Page 11 of Muscle Cub

I doubted my writing would interest him much—maybe the fact that I was a writer but not the work itself—so I responded with the short answer like I did whenever anyone only asked as a way of being polite. “The Boy Who Didn’t Come Back and Divining Virginia. They’re magical realism.”

He seemed excited by the sound of that. “Like paranormal?”

I hated to disappoint him. “No.”

“I’m gonna buy them,” Austin said.

“That’s sweet of you. If I had copies with me, I’d gladly give them to you.”

“Do they have your picture on the back?”

“Uh… yeah.” Was that why he wanted them? “Not that you’d recognize me.”

“No?”

“Oh no. That headshot was taken years ago. About thirty pounds ago”—a lie; it was at least forty—“before my metabolism ground to a halt and my hairline receded.” Was I daring him to like me anyway? “My barber’s been trying to convince me I should just shave it all off.”

“Well, we like bigger guys around here.” His voice grew husky. “And bald men are totally hot. Receding hairlines are hot too if you ask me. I think there’s something… virile about them.”

“Virile, huh?” Well, fuck me. He’d left a party full of sexy, willing men—after having gone to a shitload of trouble to get into a costume for it—to walk a quarter of a mile in platforms, downhill, in the dark, while acting interested in my career.

He was probably out of my league, but maybe there was a god up in gay heaven after all.

5

Austin teetered a bit on the last steep stretch of hill before the pool complex. He softly cursed the boots and muttered something about the things we do for fashion. I offered him my arm, hoping he might hang all over me again, but he placed a hand on my shoulder to steady himself.

“Now’s when we could’ve used a wheelbarrow,” I said.

He chuckled. “Who couldn’t use a good wheelbarrow every now and then?”

Him on his back, feet in the air, me grabbing him by the ankles…

I swallowed and turned my head to look at him. His face was so close. “For the record, I prefer to drive the wheelbarrow.”

“I’m good with that.” He flashed a feral grin. “Lemme get out of this costume.”

He led me into the main bathhouse, where I’d showered earlier. A fan roared somewhere, stirring the humid air, and there was a loud hiss from the steam room, but with everyone up at the Cubby Hole, it seemed too quiet.

“I hope I’m not pulling you away from the party,” I lied.

“Nah. We can always go back if we want to.” Austin stood on one foot and braced his hand against the sink counter. “Besides, this whole place is a party. Everybody’s gonna migrate down here soon anyway. Especially when the bar closes.” He struggled to pull off one of the boots. He hadn’t unzipped it far enough.

“Let me.” I set down our beers, squatted in front of him, then carefully moved the zipper all the way down his inseam. I did the other boot, looking up to find him watching me. I had assumed the intimate position for practical reasons, and I wouldn’t have minded being on my knees for him in another context, but I didn’t have the confidence to claim it as boldly as his expression said I could.

I circled his bare ankle with one hand, tugged off the boot, removed the other, and hurriedly stood, my knees popping.

Austin sighed loudly. “Thank God those are off!” He flexed and wiggled his toes. He had nicely shaped feet with cute stubby toes. They did look a bit blue like the circulation might have been cut off. “My foot’s a little wider than Gunner’s, so I fully expected to be cussing this decision before the night was over, but fuck.” He turned to the mirror, looked at me in the reflection, and chuckled.

“What?” I asked, shoving my hands into my pockets. I never knew what to do with my hands.

“You must be what my guardian angel looks like, standing around in the bathhouse looking slightly uncomfortable.”

I’d forgotten I was wearing a fucking halo headband. I rolled my eyes and yanked it off, setting it on the counter beside him.

“Aww,” he pouted. “I’m sad to see it go. It suited you.”

“You think? Do I come across as particularly angelic?”