Page 4 of Muscle Cub

The beer selection was pretty fucking atrocious, so I purchased a can of something cheap from an angry-looking guy about my age, muscular, bearded, handsome, and still wearing a staff T-shirt. He was one of the only men other than me not wearing a costume. He looked like he was only just managing to suffer the foolishness around us by sheer will. A pretty blond surfer type leaned across the bar and said something to him, and he lost his surliness in a smile.

Maybe this wasn’t gay hell after all but some kind of gay heaven.

I found a wall where I could blend in and observe this whole new level of clothing options. There were bearded nuns in comically oversized wimples, monks in rope-belted tunics, and more than a few Jesuses in bad wigs. Among the variety of scantily clad angels, one seraphim wore a set of wings with a pulley apparatus that allowed for a full human-scale wing extension. Although the engineering was impressive, he kept clearing the dance floor around him. Someone was going to lose an eye before the party was over. The extremely realistic-looking arrows piercing Saint Sebastian were similarly unlikely to survive long in a crowd this tight without actually goring someone.

My personal favorite concept was the shirtless foursome in priest collars, black jockstraps, and combat boots. They looked like a sacrilegious male exotic dance troupe.

Kudos on the coordination, boys.

Clueless and unprepared, I’d shown up in the most damning drag of all—the unimaginative uniform of the average middle-aged gay man venturing out to the bar on a Friday night for the first time in forever: khaki shorts, white sneakers, and a white knit polo shirt that I’d ironed before leaving home. I’d hung it in my truck so I’d have something unwrinkled to wear to my friends’ birthday party. As if wrinkles would have been the part of my outfit to call attention to me. My shirt and sneakers were now glowing faintly purple from a nearby black light.

I was calculating how long I should stay and look for the birthday boys before slipping out and going back to my tent to read when I heard my name being shouted over the din.

Finally, there were Eric and Ben. They wore matching devil horn headbands, and Eric’s arm was draped across Ben’s shoulders.

What the fuck?

“Paul! You’re here!” Eric pulled me into a hug. He was obviously wasted.

Okay. This was unexpected, but considering what I knew of their long history together, it wasn’t a complete shock. They’d dated when they were younger and had remained friends for years. I’d certainly never seen them being physical with each other, but they’d always felt like an old married couple who might have outgrown some of their affection.

“What the fuck is this?” I smiled and gestured at them hanging all over each other, but Eric must have thought I meant the party.

“It’s Saints and Sinners!” he said, raising his cup in a toast.

Ben grinned at me through slitted eyelids, either drunk, stoned, blissed out on Eric, or all of the above.

“Come to Bear Camp, you said.” I had to shout so they could hear me over the music. “Lots of regular guys like us just hanging out by the pool and sitting around a campfire.”

Eric waved it away like a minor scheduling conflict. “That’s tomorrow. Tonight it’s a dance party.”

“You never said anything about costumes.”

Eric rolled his eyes. “It’s not that big a deal.”

At that moment, a pope with a bedazzled miter on his head and a hand-beaded robe squeezed between us. I had no idea which pope he was supposed to be, but I could feel the weight of the costume. In terms of time, materials, labor, and concept, everything about it screamed kind of a big deal.

Eric’s eyes crossed a little, then refocused on me. He looked chastened. “Okay. Yeah. Some of these queens go all out. But it doesn’t have to be that deep. Ben and I usually just throw some shit together, or we borrow a few accessories from those who overprepare.” He carefully touched his horns. “You just need the tiniest makeover.”

I held up my hands in a universal warding off gesture. “No thanks.”

Eric leaned in to whisper sloppily against my ear. “Dude, you kinda look like somebody’s dad.” He pulled back suddenly, opening his eyes wide. “Or was that what you were going for?”

I crossed my arms and glared at him. “I’m good.”

“No, wait. I got you covered. This is a very sharing environment. Give me two seconds.”

Eric, at that level of drunk and enthusiastic that couldn’t be argued with, had already disappeared into the crowd and was conferring with a guy as he rummaged in a backpack. He returned bearing a headband with a silver tinsel halo, and, despite my protests, mounted it on my skull.

“Oh my God. It totally suits you!” He grabbed my shoulders and turned me toward a mirror on the wall.

Through the beer logo frosted across its surface and with the smoke and lights behind me, I resembled a character who had died and gone to heaven in a bad sitcom dream sequence. “I look fucking ridiculous.”

“You look hot. You’re totally gonna get your groove back this weekend.”

Get my groove back. The expression made me cringe, but I couldn’t fault Eric for not knowing the full story. I’d never confided to him that it was less about an opportunity to hunt and more about my ability to follow through. “We’ll see.”

“You haven’t spotted any of your students yet, have you?” Eric waggled his eyebrows.