Third, homo jocks tend to be of a cocky sort. In fact, it could be said that one could not be a homo jock without having an inflated sense of self. Typically, a homo jock will look good and he’ll know he looks good. Yes, it was certainly possible to have a humble homo jock, but they tend to be a rarity in the homosexual hierarchy. Homo jocks often get most everything they want, be it people or possessions, and have no scruples in crushing others to get to them. They also have a hard time understanding words like no and you’re not my type and fuck off, Darren, you fucking sack of shit.
Fourth, a homo jock doesn’t necessarily need to be a jock to become a homo jock. More often than not, a homo jock will participate in activities such as basketball or Ultimate Frisbee or homoerotic wrestling that leads to confused feelings and boners. However, if one just goes to the gym and wears tight clothing and acts like a cocky jerk, then one can still be a homo jock. Organized sports are not indicative of a homo jock, but more often than not, the jock will be there, rubbing up against other sweating homo jocks and thinking about how nice they smell and—
Nope. Nope, nope, nope.
Fifth, as past experiences dictate, a homo jock asshole will most likely eat twinks for breakfast and stand in the shadows of your drag show and watch you every fucking time for no goddamn reason whatsoever with his other homo jock friends, and sometimes, you wonder why he’s even there when he obviously hates your guts, which is fine, by the way, because you hate his guts too and are not afraid to admit it.
Well. This is all very hypothetical, mind you.
So I shouldn’t have been surprised when I left the Land of Lesbians and entered homo jock territory.
There were three of the underlings tonight, and I was sure their names were something ridiculous like Biff or Chet or Xerxes. They grinned at me with perfect teeth and perfect dimples as if they knew some great secret that I wasn’t privy to. I wanted to smack the smug looks right off their faces, but there were hundreds of witnesses around me. Maybe later I could jump them in a dark alley and scratch their eyes out.
And because that’s the way my life went, the twenty-dollar bill was in the hand that was attached to the muscular arm belonging to none other than the Homo Jock King himself.
My most mortal of enemies.
Darren Mayne.
Britney was shrieking about how she did it again, that she played with your heart, and I was caught completely by surprise.
He was unfairly pretty, almost like he was manufactured specifically to cause as much emotional devastation as humanly possible. He wouldn’t look out of place walking off the set of SeanCody or Corbin Fisher, posting videos with ridiculous titles like Darren’s Triple Load with Micah. He’d recently gotten a haircut (and I despised the fact that I could tell that), his short, blond hair looking messy, but entirely on purpose. He had blue eyes and a strong jaw and a wicked fucking grin on his face, the barest hint of teeth underneath, flashing as the black light lit upon them.
He was big, too, because of course he was, even more so than Vince, though you could see they were cut from the same cloth. Big arms and big legs and everything was big, though I sometimes wished he was making up for the fact that he had a small dick, but life didn’t work that way. Not that I knew anything about the size of his dick. Nor did I care to know anything about it. I didn’t even think about it. It was a nonissue for me.
Ahem.
He was walking perfection and was the type of person that knew it. Drag queens aren’t humble people. It goes against the very nature of being a drag queen. However, it was usually all an act, and when I wasn’t Helena, when I was nothing but plain old Sanford Stewart, I wasn’t cocky or self-sure and only carried the barest residuals of arrogance that was the Helena bleed-through.
Darren never turned it off. I didn’t think he even knew how to turn it off. He always had that knowing smirk on his face, that little smile that said he knew he was hot shit, that everyone knew he was hot shit, and there really wasn’t any point in trying to deny it. He was twenty-eight years old, and it was obvious that every single one of those years had been handed to him on a silver platter, because whatever Darren Mayne wanted, Darren Mayne got.
In other words, physically, he was hot like burning.
Mentally, however, left a lot to be desired.
Not that I ever thought about such things, mind you. I didn’t have time for the Darren Maynes of the world, no matter what other people thought.
Which brought me back to the present, given that Vince, Kori, and Paul were standing on the other side of the homo jocks like the traitorous bastards they were.
I thought about bypassing them all completely, but that twenty-dollar bill felt good in my hands, and hey, a girl’s gotta eat. A girl also gotta get flaming knee boots.
But it was Darren Mayne.
I’d taken his money before, sure. But it’d been fives and tens. For some reason, this felt more like charity than it’d ever felt before. Like he was better than me.
No. I didn’t need it that bad.
I started to move on because fuck him.
His eyes caught mine, and I struggled to do anything but stare at him like he was something special, but it was almost as if I didn’t really have a choice.
His grin faltered slightly.
My eyes narrowed.
His mouth moved.
I couldn’t hear a single word he said above the music.