Page 87 of Muscle Cub

Damn. I did look younger. And hotter if I could say so myself.

Gunner joined me, setting a can of shaving cream and a razor at the edge of the sink. “So what do you think? Pretty good, huh?”

“This is”—I smiled at him in the mirror—“a damn good edit.”

Gunner laughed. “Perfect analogy. It’s all you, just… revealed.”

I sighed. “I should have done this sooner.”

Gunner shrugged. “Everything tends to happen in its own perfect time.”

I ran my hand over my head. “It feels like a cat’s tongue.”

“Yeah, it’s as close as the clippers can get, but it’s quick, and it looks bald. You might just want to shave your cheeks and neck for now and do your scalp later. Or even when you get back home when you have plenty of time. It can take a while to get it perfectly smooth.”

While I shaved and dressed, Gunner swept my hair off the floor, and then he gave me pointers on how to style the tips of my mustache with wax.

“You look fantastic.”

“Thanks,” I said, offering Gunner a handshake. “For the costume and the edit.”

He took my hand and pulled me in for a hug. “My pleasure. Thanks for trusting me.”

The screen door opened with a screech, and Austin called out, “Where’s my big top?”

30

Austin appeared sporting a gargantuan, undeniably fake mustache. Pomade glistened in his hair, which was parted on the side and scraped flat against his scalp. His cheeks were clean-shaven and rounded with rouge. He wore a black singlet, which showed off his chest and highlighted his package, and lace-up wrestler’s boots. The spitting image of a vintage strongman. Of course. He was also wearing a red lanyard.

His mouth fell open when he saw me.

“Nice ’stache,” I said nervously. Standing there in the costume he’d chosen for me, awaiting his reaction, I’d never felt more naked. The tailcoat did offer some coverage, but wearing a jockstrap instead of pants still stretched the boundaries of my comfort zone. I self-consciously doffed my hat, revealing my bald head.

“Damn, Prof! I honestly didn’t think you could get any hotter.” He crossed the room and reached up to rub the stubble on my scalp. “Oh! Velvety.” He dropped his gaze to my mouth. “Nice ’stache yourself, by the way. This is my backup. My real one’s not quite thick enough. I looked like one of those fifteen-year-old boys who’s trying too soon and not quite there yet. Yours, though. Yours is legit!”

“Can you kiss with that monstrous thing on your face?” I glanced at Gunner, who was politely ignoring us, intent on sweeping the floor again.

“One way to find out.” Austin’s kiss filled my nose with synthetic hair and the smell of adhesive, but apparently, my dick didn’t mind too much. “Mm. Smashing ’stache,” he said. “I’m into it.” He stepped back to take me in again from head to toe, opening the front of my tailcoat and cupping my mesh-covered cock. “You look fucking amazing.”

I wasn’t hating my legs in a jockstrap and riding boots, so I chose to believe him.

We returned to the bunkhouse, where the guys cheered my transformation and announced we were just in time for shots.

Albie said Austin had told them about my house. It turned out that Kevin’s family owned the cabinet company where Ben and I had sourced some of the materials for my kitchen remodel, and we ended up chatting about Craftsman architecture.

Austin slipped his hand into mine. He said little, but he listened and watched me with a soft warm smile. It was easier talking to them with him at my side. I invited them all to come over sometime when they were in town. After Charles and I had split up, I’d never hosted anything remotely resembling a party, but I could picture these guys in my home, maybe with Eric and Ben too, having a few drinks.

Bailey asked me what I taught, and when I said twentieth century British lit, he wanted to know if I ever taught the novel Maurice. To include the other guys in the conversation, I explained that it was E.M. Forster’s posthumously published gay love story.

They surprised me with the thoughtfulness of their questions. They seemed genuinely interested. Bailey said he wished he could’ve studied more queer history when he was in college. I taught a course on Bloomsbury authors every spring, and I usually went with Howards End because it was more well-known, but I could easily swap it out next year.

This was the first time in months I’d thought about returning to teaching without a sense of dread or apathy.

Austin kissed me on the cheek and whispered, “You’re sexy when you get all professory. They like you.”

These guys were intelligent, kind, and their acceptance was almost as intoxicating as the alcohol. I truly understood why this was his happy place.

A radio squawked. “Gunner, Gunner. Jim. Where the hell are y’all?” Jim shouted over a din of music and noise. “It’s almost eleven.”