Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 31591 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 158(@200wpm)___ 126(@250wpm)___ 105(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31591 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 158(@200wpm)___ 126(@250wpm)___ 105(@300wpm)
Admire them from afar. Maybe it was my desperation, or maybe it was the four shots of espresso I’d slammed down, but my racing mind knitted together an idea. I just had to find a place where I could secretly watch scantily-clad men as they moved in interesting positions. Brandon, that’s called stalking and people get arrested for it.
There had to be a happy medium. Guys were always playing on the soccer field, but would they get pissed at a gay boy for watching and sketching them? The fear alone was enough to rid the idea from my mind.
The next idea to pop into my head was a strip club. But even if there was a men’s strip club nearby (there wasn’t, I’d checked), I was a poor college student and couldn’t afford it.
But what about a gay dance club? It could offer beautiful bodies and movement...everything I needed. Yes, it was scary, and yes, it was way outside of my comfort zone, but I was running out of time and options. Before I could talk myself out of it, I gathered up my sketch kit and grabbed my keys.
After a twenty minute drive, pulling onto the highway shoulder to vomit from nerves, stopping to buy a pack of gum, and a long pep talk with myself, I arrived at Pride Place, the club I’d discovered from an internet search.
My heart dropped when I saw the number of cars in the parking lot. I assumed the club would be busy on a Friday night, but I wasn’t prepared for a crowd like this. My breathing and pulse picked up, but I pulled into a spot, climbed out of my car, and forced one foot in front of the other until I reached the entrance.
I paid the (thankfully cheap) cover charge and stepped inside the club before being thrown into sensory overload; a heavy bass line pumped across speakers all around me, vibrating in my chest and beneath my feet. The scent of sweat and alcohol assaulted my nose. Lights flashed and swirled, bouncing off of hard, sculpted bodies that swayed in all directions.
I've made a mistake. This place was too loud, too crowded, and way too cool for me. I started to spin around to leave, but took a deep breath and tried to talk myself down.
“You can do this,” I said out loud, confident that no one could hear my mumbling over the music. “You don’t have to dance or speak to anyone. Just consider this a research mission. No one will bother you.”
That last statement brought me the most peace; I'd rather be ignored than noticed. It also rang true; I was surrounded by beautiful, confident men. No one would notice me in the crowd. No one was going to see my thick, nerdy glasses and oversize sweater and think, Ooh, I have to go talk to him.
I scanned my eyes around the room and found an unattended high top table tucked in a dark corner, away from the crowd. I hustled over and claimed it by placing my sketchpad on the tabletop, standing with my back to the wall.
My gaze wandered again, taking in the sweaty, gyrating bodies on the dance floor. It would be easy to drool over the sight, but I had a job to do. I shook my head and looked at the men again, this time seeing hard planes, shadows, bulges, and smooth lines.
I pressed my pencil to my pad and jumped when a voice said from beside me, "Whatcha doin'?" I whipped my head around and saw a man standing next to me. He was only a little taller and broader than I, and was studying me curiously.
"Oh...um...drawing?" I replied like it was a question.
"Huh. I've never seen anyone do that here." He shrugged and added, "Can I get you something to drink?"
My head spun again, this time in disbelief that someone was actually flirting with me. "I...wow. I'm so flattered! This has never happened to me before." Shut up and tell him yes!
But before I could answer, the man folded in his brows and he asked, "You've never ordered a drink?"
"Order? I would never order anyone to-" Wait a minute. It was then that I noticed that the tight black shirt he wore had the club's name printed on it. "Oh god, you're a bartender, aren't you?"
He still appeared confused when he answered, "Yeah," but after a moment, his eyes widened with realization. "Oh!"
"I'm so sorry," I said as I closed my sketchbook. "I should go. I'm so embarrassed."
"No, no, stay," he pleaded, placing a hand on my shoulder. "I'm sorry; I'm a total ditz sometimes."
"It's my fault; I should've known better than to think you were hitting on me."
"Why? You're super cute!" The bartender leaned in close to add, "I'm just into older guys; silver Daddies all the way for me." He smiled and stuck out his hand. "I'm Rowdy, by the way."