Stout

by Georgia Cates

  “I thought you might like it. The carbonation is high and the essence is fruity.”

  “You’re getting to know my taste buds pretty well.” Not nearly as well I’d like. But I plan to know her taste buds and tongue and mouth and lips a lot better before tonight is over.

  I survey the ingredients lined up on the island. “No Chef Boyardee crust, huh?”

  “Nope. We’re making these bad boys from scratch.”

  “All right.” I slap my hands together. “Let’s do this.”

  Adelyn holds out a measuring cup and container of white powder. I guess I’m doing. She’s instructing. “First lesson in making a thin pizza crust. Use bread flour. It makes it crunchier than all-purpose.”

  She shows me how to level the cups of flour with a straightedge knife and then watches as I dump them into a large mixing bowl. “Good job. Now we’re going to add the kosher salt, sugar, and yeast.”

  A light dust of white spins into the air when she briefly turns on the stand mixer. “Just giving that a little twist to mix the dry stuff before the wet goes in.”

  I add the water and olive oil and watch as the powder transforms into a gooey ball. “Looking good. You may be a natural born pizzerian.”

  “Is pizzerian a real word?”

  “Probably not but I like the way it sounds.”

  This dough ball isn’t very big. “You sure this is gonna make two pizzas?”

  “It’s gotta rise for an hour. It’ll be twice as big when it’s ready.” I should know better than to question the baker.

  “Right. The yeast.” And I should have known that.

  “We can work on our sauces while the dough does its thing.”

  Adelyn guides me step by step through mixing, sautéing, and simmering both pizza sauces. “I can see where cooking could be therapeutic.”

  “It’s sort of a roller coaster for the thought process. It can require a lot of concentration one moment and then you have a lag where your mind can run free.”

  Adelyn tastes the red sauce and then spoons a sample into my mouth. “Needs a wee bit of salt?”

  “I think so.”

  She tosses in the white granules and then tastes again. “Perfect.”

  “A watched crust doesn’t rise. Let’s go out back and put our feet in the pool while we wait.”

  I’ve been expecting an invite to swim for a while. Submerging my feet from the steps isn’t exactly what I had in mind. “You don’t use this pool much.”

  Her face swivels so she can look at me. “How do you know?”

  No need in pretending I don’t spy. “I peek over into your backyard.” A lot.

  “I don’t get to use it as much as I’d like since summer is always a busy time for the agency. I’m tied up most weekends.”

  “I understand you want your business to be successful but you need to take time to enjoy life. And this pool. It’s killer.” I can’t imagine having something like this twenty feet from my back door and not using it.

  “I’m gone a lot during the day but I swim at night pretty often. Guess you don’t see that.”

  Well, hell. I hadn’t considered that. But I probably couldn’t see anything anyway. “No, I haven’t.”

  “Technically, I guess it’s called skinny-dipping instead of night swimming.”

  Damn. She’s in her backyard naked, and I had no idea. “Well, that’s just cruel to tell me that.”

  She laughs. “It’s liberating. You should try it.”

  “I’m still waiting on my invitation.”

  “Wanna go for a dip tonight after we get back from the club?”

  Fuck. Yeah.

  “Sure. Sounds fun.” I try to play it cool. Like I’m not as excited as a sixteen-year-old boy about to get his first feel of some tits.

  Her tits. I’m gonna get to see them. Hell, I’m gonna get to see it all.

  “Question. Your nickname is Stout. Lucas’s is Tap. But Porter is just plain ol’ Porter?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Seems like he got gypped.”

  We get this question a lot. “Porter is a type of beer. No reason to give him a beer name when he already has one.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “You have a nickname?”

  “My friends and family call me Addie. Super creative, right?”

  “Doesn’t fit your personality to me. I like Max for you.” Short for Maxwell.

  “Max?” She smiles as she nods. “Yeah. Way better than Addie.”

  “And way better than Ollie.”

  “I like Ollie but it feels like your sister’s special name for her little brother. And Stout feels like it’s reserved for Lovibond people. You have a great last name so I’m going with that. You’re Thorn.” I’m okay with that.

  It’s odd how a name dictates so much of your life and molds the way people perceive you. It’s been a source of trouble for as long as I can remember. “At least my real name has made a comeback. People name their poor babies Oliver all the time these days, but it was not a cool name to have twenty-five years ago. And it was not cool to be the scrawny, stinky kid who lived in a trashy trailer park. You can’t even begin to imagine how bad I got teased by the other kids at school.”

  “Kids can be so cruel sometimes.”

  “Adults too.” I used to ask my classmates at lunch if I could have the food they didn’t eat. I would take it home for supper. Until Mrs. Patterson put a stop to it. She claimed I was bullying the other kids by making them give me food from their lunch trays. She told me if it continued, I would be punished. I never understood why she did that. She had to know I didn’t get enough to eat. I couldn’t have bullied a fly if I tried. She knew that.

  “Do you know where your parents came up with your name?”

  I haven’t told this story in a while. “Christie had a drunk uncle who offered her one hundred bucks to name her kid after him.”

  Adelyn looks like she may laugh. Until she sees I’m serious. “Nooo.”

  “I shit you not. His name was Lawrence Oliver Jackson. He was named after Laurence Olivier but his mother was a dumbass and spelled it wrong.” Not the brightest bunch of people. And I’m genetically tied to them. Damn.

  I strongly believe nurture overpowered nature. Otherwise, Lawry and I would be just like the McCollums instead of the Thorns.

  “Lawrence was lucky enough to get his first name. I got the leftovers four years later which he apparently thought was worth less money since Christie only earned a measly fifty dollars for giving me that name.” Fifty fucking bucks for me to carry his namesake a lifetime.

  Ignorant fuckers.

  “Although I love both names, that’s really sad.”

  “I have to laugh about it because it’s so fucking stupid. And the alternative of laughing is so much worse.” It would eat me alive if I allowed it. I refuse to let that kind of trash make me miserable for the rest of my life.

  “It’s a little surprising your birth parents only had you and your sister. People like that usually have a bunch of kids.”

  “True. I’ve thought that too. They were fifteen when Lawrence was born, nineteen with me, which is a long time for teenagers who lack the common sense and inclination to use birth control.”

  “Good Lord. They still needed parenting when they became parents.” From what I remember, our grandparents weren’t much different than Jimmy and Christie. Just older versions of addicts and abusers.

  “I’m not really sure why they didn’t have a trailer full of kids. That would have meant more welfare. A bigger payday. I guess we can thank nature for taking care of it for them.”

  “Nature has a way of doing that sometimes.” That doesn’t strike me as a casual statement. And the look on her face confirms it.

  “You know from experience?”

  “I was pregnant with Martin’s baby when I left him. It didn’t survive his attack.”

  “Holy shit, Adelyn.”

  “I didn’t know I was pregnant until I woke up
in the hospital and they told me I’d lost the baby. At the time, the miscarriage felt like nothing more than a medical diagnosis. I know that sounds cold, and like nothing you’d expect to hear from a mother, but I never had the experiences that go along with finding out you’re pregnant. It was already dead and gone from my body by the time I found out. For me, it was as though it never existed.”

  “That makes him a killer. Maybe not in the traditional sense of the word but the outcome was still death.” The anniversary marking her almost death is also a reminder of the baby she lost. Regardless of the circumstances surrounding the child, that can’t be easy. “Did you ever see a therapist?”

  “I did. Seems like I’ve spent more time in therapy than any one person should.” The abuse. Her near death. Her brother’s death. Loss of her baby. That’s a lot for one person. How is she so self-contained? So lively? So . . . incredible? “That’s how I got turned on to baking. My therapist suggested I try something constructive. At times, I think it’s the only reason I don’t lose my mind completely.” Adelyn draws a deep breath and exhales slowly. “But you know what? This is not first date material.”

  I smile. She is right though, and I don’t want her to be sad tonight. “Think the dough is ready?”

  “I hope so because I’m starving.” She gets up and reaches for my hand. “Come on, pizzerian. Let’s go make some pizza.”

  * * *

  Motherfucker.

  No way I’m in a drag bar watching this. Except I am. And I will never hear the end of it if Tap and Porter find out I was in a drag club.

  A tall, voluptuous blond named Pussy Galore introduces himself . . . herself . . . as the host for the evening. She’s decked out in a fully sequined dress, wig, cosmetics. And her tits are enormous. “What’s the chest situation?”

  Adelyn tilts her head and lifts a brow. “Is someone drag-curious?”

  Does that mean the same thing as bi-curious? “No. Just plain ol’ curious.”

  “It’s different from person to person. Some take female hormones. Some have undergone full-on sexual reassignment. Some have man parts with breast implants. Some are plain men who’ve done nothing besides glitter and sequins.”

  “The ones without real tits stuff their bra?” I use the word real loosely.

  “Well, yeah, but not like a pre-puberty girl. No socks or tissues. A lot of them buy the same products as women who’ve had mastectomies.”

  I don’t understand this. The thought of dressing like a woman has zero appeal to me. Don’t want to be or look like one. Only want to be inside one. And often.

  But I guess the same can be said for these men. A lot of them probably have zero desire to ride a motorcycle or pound their fists into a punching bag or slide their dicks into a tight, wet pussy.

  Or maybe they do those things and this too. I don’t know. Don’t really care. I’m only here because Adelyn asked me to come.

  Pussy Galore announces a group of five performers as they dash onto stage. “Damn. They move fast in fuck-me pumps.”

  “I’ve been wearing heels for fifteen years but there’s no way in hell I could do that without turning an ankle.”

  The group breaks into song and dance to “It’s Raining Men.” Fitting. “The first performance of the night is always a group.”

  There’s one African American performer on stage. “Is that Maurice?”

  “No. He’s probably in the dressing room putting on the final touches of his makeup.”

  “What did he say when you told him you were bringing me?”

  “I didn’t tell him. I wanted it to be a surprise.”

  I can’t imagine getting on stage and doing something like this is easy. “Would he be nervous if he knew we were coming to see him perform?”

  “No. Maurice doesn’t give a fuck what anyone thinks of him therefore he doesn’t get nervous. I thought it would be in your best interest if he didn’t know ahead of time.”

  “My best interest? What does that mean?”

  Adelyn laughs. “You’ll see.”

  Pussy Galore returns to the stage when the first performance is over. “And now, ladies and gentleman, put your perfectly manicured hands together for one of our club favorites. Miss Wet Me Houston.”

  The crowd erupts into cheers and catcalls. Big time. “Looks like the crowd loves them some Wet Me.”

  “Yes, they do. She’s very interactive with the crowd.”

  “Which is it? He or she?” Adelyn is confusing me bouncing back and forth between the two.

  “Different for everyone. Maurice hasn’t had sexual reassignment or breast implants so he’s fine with being referred to as he. But it’s she when he’s in drag.” This is confusing as hell. I thought he wore feminine clothes all the time. Is that not considered drag?

  I immediately recognize the Whitney Houston song Maurice is going to sing. “All the Man I Need.”

  “You said he was interactive in the crowd. What does that mean?”

  “Relax. Sit back. Enjoy the show.” Not sure I like that mischievous grin on her face right now.

  Maurice, or Wet Me, comes onto stage and I’m shocked by how genuinely feminine he looks. He isn’t tall and awkward like a lot of the queens. I would totally think he was a female if I saw him out on the street. “He looks just like a woman.”

  “I know. Pretty amazing, right?”

  He opens his mouth and I’d swear it’s a woman’s voice. “That’s his real voice?”

  “Yup.”

  “That is crazy.” Makes me wonder how many times I’ve seen a woman who isn’t really a woman.

  One of my fraternity brothers was making out with a girl one time and she turned out to not be a girl at all. I always thought it was bullshit, that maybe he was gay and trying to hide it after getting caught. But I see now how it might be possible to get it wrong.

  Wet Me comes off stage and snakes her way through the crowd. She briefly stops at the tables in her path and flirts with men not in drag. Touching them. Serenading them.

  She zigzags around the tables, and I know I’m in deep shit when she stops at ours. Oh. Fuck. No.

  She’s wearing a headpiece mic so her hands are completely free. Free to remove her feather boa and toss it over my head. Free to pull me toward her. Free to plop down in my lap and put her arms around my neck.

  I’ve never, never, never had a fucking dude in my lap. Ever.

  Adelyn holds up her phone to snap a picture. “Oh, fuck, no.”

  She’s saying something but I can’t hear her over the music and singing in my ear.

  I’m not going to be a dick about taking a picture with her friend. But I’m not happy about it.

  I lean in for the photo and Wet Me presses her face to mine while she continues to sing about all the man she needs. All right. I’m going along with the picture, dude, but don’t push it. You’re still a guy with a dick and you’re sitting in my lap.

  I’m grateful when Wet Me gets up and moves on to another table. “Did you know she would do that to me?”

  “I had high hopes.” She turns her phone around to show me the picture she took of us. “That is nothing but awesome sauce.”

  Fuck, no, it’s not. “No one sees that. Ever.”

  “Don’t worry, Thorn. Just another secret to add to our growing collection.”

  The audience applauds like crazy when Wet Me finishes her song. “You’ve been a really good sport about coming here. Most straight guys wouldn’t set foot in this place.”

  “It was entertaining. Maurice, or Wet Me, is very good, but I can’t say I want to come here for our second date.”

  Adelyn tries to hide her smile behind her hand. Unsuccessful. “There’s going to be a second date, huh?”

  “I’m hopeful.”

  “What do you say we go back stage and see Maurice before his next act so we can slip out and continue this first date elsewhere?”

  Hell, yeah. That earns her a smile. “You’ll get no argument from me.”

&nbs
p; Adelyn leads me to the back of the club. Many people call out to her, giving hugs, kisses, and hello darlings as we pass. All while eyeing me.

  I’m blocked by a brunette queen who meets me eye to eye. Feels very confrontational. I might find it a little intimidating if I weren’t so confident in my ability to defend myself. “Hey, newbie.”

  “Hello.”

  “Back off, Cherry. He’s with me.”

  “Just looking, doll.” Her eyes roam my body from top to . . . crotch. “Mmm. We don’t get many like him in here.”

  “Leave him alone. He’s straight.”

  “Honey, they all say that.”

  Adelyn grabs my hand, and we push through the crowd. I’m not at all comfortable with the level of physical contact happening as we pass. “Whoa. Fuck. Somebody just grabbed my dick.”

  There’s only one person in this place who has my consent to do that.

  “Ah, shit. I’m sorry.” She moves in front of me and backs up until my cock is pressed against her ass. “Stick to me like glue.”

  F.U.C.K.

  My body is smashed against hers but it’s impossible to move together without breaking contact. The more I try to walk with her, the more we counteract and I end up unintentionally thrusting my cock against her ass with every step.

  My now rock-hard cock.

  I’m in a drag club with a huge hard-on.

  Nothing about that is right.

  I’m still behind Adelyn with my hands firmly on her hips when she knocks on the door to a dressing room. “It’s Addie.”

  “Get in here, darlin’. And bring that motherfucking delicious honey with you.”

  This isn’t Wet Me. This is Maurice.

  “First of all, bitch. What the hell you coming up in here without calling some-damn-body first?”

  “If you knew we were coming, you’d have done something far more outrageous than giving him a lap dance.” It was not a lap dance.

  “But yes. You were right to not call.” Maurice looks me over. “So this is your Oliver Thorn?”

  Her Oliver Thorn? What has she said about me to give him that impression?

  “Good to meet you. Enjoyed the show.”

  Maurice looks at my hands cupped over my crotch. “Liked me sitting on your lap that much, huh?”