by Ivy Oliver
They, uh, also have stripper poles.
Yeah.
Then again, it’s Vegas. The airport had stripper poles squirreled away somewhere.
Tucked in between two guys I don’t know, I fiddle on my phone during the interminable ride down the Strip. Day or night, the traffic is obscene, with solid walls of cars crawling from stoplight to stoplight at five miles an hour, waiting what seems like hours for endless tides of cargo shorts and Hawaiian shirts to flow from sidewalk to sidewalk.
Finally, they dump us at a bar. The bright baking sun and brilliant blue sky, with not a single cloud, make it incongruous to be piling inside, but, as they say, it’s five o’clock somewhere—and anyway, it’s seven o’clock here.
It doesn’t hit me just what type of bar it turns out to be until we’re inside. Rhythms pulse, party lights dance, and every surface is either mirrored or chromed, even the bouncer’s sunglasses. Everything is centered on the main attraction: Half-naked women gyrating on aluminum posts.
Yeah. I’m a fish out of water and the water is wearing a thong.
I get pulled along, realizing I need to stay close or they might literally forget me; I’m pretty sure neither Jeremy nor Trevor give a shit that I’m here, if they even counted me. Getting stranded in a strip club to miss my flight to my friend’s wedding is pretty low on my bucket list.
So, I keep an eye on the guys and head for the bar. A little liquid courage will get me through this.
The bartender does an admirable job of scrunching her cleavage. I’m half-tempted to tell her she’s wasting her time but end up leaving as generous a tip as I can muster anyway. Call it an A for effort.
“You’re with the party?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Drinks are on the party tab,” she says, appreciatively tucking the crumpled dollar bills into the tip jar.
That’s what I needed to hear. I throw back a swig of Corona and turn only to nearly jump out of my skin. Colton has appeared at the bar beside me.
“Scotch whiskey, neat. Whatever you call top shelf.”
“Sir, that’s eighty dollars a shot,” the bartender protests.
“So, pour it carefully,” he says, smooth as silk.
Meanwhile I stand there gaping, and nearly drop my beer.
“Do I have something on my shirt?” he says, side-eyeing me. “You’ve been staring at me since we got here.”
“Oh, sorry,” I say, looking away. “I’m not really interested in this kind of thing.”
“I mean here as in the city, not here as in this dive. You’re Karen’s best friend, right? I remember you from when you were fourteen.”
Oh my God, if you are listening just strike me dead right here. Please just don’t make it hurt, okay?
Colton snorts as he takes his drink.
“Yeah. I remember you, too,” I say, trying to be sly. I think my voice cracked a little.
“Weird to see little Karen getting married,” he shakes his head. “It’s like I stepped away and everyone got old while I was gone.”
“I’m old?” I chirp, lamely.
He snorts. “No. I am.”
“You don’t look old. You look pretty much like you did when you left.”
“Flattering, but no,” he says, touching his side. I glance at his impossibly taut stomach in profile and wonder what he was indicating. Whatever it was, his shirt covers it.
“I never pegged you for the strip club type,” he says.
“You last saw me when I was in my teens. This is the longest conversation I’ve had with you in my life.”
He snorts. “You can tell. Trust me, look at that jackass,” he points at Trevor, who has three strippers giving him a lap dance at once, “I bet when he was fourteen, every other word out of his mouth was titties.”
The bartender gives Colton a reverent look as she pours him a second drink. I barely noticed him draining the first.
“So, what are you doing here?” he says.
“You want the truth?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m big on truth.”
“No telling anyone,” I say. “Cross your heart.”
He makes the little gesture and my own heart nearly skips. I swallow hard.
“I’m a spy. Karen planted me in the crowd to keep an eye on things.”
Colton laughs, a sound like velvet being drawn over steel. He eyes me and eyes his drink.
“Funny. I’m here for the same reason.”
“She talked you into it?”
“No,” he says, a quick shake of his head. “She told me not to cause trouble. She’s afraid I’ll make a scene with her boyfriend.” He draws out the word, punctuating both syllables, “boy-friend,” as if to highlight that he didn’t title the guy her fiancé.
“So, why are you here?”
“Same as you,” he says, offering his drink at me. I stare at it for a second and realize it’s a toast.
I tap my bottle against the rim of his glass and murmur Karen’s name. For a heart-squeezing second, I think our hands might actually touch. Get a grip, Julian.
“So, you’re spying.”
“Keeping an eye on, more like. I get a bad vibe from this guy’s friends. They seem like the type to get him hammered and top off this evening with him in the champagne room with a blowjob.”
“There’s no sex in the champagne room,” the bartender mutters.
“Sure there isn’t,” Colton says, smiling at her. He waves his glass.
“Maybe you should slow down,” I say.
“Maybe you should sack up and have a real drink,” Colton laughs. “Give him one too.”
She pours me the same stuff she offered him and slides the glass my way. I reach for my wallet for the tip and Colton waves me off, smoothly slipping her a folded hundred-dollar bill. She nods appreciatively and steps aside to serve another member of the party.
“So,” he says, nodding at the tumbler on the bar in front of me. “Drink.”
Hesitantly, I lift the glass and sip some. It tastes like giving an exhaust pipe a blowjob. I almost drop the class, coughing, and wash out my mouth with citrusy pale beer.
“Don’t have a lot of practice, I see,” he says.
“I have plenty of tolerance. I just enjoy drinks that actually taste good. I don’t see why everything has to be a contest to see how much dick swagger you roll, you know?”
He laughs. “Yeah.”
I glance over at the stage. “How long do you think I’ll have to sit here?”
“Couple hours,” he says, shrugging.
“That long?” I sigh. “They’re just tits. You can’t tell me none of these guys has seen tits before. What’s the appeal?”
He quirks an eyebrow with me. Despite being the manliest manly man that ever manlied he looks remarkably like his sister when he does that, and it gives me a little chill.
“That’s an odd question.”
“I’m gay,” I shrug.
Maybe it’s the booze, not that I’ve had much to rely on that for an excuse. The impulse has me blurt it out before I can manage to contain myself and then, like an idiot, I’m staring longingly into his eyes hoping for any kind of a signal that he might be interested.
He looks away before I can complete my search. Damn it.
Well, he didn’t run off screaming. In fact, he’s still standing there. Only a foot away, but he might as well be on the other side of the planet. A flash of light catches my attention. The rest of the guys are crowded around a stage show. When I look back, Colton is looking right at me.
I finish my drink. The taste is horrible and it makes me shiver all over. Colton leans casually against the bar and motions for another drink. His third.
“Maybe you should slow down,” I say.
“Pretty much the only way I can stand this,” he says in a low, husky voice.
“I thought you were a party animal,” I say.
He does that eyebrow-quirk again.
“How would you know that?”
“Karen shows me pictures,” I say, sheepishly. I neglect to add that I memorize them and masturbate to them, picturing him fucking me.
“Does she, now,” he says. “I hadn’t sent her any.”
“I guess she stalks you on Facebook,” I shrug.
He glances at me. “So that’s what you think of me. Party animal?”
Before I can answer, there’s a call over the loudspeakers inviting our entire party up to the upstairs lounge. A pair of strippers flanks Alex and leads him up the staircase. In place of the tassels of the old burlesque dancers, their bras bear sparklers on the pointed cups, lighting up the dark room around him.
With a bone-weary sigh, I fall in line. Colton is behind me. I can smell him, his unique mix of scents rising above the chaotic mess of the club. The world around me is ashes, stale beer, and just a hint of either old vomit or cheap melted chocolate bars. Somehow Colton’s scent floats to the top, an overpowering blend of his deliciously manly natural scent and that leathery deodorant he wears. I think his chest just bumped into my back.
When we arrive on the second floor, it’s time for everyone to crowd into a bunch of booths. This is a big place. I barely realized how big. There’s a second level looking down on the main stage and a bunch of poles up here.
I start looking for a seat when a strong hand grabs my arm.
Colton.
Oh my God he’s touching me. I almost let out a little squee noise. God, what am I, fourteen? I’m a grown-ass man. My hesitation ends after a second tug and I crush in beside him, between him and the end of the booth.
The drink of the night is vodka. Trevor and Jordan got us bottle service, meaning cocktail waitresses are strutting around in thigh-high boots pouring top-shelf stuff from magnum-sized bottles. The display is as much the focus as the drink; they each bend artfully at the hip, poking their asses straight out. Their costumes are so skimpy, the only way to tell they’re waitresses and not strippers is that their clothes aren’t designed to come off easily.
Sigh. Yawn. Seriously. I slump against the side of the booth and wait my turn. Glasses are raised, Trevor yells something in brospeak, and the drinking begins.
Vodka goes down easier, but I’m no fan of drinking hard liquor straight. Next to me, Colton grimaces. He leans slightly to his side and speaks to me, and my heart flutters. He remembered I exist.
“I hate vodka,” he mutters. “Doesn’t taste like anything and top shelf shit is the same as comes in a plastic bottle for five bucks. Clear liquor is clear liquor.”
“I could go for an appletini or something,” I mutter.
Colton laughs, but there’s no scorn in it. He snaps his fingers and the bottle service girl comes over, offering more, but he waves it away.
“Go fetch us two appletinis,” he says.
She looks at him like he just asked her to take a swan dive onto the downstairs stage but rushes off to get what he asked. When she returns, he gives her a healthy tip, takes both drinks, and hands me mine.
“There you go,” he says.
He takes a drink of his and looks at it, cocking his head to the side like a wolf who just heard an unusual noise.
“Huh. Not bad.”
I laugh now and start nursing my drink. I’m already pretty tipsy and I don’t want to get any drunker. If I space things out, I’m sure I can keep myself to that perfect level of tolerance for this bullshit I need to keep up with for the evening.
Then Jordan, he of groom-brothery and party-plannery, points us out.
“What the fuck are you two drinking?” he shouts.
Colton’s expression darkens, and I have a sense—almost a vision—of him dumping his drink on the floor and taking his fists to the groom’s brother, which would probably be a bad idea. By the time I grab his wrist, it seems like the storm has passed.
Trevor spots my hand and it’s like a private, unspoken joke ripples through the group. He snaps his fingers, but not for more booze. Rather, he calls over a stripper, tucks a hundred-dollar bill into her G-string, and sends her my way.
I resign myself to sitting back and thinking of England. Not that I mind looking, you see, it’s just that…meh. I can tell she’s hot, I just don’t have any interest in her.
Even when she mashes her giant boobs in my face. I thought there was a rule against touching the girls. I guess they can touch you. I actually yelp when her nipple pokes my eye. Yeah.
All of this is a source of great amusement to everyone present at this party. They’ve made me the butt of a joke. Great. I know Karen meant well. It would be some points for Alex if he put a stop to this and directed his bachelor party to, you know, party, not humiliate me.
“That’s enough,” Colton grunts.
I didn’t get her name. She looks up and grins at him.
“You want a turn?”
“No. He’s done.”
“It hasn’t been three songs—“
He shoves a folded sheaf of bills at her and shoos her with a motion of his hand.
I sink back into my seat, trying to disappear into the aged vinyl. Colton straightens himself next to me and looks down with almost tender concern that makes my heart do a backflip and face plant into my spine.
“You alright?”
I nod, vigorously. “Yeah. Fine.”
“Want another one?” he says, hefting his appletini.
“I’m good for now.”
I can see him debating whether to order another one for himself; his jaw works, like there’s a thick piece of leather clenched in his teeth. With a shrug, he switches from gulping to nursing.
My buzz is coming along pretty good. I’m jovial when I drink, ready to joke around, and by the time the rest of the party is distracted by more strippers, I’m prepared to laugh the whole thing off.
Colton appears deeply offending, brooding into his appletini. It takes supreme brooding skills to pull off brooding into blue liquor.
Remembering why I’m here, I keep an eye on Alex. I doubt Karen had any idea where we were headed. The girls might be at one of the many “nude male revues” (for some reason if there’s dicks it can’t be a strip club) in town, so I can’t judge, and Alex is being a gentleman. He even waves off a lap dance, basically dumping the girl on Trevor’s lap, which takes his attention off me. I relax a little and check my watch.
Shit, it’s not even eight o’clock. This is going to take hours. Resigning myself, I order appletini numero-two-o and accept that I need more social lubricant to slip through this night unscathed.
Colton
“Look,” Karen said to me, “Just keep an eye on him, okay? He thinks I’m sending him to spy but Bethany will pitch a bitch if I bring him along on my bachelorette party. She’s been nagging me to leave him behind all week.”
“If he doesn’t want to go, why not just let him stay back?” I said back.
My sister has more of my mother in her than either of them would care to admit. When she plants her fists on her hips, cants her head forward, and digs in her heels, she can be more intimidating than my father. I knew I wasn’t going to move her, so I accepted guard duty. Keep watch over her best friend.
Now I just feel old and tired. I’ve got six or eight, even ten years on most of the guys here and this kind of adolescent bullshit is so far behind me I can barely see it. In a way, I feel like a chaperone for the whole group. Not just a chaperone for the chaperone.
It doesn’t help that I feel strange every time I look at her friend. Julian. I remember him as a gawky, awkward teenager clinging to my sister’s side. I, and I think everyone else, presumed it was puppy love. If I didn’t know better, I’d figure him for a jealous hanger-on, here to wallow in self-pity as his dream girl gets married to another guy. Hell, that might be why the rest of the group is mocking him—they got the same impression.
I knew he was gay before I got here. I talk to Karen a few times a year. We’re not close, but we don’t hate each other. It’s more of an unspoken tension. She resents me, and, in a way,
I resent her. We both know that. My parents treated us very differently growing up—both doted on me, the future head of the family. There are expectations. Karen was free of those, but being free of your parent’s dreams is a double-edged sword. She just sort of exists in the family, and Mom talks about her makeup company—the most successful business venture a family member has started in a generation—with mild disinterest or a kind of aristocratic disdain for her girl child getting her hands dirty with actual work, something best left to the province of men.
Neither of our parents have worked a day in their lives. They both inherited fortunes and Dad occupies his time with studiously pretending he manages the firm that bears our name. Curiously, though, nobody seems to have any concern about him going missing for a month for his daughter’s ludicrous destination wedding.
A wedding which has been my bane for the last six months, since they announced. Mom has turned the joy of her daughter’s nuptials into a bludgeon against her lothario son. “When,” she keeps asking, “will I get married?” It’s almost embarrassing that little Karen is getting hitched before the scion of the family.
Like those two are an advertisement for marriage. If wedlock looks like my parents’ life, then to hell with it. I’ll keep my freedom.
He keeps looking at me.
I’m not one of those guys who gets offended by a gay guy paying attention. Hell, it’s a compliment, it’s like being checked out by a woman. I’m a stud, so what. I blow it off. There was a lot of that when I was in the military—I served during Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, which translated into a lot of sidelong glances and people feeling each other out before anyone brought anything up.
What confuses me about this is that my eyes keep wandering to him. I’ve been…curious, before, but not this curious. He’s got everything that draws my attention to another man. He’s tall and slim with a runner’s physique, more muscle in his legs than his upper body, and a wild mop of hipster hair. He has that avocado toast and macchiato look, but beneath that is a femininely boyish face with full lips, big eyes, and soft skin. Something about him makes me want to protect him.
He wouldn’t be the first one. I’ve been close to guys like that before, but I never acted on these urges. Even after a dozen whiskeys or…appletinis.
