The Man Club

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 s****l 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 d**k! “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 f*****g 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 s*x 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 f*****g 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 d**k 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. “f**k!” 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 f*****g around. It’s time for a drink. Why not? Vodka. Lemonade. Some iced tea. Ice cubes. Down the hatch. The s**t 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-s*x 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 home. 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 f**k, 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.