to calm down. Rocco will probably ignore him. And others will cause some reality in the kid’s life. Maybe Tuck won’t last the sixty days. I’m thinking he won’t.

  “Can we start with you getting me a coffee down at Coffee Place? Vanilla latte with skim mild. Ask for Lucas. He’ll help you. Flirt with him, and he might give you a discount. See if you can do this.”

  What I don’t tell Tuck: Lucas is a big dick, mean as hell, and hates to wait on queers. The guy’s a total homophobe, dick, bigot, racist, and an asshole. Truth is, Tuck’s in for a very bad time with the guy at the coffee shop. Misery. An ugly confrontation. I can’t wait to hear how horrible he’s treated by Lucas.

  He shares
a dumb look with me of helplessness and confusion. “You want me to get you a coffee?”

  I nod. “Yes. It’s what assistants do for their bosses.”

  “Yeah. Okay. Whatever,” he says and exits my office.

  Let my battle with the ginger-boy begin.

  * * * *

  My Cape Code on Foster Drive is nestled in a quiet part of Templeton. The Lakeside area isn’t a gated community, but it is private. Foster curves along Lake Erie from east to west. It sports beautifully decorated homes of various sizes, types, and architectural whatnots. The residents on Foster aren’t wealthy like Jane Marcell, but we’re not poor by any means, more middle-class than not.

  I leave the club and drive home for an hour nap before my evening shift begins. I will rest, shower, and return to the club where I work from six in the evening until three in the morning. Sometimes, I leave early, letting one of the dancers lock up. I usually eat at the club, preferring the wedge salad with light Italian dressing, staying fit and trim. Tomorrow, I will go back to the club around eleven in the morning, stay until four, and do it all again, day after day.

  Today, my schedule turns out to be different. Car has dinner ready for me at the house. The dining room table is set for two with candles, white wine, and triangle-shaped, ricotta-filled fried ravioli as an appetizer.

  He tells me to have a seat and adds, “I thought I would do something nice for you for a change.”

  He’s always nice to me: Car runs errands for me when he doesn’t walk dogs, he cleans the house, floor by floor, and he does minor repairs around the Cape Code, like fixing the leaky faucet at the kitchen sink, trimming the ancient oak tree out back, and glued a twenty-gallon, ceramic flower pot together after I accidentally backed into it with my Frontier. Plus, he does numerous loads of laundry, grocery shops, and keeps the house warm, adjusting the thermostat. All of these self-motivated tasks are accomplished without me telling him to do them. Car takes the initiative and does them himself, without complaints. I can’t have a better boarder, let alone a personal friend; someone who just happens to leave me notes of encouragement here and there.