Page 32 of Dignity

Gay? Most likely.

Bottom? Probably.

Kinky?

Better than odds-on chance.

At some point, once I’m working, and getting paid, and paying my own bills, and not dependent upon my parents to help me out, then I can hopefully start to do…more.

Something.

Anything.

For now, this will be my only opportunity. Add to all of that the fact that USNN is a conservative network. I’m not brave enough to be openly gay there. Why give people one more opportunity to reject me?

I hit a store before I check in to my hotel. Beer, soda, Jack Daniels’, plenty of snacks, condoms, and lube.

I’ve done a little scouting online and know there’s a clubat the hotel next door that might be a prime spot to hook up. If I strike out there, there are five other places within six blocks, and I can go from there. But next door will be my first stop tonight, once the sun goes down.

My room faces west, not the beach, but I have a pretty decent view. Two queen beds, because it was the same price as a single when I booked it. Right now, I’m standing onmy balcony and staring west, enjoying the sunset while sipping Jack Daniels’ on ice. I’d rather start this journey a little loose.

Maybe that makes me a coward. I’ll own that. Once I’m in DC, I’m sure I won’t be able to go to fricking McDonald’s without my old man hearing about it. I don’t need that extra stress in my life when I’m trying to build a career.

Idamnsure don’t want to get hookedinto secret kinky sex parties and end up running across him somewhere.

That’d be worse than him hearing about me doing it from someone else.

Infinitely worse. For multiple reasons, because it’d probably mean he was cheating on Mom. Or that he was there with Mom.

Not sure which of those two options would be worse.

I don’t think there’s enough brain bleach in the world for me to take the risk,either way. I’ve made it this far in my life without accidentally walking in on my parents having sex, or them walking in on me jerking off. I’d rather not start now.

* * * *

It’s a little after eight p.m. when I head downstairs. I feel nervous, but determined. I walk to the club, show my ID, pay the cover charge, and head inside. Fortunately, this club doesn’t have a dress code, because it’sright on the beach. There are people here tonight in everything from bathing suits and beach wear to people dressed to the nines for a club.

I fall in the middle of the range, khaki slacks and a short-sleeved button-up shirt. But once I have a rum and Coke in hand and find myself a place to stand, I realize I absolutely should have dressed down. I somehow manage to be the only one dressed likethis, and I look like a fricking dork.

Shit.

The stuff I read said this club usually has a fairly diverse mix of het and gay patrons, and a couple of nights a week they have drag queen events. The beat of the electronic house music thumps through me, but I don’t feel like dancing. I’m not good at this. I’ve never done this before. I don’t know if there’s some secret queer code I should be following,or what.

I force myself to take a few deep breaths and I start to look around again. I’m not about to go out and dance by myself.

I might be a pathetic baby gay, but even I have my limits.

After about fifteen minutes, I realize there’s a guy on the other side of the bar who keeps looking at me. He’s chatting at a high top with a group of four other guys, and there’s an intensity in his expressionthat does something to me.

Meanwhile, I stand there like a dumbass, trying to figure out some witty intro line to say to him. He’s wearing denim shorts and a button-up Hawaiian-style shirt, and from the way his tight thighs disappear up under his shorts into what appears to be a gorgeous ass, it looks like he works out.

Oooh, yeah. I am sodefinitelygay.

I was trying not to be too obvious,but a couple of minutes of this is apparently his limit. That’s when he leans in, says something to the guys he’s with, and starts walking over, all while holding my gaze with his.

Oh, shit!

He reminds me of a predator. He’s a couple of inches taller than me, probably six-three, with short brown hair, and it’s too dark in there for me to tell what color his eyes are until he’s walked up to me.