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It’s disturbing, how totally normal and fine and completely okay I am. In fact, I’m so obviously fine that Connor and Alan had an intervention with me just last night—all because I didn’t want to go out to the clubs with them, and it was a Friday night.
So what if I wanted to stay in and play games on my fat TV? So what if I didn’t want to throw a party, or hang out with Lex and Omar downstairs, or go to the gym with Dante at all this week?
I’m obviously.
Completely.
Fucking.
Fine.
“Alright, enough of this,” decides Bethany as she stamps out her cigarette prematurely. “Come in. You’re off coffee duty today.”
I lift my head from the crate. “I’m fired?”
“Nope. Reassigned temporarily.” She quirks an eyebrow. “Get your butt up and hustle.”
A minute later, I’m back inside and standing at the curtain leading into the adult toys section.
“This wasn’t what I thought you had in mind,” I admit, wincing.
“What’s with all the shock?” Bethany kicks the side of a box of who-knows-what by the door. “We haven’t had a customer back here in two days. It’s the weekend. There’s a problem with that. You’re the only one in this whole store who gets more ass than a doctor on prostate-checking duty. This back room is now your responsibility. Make it pretty.”
I gawk at it, then turn to her. “But who’s gonna run the bistro?”
“Pfft. The Pope? Your mom? Who the hell did you think was running it now? Certainly not your lazy butt, lounging in the alley.” Bethany lifts her chin at me. “Make it pretty. Your job may depend on it … except not really, because I’ll probably never have the heart to fire you. I’d feel too much fucking pity. Now get to work. I want my butthole to pucker when I enter this room.” With that, she sees herself out.
I stare at the messy room. It’s worse than my apartment at its worst—and that’s saying something. On the shelves, dildos of all sizes, shapes, and colors are piled on top of each other like tired lovers, next to bins of cock rings, masturbators, and “massage wands”. There’s a tub of unused mannequin heads by my feet. Three posters of 90s gay porn stars are pinned to a nearby wall over a long rack of DVDs, which I’ll bet are sticky. There is no air in this room whatsoever, and its only source of light is two slightly off-white, pinkish fluorescent strips.
I feel like this “adult toy room” is the physical embodiment of Hell. And I deserve to be in it.
17
“Okay, so explain this to me one more time,” says Connor, leaning against the bar. “Why, exactly, did you just let him walk away at the wedding …?”
I spin around in my barstool to face the rest of Aubergines and prop my elbows up on the counter behind me. “Because I think he had a point.”
“A point? Really? … All of his negativity about how a long-distance thing wouldn’t work? C’mon.” Connor rolls his eyes and drops onto the seat next to mine. “That sounds like a lot of excuses to me.”
“It would be a strain on us both, right?” I shrug and gesture at the room. “Besides. Look at our nice lives here. I’ll never be short on boys to keep me company. Skylar knew that. I’m totally happy. He gets to pursue a career back home, so he’s happy, too. Look at us both! We’re so satisfied now.”
Connor stares at me, deadpan. “The sound of you lying to yourself is literally painful to hear.”
“I don’t think I’m ready,” I blurt suddenly.
He frowns at me. “What do you mean you’re not ready? For what?”
“The real thing. A guy like Skylar. Whatever could become of us. He needs a man who can take care of himself and be an adult. That’s clearly not me. At least not yet. I’ll probably be a late bloomer. I’ll still be a frat boy when I’m forty.”
“But … isn’t that what he loves about you?”
I laugh. It doesn’t last long. “You know what, Connor? I think I’m finally tired of feeling sorry for myself. I just want to get drunk tonight, dance ‘til I lose half my clothes, and take home the first guy who twists my nipple.”
Connor’s face scrunches up cutely. “That’s an oddly specific bit of criteria.”
“It’s a metaphor, Connor! A metaphor!”
“I don’t think that’s what that is at all. Are you sure this is a wise idea? Partying tonight?”
“Nope!”
Connor frowns. “I’m calling Lex and Omar.”
It turns out not to matter whether it’s a good idea or not, because two very fast hours later, I’m down the street at a nightclub called Polar Bar. Its sign squeezes a tiny “e” in the word Bar, making it appear as “Bear”. No one really knows whether to call it the Polar Bar, or the Polar Bear, or the Polar Bear Bar. But that doesn’t seem to matter either, because it’s actually half a nightclub and half a bar with an Antarctic theme, bluish lighting, and tons of sweaty, shirtless boys dancing and shouting and having a great time from wall to wall.
