Reserved for CK
He must have been staring at his alarm clock for nearly six hours, waiting to start his day. It had been another sleepless night and, honestly, he didn\'t really remember any of the shows that he watched on TV, any of the commercials that he liked, how many goddamned sheep he tried to count -- he could have sworn there were goats there too, oddly enough. He only remembered the progression of the clock through the day.
3:29. 3:43. 3:56. 4:01. 4:16. 4:45. 4:47. 4:50. 5:13. 5:24. 5:30. 5:30. 6:15. 7:45. 8:03. 9:45. 10:11. 11:11. Make a wish.
He was tired of wishing to sleep, so he just wished for work to come faster as he laid in bed for hours. Anyone else would have loved the time to themself. He just wanted to sleep. When he finally got out of bed at five in the afternoon and looked at himself in the mirror, he could see the time in his face. His eyes were dark again -- like usual, he thought to himself with a sigh -- but they looked wide-awake in a weird kind of way that he couldn\'t describe. He looked half-asleep but felt wide awake. Perfect, he thought to himself and stepped into the shower.
It never took him long to get ready, his outfit simple and his hair cooperative. For the twelve-block walk to work -- because he knew very well he\'d be taking it all off once he got to the Pompeii -- he had chosen a pair of faded jeans that fit moderately well and a navy blue tee. He fed his three fish and left the apartment behind him for the night, despite not having to be at work for another two hours.
It was a night that was really no different than any other summer night in the city. The air was warm enough to make him leave his khaki jacket at home and enjoy the late afternoon. The streets were moderately filled with people, none of which bothered him as he made his way down to the Pompeii, lost in reluctant and bitter thought of his own personal life.
If there was one thing in life that Quinn Patenaude hated, it was a bad relationship and despite his best efforts on his walk, he couldn\'t rid the thought of John\'s ridiculous ideology from his mind. Unfortunately for him, he couldn\'t distract himself with the passing cars and loud cell phone conversations of the city. Instead he kept wondering at what second John would call him to see if he had actually gotten up and out for work. With only a touch of guilt, Quinn turned his phone on silent as he reached the front steps of the Pompeii, the only male strip club for gentlemen in the entire state.
Like clockwork, his mood lifted slightly as he walked through the club, the familiar sight of the stage almost like home to him. The music in the club had already started, though no one but the staff was there yet. The marble-faced columns throughout the club throbbed and pulsed with the bass of the music. He was overwhelmed by the sound for only a few moments before his ears and eyes became accustomed to his home. As always the club smelled like stale sweat, cigarettes, and a slight animalistic scent of men\'s arousal. In his opinion, there was no better job in the world -- despite what any uneasy boyfirend said. On a good night, Quinn walked around with wood all night long, teasing patrons and getting paid for it. Stripping was better than arguing, better than dealing with differences in intelligent opinions, better than biting his tongue as someone claimed that they loved him and that everything in Quinn\'s life would be better if he just got out of this wretched city. He wasn\'t good at biting his tongue, wasn\'t good with emotion, wasn\'t great with empathy.
Dancing for him was simple: give a guy a hard-on and get money for it. There was no such thing as tip-toeing around a subject, only the bluntness of a man\'s desires spoken loudly and with a hungry voice. There were no requests for love, only the want of fulfillment. There were no pillow-talk desires of a better life away from stripping, only horny requests to take it all off. There was dick and ass, hollering and hip twisting, moaning and drinks and music: only things that had to do with pleasure and having fun. There was everything he had always understood in life, no matter what.
No one needed a college degree to give a guy head, or make him hard. In stripping there was no guesswork, no gray area, no anger or frustration that couldn\'t be worked out by a skilled mouth or hand by the end of the night. For Quinn, those world were completely different.
He waved to his co-workers in the pit, standing on the stage, washing the bar before he headed backstage for a little while. Quinn was early and he knew it. The human sat down at his portion of the counter and ate his dinner -- an apple and an energy bar -- watching the other dancers prepare themselves for the night. Without thinking about it, he took out his phone to text his partner in crime, his best friend Tommy. Like an idiot, he had forgotten all about John and almost fell into a trap of anger when he saw that his -- sigh, boyfriend -- had called him several times, leaving two new voice messages and a text message.
Hey baby, I\'m out of work now. I miss you. Dinner when you\'re out tonight? Love me.
Without responding, Quinn tapped away at the letters, planning on getting Tommy in sooner.
CAN I JUS KILL MYSELF NOW, PLS? HES DRIVIN ME UP A FUCKIN WALL, TOM. And within seconds Quinn was smiling.
U kill urself, ill b pissed @ u nd kill the both of u. especially him. so no, u fail @ life. im in @ 6. so STFU! ily! : D
Oh eat me : D.
And Quinn flipped his phone shut. It was already quarter of six. Surely it wouldn\'t take him so long to get in. He only lived about seven blocks away. And he had a damn car.
Tommy was the one person who kept him sane. Two and a half years younger and twice as fiery, the boy was like a brother to the human, perfectly platonic, despite all the times Quinn had seen him naked and had his hands around varying parts of his body. So when the boy finally arrived at the club at ten past six, he gave Quinn a look that screamed "grow a set and tell John to fuck off".
"So what happened?"
"He wants to do dinner after I get out."
"At eleven? Really? Will he even be fucking awake?"
"Probably not," Quinn smiled, undressing finally and getting ready for the night next to Tommy. They were both designated to wait tables and serve the liquor. Stripping was for the weekends.
"So what did you say to him?" Tommy demanded, tucking himself inside of his toga. When Quinn didn\'t respond except to blush and turn away, Tommy said, "Don\'t tell me you said yes."
"I didn\'t say anything."
"FUCKING A, QUINN! TELL HIM NO!"
"Keep your voice down, please. God knows I don\'t need Randy knowing any of my personal life."
"I\'m going to kill you," Tommy said fiercely, picking up his calf-high sandals putting them on, his chest highly oiled already.
"Blow me, ok? Let\'s get out there before we both get yelled at. I told Hank I\'d start as soon as you got here." Quinn said, strapping on his toga over his shoulder. Whispering to each other, they walked into the main part of the club, a few patrons finding spots as the show was about to begin on the stage.
