“Sandy? Does your fake ID say your name is Lulu Deerdancer?” He was trying desperately not to laugh, the bastard.
“No,” I said savagely. “It says my name is Rocco Cordova because that is awesome and amazing.” I was lying. My fake ID said Lulu Deerdancer. The guy I’d bought them from had laughed his ass off. I hated him with a passion that burned like a thousand suns.
“Okay, Rocco.” He patted my shoulder. Like a jackass. “I believe you.”
“Whatever,” I said. “Now. Just be a leather cub and I’ll be a twink, and we’ll get into the gay bar and do gay-bar things and everything will be amazing.”
“What the hell are gay-bar things?” he asked.
“You know. Drinking and blow jobs. Or whatever.”
“You have no idea, do you.”
“Not in the slightest. Now let’s go.”
I tried to project that I was a most confident and completely legal twink as we approached the entrance to Jack It. I accomplished this by sucking on my Ring Pop and giggling. I thought it a master plan with absolutely no chance of failure.
There was a bouncer at the front of the club, a large older man wearing a leather jacket and glaring a
t everyone that walked by. He had to have been in his sixties, the lines and crags in his face pronounced. To say he was intimidating would have been an understatement, but I was a twink on a mission and I was getting in that goddamned club. The music pulsed and I could feel the vibrations underneath my feet. I had to get in there. It was calling me.
The bouncer stiffened slightly as we approached, glancing first at me, his eyes widening as he looked at Paul trailing behind me. For the briefest of moments, I thought I saw his lips curl into the world’s smallest smile, but it could have been just a trick of the light.
“Hi.” I giggled. I licked the Ring Pop as slowly as I possibly could and hoped that the elderly bouncer would get slightly turned on and let us in.
“Why hello there, chicken,” he said, which made absolutely no sense. Who used fowl for pet names? “What brings you out so late?”
“We wanted to go dancing,” I said. “You know, like we do every Saturday night.”
He crossed his considerable arms over his considerable chest. “That right.”
“Yeah.” I sucked on the Ring Pop and looked up at him through my eyelashes like a good twink. Or at least that’s what the Internet taught me. Also, apparently twinks were good at getting rimmed, but I wasn’t prepared to go that far to get into Jack It. I had some self-respect, after all.
“Every Saturday night?”
“Sure,” I said, going for subtle as I elbowed Paul.
“Ow, Sandy, what the fuck?” he whined.
“Leather cub,” I hissed at him.
He flushed. “Oh. Right.” He coughed and squared his shoulders. When he spoke, he’d dropped his voice an octave or two. He sounded like he was grunting. It was completely ridiculous. “Yeah. Every Saturday. It’s where I hang out with my fellow leather bears.”
“Cubs,” I giggled dangerously. “You mean cubs.”
“Right. Yeah. Cubs. Rawr.”
“Really?” the bouncer asked. “How fortuitous. I’m a big part of the leather community. I think we’d have met before if you are too. Can’t really see your face, though. Because of the sunglasses you’re wearing. At night.”
“Nope,” Paul said, twitching only minimally. “I tend to stay in the shadows. You know. Thinking about leather cub things.”
“Wow,” the bouncer said, not sounding impressed at all. “Like what leather cub things exactly?”
“You know.” Paul started to sweat, and I almost bit through the Ring Pop completely. “Like. How… like anytime I see cows I think how awesome their skin will be when it’s made into leather and I get to wear it.”
“Oh my god,” I muttered.
“You sit in the shadows and think about cows,” the bouncer said.