Page 2 of Wood

She pulls the cart forward to me and wordlessly hands me an icy yellow electrolyte water and a folded bit of paper. I nod my thanks and down half of it before tucking the bottle into a pocket of my jumpsuit and glance at the paper. Her number. She waggles her eyebrows in Joey’s direction, and I try to keep my face straight, but she still giggles.

We finish the loop and I hand Joey’s bag to the bag boy and, as expected, Joey barely acknowledges me, stomping off after handing me a twenty. Over four hours of walking next to him, carrying his forty-pound bag, cleaning his clubs, raking his sand traps, listening to his tantrums, and he gives me just twenty bucks. Good thing I’m working the local bar tonight to make rent.

Tomorrow I’m scheduled to loop with a visiting pro, Ben Vance. At least he will probably tip better. And not yell curses. Maybe.

I put Candy’s number in my phone.

Maybe.

Club Babylon is partying tonight. The dance floor is packed with shirtless men gyrating against each other vaguely in time with the beat of the EDM pouring from the speakers. I weave my way through the crowd with my tray of beer and cocktails, the bass so loud and deep I can feel it in my tray, laughing as a cute twink grabs my ass and jiggles it.

“Don’t make me spill, you bad boy,” I chide and he cackles delightedly before fake pouting.

“I’d love to make you spill, handsome,” he giggles with a finger on his lower lip. “You look yummy, honey, those suspenders are deee-vine!” He tugs one suspender out slightly and lets it go, tittering as it smacks my shoulder with a pop. Fuck, it always hurts when someone pops it, but gay men love to tug.

Laughing and making a kissing noise, I answer, “Thanks, darlin’!” and continue to a table to pass out drinks, sucking in my stomach as I swerve around a guy reenacting a story with large gestures.

The rainbow suspenders are the only adornment on my chest and do nothing to help hold up my minuscule, tight black shorts. They catch on everything - some guy’s belt loop, a barstool, once a drag queen’s headpiece backstage, which she was not thrilled about.

A tiny black apron covers my crotch, just big enough for the small tablet for ordering drinks and taking payments, a few extra straws and the tips that the men love to slip in right next to my cock. I swat away another grope with a laugh as I make my way back to the bar for another pass through the tables.

I’m not even a dancer, but they are a handsy bunch, in a mostly fun way. The tips are flowing and the touches are tolerable. Mostly. I’m big enough at six-feet and two-hundred-pounds that guys rarely get too rough. I tried working a straight bar over the winter, but gay men tip way better than straight guys or women.

Tray empty, I turn to the next table and repeat, taking orders, fetching beer and cocktails, laughing at wandering hands and pocketing tips. Bill’s up at the end of the bar again, same stool, same neat Scotch he nurses for two hours. He’s got to be seventy with red lines splotching his cheeks and a quivering second chin. Every time I come by, he says, “There’s my favorite one,” and puts a five in my palm and folds my fingers over it like he’s afraid I’ll say no. I never do. Freddie says Bill is looking for another Boy to pamper. Won’t be me, but I’ll take the tip.

Marco leans back on his stool so I can get by, doesn’t even look at me, just says “hey baby” to the air and lets his tattooed fingers land on my hip for exactly as long as I take to pass. Just touch, quick, like tapping a jukebox, and I keep moving.

Freddie is mixing up my next round as I lean against the bar.

“Nice crowd tonight,” he says as he shakes ice for whatever concoction he is making, then pours.

I nod in agreement. “It’s hopping, for sure.”

“See anyone you want to hop on?” he asks with an eyebrow lift. His bushy mustache quirks up on a smirk, just one side of his mouth.

Shaking my head, I laugh, “Nah, I’m just here for the tips, man.”

“Young guy like you could find a nice Daddy to take care of you,” he smirks.

I cough. “I… don’t need a Daddy. Not really my thing.”

“Don’t knock it, Geoff. Not all Daddy’s Boys are twinks, ya know. Hell, I know one hockey player got himself a great one and he can probably lift two of his Daddy,” Freddie laughs. “Cutest couple ever, big muscly guy and his silver fox.”

Shaking my head, I laugh. “I like the ladies, you know. Soft, smell good. Most guys stink and are slobs.”

Freddie shrugs and fills my tray, and I’m back out in the crowd.

There’s a new guy at a corner table. New to me anyway, dressed in a polo like he wandered in from work and already has a few drinks in him. Eyes are a bit glassy as they watch me do the bar loop, table to table, for the past twenty minutes. Which is fine, that is part of the job, get looked at, be eye candy for the patrons.

I come around with his refill and he doesn’t just tap the suspender but takes a whole handful of it and pulls, then lets it go, and it snaps back hard enough that it may leave a mark. I’m going to feel that on the golf course tomorrow.

“Easy, man,” I say with a smile because I am supposed to smile, it’s part of the costume. I set his drink down a little too firm, so the glass knocks the table.

“Come on, it’s a compliment,” he says, eyeing the heart tat on my shoulder.

“It’s a strap, not a slingshot.” I say it lightly. Calm. I’ve said some version of it a hundred times. But I don’t lean in when I pick up his empty and I don’t do the thing where I let my hip brush his table on the way out, which I do for everybody else without even thinking about it. Small things. He won’t know the difference. I will.

I catch Freddie’s eye at the bar and tip my chin at the man. He nods. That’s the entire conversation. If polo guy tries that again, somebody bigger than me will have a word, and it won’t be a nice one.