Page 2 of Saving Pookie

When I'm done, I turn off the water, rip open the curtain, and hang my hands over the chrome bar. I stare into the steam that's overtaken the bathroom like the fog on a spring morning, contemplating my existence. I towel dry my hair and body and climb into the pink briefs, tucking my cock away. They're a little loose on me, but they'll do.

After I'm dressed, I tiptoe out of the bathroom to find the kind man has turned onto his side, his arms draped around a pillow. Dark hair crawls between his furry ass cheeks.

I grab my weathered leather wallet off the greasy nightstand that's coated in lube from a leaking bottle left on its side overnight.

Jim, Jose, whatever the fuck his name is, was a good fuck. Took his time, first with his tongue and then his fingers. Careful, loving tops are a dime a dozen. He made sure I got off, not once but twice, before he unloaded, painting my ass cheeks with his seed. It's a shame I'm leaving him like this, without saying goodbye, without whispering thanks into his ear—for the hot showers, for the pillow to rest my head, for the good fuck, for the pink underwear.

On my way out of his apartment, I grab a box of protein bars and a couple of cans of beer and stuff them into my backpack.

The hustle and bustle of the city never stops. The city that never sleeps. The city that never stops moving. The city of the corrupt and the city of thieves. I get off the subway at Penn Station. It's a quick walk to Hell's Kitchen from there.

My journey takes me past a homeless man huddled against a wall beside a damp puddle of piss, a tall man in a business suit with a thick mustache screaming into his phone, and a flock of tourists running late, dragging their suitcases behind them as they whiz past me.

When I arrive at my destination, the building is inconspicuous. If it weren't for the unlit sign above the front doors, I wouldn't know I was in the right spot. Mr. Pink's is the hottest gay bar in Hell's Kitchen, according to the flyer that says the place is in desperate need of a new bartender. The windows on the doors are pitch black, hiding whatever lies beyond the industrial facade. Even when I press my face against the glass, hooding my hand over my eyes, I can't see inside.

I step back and knock gently on the door. It springs to life in an instant, an older man holding the door. He's... there's no other way to say this than to say he's pink. Pink cowboy boots fitted underneath straight-legged jeans with a buttoned-up pink shirt and a pink cowboy hat. He wears a thick, dark mustache with the slightest curl at the ends. He's older, not by years but decades.

"You're—" I'm cut off before I can finish asking my question, "You're the manager?"

"I'm Mr. Pink, and you must be Paul." He squints his eyes and holds the door open, gesturing for me to come inside. "Please take your time; I love the sight of the harsh sun after an all-night bender."

I scurry inside, hearing the door close behind me. He shuffles past, and I follow him through a short, narrow hallway and an empty security checkpoint. Inside, the place is dark, with only necessary lighting. Tables are scattered about with pink chairs parked around them. The backside of the joint is a long bar that runs the perimeter of the outer wall. It's probably the longest bar I've ever seen.

Scattered proportionally along the bar are six stripper poles towering about twenty feet above, where the tops line up with the second-floor overlook.

Mr. Pink cocks his head over his shoulder. "What do you know about my bar?"

The interview has begun. I make an educated guess based on my surroundings. "It's a restaurant during the day and a bar at night."

"So, you've never been here? That's a first." He rips a chair out from a table, spins it in a quick circle, and takes a seat, crossing his legs over each other. "Do you have bartending experience?"

"I don't, but⁠—"

"An elaboration is not required."

"I know how to make the basics," I say, prepping my next lie in a long string of them. "Back in college, my roommates and I hosted the biggest parties on campus. I learned to shake and stir like a madman."

His gaze drifts to my own and lingers a little too long. I can only assume he's taking in the sight of my bruised eye. I cock my head to the side, hiding the bruise in the shadows of the bar. And then his eyes shift lower, taking a quick peek at my nether regions that are hidden behind a thin layer of gray sweatpants. He meets my gaze again. "You have a big dick."

I scoff, uncomfortably. "You definitely can't ask that in a job interview."

"Not a question." He shakes his head. "It's an observation."

I grit my teeth, trying to bite my tongue. I'm not a tongue-biter, though. Not anymore. "I think that's even more inappropriate."

"You wear it well, kid." He motions with his finger. "Can you turn in a full circle?"

I don't know why I do it, but I do. Holding my arms out to the side as I put my body on display for the inappropriate pink man.

"What are you wearing underneath those pants?" He thumbs over his lip, contemplating. "Drop them."

I laugh nervously, shaking my head. "You can't be serious."

"You're not cut out for this job." He purses his lips and rises to his feet. "You got the body for it, but you don't have the mind. The confidence. The swag."

"Fuck off." I bite my tongue and hook my hands beneath the waistband of my sweats. He watches intently as I push them to my knees, exposing the pink briefs I stole from my one-night stand.

He smiles, appeased and probably fucking horny.