The Man Club

by R. W. Clinger

  “This is nice, Car. You shouldn’t have.”

  He rolls a palm up and down my back, offering comfort. “I wanted to.”

  “You don’t have to take care of me like this.”

  “Maybe I want to. Never knock a good thing.”

  I ignore his sweet comment, and we sit and eat the ricotta triangles together.

  When we start to discuss and compare our days like an old married couple, he tells me, “Mrs. Windermere’s poodle, Thrasher, jumped her fence again and started humping all the neighborhood bitches down at the park. Thank God Thrasher’s fixed, or we’d have the ugliest dogs around eastern Pennsylvania. The dog owners freaked out, and the police were called. It was madness. Pure craziness.”

  “Thrasher’s like my new employee at the club.” I mention my meeting with Tuck Marcell, which sets off a light bulb above Car’s head.

  “Do you mean the Tucker Marcell who broke up Mitch and Benny Grant’s marriage?”

  The wine tastes soothing. Not expensive. Not bitter. Not too sweet. Just nice. “I don’t know. The Tuck I’m talking about is a ginger, nineteen, and is over-the-top sexually arrogant. He’s my new assistant and claims he can sleep with any man, straight or gay. Who are Mitch and Benny Grant? Do I know them?”

  “You might. They live on Presque Isle. Mitch teaches philosophy at West End College. Benny writes the gossip column for the Teller. They’ve been together for the last twenty years. Rumor has it that Tucker Marcell met Mitch in Plimpton Park. The two were running and bumped into each other. Supposedly, Tucker wooed Mitch. Then Mitch banged Tucker in the park’s snowy brambles. Benny left Mitch and is living with his sister in downtown Erie. It’s an ugly situation that seems irreparable. I don’t see a bright future for the couple.”

  “Tuck’s trouble,” I tell Car.

  “Lots of trouble.”

  “I have something that is going to sound just as troublesome.”

  Car sets his wine glass down, both eyes on me. “I’m listening.”

  “His mother paid me ten grand to keep him as an employee for two months at the club.”

  He raises his brows, and his mouth falls open. “You agreed to her conditions?”

  I nod. “At the time, I didn’t think he was trouble. Jane Marcell painted him as a quiet young man, someone who doesn’t know how to handle being gay. She told me he went to Temple and couldn’t fit in because he’s queer. I thought I could help the kid out.”

  I take the next few minutes and tell Car about my behind-a-closed-door meeting with the ginger. Every detail is exposed. Every word shared. “He’s a horny guy without any limitations. I don’t know what I’ve gotten myself into.”

  Car’s mouth still hangs wide open. It doesn’t look to me that he’s hungry any longer. “Shocking,” he whispers. “Totally shocking. Tuck actually stripped down for you?”

  “And pulled his bottom apart for me to get a gander, and more.”

  Car finishes off his first glass of wine and pours himself a second one. “He wanted you to fuck him?”

  I nod. “Right in my office.”

  “It’s none of my business, Gyles, but maybe you should think about returning the money to his mother and not letting him work in your club. He sounds like he can do some damage, quite the handful.”

  I sit back, calmly take a sip of my wine. Car is so easy to talk to. Boyfriend material. Just a sweet guy. Husband material all the way. Someone I look up to and respect. Maybe the man of my dreams. I’m not sure. What I do know is elementary: I don’t feel at ease with any other guy on the planet. No one. And I’m attracted to him, physically, emotionally, and mentally. It’s as if we are one in the same man, different yet similar on all levels. Equals.

  I say, “Tell me what you know about Rocco’s personality?”

  “He’s quiet. Doesn’t react much. Likes to keep to himself. Respects people and never starts any shit at the club.”

  “Exactly. Which means he’ll ignore Tuck.”

  Car nods. “I hope so. It’s sounds as if Tucker Marcell has the potential to ruin parts of Rocco, if Rocco lets him.”

  “Rocco’s a smart man. I doubt he’ll let that happen.”

  He shrugs. “Fingers crossed.”

  “And how do you think Titan will react to Tuck?”

  A light chuckle escapes Car. “He’ll have a round of heated sex with him and ditch him, just like he does with all the other men he fucks around with.”

  “Again, exactly. You get where I’m going with this, right? Tuck sounds like he has some life lessons to learn, and maybe the club can help him out with these. What do you think?”

  He’s silent for a second…two seconds…three seconds. “What about Daddy? Should you be worried about him?”

  “Do you think he’s going to be a problem?”

  “He’s someone you need to keep an eye on. You know the reputation he has regarding younger men.”

  “You have the wrong guy. That’s Titan.”

  “And Coben’s the one who no longer works at the club, right?”

  “You got it.”

  “It’s hard to keep your dancers straight.” He takes a sip of his wine. “What about Danny? Will he have an issue with Tucker?”

  “Married to a fine woman. Father of two boys. He’s harmless.”

  A timer in the kitchen buzzes. Dinner is ready. It’s cubed beef in thick gravy over egg noodles. Apple cobbler for dessert. A fine meal. Tasty.

  Yeah, maybe Car Tate is the perfect man for me. Who knows?

  * * * *

  Give a hug to someone. Hugs are important. You’re good at hugging.

  The note card sits on my dresser upstairs.

  I put it away with the others, smiling.

  The next time I see Car, I’ll make sure to hug him because hugs are important. Plus, I’m good at it. Of course.

  * * * *

  Name: Anthony Cure

  Club Member Number: 782-287-021

  Stage Name: Titan

  Date of Birth: May 1, 1978

  Occupation: Professional dancer

  Height: six-three

  Weight: 240

  Hair: Sandy brown

  Eyes: Sandy brown

  Status: Serially single

  Notes: He’s angry most of the time, unpleasant, aggressive, emotionally dark, and drives his Harley too fast. He doesn’t take no for an answer, has a degree in dance from the Pittsburgh Academy of Arts, and most think he’s sexy as hell. Others feel he’s mysteriously alluring, hypnotizing, and somewhat harmful like a vampire.

  * * * *

  It’s true. About eight years ago, Titan started an all-male dance group called The Titans, but it failed. He didn’t have any sponsors. His dancers used too many drugs. Two of his dancers got women pregnant and didn’t live up to their fatherly responsibilities. One dancer attempted to murder his boyfriend. Another dancer blew his brains out in front of an all-female audience near Buffalo, New York. And other negative occurrences happened among The Titans. Clubs wouldn’t hire them after learning of the group’s debauched reputation and…

  I hired Titan for The Man Club, giving him a second chance. He knew how to dance for the men and ladies. He was experienced on stage. Plus, he understood how a club operated. No, he wasn’t a money maker like Coben Fierce, but he was close. He’s been with me for years now, an arm to the club, needed.

  We all have our faults, of course. We’re not perfect, although some of us think we are. The only problem I have with Titan is his anger issues. Anything and everything sets him off. Even the littlest things like traffic, if someone looks at him the wrong way, or if he doesn’t like someone’s tone. Titan suffers from rage.

  He sees a shrink for this characteristic. Dr. Melissa Mellner on Chester Street in downtown Templeton sees him. Titan sits with Mellner twice a week. Every Monday and Thursday afternoon. Mellner’s therapy and the drugs she provides him mostly work. She’s good for him. Calms him down. Makes him think rationally, without exploding. She gives him me
ntal and physical tasks when he feels edgy or begins to emotionally lose his composure. Mellner knows what’s she doing, a true professional at her gig, helpful and kind.

  Unfortunately, she doesn’t prevent Titan from always getting into it with Coben at the club, when Coben worked there. The two were always at each other’s throats. There was something about Coben and his arrogance that set Titan off. And when Titan loses it, look out. His ugly can be criminal, dangerous, and murderous.

  Truth is, Coben always used to be thrown up against one of the club’s walls because he taunted Titan to do it. He called Titan a freak show, a dumbass, and a psycho. Hen used to be horrible to Titan because of Titan’s condition and anger problems. Coben, being Titan’s nemesis, practically begged for a black eye or a sprained wrist, teasing the man, bullying him. He was an asshole like that: instigating shit with Titan. I can’t count how many times I heard him mock Titan, calling him Mr. Dynamite, a testosterone and pill-popping idiot, and Mr. Atomic Fallout or Neanderthal.

  Honestly, Titan didn’t take any of Coben’s shit. Never. They had an altercation at least once a week. And Titan always won, putting Coben in his place. They sometimes fought with their fists behind the stage, next to the dressing rooms. Someone always ended up with a bloody lip, cut face, or black-and-blue chest because of a hard punch. A week never went by without an injury.

  Rocco’s a brave one, and he got between the two men, breaking them up. Rocco likes both Coben and Titan and never started any shit with either man. He’s always placing himself in danger when the queers go head to head at the club. He, too, has ended up with an elbow to his temple, a black eye, or bloody lip because he separates the men from their gladiator-fighting moments. No one was safe if they tried to get between Titan and Coben when they were fighting. No one.

  Titan has another problem, too. He’s too rough in bed. He likes young men. The younger, the better. And when he sleeps with these men, because he’s so big, and because he’s so rough, he breaks them. He’s never gentle with the young ones. The eighteen- or nineteen-year olds always suffer. Titan refuses to be tender with them. Never. There’s always some young man being bitten too hard, beaten, and choked during sex. There are extreme and painful bed tales that he shares with me. Brutal details of broken collarbones, a bruised tailbone, or bloody bottoms. His sexcapades are always vicious, unthinkable acts caused by one raging man against a second, innocent one.

  He’s told me, “It’s the rage in me. I can’t be nice in bed. Something takes over me, and I…I hurt the men I sleep with. I have no control over it. The drugs that Mellner prescribes for me don’t work in the bedroom. I don’t understand what happens to me. I can’t tell you what power comes over me. It’s the strangest thing. I become a monster of sorts. I become someone else.”

  I believe him.

  Everyone does.

  Unfortunately, two young men—neither associated with The Man Club—pressed charges against Titan. One said Titan screwed him so hard, he bled from his bottom for two days. The kid didn’t call the action rape, but he did want Titan to pick up his hospital bill. Titan paid the bill, and the charges were dropped. A second kid ended up with a broken ankle while having sex with Titan.

  The college freshman told the cops, “He spread my legs apart to fuck me and twisted my ankle. He did it on purpose.”

  The cops told the kid that if he knew what was best, he wouldn’t fine Titan. The cops were queer and told the kid something like, “You’re story’s ridiculous. You should be lucky a big guy like Titan wants anything to do with you because you’re not that handsome or cute.”

  No matter all the ugly in Titan’s life, the guy is magic on stage. A stud for the men and ladies to enjoy, tossing their twenties at him. He’s captivating up there, a drug of sorts the way he moves his body and puts on his shows. I can’t think of him doing anything else with his life. Performing is in his blood. He’s largely graceful and in control of his body. He’s a turn-on for those who watch him, including me. He’s not a monster. He’s always on his best behavior when performing. He’s magnetic. He’s beautiful.

  I have to tell him about Tuck starting at the bar. I have to say something to him like, “If you sleep with Tuck, because he’s young, because you like younger men over older men, you can’t hurt him. Promise me you won’t. He’s not a very big man. Please, be careful with him.”

  “But I’m always careful with the men I make love to.”

  I don’t believe him.

  No one does.

  * * * *

  Never feel blue. Sunshine is all around. Keep smiling.

  It’s another note card from Car. I find it in my Nissan Frontier on the driver’s seat.

  Such a nice guy. So sweet.

  I smile.

  * * * *

  Name: Danny Mumford

  Club Member Number: 782-287-018

  Stage Name: Danny

  Date of Birth: November 15, 1984

  Occupation: X-ray technician during the day, part-time professional dancer at night

  Height: five-eleven

  Weight: 170

  Hair: bald

  Eyes: pale blue contacts

  Status: married to Sadie Gypsom-Mumford

  Personal Notes: Danny has twin sons in middle school, Mike and Matt, healthy boys. He tells me he only dances for two reasons: one, he enjoys it; two, he puts all of his earnings away into a college fund for his kids. I determine he’s a good father and husband, caring, and happy. And he doesn’t cause any shit at the club. Nothing like that.

  * * * *

  I almost don’t hire Danny for the club because I think him a hater. His Facebook and Twitter pages show terrible pictures of racism, bigotry, and pure hate. Discussions about women being second-class citizens in the United States, huge support for Donald Trump, and anti-gay cartoons prove Danny doesn’t belong at the club. Instagram pics show battered wives, black-eyed and split-lipped gays after bashings, and proof that he supports the KKK. Terrifying hate seethes out of his social media pages, haunting anyone who scrolls through his personal feed. Danny obviously backs the NRA, an anti-gay militia in a suburb of Chicago called The Straight, anti-Jewish forums, and other jaw-dropping cyber societies that believe in an all-white, Aryan race.

  Strangely, I am wrong about Danny. As he sits across from me at Risk’s Diner, meeting for the first time, he tells me, “You look pale, Gyles.”

  I swallow dry air down the back of my throat and feel nervous. Nothing feels right about sitting across from him. We’re complete opposites in every way. Why waste anymore of our time? I get to my point and rattle off, “Your Facebook and Twitter pages are quite racy and shocking. I don’t think the club can use a dancer like you.”

  He laughs: great smile, boyish and handsome mixed, shimmering eyes, tiny wrinkles around the corners of his nose. Not a bad looking guy at all. “Yeah, the kids like to show off. They want to be actors. Maybe I let them stream too many movies. Matt claims he has Jedi blood in him, and Mike insists he can leap over buildings like Superman. Typical boys.”

  I’m confused. Kids? Movies? Actors? The only thing I see on his Facebook page about kids is a strong-right opinion article that suggests Texas authorities should start starving illegal immigrants, including children, and leaving them in cages. The horrendous post has five likes.

  “Sadie tells me I need to give them more substance in life. Flowers, country life, and walks in the park. She doesn’t want to raise two young men without sensitive sides. I’d love to have a third child, a little girl just for her, but we’ve agreed to only have two kids. Providing love to a child is easy, but they’re expensive.”

  Two pics on his Twitter page demonstrate young children holding automatic weapons. Each child sports camouflage from toes to head, a clear statement of his militia support, and possible child abuse and brainwashing.

  “Do you have any kids, Gyles?”

  I don’t answer his questions. I refuse. I want him to know as little as possible about me. He can
share with me, but I’m not about to share anything with him.

  I let out a long sigh and tell him, “Look, Danny, this isn’t going to work out. I’m sorry, but…your personal life isn’t going to mix very well with the club. The men and women who go to my club are mostly liberals. They don’t believe in what you believe in. They believe in peace, love, and liberation of the human soul.”

  The smile on his handsome face deflates. “It’s the short movies of Mike on his skateboard, isn’t it? He took a doozey fall that day, and cried, but fortunately he didn’t get hurt. I’m glad he wore a helmet and pads, though. If he didn’t, I would have had to take him to the hospital.”

  “It has nothing to do with your kids and the short movies they make and put online.”

  “It’s my wife’s recipes that she’s always sharing. A cup of this. A teaspoon of that. She inundates my page with recipes. Strawberry pie. Homemade croissants. A number of stews. She loves to make stews.”

  I shake my head. “It’s not that either.” Frustrated, I key in a few thumb strokes on my phone and go to his Twitter page. There’s a black-and-white picture of WWII that shows Jews being pushed into Nazi trains. The repulsive and spine-clenching blurb beneath the picture says, How to make America great again. I show him the feed and abruptly say, “This is why you can’t work for The Man Club, Danny. People shouldn’t be herded into trains and taken to concentration camps where they’re gassed.”

  “What’s this?” he asks, dumbfounded. As he reviews the post, the glow in his cheeks is lost. He’s no longer smiling and bubbly. The color in his eyes wash out.

  “You tell me. It’s on your Twitter feed.”