The Man Club

by R. W. Clinger

  He presses a few buttons on my phone, scrolls down with a fingertip, and shakes his head. His mouth hangs open, and his pupils grow wide. “KKK…population control…support of militia groups…a red United States…caging humans…” He looks up at me and says, “You’ve got the wrong Danny Mumford. This isn’t me. I don’t support any of this. I’m a Democrat. I didn’t vote for Trump. I would never do that to my family.”

  I tell him one of my favorite clichés, “The proof is in the pudding, Danny. I’m sorry.”

  He returns my phone, and I tuck it away.

  “My Twitter and Facebook pages have a different name. You’ve got the wrong guy. You’re looking at somebody else’s page.” He pulls out his phone, brings up his Facebook page, and passes the phone to me. “Look at this. Recipes and skateboarding. Pics of my family. Boating pics last summer on Lake Erie. Stuffed animals hugging. Cotton candy being eaten by little boys. An all-white cat with pink ears named Bethesda. Ducks swimming in a pond. My wife, Sadie, planting roses, grinning from ear to ear and being as lovely as ever. Those are a far cry from Hitler and putting kids in cages. What kind of man do you think I am, Gyles? Tell me. Tell me.”

  My heart stops beating in my ears. There’s nothing shocking on his Facebook page. He’s right. I read a recipe for vegetable lasagna and see a video with his two sons playing in a backyard: Thor helmets on their heads and plastic swords in their tiny grips, gleeful smiles on their boyish faces, and excitement in their eyes. There’s another video of Danny and his wife making tacos together in their kitchen; the kids lurking nearby with bright eyes, loving every minute of the family time.

  “I go by Daniel J. Mumford on my pages. Not Danny Mumford. I voted for Hillary Clinton and would never refer to a woman’s personal and private body parts using vulgarities. I believe our country is in decline because of our president, and I refuse to be a part of it. But I’m still proud to be an American, and I want the best for my boys and wife.”

  He’s right again. I see the username Daniel J. Mumford on his Facebook page and shake my head.

  “Scroll through the feed. You won’t find things about Isis, hate, and what you’re looking for. I have nothing to hide from you.”

  Posts of lions, a picture of Captain Crunch, a puppy chasing its own tail, and two more recipes are listed on his feed. There are seven pics of his sons, a few of his wife, and a selfie of Danny in his Taurus positioned behind the wheel. His kids are in the back seats of the Taurus, grinning at the camera, both give peace signs; a perfect father-and-sons shot.

  “It’s not that I’m looking for those things, Danny. I’m just trying to protect my club and the women and men who enjoy spending time there.”

  “You’re mistaken about my identity, Gyles. I’m not who you think I am.”

  Obviously, I think. “My apologies. This is a misunderstanding,” I whisper and return his phone to him. I feel embarrassed, like a fool, and ashamed of my behavior. I’m sure my cheeks are red, on fire. I’ve made a terrible mistake, questioning his integrity, family, values, and life. Shame on me. What was I thinking?

  He handles the issue like a man, with ease, and rather smoothly. It’s another upstanding characteristic about the man. “No problem. I understand. I respect a man who is looking out for his business, endeavors, and has high moral codes. There’s nothing wrong with that. Don’t let anyone make you think different.”

  “Thanks,” I tell him, but it sounds ridiculous, ineffective. I stumble through a string of thoughts: I should’ve done better homework on the man; I’ve placed him in an awkward position; I feel embarrassed. To break the ice between us and cause a lighter mood, I ask, “The J in your name…what does it stand for?”

  He chuckles. “Jyles. Just like your name.”

  I laugh.

  He laughs.

  We become friends hereafter, solid.

  * * * *

  Home again. Rarely am I here. But it’s not a bad feeling. Things are in place, organized. It’s a rather comfortable kingdom, especially since Car is here. The guy makes it better at home, warmer, kinder, and sweeter. I don’t know how, but he does. I like having him around. I need him around.

  He has a gift for me, which is unexpected. Inside the kitchen, he passes me a palm-sized, wooden box shaped like a treasure chest. Two red, leather straps run vertically over the top of the box. It has a brass clasp that flips open in its center, front.

  “Open it,” he says, gleaming smile.

  I unclasp the wooden box and open its convex lid. Lime green tissue lines its bottom. On top of the tissue sits a narrow, marbleized blue-and-white pen. “It’s beautiful,” I tell him.

  “It’s from Greece. One of my friends picked it up for me, and I had it shipped here just for you. You can use it for your paperwork at the club.”

  I want to tell him that the paperwork chore at the club is mostly done on a laptop. I play nice, though. I’m not ungrateful and say, “This is stunning. I’ll cherish it.”

  He comes at me with open arms. We hug, and I thank him for the pen. Unexpectedly, his lips meet my cheek and neck. The kiss is soothing and heated. His hands find my sides. Fingertips graze my ribs. I feel his heavy breath against my skin. A jolt of excitement rushes through my frame. I don’t know what’s happening between us, but I rather enjoy our connection. Something fiery and wild spins within my stomach. I feel weak in the knees, and my breathing intensifies as my temperature rises. Rather quickly, I realize he wants me: here and now, the two of us mixed together, and more than just roommates in the Cape Cod.

  Our lips meet. It feels right. It feels real.

  I don’t push him away. I can’t. I refuse to.

  He slides one of his palms to the center of my legs and rolls fingertips over my khakis, hardening me. His other palm finds the back of my head, and he brushes fingers through my hair. The kissing continues, and we heavily pant, needing and wanting each other, creating a fresh, and different relationship together.

  I pull away from him, pant. “What are we doing, Car?”

  “Caring for you,” he whispers, wiping spittle away from his lips with the back of his right hand.

  “Is this what you want?”

  “Since I first moved in. You drive me mad. I have more than a crush on you. You’re all I think about these days. The question is, do you want this like I do?”

  I don’t have to think about it and say, “I do care for you and…”

  It happens here in the kitchen, over the three-person table where we have shared many meals together during his stay on Foster Drive. It happens abruptly, hungry for each other, peeling each other’s clothes off and dropping them to the kitchen floor. It happens without any constructive thoughts or clarity. It happens…

  I’m pushed over the table and feel the maple wood against my spine and bare bottom. Car becomes aggressive with me, an animal of sorts, and clasps fingers to my neck, squeezing it with gentle power. He leans over me, meeting my bare chest with his, and he kisses me, using his tongue. When he rises from me, his palm and fingers roll down the center of my chest. His hand finds the swollen and upright cock between my legs, and he collapses his palm around it.

  As he swiftly, but slowly, begins to stroke it up and down, he says, “Stay here. Don’t move. I need some lube and a condom.”

  He returns within a minute, carrying tools, ready for our twosome. Again, he leans over me, swirls his tongue over one nipple, the other nipple, and drags the appendage down to my navel. Here, he forces his hunger to my center and takes me inside his mouth, lodging my mass down his tight throat. In just a few seconds, he begins to bob his head up and down, up and down, up and down.

  I can’t recall the last time I have been intimate with a man. Time becomes a steady blur for me. I become dizzy on the table, under his care. My senses deplete, and I turn semi-unconscious as he seduces me. Pain shifts through my core when he pushes my legs apart and directs his dick inside me. Here, lost under his thrusting, being penetrated, feeling overheated, and
somewhat lethargic, I lose myself during his steady and triumphant play.

  He executes most of the work between us. I won’t lie. My actions are limited inside the kitchen; a devoted partner throughout his tender care. I confess (selfishly grinning here and now, years later) that I reach upwards with a hand and cup one of his pecs, twisting it left, right.

  I admit to whispering to him, begging, demanding from him, yearning for him, “Harder, Car. Please…harder. Don’t be nice to me.”

  He listens. Such a good man. A prize. My find among the world of few good men. My infatuation and flame, a potent desire. Someone who has been right in front of me for months, and I haven’t really noticed a sexual longing for him, until now. Too strong of a desire here and now. Just us. The way I want it to be. A man among men who cares for me: mentally, emotionally, and obviously physically. I become weak on the table, almost useless under his touch, exhausted, sweaty, and unruly. We pulse together, magically, without any inhibitions whatsoever, and rather methodically, coupled by nature.

  He heaves to and fro, pushing my knees apart, broadening his horizon regarding my bottom. The kitchen table rocks under our motion. There are no boundaries between us as he removes his right hand from my knee and wraps it around my cock. There is no turning back when he whispers down to me, “I’m going to make you come with me, Gyles.” There are no questions asked, only pulsing mattering at hand, when we begin the ending to our table affair, groaning, grunting, and wildly moving—heated lovers at work, relentless.

  Are we men or animals on the table? This, I am unable to answer. The only thing I understand, digest, and feel as elementary: I become…his. Only his. And I’m burning all over, happy.

  * * * *

  March 2

  Winter is a ferocious beast. The day becomes blistering cold, nothing one can prepare for when it felt like forty degrees Fahrenheit the day before. I finish a list of provisions to purchase for the bar when Coben Fierce walks into my office, unannounced. He looks down, unshaven, and not at all himself.

  Downtrodden, he whispers, “Can we talk?”

  I haven’t seen him for four weeks. Maybe I don’t want to see him for another four weeks. “Of course. Close the door behind you.” I apologize to him that there isn’t another seat in my office.

  “No problem.” He brushes two fingertips along his shadowy beard. “You probably are surprised to see me.”

  “I won’t lie. I am surprised. Our last encounter didn’t end positive. What brings you to The Man Club again?”

  “I realize we’ve had a falling out, Gyles. It’s why I stopped by.”

  I can’t think of anyone as acutely handsome as Coben, except for Car, of course. Coben’s good looks move men and women. They have an unspeakable power I can’t understand, but enjoy, probably like others do. I look at my cellphone and tell him, “Can we make this short? I have a meeting in a few minutes with Rocco and his boyfriend.”

  “Short is best,” he says, semi-smiling, but still looking depleted.

  “Go on then,” I say, waving a hand at him. “Tell me what you need to say, and then we can get on with our days.” It sounds hurtful, curt, and to the point, but I can’t think of any other way to carry out our conversation. We both know he has damaged The Man Club and my personal affections for him. I can’t trust him and really don’t want to have this brief encounter with him, but foolishly do.

  He blinks, obviously nervous. “I want to come back and dance for you.”

  I immediately shake my head. “You can’t. You were a jerk to me, Coben. And you let the other dancers down. Truth said, business has dropped because of you. Women and men love you. You know what you’re doing on stage. You put on the best dances. But you’re hard-headed and almost impossible to manage. You have a mind and spirit of your own that I can’t work with. Bottom line, you called off way too much, and it’s hard to get dancers to fill in for you when they’re not scheduled. Thank God Rocco is a team player, or I would have faced some issues that I didn’t want to deal with. He’s taken over your shifts and…”

  “I’ll do better,” he explains, helplessly pleading, tears in his eyes. “I’ll dance when you need me to dance. I’ll be a team player and listen to you. I won’t make up my own rules. I won’t be an asshole like I’ve been. Trust me when I say this. Give me a second chance. Let me be part of The Man Club team again. Everyone needs a second chance. You. Me. Everyone. Don’t you agree?”

  I release an uncomfortable sigh and roll my eyes. Part of me wants to tell him to get the fuck out of my office and that I never want to see him again. And, if he steps inside my club anytime soon, I’ll call the cops on his ass. A sane part of my mind, and heart, shines through, though. I shimmer, even when I don’t mean to shimmer. I think of the money I’m losing at the club because he’s not dancing. I’m thinking of those visiting ladies and men who ask me, “Where’s Coben? You know he’s my favorite.” I think of second chances and how people can change. I think of his beautiful looks, toned chest, and how the other dancers got along with him (except for Titan) and didn’t bitch about him calling off. I think about…

  “Tomorrow,” I tell him. “Bring your lime Aussiebums. You can work the eight-to-two shift. It’s ladies’ nights. They’ll be hungry for you.”

  “Thanks!” he exclaims, bubbling with an effortless smile.

  I point a finger at him. “Don’t fuck this up, Coben. I’m going out on a limb for you. You’re a good guy. I think you know this. You just need some improvements.”

  “I won’t let you down,” he chirps, keeping himself from crying.

  I let him circle my desk and hug me. He smells good, like almonds and cinnamon. The male and female patrons at the club will eat him up whole again, giving him a second chance. A delicious man who deserves a second chance. A wanted and needed man by the club’s patrons. My top dancer on board again.

  He best not let me down.

  Something tells me he won’t.

  * * * *

  A few minutes later…

  It’s no secret that Rocco Spar and Lock Sheldon are lovers. The two have fallen hard and fast for each other. Rocco calls it love at first sight, which I’m a big believer in.

  Lock comes by the club with Rocco. He picks up and drops off his boyfriend on numerous days. Sometimes, Lock sits at the bar and has a drink. I have one or two with him, getting to know the guy. I think he’s sweet, charming, and good for Rocco. He’s a charmer: smooth, calm, and has his head on straight. I rather like the guy and think him nice. Not at all bad company to share a beverage with. He tells me Rocco’s the man of his dreams. The guy he wants to someday marry and live a long and happy life with. I believe him. How can’t I?

  The duo has a proposition for me. No problem. I’m always up for one. The three of us have a short meeting in one of the private, upstairs rooms where bachelorettes or kinky men have one on ones with the club’s dancers, spending loads of cash. The three rooms are identical: a leather half-circle seat extends around the room, a small table, floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and jazzy lights that cost me a fortune.

  The three of us drink shots of bourbon. A strong drink for a strong meeting, I always say. My treat.

  Rocco says, “What do you think about Lock and I doing a dance routine for the guys tonight? It’s a young crowd, and maybe we can bring the cash in with an erotic, dick-grinding performance together?”

  “Details,” I tell him. “Provide me with details.”

  Rocco paints a graphic picture for me. Both chiseled men will be in full dress, preferably suits. They’ll perform to a slow song by James Blunt or Ed Sheeran. They romantically strip each other out of their clothes to the music, down to navy blue thongs. On stage, they will make love through dance, moving, gliding, grinding, and dry-humping to the music.

  “It will be a love story of sorts. A duet and play. We’ll perform three or four different scenes throughout the night.”

  I like what they have to say. It could be the new big thing at The Man Club:
short erotic scenes with meanings and storylines.

  Curious, on my game, I ask them, “Neither of you will be naked, right?”

  Rocco shakes his head. “Of course not.”

  “Because the city will shut us down if you are.”

  Lock admits, “We might get hard, though.”

  I like the man and his honesty. “As long as you keep your dicks inside their material, I don’t care. There’s no law against hidden erections. A bump is a bump according to the state.”

  Rocco nods.

  Lock nods.

  They say in unison, “We can do that.”

  “Sounds like it might work,” I tell him. “We can get Lock on the books and a member number. And we can get the two of you scheduled. There’s only one catch, though.”

  They lean into me, listening, fully alert, grinning and excited like young boys.

  “You say there are four different scenes, or individual stories, right?”

  They both nod.

  “Then plan it for next week. Create some backdrops and set up some furniture, lighting, and other things to go with the scenes on the stage. I’ll front you some cash for the props. If the two of you are going to do this for the club, do it big time. This could be our next ride. The ladies and queer gents might love it.”

  We shake on it.

  We smile.

  It’s a go.

  * * * *

  Get in touch with your feelings. Sometimes, it’s okay to be weak. You’re only human. Save perfection for the gods. People like you just the way you are. Don’t forget this.

  The note card from Car is in the bathroom, next to my razor.

  I read it a second time. A smile takes over my face.

  I put the note away with the others in the shoe box.

  For safe keeping.

  * * * *

  The following afternoon Jane Marcell and I meet at La Rue again for drinks. She has a fresh bob, her nails are perfect, and it’s obvious she’s recently had a Botox session under her eyes and along her forehead.

  She drinks a Bloody Mary.

  I have a Sprite over ice.

  “Jane, you look fabulous in the cashmere today. Refined. Stunning. A woman with power.”