by C F White
Chapter Nine
Dragged Up
Arriving at the venue, Mark had a sudden wish that he smoked, or at least could tolerate other people’s smoke in order to stand outside rather than venturing into the dingy basement bar. A long line of cackling ladies of all shapes and sizes, and in varied costumes detailing their unique association with their hen, stood outside waiting to be let into the corner entrance of the Adonis Cabaret night club situated between London’s Old Street and the more trendy Shoreditch evening haunts.
Mark took a deep breath, attempting to shove his hands into his jacket pocket. Bugger. They were still stitched together. He thought about ripping them open, but decided better of it. He still hoped he would be able to return the thing unscathed first thing in the morning. So he tapped his hands against his legs, peered up at the huge zap banner display outside the entrance and exhaled fiercely. Bradley’s photo, in all his shirtless glory, mingled with four other Adonis males that surrounded a drag queen, detailing this was not a night to be missed. Sadly.
Mark’s phone vibrated in his jeans pocket, masking his grumble. He fished it out and checked the display.
Just go in, you tart.
Damian. Was Mark’s camera accidentally switched on and whizzing photos of his whereabout to Damian? Well, no, that’d just be showing pictures of his arse. Nope, Damian just knew him too well. He would know that Mark had been standing outside the venue for quite some time and had made several attempts to venture back to the station and board the returning train. Perhaps he should just do that? Bradley couldn’t really be expecting him to turn up. He wouldn’t even notice—
Mark’s phone rang with Bradley’s name popping up. Was the world watching him today?
“Hello,” he answered. So formal, so polite. “Hi.” Better. “What’s up?” Too far, Mark, too far.
“G’day, mate, where are ya?”
“Oh, um, right, sorry, yes, I’m—” Mark paused, looking back at his phone, double checking once again that no photo app, dog snap or otherwise, was on.
He could say the train was cancelled. Or perhaps that his friend needed him. Or he wasn’t feeling too well. Anything, really. Bradley hadn’t seen him. He could then toddle off to the closest coffee shop and ask for a tea, only to be stared at like he’d spoken a foreign language. London wasn’t known for its tea shops so much as Marsby was. They drank coffee here to give themselves the caffeine fix needed to meet the pace of life. He’d never managed that even when living in the city. Coffee, that was. The faster pace was inevitable. Much like his rapid aging.
“Mark?”
Mark hadn’t realised his inner thoughts had taken that long to process. It was the tea. He’d been imagining what type of tea he would like…
“Sorry, yes, I’m afraid the train’s delayed.” Mark closed his eyes to utter the blatant lie.
“Mark?”
“Yes?”
“You’re a lousy liar.” Bradley chuckled. “I can hear women’s screeches behind you, mate. And whilst I don’t doubt you have that effect on females, I do doubt they’ll all be in Marsby scouting you out. Now get your arse in here.”
Mark sighed. “Bradley?” He dug his thumb into his eye.
“Brad.”
“Oh, for goodness sake.” Mark slapped his hand against his thigh. “Bradley is far better suited to you. You want to be friends, get used to it, okay?”
“You’ve got a bit of a mean streak in you. I like it.”
“Give over.” Mark rolled his eyes. “Why on earth do you want me here, anyway? That bit I can’t work out.”
“Really?” Bradley’s voice elevated. “Guess you’ll have to come in and find out then.”
Another huff and Mark came to the conclusion he should just get this thing over and done with. “Fine, fine. Where do I go?”
“I’ll come get ya.” The whir indicated Bradley had hung up.
Mark sighed, shoving his phone in his jeans pocket, and once again tried to tuck his hands in his jacket. He cursed when one of the stitches broke. Now he couldn’t take the blasted thing back! He shuffled on the spot, feeling as out of place as, well, he always did in any given social situation. Crowds were not his thing. Drinking was not his thing. Strippers were not his thing. Surrounded by hen parties was not his thing.
Mark pondered what it could be that was his thing? Could it really only be tea? How had it come to that?
A sudden squeal of high-pitched screams jolted him from his life-choice musings and Mark glanced up to see who or what had caused such a commotion. A pop star, a cute puppy—what makes these women squeal?
Turned out, Bradley Summers did.
The man himself appeared from the crowd, laughed at the wolf-whistling and stumbled passed the hordes that had formed a tight circle around him. Hands were everywhere, scrabbling to touch the meaty flesh on display. He wasn’t naked exactly, but the oversized yellow fireman’s trousers strapped on by braces did nothing to cover his bare, hairless chest. And if Mark didn’t know better, which he didn’t, that body was slicked up in a sparkling, glistening oil that radiated from his smooth skin and wafted a spicy aroma as he dragged himself ever closer to Mark.
Mark was aware he was salivating. Far more than any of those decked out in figure-hugging T-shirts that claimed Lisa’s Lovelie’s Were Let Loose. His basic functions had gone out the window, along with poor Lisa’s grammar.
Bradley smiled, then chuckled and proceeded to wipe Mark’s mouth for him with his thumb. Utter mortification.
“Nice jacket.” Bradley wiped his fingers down his bright yellow plastic trousers.
Mark looked him in the eye. He did. He was sure of it. Until Bradley cupped a hand under his chin and dragged it up. Ah, yes, there’s the blue-green.
“Oh, this old thing?” Mark finally stuttered out and ruffled the squeaking new leather over his shoulders. “Had it years.”
Bradley chuckled. “Yeah?” He stepped in so close that warm, sweet-tasting breath trickled onto Mark’s tongue.
He grunted as Bradley yanked something from the jacket, a slicing pop and crack breaking through Mark’s pretence. When Bradley held up the shop-tag, he grinned then screwed it up in a balled fist.
“Well, I obviously never wore it all that much.” Mark might as well dig his own grave.
“Perhaps you should have.” Bradley winked. “Looks good on you.”
“Ha,” Mark laughed. “I’d love to return the compliment, but…” He waved down at Bradley’s attire. “Sans jacket. I’m sure you’d get third-degree burns were you to rush into a burning building like that. Or do you specialise in rescuing cats up a tree? Because I’m sure you’d also get a scratch or two for the effort.”
“Would you?”
“Huh?” Mark furrowed his brow.
“Scratch me for the effort of this rescue?”
“I’m very close to it.”
Bradley laughed. “Well, it does get mighty hot in there.” He nodded toward the basement bar. “You might even have to take that jacket off.”
“Or perhaps I could just stand out here and admire the delightful sights.” Mark glanced around the bustling High Street consisting of drunk women, homeless men, littered pavements and graffiti-ridden walls.
“You’ll have much better sights in there, believe me,” Bradley replied, wrapping a greasy arm around Mark’s shoulders and steering him toward the queue.
Mark wiped a hand over his brow and dipped his head. It wasn’t shame—it was avoiding the death glares from Lisa’s Lovelie’s and Rachel’s Roquette’s. The ones who weren’t whistling were demanding to be given the same VIP treatment as Mark because it was Cheryl’s last night for a tongue kiss.
“Sorry, ladies,” Bradley called over, ducking himself and Mark away from prying hands. “This one’s all mine.”
“Oh, God,” Mark grumbled.
Now he was being used as an openly mocking spectacle. Why on earth had he thought this was a good idea? Apart from having a strong, muscular a
nd rather peculiar sweet-smelling arm around his shoulders and a sudden urge to sink his teeth into the pert nipples only mildly covered by a set of black braces, Mark struggled for rational reason to have strayed from the norm.
Too late now. Bradley steered him through the darkened entrance and down the carpeted steps where the place opened out into a basement nightclub. At the bottom, in front of a curving screen of Adonis men, they were greeted by a six-foot platinum blonde, squeezed into a glittering red mini dress and sparkling red stilettos. Whilst it did bear some resemblance to his mother in her early days, the dark beard gave some indication that this one wouldn’t have been welcome at his mother’s Women’s Institute meetings.
“Well, hello, there, handsome.” The deep, husky voice rattled the walls and the grin that followed smeared lipstick onto the edges of coarse beard hair. “You must be Aussie’s guest of honour for this evening?”
“Mark.” Unsure whether to hold out a hand, bow or, possibly, curtsey—maybe a kiss was in order?—Mark stumbled through his name. How the fuck does one greet a drag queen? And is it tragic that I don’t know the answer to that?
The queen decided to take that concern away from Mark and stepped forward to plant a kiss to his cheek and squeeze a beefy handful of his arse. Bradley slipped his arm from Mark’s shoulders and cleared his throat.
“You are adorable!” Drag queen clapped her hands in delight, then pinched Mark’s cheek.
“Leave it, Juana.” Bradley chuckled, but his voice was firm along with the hand he slipped on the small of Mark’s back.
“Juana?” Mark pointed the question at Bradley.
“Juana Bang,” Bradley replied, deadpan.
“And I so do!” Juana winked. “Do you whanna? Either of you two will do. Or maybe I’ll just watch you both?”
“Ah,” Mark said. “It’s going to be like that all night, is it?”
Bradley leaned forward and held his lips mere inches from Mark’s ear. That breath, that sweet, warm breath landed on Mark’s cheeks once more and he blushed. Thank heavens for dark stubble.
“Don’t tell me you don’t go for a man in drag?” Bradley whispered.
“Why, do you?” Mark twisted so his lips were a breath away from Bradley’s. Plump, smooth, kissable pink lips that curved into an endearing smile.
“I’ve been known to step into my inner fem.” Bradley winked. “But tonight, I’m playing all man.”
“Right. Good. I suppose.” He held Bradley’s gaze, ignoring the tingles that swished around his whole body, reinvigorating those stiff old limbs to life.
“Christ on a bike, you two!” Juana flapped her hands in front of her fluttering fake eyelashes. “It’s like watching Love, Simon here. With a middle-aged lead.”
“Shut up, Juana.” Bradley pushed Mark on the back.
Was that embarrassment? Was Bradley blushing? Mark wouldn’t like to comment, so he allowed the grappling manhandling all the way through to the adjacent bar. It was all darkness and glitter balls, with rows upon rows of chairs facing the stage. The circular bar area was manned by a tender dressed in nothing but a dickie bow and tight shorts.
Mark swallowed. Maybe he had died and this was limbo?
“Drinks are on the house for you, mate.” Bradley smiled, his eyes relaxing. “Order what you want. I gotta go back out there. For the pictures.”
“Can I have tea?” Mark asked. He was deadly serious.
“Sure.” Bradley nodded at the barman with a smirk. “He’ll have a Long Island Iced Tea, extra-strong.”
“Sure thing, Brad.” The way the barmen breathed out Bradley’s name prickled Mark’s skin and it burned ever more when Bradley returned a wink, a wide sparkling smile, and scurried off toward the double doors.
“I’m pretty sure you know I usually go for English Breakfast,” Mark called after him, because he couldn’t bear for the man to leave him stranded. Or just leave him. Where was their banter, their back and forth, their…them? Give over, Mark. You’re delusional with early-onset dementia.
Bradley spun, backing through the swinging doors. “The only brekkie on the cards is an Aussie one.” The flapping doors after Bradley’s exit filtered the odd flash of light from the cameras into the darkened bar. Mark was alone, except for the near-naked man serving him. In this situation, Mark wasn’t surprised to find himself wondering what food was served at an Aussie breakfast.
A goblet filled with mini pink umbrellas, a plastic penis shaped ornament and a straw was plonked down in front of him. “Get a bit of Long Island in you before you switch to continental.”
Mark wrapped a hand around the glass. “Excuse me?”
“Brad.” The barman nodded. “He’s continental, ain’t he?”
“Oh, no, Australia is in Oceania. Continental would be European.”
“Oh. So what would it be then? Before you…”
“Go down under?”
“Bet you would, mate.” The barman winked, then scurried off to serve the first horde who had cackled through the door and looked like they’d already consumed a vast amount of alcohol prior to the stuff they now ordered by the bucketload.
Mark sniffed his drink, avoiding eye contact, and stirred the yellow liquid with the bright pink plastic cock. There was something he hoped never to have in his tea. Still, at least this would taste a little of tea. It was in the title, after all.
It didn’t. But by three of them, Mark tended not to care so much.
The rows of seats had filled up by the time Mark ordered his fourth Long Island Iced whilst propped up at the bar. Or more like the bar was propping him up by that point. Considering the drinks were flowing free, Mark thought he might as well enjoy the novel experience of not having to fork out an entire year’s wages for a drink.
The noisy chatter died down and Ms Juana Bang marched her way onto the stage. Juana Bang was actually quite funny and Mark found himself chuckling along with the lewd jokes and banter that she sparked up with a few of the brasher bridesmaid brigades, when the first Adonis act was upon them all.
What is the plural of Adonis? Add the s or take it away and randomly add an i like a cactus? Well, the Adonis cabaret performers do provide a fair amount of prick. Hee hee. Okay, far too much alcohol for you, Mark.
Holding Out for a Hero blasted out from the speakers and four men leapt onto the stage in identical inappropriate fireman’s uniforms to the one Bradley had donned. Bradley was there, too. Mark couldn’t miss him, mainly because he chose to only focus on his performance. Bradley was a better dancer, that was all, and Mark appreciated skill. Bradley had a far more energetic and gymnastic style, even launching through a couple of splits and handstands to the audience’s utter, squealing, delight. Mark could see the appeal but chose to keep his lips firmly around his straw that now had a cock stuck to that too, instead of sticking his fingers in his mouth and whistling. He also resisted the urge to join in with the, “Off, off, off.” Just.
Sadly, no trousers came off. Apparently, there was more to come, and Mark wondered how far this cabaret act actually went, considering he knew how thorough Bradley had been with his personal preparations. So did most of Mark’s office, come to that. Was this really the Full Monty? He slurped up the remains in his glass and prepared for the possibility he’d be seeing that sheen-like body once more. Along with all of Lisa’s Lovelie’s. As in, her friends. Not that he expected Lisa to be baring all her assets as part of the Adonis act. Although, the way things were going so far, Mark wasn’t going to be ruling anything out.
The lights switched off, rendering the basement pitch-black. At least Mark hoped that it had been intentional and he hadn’t passed out from too much cock—ha—tail. It was confirmed that he was still upright and in full control of his capabilities when strobe lighting flickered across the audience in waves.
“Do we have a treat for you ladies tonight!” Juana’s deep voice boomed over the bass thumping through the walls. “And gentleman, of course. Hi, Mark! Everyone say hi to Mark!”
Two hundred women twisted in their seats as the spotlight dropped on Mark. They waved, whistled and said “hi”. Mark held up a hand and was just about to spin it around and leave the middle finger waving skyward when the light swivelled away from him.
“Please welcome to the stage, and to the country, all the way from Down Under, and don’t we know how far we want him to go down, eh, ladies! And gentleman.”
How far could he realistically launch this glass? The chances of it not reaching the stage and landing on one of Lisa’s Lovelie’s prevented him from finding out.
“You’ve seen him on YouTube, I know you all have, you dirty pervs!” Juana chuckled into her microphone, the deep droning tone vibrating the floor beneath Mark’s feet.
YouTube? Bradley was, like, famous? Nice of him to mention that.
“And now, please, give a warm welcome to Geek God, currently known as our Aussie Adonis, Brad!”
An eruption of cheers, followed by a bouncing intro of electrified music started up. The strobe lights stretched from the stage and out to the audience, flashing over each row of girls. Mark straightened, to get a proper look, and his heart beat a little faster too, as if it was clapping along with the pounding bass line and stamping stilettos, waiting for Bradley to appear.
And emerge he did, leaping out from behind the ruffled curtains. Gone was the fire outfit, though. And, possibly, some of his dignity, as he wriggled his hips and thrust his groin, that was not leaving anything for the imagination to conjure up, within an all-in-one Star Fleet uniform. So tight was the outfit that every sordid curvature and every delightful outline of Bradley’s perfectly sculpted body was captured within soft, inviting fibres.
Holy fuckballs. The empty cocktail glass dropped from Mark’s loosened fingers and fell to the floor with a clatter. Turned out, it was made of plastic. Rather fortuitous for such moments. Not that Mark could tear his gaze from the stage to care all that much. Bradley was roaming the boards with such ease and elegance, and a presence Mark had been unaware the man possessed. He was so unassuming, normally. Attractive, yes, a looker that turned heads, but not full of himself, or conceited and brash, like he appeared to be when teasing the audience, and Mark counted himself in that, and firing his “phaser”.
