Page 95 of Muscle Cub

Kevin shrugged and started to take them off, but I held up my hand to stop him. “No, it’s cool. Thanks. Don’t get me wrong, you look great in those, but… they’re not exactly my style.”

Hank shot Gunner a withering look. “Let the man wear whatever he wants. He doesn’t have to try that hard.”

“That’s right,” Austin said. “We were barely at the party last night for fifteen minutes. Prof picked up most of these bucks in the dining hall in his street clothes.”

“All right.” Gunner raised his hands in surrender. “Point taken. Authenticity is powerful.”

Austin put his arm around me and whispered. “Just be yourself.”

The volume of the music dropped, and Jim’s voice boomed over the speakers. “Testing, testing. Can y’all hear me okay?”

“Shit. It’s starting,” Austin hissed. “Luke! We gotta get my shots ready!” He kissed me and dashed behind the bar.

Jim emerged from the DJ’s tent carrying a microphone and a clipboard. “Look at all the beautiful people here today. Everybody having a good time so far?”

The crowd applauded, but thunder clapped and everyone’s gaze snapped to the southwest. The sun still blazed in the blue sky, but a bank of dark clouds had crept over the mountains.

“Uh-oh. Mother Nature’s telling us to get this show on the road. Y’all better get out of the pool. Safety first. Make room for everybody but keep the catwalk clear.” It seemed impossible this many people could fit inside the pool complex. “Get close. This is your chance to rub up on a handsome stranger. If you haven’t already.”

The unmistakable intro to Missy Elliott’s “I Can’t Stand the Rain” thumped from the speakers, and Jim shot the DJ a glare. “All right, Danny. I know you think you’re being cute with this song choice, but you’re playing with some dangerous weather magic.”

The DJ shouted something I couldn’t hear, and Jim carried on. “Okay. An illustrious panel of self-nominated busybodies”—the score paddle guys waved—“have counted the bear bucks and certified our finalists. Here’s how it’s gonna go down. I’ll announce the category and call the names of the top two contestants. They’re gonna step forward and stomp around this pool for you so you can get one last good look at ’em. The winner shall be determined by the volume of your deafening applause. Let me hear it.” Jim held the microphone out for the crowd’s response, but he made a disappointed face and shook his head. “I said, deafening applause.”

This time, the crowd obliged him with a roar.

“Now that’s what we’re looking for. Danny, for the love of the Goddess, play us something else, please.”

The DJ executed an abrupt song change and blasted the Weather Girls’ ubiquitous gay anthem “It’s Raining Men.”

“Now you’re asking for it,” Jim said sourly. “It’s on you.” He consulted his clipboard. “First up, we’ve got our contenders for Best Otter, Adam and—y’all, I swear, I’m not making this up—Adam and Steve.”

Two lanky, bearded, hairy-chested guys emerged from the crowd, one with a crewcut wearing a silver Speedo, and the other with his long hair piled up in a man-bun and long denim shorts hanging from his narrow hips. They worked their way down opposite sides of the pool, dancing and flirting with the spectators before returning to flank Jim. He called them by name in turns, and they stepped forward to receive their ovations. I felt personally vindicated when Steve won wearing skate punk shorts. He bowed, and after accepting a quick hug from Adam, they melted back into the crowd.

I was relieved by how quickly it had gone, but I still couldn’t see myself doing it. Austin, who was arranging Jell-O shots on a tray with Luke, caught my eye and winked. I glanced at the approaching storm front and prayed for an intervention.

The contest continued with a pair of smooth, musclebound bulls who posed and flexed their way down the catwalk and back. They could’ve been boyfriend twins. It took three separate rounds of applause to determine the winner.

Thunder rumbled, closer this time, and the wind kicked up. The silver undersides of the leaves flashed against the darkening sky.

“I tried to warn you, Danny,” Jim said. “Bring me the cubs. I’m looking for Marcus and Austin.”

A short, stocky guy stepped forward wearing booty shorts and a half-jersey with the number sixty-nine on it. Austin abandoned Luke to the shots pyramid they were building. He paused to kiss me, but instead of joining Jim and Marcus, he raced over to a guy with a colorful tie-dyed sarong knotted around his waist. After hurriedly conferring with him, the guy nodded, removed the sarong, and gave it to Austin.

“What the fuck is he gonna do with that?” I muttered to no one in particular.

“Austin, honey, we’re waiting on you.” With his hand on Marcus’s shoulder, Jim watched with the rest of us as Austin wrapped the fabric around his neck like a long scarf with the ends trailing over his back. “He’s getting into some flowy quick drag for us, y’all.” Austin trotted back to the cabana and took the tray of Jell-O shots from Luke. “Oh, I see. He’s gonna bribe everybody with some free liquor too. He’s coming for you, Marcus.”

Marcus said something the microphone didn’t pick up.

“Didya hear that, Austin?” Jim bellowed. “Marcus said you better work.”

Handing out shots, Austin tossed back over his shoulder, “I’m already working!” And the crowd roared.

This pageant was descending into WWE SmackDown territory.

The slower pace of Madonna’s “Rain” suited Austin’s performative cocktail service, but Marcus had already made it to the turning point and waited awkwardly for Austin to catch up.

After dragging the walk out to three times as long as any previous contestant had taken, Austin finally reached the end of the pool and someone helpfully took his empty tray. When he turned, his eyes sought mine, and I realized he was standing in the same spot where I’d first seen him. He smiled, and even though everyone could bask in it, it was for me.