Chapter 4 – Pookie #2
I raise my hands to protest, stumbling over my own words, "I'm so sorry."
"I'm just fucking with you," she cackles, her voice torn between a Southern drawl and a valley girl accent.
She lifts her leg, brings the toe of her pink boot to her soft lips, and gives it a soft kiss.
"These things are made of steel." She kicks her foot back down to the floor and practically jumps at me, engulfing my body with a hug.
"I've been waiting all day to meet you, Pookie. "
I tap her on her back as the hug goes on for a few seconds longer than I'm comfortable with. Then, I find the strength to break away as politely as I can. What is it with the people here and their lack of boundaries?
"I'm Avalon," she says through a wicked grin and places her hands on her hips. "Are you excited to be here?"
I scratch at the back of my head and ignore every part of my body that's screaming to run as far away from this place as humanly fucking possible. "So excited."
"That's what I like to hear, cowboy. Now do me a favor and pour me two Bud Lights and one Samuel Adams."
I nod and turn to the rack of empty glassware on the lowest shelf of the bar.
There's an assortment of sizes, hundreds of clean glasses lined up neatly.
I've had a beer before—although it's not my favorite drink—and know that it usually goes in the pint glasses.
I grab three from the shelf and they clank together.
There are about fifteen different taps, and it takes me far too long to find the ones I'm looking for.
Now, I've never poured a drink from a tap before, but how hard can it be?
Apparently, it can be very hard because I pour all three, and each of them is half beer and half foam.
Avalon's hot glare rests on my shoulder. "Like, do you know what you're doing?"
I force a smile and turn to meet her gaze, freezing in place as I once again take notice of the camera aimed squarely at us.
"Like, have you ever used one of these before?" She lets out a restrained groan—at least she's trying to hide her disdain unlike her coworker—and pours the drinks down the drain. "I've found it's easiest to learn to do something by watching, so watch me teach you."
I do as instructed, watching as she tilts the glass and fills the glasses to the top with only a slim film of foam at the top. She finagles the three glasses into her grip and carries them over to the customer, who hands her his card in exchange.
I turn back to the crowd and swallow my pride and my nerves.
The only way I'm going to survive this trial by fire is to actually try to do the job.
I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans as I approach a man hunkered over the counter.
He's staring at something on the opposite end of the bar and doesn't seem to notice me until I loudly clear my throat.
His gaze twists sideways and lands on mine as his big lips curl into a smile. "Can I get an IPA?"
"What kind?" I ask, the words scratching at the back of my throat.
His eyes flutter as he drags a finger over the bottom of his lip where flesh meets light stubble. "I like variety, so I'll take whatever you give me."
I purse my lips with a nod and fill up a pint of an IPA called Cowboy Glitter using the method Avalon showed me.
It's not quite as clean as her pour, with foam that's twice as thick, but it's sufficient.
It's when I push the glass to the stranger that I realize I don't know how much any of this costs, so I make up a number. "Ten dollars," I say flatly.
He retrieves his wallet and grabs a twenty dollar bill, slides it to me, and palms his drink in his hand. "Why aren't you up on one of those poles?"
I peer upward at the aluminum pole nearest me. It leads to a hole in the ceiling about twenty feet above the bar. When I look back to the stranger, I shrug. "I'm not exactly sure. It's my first night."
"Fresh meat," he purrs, raising the beer to his lips and taking a quick sip. He bats his tongue over his wet bottom lip. "What's your name, handsome?"
"Pookie," I say with a nervous grin. "I'm Pookie."
Such a ridiculous fucking name. If I say it enough, maybe I'll start to believe it's really my name. Pookie? Fucking Pookie? Of all the fucking names Mr. Pink could have given me.
"Well, Pookie..." he raises his beer to toast my nonexistent beer, "I'll be seeing you around."
It's been so long since someone has flirted with me that I can't be sure that's what just happened, but it feels like that's what it was. Shit, the last time I noticed some guy even remotely looking in my direction, Cameron punched him in the face.
Cameron, the ex I escaped, the ex I need to forget, that I wish I could erase.
Just the thought of him thumps at the back of my throat like a drum ushering me to war.
I search the packed crowd, looking for his face.
This isn’t his scene. He’d be caught dead before showing up to a joint like this.
It’s beneath him and his precious, curated image.
He’s high society and this is low-brow trash.
A bar without a membership, where everyone and anyone can mingle.
No, he’d never show up and still I search for his face anyway.
The stranger retreats from the bar, carrying his drink into the crowd. But just as he’s about to disappear into the mess of patrons, the lights of the bar dim and he stops in place, turning in a complete circle. His eyes shift to the ceiling and he takes a long gulp of his beer.
The crowd erupts as pink spotlights land on the bar at the base of each of the five poles and I think to myself that I’m about to find out where the boys have been hiding. It would appear the answer is in the fucking ceiling.
An unfamiliar song—if you could call it that—blares through the speakers.
It’s an obnoxious drumbeat of non-words that sounds like idiots marching to war in a Monte Python film.
And then, the bass kicks in and against my better instincts, I recognize the song as Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy.
Thick frayed ropes drop to the bar, pooling around the base of the stripper poles and attached firmly to the ceiling.
The five boys appear through the holes in the ceiling, gripping onto the poles with one hand and the taut ropes with the other.
The Pink Stallions cling to the poles as they slide down from the ceiling.
All of them shirtless, wearing only jeans and pink cowboy boots with the first letter of their names etched into the leather.
Each of them wear the same necklace I have, a clever way to hide the mic from the cameras.
In reality, their descent to the bartop probably takes about fifteen seconds. It feels so much longer than that, like I’m watching in equal parts mesmerization and nervousness. It takes too long to realize I’m slack-jawed, practically drooling as I watch.
By the time they land, the crowd is lost in a complete frenzy.
They dance in unison, tapping their boots in sync as the Big and Rich begin to croon the words of the famed song.
The first time it arrives at the chorus, the boys are back on the pole, riding the aluminum with enough sexual innuendo to make a boy faint.
My eyes switch back and forth between them, watching them in equal measure.
Maverick's thong rides up his hip, and when he turns around, his muscular cheeks peek over the hem of his denim. Boone massages his hands through the hair on his chest that's already slicked in a thin veneer of sweat.
Gunnar bends over, grabs a liquor gun that's actually shaped like a shotgun, and holds it over his crotch.
The innuendo is obvious. Every time he thrusts his hips forward, he sprays well tequila into the crowd, and the men in attendance are hungry for his load.
They clamor at the front of the bar, pushing and shoving to get closer, each of them opening their mouths wide.
Gunnar drops to his knees, grabs the back of a fan's head, and pulls it into his crotch.
He bucks his hips forward, feigning an orgasm as his mouth drops open and he throws his head back.
"Excuse me," a man shouts in my direction.
I snap my attention to the crowd on the opposite side of the bar, annoyed that I actually have to work when these boys are doing... this. "What do you want?"
The man looks to be about thirty and far too drunk far too early in the night. His eyes flicker as he processes what I'm asking him, and he stumbles forward, dropping his elbow on the bar. "I'm looking for an asshole."
"Is that a person or a drink?"
The man glares at me as if I should know the answer. Little does he know this is trial by fire, and the powers that be didn't teach me shit. Just as I'm about to answer, a palm lands firmly on my shoulder. I look up to see Braxton, his curls peeking beneath the brim of a cowboy hat.
"I got this," Braxton says, letting out a sharp exhale.
I watch as he quickly unbuttons his jeans and pulls them down the curves of his ass.
Beautiful ass.
And I'm a well-worn bottom. I have always been a bottom, but I can appreciate a perfect ass when I see one. It's framed like a painting in the Louvre, the cheeks held firmly in place with the pink supports of a jockstrap. He drops to his knees and arches his back, offering his ass for display.
The drunk man inches forward and kisses Braxton on his perfect ass, and I have to admit, I'm more than a little jealous.
Braxton gives his ass a little shake, and the drunk man slips a twenty-dollar bill into Braxton's jockstrap.
Pleased with himself and his performance, Braxton rises to his feet, pulls up his pants, and passes me a mischievous grin.
I can barely keep my eyes open on the train ride out of the city. It doesn't help that I changed back into my comfy sweatpants and tee before leaving the bar.