by C F White
He was all tongue waggles and suggestive winks and salacious swishes of his hips. But none of it was detrimental to being in sync with the music—even the mischievous tearing of the zip from his collar to his sternum was in time. Bradley had choregraphed this act to a T.
What Mark would give for a real tea, right then. He had, however, found something that was also his thing. Men dressed up as a Star Trek captain. Maybe not men, per se. Bradley. Beautiful, perfect, Bradley. Had he done this on purpose? It was only a couple of days ago they’d had their conversation about his love for the old series. Could Bradley really have conjured all this up in a couple of days and that this act, this strip tease, was why he had been so bloody insistent that Mark be here? But why? Why would he do that? For him? For Mark? Could Mark have got this all wrong? Could Bradley be trying to say something with all this? A declaration? Or was this that darned old fate that Bradley banged on about?
And how much Long Island Ice Tea have I actually consumed?
All thoughts were ripped from Mark when the lyrical part of the accompanying music shattered his trance. Bradley peered out to the crowd, caught Mark’s gaze, smirked and mimed the blasted words, ‘I’d do things to you, if you were born in the eighties, the eighties.”
Mark’s toe dipping into the realms of romantic possibilities froze. This is a joke.
He watched Bradley slip one shoulder out from his costume and realised there wasn’t enough Long Island Iced Tea to numb this moment. Releasing one slicked up and muscle-bound arm to more squeals of delight from the audience, Bradley danced off to another part of the stage and regaled those in that area of the audience with more of his flesh and energetic groin thrusts.
He went back into character mode and shot from his phaser into the crowd, who all demanded that more of Bradley’s attire should fall to the wayside. Which didn’t seem to be far off from an inappropriate ask, as an “alien” crashed onto the stage, aiding those demands along by tackling Bradley to the floor. Uniform well and truly ripped. That would never have made it passed the test stages at Star Fleet Academy.
Still, no one seemed to mind as Bradley’s gleaming torso was now on display for all and sundry. And what a torso it was. Mark had been in awe of every ridge when he’d zoomed in on the picture sent to his email, and through the tightness of the lycra he wore, but up there, Mark’s appetite for rolling his tongue along every inch had just tripled in magnitude.
What is this? I have never drooled over gym queens, ever! Bradley was hardly a gym queen. Honed to perfection, yes. But there was so much more to—
The alien scurried off the stage and Bradley grappled up, tearing himself free from the rest of that darn hindering uniform, leaving Mark staring, mouth agape, wondering what it was he was arguing with himself about. Bradley was left in nothing but a pair of tight Union Jack briefs, the red letters GEEK BOY spread across his pert arse cheeks, which he then proceeded to clench and flex in time with the music.
Mark hated himself for licking his lips.
Chuckling, Bradley turned back to the audience and indicated for the seats to part the way through the middle. The other Adonis all darted out of nowhere to help form an aisle, manicured nails all scrabbling to wrap themselves around bumped biceps and thick thighs. Mark cocked his head.
Bradley jumped down from the stage, then launched into a running flip and tuck through the separated chairs, landing on his feet in front of Mark at the back of the bar.
“Oh.” Mark widened his eyes. “Hello.”
Bradley winked and mouthed “Hi,” before pirouetting back up to the stage and ending his delightful performance by holding his phaser in front of his groin and ripping off the briefs. How, Mark couldn’t fathom. He tended to hop around the bedroom to rip off his own and mostly ended up falling down to kick the rest off. That from Bradley had been one slick tear that had Mark dizzy. Grinning, Bradley threw the garment in to the audience as a beam of light shot out from his phaser-slash-groin, making it impossible to get a real look at Bradley’s handful, and all the lights suddenly turned off, pitching the place into darkness.
The crowd erupted. And Mark was a little concerned that he might have, too.
“Wasn’t he just great, ladies!” A spotlight illuminated Juana on the stage to a chorus of whistles and screams. “Fancy your chances at serenading our young men?”
Three chairs were plonked down on stage by three of the Adonises—Bradley being one and now back in a new pair of boxer briefs. They all stood beside Juana, awaiting further instruction, but Mark caught Bradley’s gaze fluttering out to the crowd. He slinked away into the shadows. He was sure he was still blushing. He’d had quite enough of that for tonight.
“So, go forth, my young men.” Juana flapped her oversized nails at the audience. “Find me the one you want to watch dance for you!”
Three ripped men jumped down into the fray and scanned the girls who had flung their arms wildly into the air and waved with a frantic “choose me, choose me” desperation. Two of the Adonises chose quickly, dragging up giggling hens, but Bradley roamed toward the back.
Oh, hell no. Mark shook his head.
Bradley grinned and pointed. To Mark.
Mark shook his head, more fiercely that time with less of the amusement and more of the utter horror and confirmation of his blatant refusal. No amount of Long Island Ice Tea was going to get him up there. Bradley, unperturbed, curled a finger out in front of his face and beckoned with a sure-fire come-hither look in his eye.
“Dance for me, Mark,” Bradley called over the loud squeals and whoops from the audience.
“I’d really rather not, if it’s all the same to you.” Perhaps fuck off might have been better received, as Bradley didn’t seem to get the hint, instead grabbing Mark’s hand and tugging him forward.
“Too late.” Bradley did not release his firm grip until Mark was up on that stage, squinting out to the heckling crowd.
I’ve had finer moments.
“Well, hello, there,” Juana drawled into the microphone. “We meet again. Everybody, this is Mark! He’s gay.”
The crowd roared, and Mark would have liked to have said the feeling he received was like that of a popstar, but sadly, he just felt like a right utter wanker. The moment was up there with the memory of his school speech, when the entire school had applauded his bravery, only for him to be met with cackles, fists and leftover contents of lunchboxes on his way home.
“I’m sure I’m not the only one,” Mark called out through gritted teeth, gaze firmly fixed on Bradley who sank into one of the seats on stage.
“Now, now, Mark.” Juana covered her mouth to speak away from the microphone this time. “No spoiling the illusion.”
The best thing Mark could think to do right then was to pull camaraderie with the other two women who had been dragged up on stage, form a bond through the humiliation. He glanced to his right. Of course they would be pure goddesses, equipped in the art of lap dance seduction.
It was Mark that was here for the comic relief. Wonderful. This is what Bradley had planned all along!
“Okay, ladies!” Juana bellowed back into the microphone, snapping Mark from his homicidal thoughts. “And, gent.”
She winked at Mark, but he ignored it in favour of offering the deadliest of death stares to Bradley, seated in front of him with his face at Mark’s groin level. Bradley, the utter bastard, laughed.
“In order to win the ultimate prize, you must dance, strut your stuff and seduce as best you can. The audience will decide our winner via the applaudometer.” Juana held up a contraption that had clearly been made by Blue Peter in the sixties. Mark was dubious about its authenticity. “Cue the music, boys!”
“What’s the prize?” Mark hollered over at Juana.
She pretended not to hear him and the loud boom from the music’s bass line ricocheted off the walls and banged into Mark’s temple. Was he hungover already? The two girls either side of Mark were overly keen and thrust their ample cleavages for
ward into the faces of their own personal Adonis. Mark was rooted to the spot. What could he do? His idea of dancing was step to the side and back again. Hardly what one would call seductive.
“Come on, Mark!” Bradley urged, beckoning with two hands and offering his lap for Mark to utilise for his enjoyment. In public. No, not just in public. On stage. On show.
Kill me now.
“I will get you for this.” Mark replied through gritted teeth. How? He’d figure that out another time.
Bradley chuckled.
The four Long Island Iced Teas decided then was the time to work their magic and Mark stepped forward in an attempt to prove he wasn’t one to run away from a challenge. Clearing his throat, he ruffled back his hair and step, shuffle, stepped toward Bradley. The other two ladies were giving the moment their best, straddling their Adonises or grinding their behinds. No bother, Mark could work what he had in his arsenal.
Unzipping his leather jacket, Mark threw his head back and put his mound of thick hair to full use by flicking his head back and forth. He got into it, letting the music wash over his resolve and cavorted in closer to Bradley. He could almost forget a couple of hundred people were watching him. It wasn’t as if he’d ever have to watch it himself.
“Off, off, off!” The words of encouragement from the audience rung in his ears.
“You heard them.” Bradley winked and gripped his fingers tightly on his bare thighs.
Was that because the Adonises weren’t allowed to touch? The others certainly hadn’t handled their dancers. Did Bradley want to touch him? The very thought urged Mark onwards. He slipped off his new leather jacket, curled a finger through the loop and twirled it around his head.
It would have been a good move, but rather overzealous in his whirling, Mark whacked the dancing girl next to him with it. She squealed, clutching her eye and fell into the lap of her Adonis.
Oh bugger, the zip!
Mark held up his hands. “Sorry. Oh, bugger, I’m so sorry.”
The music screeched to a halt, the first aiders launched onto the stage and Mark rubbed soothing circles along the girl’s back.
Bradley pissed his tiny, tight pants.
* * * *
“I don’t think she’ll sue, so you’re all right.” Bradley clamped his lips shut, his shoulders wobbling through fighting back the urge to laugh.
“Wonderful.” Mark pushed away from the wall of the smokers’ corner outside, where he had been hiding for the remainder of the evening.
He had been offered a number of cigarettes from the ladies who’d taken pity on him, but had declined graciously. If he even attempted to start smoking now he would only hack up a lung, or set the entire nightclub alight, such was the way his day, and entire existence, was unfolding.
Bradley had finished his stripping stint and changed back into more appropriate attire for the outside weather and the club was turning back into the full-on night haunt.
“I would like to say, thanks for inviting me, but, well…”
“You had fun, right?” Bradley had an almost hopeful hint of elevation to his question.
“No,” Mark lied.
He had actually had rather a lot of fun, minus the near-gouging-out-of-eyeball experience. But the Lisa Lovely had won her prize, which was a date with her Adonis, so Mark realised that was a win/win. Win for her, obviously, and a win for him having not to have actually won. Because a date with Bradley? That was never going to happen. Not now Mark had proven himself to be a klutz, a safety hazard and in no way a magnetic force in the art of seduction.
“I’m going to slink back home now and never venture into London again until every person who may have been here has aged significantly that they either die, or the memory dies with them. Either, or, it’ll be a while.”
“You know they film that, right?”
“Oh, hell, no.” Mark pinched the bridge of his nose. Now he was going to rival Bradley’s YouTube success but in a whole different ball game.
Bradley chuckled. “Maybe you’re better suited to slow dancing?”
“Must be your accent there,” Mark replied, “because I’m sure you meant to pronounce that no dancing.”
“I dunno, mate. I think you’d look good in a ballroom. Bow tie, elegant. Right up your street.”
“My mother and father used to make me go watch them ballroom dancing,” Mark admitted. “It’s not something I look on with fondness.”
“All right.” Bradley shivered, a cold breeze blowing.
“You need more clothes on.” Mark indicated the vest and tight jeans that Bradley was wearing in minus temperatures.
“Yes, Daddy.”
“Oi! None of that, thank you. I am not old enough to be your daddy.”
“Just my sugar one.” Bradley winked.
Mark had no idea what to say to that. It dredged up a bunch of things that Mark had chosen to long forget.
“Anyway, you gotta appreciate the song I chose, right?” Bradley’s wide-eyed gaze was full of boyish charm.
“Ah, yes.” Mark nodded. “Nice.”
“’Cause you were born in the eighties, right?” Bradley grinned.
“No,” Mark deadpanned. “Nope, not the eighties. Sadly.”
“You’re thirty-nine?” Bradley furrowed his brow. “I’m sure I worked that out right.”
“I was born in seventy-nine. December seventy-nine. The cusp of the eighties, so if you were trying to insinuate something with that song, I’m afraid it sorely missed.”
What a way to kill a moment. Not that this was a moment, mind. Mark had made sure of that with his lap dance gone wrong. And he couldn’t shake his sullen mood.
“You’re a Sagittarius?” Bradley asked.
“I believe so, yes.”
“Huh.” Bradley bit his lip with a faraway look in his eye. “A fire sign. The Archer. And a traveller.”
“See, the stars can be wrong.”
“Come on.” Bradley slapped Mark on the back. “Let’s go get a train back home, then, yeah? Stick to the seaside for you.”
Mark nodded. It was probably for the best. He’d left London some time back and now at least he knew he’d outgrown the nighttime frolicking. It was a good thing. Like closure on the place. And on him, and any hope that he could recapture his lost youth by hanging around with someone far younger. This had all been a mistake. A big mistake. Back to slippers and damp living spaces. It was fine.
Mark fished his phone out of his back pocket and checked the time. “Bugger. We’ve missed the train.”
Bradley shrugged. “No worries. Hotel it is.” He smiled, holding out his arm and whistling for the black cab passing to stop. “Come on, Mark. I’m knackered!”
Mark didn’t have much of a choice. The next train wasn’t for, like, another thirty minutes.
Chapter Ten
Beddie Byes
“Name?”
“Mr and Mrs Smith.” Bradley grinned at the hotel receptionist and shot a wink over his shoulder at Mark.
“Who’s the miss?” the receptionist asked with a sly smile.
“Yet to find that out.” Bradley waggled his eyebrows.
Mark could have gone home. Should have gone home. There had been another train. Instead, he’d decided to allow Bradley to halt the taxi outside the Holiday Inn in Shoreditch and usher him into the reception area without much protest. Mark had no idea why. He thought he’d been quite clear to himself that this charade needed to end. And now Bradley was offering all sorts of jibes. What was this? What was going on?
“For goodness’ sake.” Mark stepped forward, pulling his wallet out from his back pocket and slapping a credit card down on the counter. “Please book a twin room under the name Mark Johnson.”
Bradley gasped, slapping a hand to his chest. “Darling, you said you’d take my name!”
The receptionist did her best to not to laugh whilst swiping Mark’s card. He couldn’t blame her. They did look an odd pair. There was Bradley—all muscle and glistening f
rom the oil spread over his face, down his neck line to his sternum. Not that Mark had been staring at the droplets sparkling Bradley’s skin. It was just the man’s inadequate deep V-line vest top showed far too much flesh not to notice. Then there was him. Leather jacket firmly zipped up to the top and face pale through sheer embarrassment.
“You can always get your own room,” Mark challenged.
“At these prices?” Bradley elevated his voice. “That’s all my tips gone.”
“I suppose tonight’s performance means you were probably down in the tips?”
The earlier drinks were now wearing off, leaving in their wake a haze of guilt. Mark could remember what he’d done but not exactly why he’d done it. Such as most of his life minus alcohol.
“Nah, mate.” Bradley tapped the counter. “Made double what I usually do. Think people felt sorry for me that I didn’t get a proper lap dance.” He pouted.
“Oh, right, well.” Mark pocketed his returning card. “Your fault there.”
“How’s that?”
“You chose the wrong partner.” Mark drummed his nails on the counter while the receptionist tapped her nails along the new-fangled tablet.
“I don’t know about that, Mark.” Bradley glanced up to the receptionist who returned his dashing smile.
Traitor.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the receptionist finally said. “There are no twin rooms available. We only have the superior double.”
Mark went to open his mouth and decline, deciding it was probably better to either find somewhere else or maybe there was still time to catch that last train? This had all been a mistake anyway. But Bradley slapped his hand down on the counter.
“Sold.” He winked.
The receptionist gave a polite nod and booked them in, handing over the key card. “Breakfast is served until ten on Sundays. Would you like a wakeup call?”
“No,” Mark blurted. “No, thank you.”
