My Best Man by Andy Schell (unputdownable books .txt) 📗

cheeks, change the angle. The patrons use the mirror for the same thing; these guys in Dallas act like peacocks. I order a beer, stand two feet from where I paid the bartender, and check my hair in the mirror until I’m pushed aside, little by little, by people with biceps who know each other. The place is packed, and no one speaks to me. I look for, but don’t find, a sign that says: atvs WITH SMAgg ARMS MEET HERE. I squeeze myself over to a new area near steps that lead to an elevated platform. I park awhile and try to look relaxed, friendly. Friendly doesn’t work here. Every time I glance at someone he looks away, as if he doesn’t want to be the one to tell me I’ve been turned down by the Barbizon School. As the place fills to its limits, I’m pushed farther up the stairs until I’m on the shiny platform surrounded by a chrome railing.

Before I know it, the lights go off, and a spotlight slaps itself onto the platform and I can feel its heat, and standing inside that spotlight is a god with a microphone. “OK!” he says. “It’s contest night!” A few guys whoop and holler, but most everybody looks

toward the platform stage with scrutinizing smirks, their scorecards ready. The ME, in jeans and a white tank top, has the size of hams and thighs as big as toddlers. His face is stunnin even under all that bronzer. “We’re tired of girls being the ones who enter wet T-shirt contests, right?”

The crowd livens a bit more and applauds and yells its “So let’s see ‘em, boys! Show us those pecs!” Nobody forward, and I can see he’s getting anxious. “Come on. There’s fifty-dollar prize I” The gorgeous carny barker with the biceps thighs is too close, and I’m trying hard to escape his range. As scouts, he makes eye contact with me. I push back into the behind me, but they respond by giving me a hard shove, and I

in the arms of the ME god. “OK, here he is!” he shouts.

The crowd goes wild.

I want to die. I look behind me and see the guy who said should ask the Wizard for a friend. He and his friends are laughing hysterically at me. They pushed me. They fucking pushed me the contest.

“What’s your name?” the god asks, putting his arm around shoulders the way a gym coach would.

“I’m not in the contest,” I say, the microphone magnifying twidly voice a hundred times.

“You are now!” the guy says, and as he backs off, some out of nowhere sprays me down with a hose. I want to scream. not even wearing a T-shirt. My favorite long-sleeved flannel is instantly soaked and stuck to my skin. The primping crowd

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boys goes wild as splashes of water ricochet off my little chest and splatter their faces. I’m practically in shock, the water so cold. I try to leave, push against the mean gaggle. They like a trio of sissy defensive linemen and hold me back. The asks the crowd, “What do you think?”

The crowd, seeing my humiliation, goes wild. I’m so de

and losery, they love it. I don’t know how they can applaud so forcefully when they’re laughing so hard.

Again, I push hard past the gaggle, and this time I escape. As I press through the crowd, I hear catcalls and get slapped on the ass. Somehow I find the door and get out. The winter air is cold against my wet shirt. Thank God my car is close. I lock the doors, fall back against the seat.

What a fucking nightmare. Most gay guys will tell you they hate those obnoxious straight guys—big, mean, steroid-pumped jerks who work construction or man the oil figs, who whistle and holler at women with big tits. But everyone in the place tonight was acting just like them they were screaming for big tits in a wet shirt and acting like pigs. “What a bunch of fucking assholes,” I say aloud, starting the car.

The car chugs to life, and I slide the heater knob over. Aw, hell, who am I kidding? If I hadn’t been on stage, I’d have been ogling any guy with a decent chest and catcalling too. I’m just pissed off my chest is so small. Everybody tells me I have a cute butt so why couldn’t it have been a wet butt contest? I release the clutch, pull away, and drive to the nearest pay phone, where I dial information for the number of the neighborhood’s 24-Hour Nautilus. The guy at the gym sounds garbled, as if he’ sin the middle of swallowing a mouthful of supplements, but I understand his directions well enough to jump back into the VW and take a left, then the first right, onto Oak Lawn, and about a quarter of a mile later there it is: a 24-Hour Nautilus. I wheel in and turn the VW off. Before I can talk myself out of it, I haul out and march inside, all wet and dripping. The guy behind the counter thinks I’m nuts until I pull out my credit card and he sees that I really do want to buy a membership right here, right now. I haven’t allowed myself to charge on my new credit cards I’ve obtained since landing my job because I’m already so far in debt. But this is an emergency. As I’m filling out the forms, I feel someone staring at me. I look up

to see a well-built guy with jet black hair and eyes the color green glacier ice. He’s leaving, his gym bag over his shoulder, he casts his glance on me long enough to make me think he’ interested. I can’t believe it. He’s way out of my league, but I how to read the signs. I hurriedly put my signature all over pages and try to make it out to the parking lot