Top Secret Read online

  LobsterShorts: I’ve been with my girl a long time, so it isn’t something I think about.

  Alone in my room, I shake my head. This is why I don’t do relationships. When I have an itch, it needs to be scratched.

  LobsterShorts: When my gf said “let’s have a threesome with a dude”, I almost swallowed my tongue. But I’m kind of a daredevil. I like skydiving. I once ate an entire packet of crickets on a dare.

  SinnerThree: Gross. I can promise that getting naked with me will be more fun than that.

  LobsterShorts: Good to know. Although the crickets were seasoned with chili and lime, and had a nice crunch.

  I let out a bark of laughter. OMFG.

  LobsterShorts: :) Just letting you know that I don’t scare easily.

  SinnerThree: Good. But you still have to specify what you want to get out of this encounter. And how far you’re willing to take it. Do some thinking, okay? Like I said—threesomes are fun, but only when the ground rules are clear. No disappointments, no regrets.

  LobsterShorts: Roger.

  How’d you guess my name? I joke.

  Now I get an eyeroll emoji.

  SinnerThree: I gotta sign off now. There’s a paper to write so I can work all weekend.

  LobsterShorts: What do you do?

  Right. Like I’d ever tell him.

  SinnerThree: All I’ll say is, you’d laugh your ass off if you knew. And wait—I have a homework assignment for you.

  LobsterShorts: Like I need more homework.

  I wonder where he is right now. Library? Study session? It’s kind of hot to think that he might be in public, discussing something so dirty.

  SinnerThree: No, this is the fun kind of homework. I want you to imagine that I’m going to give you a blowjob. You let me unzip you. Then I reach inside your...briefs?

  There’s a short delay.

  Boxers, he finally replies.

  SinnerThree: Should I keep going?

  Another delay.

  LobsterShorts: Keep going.

  SinnerThree: I reach inside your boxers, and you’re already hard for me.

  I stop typing and set my phone down on the bed. I wait.

  And????? He types a minute later. I’m waiting here with my dick out. Well, metaphorically, he hastily adds.

  I laugh so loudly it echoes against the walls of my tiny room. That’s all I’m saying. Your homework is to fill in the rest of this scenario. Report back tomorrow.

  LobsterShorts: What? You cliffhangered me?

  SinnerThree: Night, Lobsterman.

  I close the app. Leaving people hanging is kind of my specialty, anyway.

  And I really do have to write that paper.

  Oiled Up Co-workers

  Luke

  I spend most of Friday holed up in my room, racing to finish my Econ paper. Weekends are in no way conducive to homework. My shifts start at nine p.m., and although the club has a one a.m. last call, I sometimes work a late bartending shift at the club next door, which closes later. I often don’t get home till after five, depending on how long it takes to shower, change, and cash out.

  Still, I’d rather spend the day sleeping so I can be well-rested for tonight. Or maybe sexting with LobsterShorts. Logging out of the app last night was painfully hard. So was the state of my dick. You have no idea how hot it is helping a guy explore his sexuality.

  See, Lobster’s girlfriend won’t be getting anything shockingly new from the encounter. Instead of one dick, she’ll get two. But for LobsterShorts—he’s never had a dick in his mouth before. Or put his mouth and hands on another guy.

  Goddammit. I might have to jerk off now. Studying with a hard-on is going to be impossible.

  I’m just sliding my hand underneath the waistband of my sweatpants when my phone vibrates.

  When I see the caller display, my dick breaks the world record for Fastest Erectile Deflation. And my teeth clench of their own volition.

  I don’t want to answer, but I also know my mother—she’ll keep calling until I pick up. When it comes to her sons, her dedication is unparalleled. Oh, wait, did I say sons, plural? Silly me. There’s only one male offspring Marlene Bailey gives a shit about, and it sure ain’t me.

  “Hey.” I sound curt, but I can’t help it. “What’s up?”

  “Hi, baby. It’s Mom.”

  “I know who it is.” Frowning, I sit up and rest my head against the wall. “What’s up?” I repeat.

  “I just…” Her tone takes on a desperate note. “You’re still mad at me. Oh, Luke. It’s been a year—you can’t hate me forever!”

  “I don’t hate you.”

  “Then please don’t be mad. What choice did I have?”

  “I’m not mad,” I lie. “What do you need, Ma? I’m a bit busy at the moment.”

  “I…” Her voice cracks and she sniffles.

  I’m not buying it. My mother can cry on command. And trust me, she takes great advantage of this skill. My entire childhood, I watched her use tears to wrap her revolving door of boyfriends around her little finger. That shit works on my brother, too. But it’s never worked on me. I’ve always seen right through her damsel-in-distress act.

  “Mom, seriously,” I say irritably. “Tell me why you called or I’m hanging up.”

  “I called to invite you to dinner on Sunday.”

  I nearly drop the phone. Um. What the fuck kind of game is she playing at now? “Dinner,” I echo, unable to keep the suspicion from my voice.

  “Yes, dinner.” She pauses. “We have some news.”

  “What news? And who’s ‘we?’”

  “You’ll find out at dinner,” she says stubbornly.

  “Uh-huh. And will Joe be at this dinner?” Just uttering my older brother’s name sends an eddy of sickness to my gut.

  Joe is the reason I can’t live at home. A year ago he was paroled from prison, where he served three years for felony burglary. Upon his release, he asked my mother if he could come back home. And naturally she said yes. “I can’t wait to be a family again,” were her exact words.

  Unfortunately, being a family meant looking the other way while my brother resumed his illegal activities. And it’s a two-bedroom house, so there was literally no way of escaping Joe and his lowlife friends.

  The second month Joe was home, I found some empty tubes of a topical anesthetic in the kitchen trashcan. “No idea what that is,” Joe had insisted. “Maybe Mom is having some kinda pain.”

  But I know a liar when I meet one. With a little help from Dr. Google I learned that lidocaine is frequently used to cut cocaine and convince buyers that the product is high quality. I confronted him. He started gaslighting me.

  And then I found the gun under his mattress. Loaded. Not only is that dangerous, it’s a blatant parole violation. “It’s not mine,” he’d said. “Bix left it there. I didn’t know.”

  “He didn’t know,” my mother had echoed. She only believes what she wants.

  “You can’t stay here,” I’d snapped. “Get your shit and go.”

  “Make me.”

  All Mom added to the situation was her tears.

  So the person who eventually left was me. I wasn’t going to share a room with someone who will undoubtedly be re-arrested and jailed again. In fact, I’m astonished he’s lasted a year.

  I haven’t seen Joe since July, when Mom guilted me into coming to a “family barbecue” where her latest boyfriend made some hotdogs and then burned them. Oh, and I was asked to bring the beer. Of course I was.

  “Please come to dinner,” my mother begs me now. “You don’t even have to bring anything.”

  Lucky me. “You still didn’t say—will Joe be there?”

  “Of course Joey will be there. It’s his home.”

  I swallow a tired sigh. “Does he know you’re inviting me?”

  “It was his idea.”

  Where I was suspicious before, I’m now in full-blown distrust mode. It was Joe’s idea to invite me over?

  Yeah. I’d like t
o avoid a Red Wedding situation, thank you very much.

  “Sorry, I’m busy on Sunday,” I tell her. “If you want to share your big news now, I’m all ears, otherwise I need to get going.”

  “Luke,” she whines.

  “Okay, gotta go, Ma. Talk later.”

  We both know we won’t be talking later.

  As I drop my phone on the milk crate that doubles as a nightstand, my entire body feels weary. I know plenty of people have screwed-up families, but mine is something else. An older brother who will drag me down with him if I let him. A deadbeat dad I haven’t seen since I was two. A drama-queen mom who would probably marry her eldest son if society didn’t frown upon it. I’m not even joking here—Mom’s love for Joey borders on…creepy.

  I suppose I should consider myself lucky that her love for me is nonexistent?

  Go me.

  Footsteps sound beyond my door, and I stiffen instinctively. No matter how long I’ve lived at Alpha Delt, I still don’t feel like I belong here.

  Says the man running for president.

  Fuck. What am I getting myself into?

  A blast of music echoes through the little hallway between our rooms. Aerosmith’s “Sweet Emotion.” Wonderful. Mr. Jockface is home. And it’s time for his pre-dinner workout.

  I glance at the stack of textbooks on my desk, while Steven Tyler’s shrill voice pours out of Keaton’s room. If I had the money, I’d invest in an expensive pair of noise-cancelling headphones.

  Unfortunately, I don’t have the money.

  I’m not in the best of moods when I arrive for my shift a few hours later. My paper isn’t done, and I wasn’t able to catch a minute of shut-eye thanks to Hayworth. I get that he’s a football player, but Jesus fuck, how many hours of daily weightlifting do those meatheads require?

  And just as I was drifting off, his girlfriend came over and spent a good hour bitching about one of her sorority sisters. The two of them didn’t even have the decency to have sex. Listening to them fuck would’ve been way more interesting than hearing about how a chick named Lindy told Annika her highlights didn’t look “natural.” Lindy is clearly a goddamn monster.

  Needless to say, I’m cranky tonight. And hungry. I salivate at the mere thought of all the tips I’ll be getting tonight. I’ll be able to feed myself, finally.

  “You’re late,” my manager informs me.

  I stride into the dressing area. “No, I’m not.” I furrow my brow. “Am I?” There’s no clock in the room, so I can’t be sure. But I’m usually reliably punctual.

  “Only by a minute,” Heather says, breaking out in a grin. “I’ve just been waiting ages to chastise you for being late. It’s such a drag what a good boy you are.”

  I grin back. “Well. That’s the first time anyone’s ever called me a good boy. Typically I’m told how bad I am.” I wink at the older brunette, who rolls her eyes.

  Heather runs one of two twin clubs—Jack’s and Jill’s. I’ve been working at Jill’s for almost a year, but already Heather and I are great friends. She’s a former stripper who married the owner of her previous club, and now the two of them run side-by-side locations.

  Oh, did I mention I’m a stripper?

  Some dudes prefer “male entertainer” or “exotic dancer,” but I call a spade a spade. I spend two nights a week shaking my crotch in happy women’s faces and stripping down to a G-string. Ergo, I’m a stripper.

  “Well, you’re on soon, bad boy, so you’d better get into costume.” Heather pats my butt over my jeans and nudges me toward the long metal rack across the room.

  “Hey, Heather?” I stop her before she turns away. “Is there any chance I can pick up a couple bartending shifts at Jack’s this week? I’m short on cash.”

  “Well, sure, sugar!” She gives me a happy smile. “I’ll put a note on the board and see if anybody needs a night off. But is everything okay?”

  “Yeah, totally. There’s a party I have to throw, if you can believe it.” It’s deeply ironic that the fraternity election calls this thing a “Dance-off.” Because if I could become president by actually dancing, I’d win in a heartbeat. No contest.

  But no. I have to dazzle my brothers with a good time. It’s okay, though, because I have a plan.

  “Glad to hear it,” she says. “Now off you go to get pretty.”

  I roll my eyes and head for my cubby in the middle of the row.

  “Bailey!” calls George, one of my “colleagues.” He’s sprawled on the comfy couch in the dressing room, bare-chested and wearing a stars-and-stripes spandex thong. He waves a handful of bills at me. “Guess how much bank I just made.”

  My gaze rests briefly on his lower body. “Hmmm. The Good American routine… Imma guess…a buck-fifty?”

  America-themed acts are immensely popular. I guess patriotism makes chicks horny. And I’m not excluding gay or bi dudes on purpose here—Jill’s doesn’t draw a male crowd. Maybe it’s the name. On a busy weekend, we might get two guys, maaaybe three. Most of them prefer the gay clubs, though.

  Can’t say I blame them. Jill’s is campy. It’s like the Disney version of stripping. We cater to girls’-night-out and bridal parties. The place is only open on the weekends, though, except for private parties. That’s why I need to pick up extra shifts tending bar next door, which doesn’t pay nearly as well.

  “I made two-twenty!” George crows.

  I raise my eyebrows. “Sweet.” And from the first act of the night? This bodes well for me.

  Contrary to what people believe, stripping is not easy money. Not for a male dancer, anyway. Women can start working and make a fortune on night one. Four, five hundred a night, easy. Men have a tougher time. We’re contractors, which means we don’t get an hourly wage (or a salary…cue my laughter at the notion of receiving a salary). We get paid in tips. Period. Nothing more.

  I won’t lie—that scared me when Heather and Louis first hired me. Quitting my two bartending jobs to roll the dice on possibly making bank as a dancer? Fucking terrifying. So instead, what I did was take two weekends off from my other jobs and give the dancing thing a trial run.

  I made seven hundred the first weekend. Twelve hundred the second. I already knew I was a terrific dancer. Give me a hot, sultry beat and I’m good to go. But it turns out I’m even better naked.

  So I gave my other bosses notice the day after, and now here we are.

  “You’re my new hero, G,” I tell the big, beefy Italian.

  “Yo,” my buddy Xavier greets me.

  “Yo.” We tap fists, and he trails after me to the costume racks. “Nice,” I say, noticing what he’s wearing. “I love starting off with the fireman act.” It’s another crowd-pleaser.

  “Luke. Bro. When are you gonna be done proofing my essay?” A fellow dancer—and fellow student—lumbers over. Brock attends a nearby community college and strips to pay for classes. He also waits tables, dabbles in landscaping, walks dogs, and works at a carwash. Poor kid is so busy, I offered to proofread all his papers this semester.

  I’m a good friend. I’m also an idiot. Because holy shit, I barely have time to write my own papers, let alone proof someone else’s.

  “I’ll have it back to you by Sunday,” I promise. “You said it wasn’t due till Monday.”

  “It’s not. Just wanted to make sure you didn’t forget.” He slaps my shoulder and then calls out to another dancer. “Hey Lance, did you steal my suspenders? I can’t put out fires without my suspenders, bro!”

  “Luke,” scolds Heather. “You’re on in ten. Get naked. Now.”

  “Someone light a fire under this one’s ass!” jokes Lance, who’s already decked out in his firefighter gear and may or may not have stolen Brock’s suspenders.

  I strip out of my hoodie and undershirt, then unzip my pants. But I don’t put the costume on yet. Instead, I dutifully wait for George to rub oil all over my bare chest.

  “Best job in the world, eh?” His palms glide up and down my six-pack, and he’s grinning a
s if someone just gave him a winning lottery ticket. The funny thing is, George isn’t into men. He just honestly thinks rubbing oil on each other and shaking our asses on stage is the best job in the world.

  “You’re a strange guy, G.”

  “Oh come on, like you’re not having a blast, Bailey! Good music, good company, good pay… Tell me this isn’t fucking awesome.”

  I guess he’s not entirely wrong.

  “Shit, yes, there they are,” Brock says happily. His blond head pops out of the props closet he was rummaging through, and he holds up a pair of red suspenders. “Found ‘em!” And then he unzips his pants.

  A lot of unzipping goes on in this room. And I ain’t gonna lie—I work with some seriously hot specimens. But while I might be an idiot about some things, I’m wise when it comes to the workplace. As in, I never, ever shit where I eat. Most of the guys at Jill’s know I swing both ways, and although one or two have not-so-casually insinuated they’d be down for…anything, I made it clear I’m not interested in going there.

  I show up, I dance, I count my tips, I leave.

  Oh, and sometimes I get to wave a big fireman’s hose around and pretend I’m spraying my oiled-up coworkers.

  But first I need my costume. I don a wifebeater; we use a special extra-cheap brand that I will literally tear off my body a little later. Cue the high-pitched female shrieks of joy.

  Then I jump into the yellow fireman’s pants with their attached red suspenders. There’s a jacket with snaps that I can pluck open one by one when the cue comes. We’re here to put out the fire...in your panties!

  Yeah, it’s no wonder why I don’t tell anyone at Alpha Delt what I really do for a living. This job isn’t subtle. Tomorrow I’ll be a bleary mess. Sunday I’ll be even worse. But I’ll have money for groceries, rent, and gas. And I’ll have part of the money I need for the fraternity event I’m throwing.

  But right now it’s time for a real-life Dance-off. He who gets the best tips, wins.

  My Own Mental Syria

  Keaton

  Sunday morning I wake up when my alarm goes off at ten.