The Man Club Read online

  The Man Club

  By R.W. Clinger

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2019 R.W. Clinger

  ISBN 9781634868150

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  The Man Club

  By R. W. Clinger

  I have a photographic memory and see a pink employee note card with:

  Name: Coben Fierce

  Club Member Number: 782-287-032

  Stage Name: Mr. Abs

  Date of Birth: August 6, 1980

  Occupation: Actor (mostly in commercials)

  Height: Six-two

  Weight: 190

  Hair: Blond

  Eyes: Blue

  Status: Always single, never attached to a man

  Special notes: Coben’s an arrogant man. Talks about himself too much. Doesn’t like to follow rules. He’s stunning, with big pecs, and has quite the sexual history with men. Many say he’s talented in bed and at dancing.

  * * * *

  Irritated, becoming overtly pissed, I ask in a curt tone, “What do you mean you can’t make it tonight, Coben?”

  “What don’t you understand, Gyles Beare? Pay attention to what I’m saying. Is English your second language? I’m calling off. I won’t be doing the show tonight. You’ll have to find another dancer.”

  Fuck! He’s driving me nuts! Why does he make me feel like his babysitter? All the dancers at the club do this. And why haven’t I fired him? Christ knows he needs to be fired. He’s always missing shifts. The women and men patrons look for him, and he’s never there. What an unreliable dick!

  “You’d best have a good excuse, Coben. You’ve called off three times in the last month, and it’s turning into a problem. You know I need dependable dancers. No other club in the tri-state area would put up with this. You’re fucking lucky I don’t fire you here and now!”

  He fakes a cough. “I’m sick. I think it’s a cold. Something bad. An apocalyptical flu that’s going to take out ninety percent of the population.” He coughs a second time. Silence.

  I know he has an arts degree in drama from Yullner Arts School in Ohio. I also know he’s performed in a number of plays, musicals, and commercials in Templeton, entertaining locals for the past dozen years. I know he’s talented on stage, acting, singing, and dancing. He can’t fool me. This afternoon’s scene is a joke, a pure act on his part. He doesn’t pull the wool over my eyes.

  Truth is, he’s probably spending the night inside a wrestler: dinner, drinks, and some rough sex against one of the city’s brick walls. Coben’s fond of wrestlers and brick walls. It’s a strange attraction I don’t understand. He likes the fake action, sweat, long hair, and muscles. He likes the scripts and makeup. He recently told me during one of our odd and uncomfortable conversations, “The boots turn me on, Gyles. I think they’re totally sexy. They make me fucking hard.”

  Whatever. I don’t care what kind of boot cult he’s in. My bar, The Man Club, needs a dancer tonight. The show must go on. I need someone to draw in the gays and middle-aged women who like queer dancers. I need to pay the bills, and dollars need to fly. Coben’s just one of the ten guys to get the job done. He might be the oldest dancer, but he’s the best at putting on a show. I can’t think of anyone else who knows how to swing their bikini-covered dick around, and show off his bronze-colored ass and thick pecs. I won’t lie: lots of green comes from him, which the club needs, as well as my bank account. I hate it when the fucker calls off, putting me into a spin.

  “Coben, listen to me. And listen closely. If you’re not at the club by eight this evening, you’re fired. Do you understand that? Do you read me? Is my ultimatum clear?”

  He says something to me I can’t understand. The connection breaks between us because of the February snowstorm outside.

  “Fuck!” I yell, perturbed.

  I call him back. No answer. I try to call him a second time. Still no answer.

  Eventually, I leave him the message: Show up tonight, or you’re done. No dancing for you! Take me serious. I’m not fucking around.

  It’s time for a drink. Why not? Vodka. Lemonade. Some iced tea. Ice cubes. Down the hatch. The shit tastes good. It’s strong and starts to mellow me out.

  I begin to pace through my Cape Cod with the beverage, breaking down the carpet in the living room and dining room. I slap leather heels against the kitchen’s ceramic tile, inside the sitting room that rarely gets used, through the foyer, and back inside the living room. It’s a vicious circle. It’s calming. It’s what I need right now after my call with my number one dancer.

  “What to do? What to do? You’re an asshole, Coben, and you’ve placed me in an ugly situation. All you think about is yourself. You’re not dedicated to my club and never have been. You’re selfish and a prick. I should have gotten rid of you months ago. I should have never hired you. Look at the position you’ve placed me in today.”

  I drink and think. The Man Club surfaces within my thoughts. I’ve owned the place for seventeen years. Bought it when I was twenty-seven for a steal. Only fifty grand. It used to be called Chains, a sadomasochistic bar for straight kinks, illicit prostitutes, and druggies. Buddy Chain retired, closed it down, and moved to Key West. I took it off his hands and made a queer club for men. Fortunately, the club’s a success for me. I open the place at six in the evening, serve the best cocktails in town, and show off the male erotic dancers between eight and two. This is my life. This is what I do. This is a part of my soul.

  Everyone has a good time at The Man Club; this is what I want. No one leaves unhappy, unless it’s personal and none of my business. It’s closed on Mondays; even I need a break. The ladies get Tuesday nights just for themselves, loving the male strippers/dancers. Karaoke is on Wednesdays. Thursdays are football nights for the butch gents and mean lesbians. The queers (twinks, daddies, blue-collar gents, white-collar bottoms, feisty jocks, and gym rats) get Friday and Saturday nights. Sundays are big days for bridal, bachelor, and bachelorette parties, same-sex receptions, queer birthday parties, queer anniversary parties, coming out parties, and other events that help pay the bills.

  I want to say the place runs itself, but this is a total lie. I work my ass off to keep it running. It’s my blood, and I rarely have anytime for myself, keeping busy with the place. A lot of hard work goes on there: provision ordering, payroll, hiring and firing staff (bartenders, cooks, wait staff, bouncers, and dancers), everyday maintenance, everyday dramas, and scheduling, just to name a few of my responsibilities.

  I love it, though. I wouldn’t have it any other way. The club is my home away from hom
e. It’s my life at the moment. Everything about it. The reason I get out of bed every morning. My passion and pride.

  I have a second drink. A third drink. I decide to stop drinking before I get sloppy drunk. Besides, I have to work tonight, managing the club. For two hours, I wait for Coben to call or text me back. It’s a long two hours, but I believe in giving people time to cool down after an ugly conflict, become rational again, and work through the problem.

  He doesn’t call or text back. Fucker. Asshole. Selfish shithead.

  I’m not surprised. Why should I be? The guy only cares about himself. There’s a price to pay for being an arrogant fuck, of course. Everyone knows this. Even Coben. The payment’s simple but alerting.

  He’ll be surprised when he receives my next text to him. Something not so sweet and charming, but definitely to the point: You’re fired!

  Fuck him.

  * * * *

  Name: Carson “Car” Tate

  Club Member Number: n/a (I pay him under the table when he helps me out)

  Stage Name: n/a

  Date of Birth: Don’t know, maybe I should find out

  Occupation: Dog walker

  Height: Five-ten, maybe -eleven

  Weight: Around 165

  Hair: Black

  Eyes: Blue

  Status: Single (I think, not sure, he has his life, and I have mine)

  Special Notes: When you think of Car, you best think of a wheat field blowing in the wind, waving. The man’s a sweetheart, someone you can take home to meet your parents on Thanksgiving Day and they will fall in love with. Player is the furthest thing from his mind. He’s monogamous, caring, sensitive, and just a nice guy with a nice heart and…a nice butt. It’s not an easy butt to forget.

  * * * *

  Car blocks my pacing, faces me. He rubs my back with a swirling palm, attempts to calm me down. He whispers, “Gyles, take it easy. Don’t have an aneurism or heart attack over this shit. It’s not worth it. Don’t let the club kill you. You can find another dancer for tonight. Stop worrying. No one has to bow down to Coben, although some men think they do.”

  Car’s thirty, but he looks like he’s twenty. Smooth skin. Bright eyes with very little wear. Easygoing. Sweet. Soft-natured. He looks like an underwear model. Gorgeous. Handsome mixed with some pretty. Mature and immature looks. Somewhat studious. A gentleman’s gentleman.

  I think he likes renting the spare bedroom from me in my Cape Cod. He’s made himself home here for eight months now. He’s comfortable along Lake Erie, new to Templeton, Pennsylvania. Planted here because he likes the calm lake instead of living in downtown Pittsburgh.

  “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

  “I just fired Coben…by text.”

  He sighs. He knows Coben is important to the club, raking in the cash; a star at the place; a strong money maker who helps pay the bills on a monthly basis. Car hugs me; I don’t expect anything less from him because he’s the sweetest guy on the planet. A gem. A star. Simply generous with his heart and words. He kisses my cheek. I’m not surprised. Good guys like to kiss. He’s a hugger, too, and he’s compassionate.

  When he pulls away from me, he says, “I’ll call Rocco. He can dance tonight.”

  Car’s not an employee at the club, but he sometimes helps out with scheduling, bartending, and fry cook, but only when the club needs him, when I need him. He walks dogs during the morning and afternoon hours, sometimes in the evenings. It gives him available time to help me out at the club. I pay him under to table when this happens. He’s a good standby employee for me. The best. Someone I can rely on when I need him.

  “Rocco doesn’t work outside of his schedule. He won’t do it.”

  Car winks at me. He shares that adorable smile again: all teeth, narrow lips, tiny wrinkles around his mouth. “Trust me. He owes me a favor.”

  “What kind of favor?”

  How can I not know the details of Car’s life when he lives in the same house as I do? Are we this distant? Do we not share anything with each other? How close is he to Rocco Spar, one of the club’s regular dancers? Are they boyfriends? Have they slept together? What kind of past do they have that I don’t know about?

  “You know Lock Sheldon?”

  “I do.”

  A nice guy. Married once. Has two sons in high school. Single now. Queer now. And he’s found his true self in the last year. A construction worker. Blue collar all the way. Sexy as hell. He’s looking for Mr. Right now that he’s divorced from Shannon Rae. Lock’s not the best dancer at the club, but he gives it a whirl. He holds his ground.

  “Rocco wanted to introduce him to Lock. I set them up together. They’re on date number three and hitting it off just fine. Rocco told me he owes me a favor.”

  “Will you call him?”

  He shakes his head. “I’ll text him. Rocco only communicates with his thumbs.” This is how nice Car is. He’s using his favor with Rocco to help me out. Damn, the guy’s an angel or saint. He’s above and beyond a gentleman.

  I understand. “If he says no, do you want to fill in and dance tonight?”

  He laughs, thumbing his phone. “With my left feet? Do you want to lose all your business, Gyles?”

  “No way. Forget about dancing.”

  His phone dings. “Rocco responded. He’ll dance tonight. Plus, he said he had sex with Lock. Big dick. Great top. Rocco’s a happy man.”

  “Tell him I said thanks.”

  “Will do.”

  He fetches a small roll of blue plastic bags that fits into his palm. “I have a dog to walk. Mrs. Glory’s St. Bernard.”

  “Tiny. Isn’t that the dog’s name?”

  He nods on his way out of the house with one of his favorite leashes in a back pocket of his jeans. “I like how you pay attention. You want to come? Maybe a walk will calm you down more.”

  “Can’t. I have to get to the club.”

  “No problem. We both have jobs. Things to do. It doesn’t run itself.”

  He hugs me before he leaves the house: lightly, chests touching, head on my shoulder. His soft lips slide against the right side of my neck. Maybe he likes to kiss me. Maybe we’re more than a landlord and tenant. Is he falling for me after eight months? What’s going on? I’m not really sure.

  I ignore the hug and kiss. Better things to do. A club to run. I don’t tell him he might be falling for the wrong guy, a certain someone whose club is running his life.

  He waves goodbye and leaves the house.

  I wonder when he’s had a boyfriend last. I should know this. How can I not know this because of all the morning cups of coffee we’ve shared in the last eight months? Does he miss living in Pittsburgh? Will he ever go back there to live? I wonder if he secretly works out because of his sexy tight ass. Does he have a gym membership somewhere in Templeton? Has he always walked dogs? Does he like cats? What’s his favorite color? Does he drink milk or eat bread? When is his birthday? Is he a top or bottom? Does he likes guys who look like me?

  Hmmmmm…

  He’s a mystery to me. Strangely, I wonder many things about Car that I don’t know the answers to, realizing we should spend more time together. Am I working too hard? Does the club really have to take up all my time and life? Am I far too dedicated to the place and not paying attention to other things in the world around me?

  I do know a little about Car, though. He was born and raised in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Two wealthy cowboys adopted him when he was six months old. Car’s the only child of Brett Harding and Cliff Nelson. He’s had a good life, and he’s healthy. After growing up as a cowboy, he attended Texas A&M and obtained a degree in business. He gained a high-paying job and worked for the Westshire Foundation based in Pittsburgh; the company writes grants to protect animals. The foundation supports animal rescue, rehabilitation, research, and advocacy.

  Car got tired of the job, the city, and moved to Templeton, Pennsylvania, next to Lake Erie. He’s told me he didn’t like the city noises anymore, the traffic, and craziness
of downtown Pittsburgh. He wanted to change his life. Templeton called to him. My ad in the local paper for the spare room in the Cape Code called to him. We’re friends now. We’re roommates. I like having him around.

  I stay behind. I take a shower. I drink a hot cup of coffee. I…

  There’s a magenta-colored envelope on my bed. It sits on the left pillow. It says my name in script. I pick it up, slice it open with a thumbnail, and pull out a light blue note card. The note card has a personal message on it:

  Gyles, thanks for everything you do for me. I’m very appreciative of your friendship. Car.

  It’s not the first note card he’s left for me. It probably won’t be the last. He’s creative with this game, if it can be considered a game. I have approximately forty note cards from him in a shoebox in my bedroom. They say different things. Chin up, life is sweet. You look good today. Keep smiling. Be all you can be. Spread the joy. You’re losing weight, let’s have ice cream later. Don’t forget to be thankful.

  I’ve told him to write a book with his warm slice-of-life anecdotes. Something short and sweet. Something that can make the world better.

  Maybe he’s working on it. I’m not sure. I hope he is. Because his note cards always make me smile, and my heart to feel warm.

  Car’s a good guy. One of the best I know. I care for him. But does he care for me more? Does he have tangled emotions for me? Again, I’m not sure. I guess time will tell. Perhaps someday, his feelings will be presented in one of his note cards.

  I tuck the card away. In doing so, my cellphone rings. It’s Coben. I ignore it.

  * * * *

  Name: Rocco Spar

  Club Member Number: 782-287-029

  Stage Name: Spartan

  Date of Birth: February 2, 1989

  Occupation: Dancer

  Height: Six-one

  Weight: 182

  Hair: Onyx

  Eyes: Blue

  Status: Single, but currently dates Lock Sheldon

  Special Notes: Dark-skinned, maybe Pakistani, mysterious, quiet, a blur, but strangely attractive, hugely muscular, a gym monkey, tattooed arms and chest that tell stories of his past, but most men can’t get close enough to him to read his deceptive tales, except for Lock, of course