The Man Club

by R. W. Clinger

  What can I say? I like to feed her compliments. What woman doesn’t like a strong and unbreakable ego?

  “Shall we get salads for lunch?”

  “They serve a great Caesar’s here.”

  She snaps at the waiter and orders for us. “And keep my drink filled.”

  I make a toast. “To your son, Tucker. He’s working out at the club just fine.”

  We sip our drinks.

  She semi-smiles; a rare event for the woman, I imagine. “He’s seems to like it there. The dancers treat him with care, and he tells me he’s comfortable at your establishment. He’s not judged for being gay. Nor does he feel different, an outcast.”

  What Tucker’s mother doesn’t know: Tuck has had more queer sex in the last few weeks than a professional adult entertainer. I can’t count how many men he has gone home with following his shifts at the club. Night after night, he becomes social with the young patrons, oozing his cuteness, seducing them with his boyish smile and leprechaun looks. Tuck’s a pro at bedding men, sexually active almost every night. I can’t think of a single evening that he hasn’t flirted with a guy, wooing and sharing his abundance of charm with, and going home with the male company, spending nights with the strangers.

  Tuck’s a sexual monster, riding dick until the wee hours of the morning, getting off. He’s a fiend about getting it on with jocks, twinks, mechanics, and other men, testosterone-filled gents who enter the club. He takes one. He takes them all. He’s happy at the club. Satisfied.

  She leans across the table and discreetly asks, “Does he have a boyfriend?”

  Truth is, Tuck won’t have a boyfriend anytime soon. Not if he continues his one-night flings with his assortment of bed buddies. He’s far from settling down with one dick. Maybe in the future he’ll calm down and stick with one guy, but not as of yet. It’s something I don’t see happening for a few years.

  I shake my head. “He doesn’t. But I’m sure he’ll find someone suitable, someday, of course.”

  “Good to know.” She waves a finger at me. “I’d hate to see him spending his days and nights alone. Everyone needs a companion.”

  How about seven companions a week…make that nine? I think, but object to the idea of verbally sharing this thought with her, saving her son from her judgment. Instead, I tell her, “He’ll find Mr. Right someday. We all do.”

  She nods. “Yes, we do, Mr. Beare. I’m sure he’ll be suitable for a serious guy soon.”

  I don’t tell her: Doable, yes. Suitable, not quite yet. Maybe in the future he’ll be ready for this. For now, he’s enjoying his man-rides, night after night after night.

  Our salads are served.

  Her empty drink is replaced with a fresh one.

  We don’t become friends, but the lunch is pleasing.

  * * * *

  March 5. Snow hits Templeton. A nasty storm rushes down from Canada and freezes my small town, icing it over. It doesn’t matter, though. Things are hot at the club. Steamy. Sexy. Warm. If you want a strong drink, some flavor in your life as a woman or gay man, stop by the place and enjoy the heat. The dancers are smoking. The temperature is rising. Our evenings are on fire. I promise you’ll have a good time.

  Phillip Fae resigns from his position at the club. Too bad, I’ll miss him.

  It’s a sad story what’s happening in his life. He says he wants to go for a walk with me in Bradbury Park.

  I tell him, “It’s three degrees out there. We should stay inside.”

  “I don’t want you to see me cry. The cold will keep my tears frozen.”

  Jesus, I think. This must be really bad. “Let’s go.”

  The park is an ice hockey rink, and it’s cold as fuck. I think of ten other places we can be friends and he can tell me what’s going on in his life and why he’s resigning from the club.

  We walk through the wonderland of ice in the park. It’s freezing out. Bitter cold.

  He slips his gloved hand over mine for comfort. “It’s true. Arnie’s having an affair with his assistant. They’re lovers. They’ve been fucking each other for the last three months, since Christmas. Arnie says it’s the best sex ever. He’s never loved a man more. He told me I’m not right for him. He says I’m not his ride or die guy anymore. Last night, he told me it’s over between us. He wants a divorce. We’ll divide everything down the middle and go our separate ways. We’ll sell the house and split the profits.”

  “What are you going to do? Where will you live?”

  We stop walking. He turns to me. Our faces are so close, kissing distance, but it’s so cold out that kissing seems impossible.

  I can’t feel my face. I can’t feel my hands. I can’t feel my feet. I want to be where it’s warm again, inside the club.

  Icy tears hang at the corners of his eyes. His lips are chapped and shiver. The wind howls around us. Snow blows into our faces and against our eyelashes. He clears his throat and whispers in the daunting wind, “Somewhere warm. Costa Rica. Julian lives there. He’s dying to see me. He’s begged me to come and visit him.”

  They went to college together. Julian Estabar, the cover guy with the Latino looks. The model. One of the most beautiful men in the world. I met him once. He’s stunning. He has exuberant charm and refined manners. He’s a dove, a god, a sweet man. He’s known Phillip longer than I have, and I know that…Julian loves him. Julian has always loved Phillip. But they’ve never been lovers, only friends. They’ve kept in touch throughout the years. They’ve been famous at being pen pals via instant messaging, through Facebook, and…

  “He cares about me, Gyles. He’s always cared about me. You know this. He says I’m the only man for him. He says his life is incomplete without me.”

  “And you could never let Julian care for you because of Arnie and your marriage. You’ve always been faithful to Arnie. You’ve been a good husband to him.”

  He nods. “I’m not saying I love Julian. I’m not saying that things are going to work out as lovers between us. We’re just friends. We’ve always been good friends. I’m just saying I need to get away. I need to start over. I need to breathe. Do you get that? Do you understand what I’m saying? I just need to breathe. And Julian’s the man to breathe with. He can help me get over Arnie. Don’t you think?”

  “Arnie’s an asshole,” I tell him, being blunt, sharing my honesty. “Of course, you need to breathe. Everyone needs to breathe, Phillip. And seeing Julian will help you. The man has never done anything in your friendship to hurt you. Julian’s everything Arnie isn’t.”

  He tells me he’s leaving Templeton in a week. He tells me he can’t dance because his heart isn’t into it. He tells me he’ll miss me and he hopes I forgive him for moving to somewhere on a beach in Costa Rica with palm trees and white sands and the soothing sounds of the warm wind, waves, and foreign birds. So far away. A loss in my life. A death of sorts.

  I forgive him.

  I’ll miss him.

  We’ll become famous pen pals.

  We’ll stay in touch.

  I understand. I honestly do.

  We all need to breathe.

  * * * *

  I got your back, G. Don’t forget this. When things become blue, think of me. Car.

  This note card is found inside my office, on my desk at the club. When did Car put it here? When did he visit? How long did he stay?

  How nice of him to drop by.

  How interesting.

  Going out of his way to give me another note.

  Such a sweet guy.

  * * * *

  This evening Tuck Marcell has the stage for the first time. The Man Club is packed with gay guys of all sorts. Few women are scattered here and there, enjoying the partying scene. Music thumps as DJ Mad Mike fills the bar with vintage house rock.

  Tuck looks amazing on stage, performing: bare feet, jeans unbuttoned at the top, springs of ginger hair beneath his tight looking navel, no shirt, golden and freckled skin glowing in the spotlight, broad smile. He works the crowd, obtain
ing cash. His moves are modern and exuberant, mixed with some classic disco. Nothing says he doesn’t know what he’s doing on stage, wooing the crowd, seducing them, and looking as if he’s having the time of his life while dancing and entertaining.

  Thank God I don’t see his mother, Jane, in the audience. She doesn’t come tonight. Praise Jesus for small miracles. I would have immediately become sick if she had shown tonight, watching her son dancing. Fortunately, she’s not present, keeping away from the club this evening, somewhere else. Good for me. Good for her. And good for Tuck.

  Some bear slides up to my side. He’s my age and smells of pine nuts. It’s not a seductive fragrance, but it’s better than beer. He’s my height with more muscle. I think he’s about to flirt with me, but he doesn’t.

  “That kid on stage, what’s his name?”

  “Tuck. This is his first night dancing. He’s doing great. The crowd seems to love him.”

  “You think he would get with an older man like me?”

  “As in a night of sex or a long-term relationship?”

  “Both.”

  I’ve seen Slider in the club before. He’s always picking up younger men. Never someone his own age. Never talks much. Tuck’s probably out of his league. Too good for him. Too young. Too wild. I tell him the truth. “The kid will probably ride your dick once, forget your name in the morning, and never spend another second with you. He’s untamable and doesn’t know what love is yet.”

  Slider grins at me. There’s a hint of intrigue in the corners of his eyes. “I’m in.”

  “Suit yourself. But trust me, that kid won’t fall for you.”

  We continue to watch Tuck on stage. The gays love him, creating a fountain of money over him. Who knew the kid had so much charisma dancing?

  Slider slides closer to me. One of his shoulders glides against one of mine. I know what’s going on, but don’t move away. He’s hitting on me, probably desperate to have his dick sucked or begin a one-night stand. Surprisingly, I don’t react in a negative action and stay put.

  “You’re hitting on me, and I don’t even know your name,” I tell him.

  “Paul. Paul Paisley. And, yes, I’m hitting on you. You’re kind of cute.”

  “I’m too old for you. I know who you take home on nights. You’ve been in here before, and I’ve seen your game.”

  He chuckles, maybe enjoying the reality of our conversation. “And I know you’re Car Tate’s boyfriend, which means you won’t go home with me tonight.”

  I admit this to no one: if I weren’t in a fresh relationship with Car, if I were horny and needy of a man’s attention—wanting to be under his naked weight, against a wall, in his shower, over his kitchen counter—I might just take Paul Paisley up on his offer and go home with him for the night. He’s a good looking guy, smart, athletic, and his smile is more handsome than adorable. There’s nothing frightening about him. Plus, he never becomes sloppy drunk at the club. I imagine he has an over-the-top libido, likes to snuggle after dick-hard sex, and he probably snores.

  I won’t be going home with him tonight, or anytime soon. I have Car. Plus, I’m falling for Car. Car’s my guy. The one I’m interested in. Mine.

  Too bad for Paul. He’ll have to find someone else to seduce. A younger me. Someone sweet and charming and classy with a touch of zest to him. Or the new dancer on stage, Tucker Marcell. Who knows?

  I tell him, “Spot on, Mr. Paisley. I’m with Car. Go for the younger fish like you usually do. I’m taken.”

  “Damn,” he whispers, slides away from me. His night is just beginning to land a man in bed. It might be Tuck. It might not be. Whoever it is, Paisley will get what he wants tonight: released of his sexual load, touched in places where he likes to be touched, kissed and kissed again, and maybe even held. Good luck to him. I’m off the market.

  Tuck continues to dance, slowly thrusting his hips at the crowd. They love it. They go wild. And Tuck grins from ear to ear, continuing his seduction of them. It’s a great time at The Man Club. The best. I won’t have it any other way.

  * * * *

  Two days later, I review the security footage from the sixteen-channel, two-terabit DVR. I believe a new hire by the name of Eric Carloto is stealing money from the registers when he’s bartending. The club has been short for the last two weeks, night after night; the exact amount of time that Eric has been working for me.

  After three days’ worth of coverage viewed on my laptop, I see Eric discreetly push dollars into his front pockets. By the end of five days, I note that he’s stolen from me more than twenty times during his shifts. The twenty-five-year-old will have to be terminated. It’s happened with other bartenders, and it will happen again. Some men are greedy. The hard part is catching them, of course. Fortunately, I have clear evidence of his antics and can rid the club of him immediately.

  None of Eric’s actions are a surprise to me. The footage is clear and crisp. What shocks me about the video footage is what happens after the club closes at two in the morning. Heated scenes by Titan and Coben occur between the hours of two and three, almost nightly. The two stay late, have drinks, which they pay for, and they end up sitting at the bar, shoulder-to-shoulder talking for twenty, maybe thirty minutes. It’s obvious guy-time together. Hate for each other that has somehow, someway grown into likeness. Coworkers simply being coworkers, or more. Soon the scenes become racy, though. The two kiss at the bar, they undress, and…let’s just say they have the time of their lives over a barstool: Titan becomes positioned behind Coben; Coben leans over and Titan spreads Coben’s legs; Titan bangs Coben’s bottom for ten minutes…twelve minutes…almost twenty-five minutes, before he sprays goop over Coben’s back; and Coben jacks off on Titan’s chest. Afterwards, they clean up the mess, share one last kiss before closing up the club for the night, and off they go, holding hands, leaving the club together. This happens every night. Haters who have fallen in love with each other.

  Honestly, I’m not surprised by the raunchy, heated, and adult scenes between the two naked gents. Guys are always having sex at the club; something I’ve ignored throughout the years, seeing regularly. Being a man, I realize and know men are always horny and need attention, including me. To turn my head because of such naughty actions is appropriate because I don’t ever want to be a hypocrite. What I’m concerned with, and puzzled by, is the fact that the two men have a connection. To my understanding, they’re rivals and hate each other. I perceive that sometimes they can’t even be in the same room together. To see their intimate actions after hours blows me away. I’m floored by and taken aback by their hot, night-after-night sex sessions: Titan thumping Coben’s rear; the two men sharing a goodnight kiss together, leaving the bar together, and holding hands.

  Are the two lovers? I think so. And if they are, how long has their affair been going on? Does anyone else who works at the club know of their attraction to each other? Am I the only one who is unaware of their affections for each other? Perhaps. I’m not sure. I guess in due time I will learn of such details. Until then, I must keep quiet about the topic. Their secret must stay a secret. My lips are sealed.

  * * * *

  March 7. Still cold. Still snowy. Still icy. Springtime will never come. The Earth will forever be a wintry tundra. Siberia for everyone on the planet.

  Danny Mumford wants me to meet his wife, Sadie. Danny makes dinner reservations for four at La Rue. I take Car as my date for the evening, showing him off to Sadie. At first, Car doesn’t want to go with me because he says he’s not handsome enough to go to such an expensive restaurant, but he changes his mind at the last minute.

  He tells me while we shower together before leaving for the evening, “I realize you need a date.”

  “Don’t feel pity for me.”

  “It’s not pity. I want to come because you want me to.”

  “I wouldn’t have asked you otherwise. We’re a couple, Gyles. We belong together and to be seen with each other.”

  He says, “I guess so.
Eventually, I have to realize this. I’m not single anymore. You’re close to me, and I want to be at your side.”

  “So tonight isn’t about the over-priced food and wine, it’s about me?”

  “It’s always about you, Gyles.” He leans into me, under the warm spray of shower water, and kisses me.

  We don’t make love in the shower, although he wants to. Truth is, we don’t have enough time, late for dinner. Instead, we continue to shower, dress, and end up at the restaurant five minutes late. No biggie.

  Sadie Mumford is striking. I can’t think of any other word to describe her. She looks like Princess Diana, beyond stunning. Same haircut. Same eyes. Same lips. Sadie can pass for royalty, this is how beautiful she is.

  The waiter, a young version of Robert De Niro in The Godfather Part II, serves our drinks and appetizers. He’s suggestive, sexy, and won’t stop undressing my boyfriend with his eyes during the evening.

  Eventually, I have to gain his attention and whisper in his ear, “I’m taking my boyfriend home tonight, and he’s going to fuck me so hard, I’ll probably be bruised in places. You’re the last queer on the planet he’ll be thinking of, so stop looking at him. Find your own man.”

  Conversations range from dancing, the club, raising children, reading national best-sellers, the product Car uses in his hair, and Danny’s full-time job as an X-ray technician. Sadie, Car and I learn, also works at the same hospital as her husband. She’s an emergency room nurse with a variety of specialized nursing certificates.

  “Back to dancing,” Car says, directing his attention to Sadie. “You’re fine that your husband takes his clothes off for men and women, dancing?”

  Sadie’s pale cheeks fill with a red rose hue. She leans over the table ever so slightly and whispers, “Between us girls, it’s a total turn on for me. An aphrodisiac of sorts. I honestly can’t explain it, but I love it.”

  “But we never see you at the club,” Car says. “Ladies night is every week, and you don’t come.”

  She winks at him. “I don’t have to be at the club to be turned on by my husband’s dancing. He gets home from the club, tells me what he does, does a dance for me, and…it’s the reason why we have two sons together.”