The manager who hired me to emcee "Wet Briefs Night" at Twinks wanted me in drag, but I refused. It's so...tired.
If Wesley Snipes and Patrick Swayze want to put on a dress, I'll be the last person to stop them, but it's just not as gay as it used to be. It's kind of lost that edge.
Leather seems like the last gay frontier, unless you count NAMBLA, but let's not go there.
"What's your name, you nasty little thing?" I ask, putting my arm around the shoulders of the tall boy standing beside me. It's the same question I've asked the previous eight contestants before him. He seems to be having some difficulty with it.
"My name?" He looks at me, blankly.
"Yes, honey," I coax. "What do people call you?"
"Brad?" he asks.
"Oh, I thought you looked familiar. Loved your last movie. Let me see, what was the name of it, again?" I pull open the front of his briefs and take a peek. "Oh, now I remember! SEVEN!"
The audience likes that one, so I take it a step farther and peek into his shorts, again.
"Looks more like a NINE, if you ask me!"
The boys on the stage, all in their early twenties and dressed in white briefs that accent every bulge and curve of their packages, applaud and laugh along with the audience.
The next, and last, contestant is closer to my age and wearing black briefs.
"Honey, walk down the aisle and give us a spin," I say into the microphone.
Overweight, the back of his undies crawling charmingly up his crack, Black Briefs walks down the runway of the stage, stops at the end and does a 360.
"The latest in fall fashions, gentlemen! Black is a wonderful color;it hides the shortcomings AND the skidmarks!"
They howl in appreciation over that one.
Black Briefs smiles, faintly, but when a couple of cute drunks near the front of the runway tell him to get off the stage, he looks wounded and glares at me like I'm to blame.
He gets back in line and quickly looks down at the floor. the bartenders assisting me get the water and begin drenching the contestants, making the front of their shorts transparent.
They all look so lively and so young. I can't help it-for a split second, I think about Charley and forget what I'm doing.
Fortunately, I don't have a chance to get too lost in thought because several of the best-looking boys start to dance and grind their hips when somebody in the sound booth kicks up the music a notch. Hands and thighs and backs and chests bump and roll over me, and I can smell their different colognes, as well as their sweat, and I'm in heaven for a moment as the audience cheers and screams and a picks a winner...
Brad.
Walking to my car, two hundred dollar paycheck tucked into the pocket of my vest, I stop.
Somebody's following me.
Before I can turn around, a fist slams out and crunches into the back of my head, whipping me sideways and knocking me to my knees.
Before the next blow catches me in the eye, but I can see itâs Black Briefs. The next one lands on my big mouth, and I hear him say, ãMerry Christmas.ä
ÎYeah,â I think to myself. ÎMerry fucking Christmas.â I hate sore losers.
