Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98909 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98909 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
“Yo,” my buddy Xavier greets me.
“Yo.” We tap fists, and he trails after me to the costume racks. “Nice,” I say, noticing what he’s wearing. “I love starting off with the fireman act.” It’s another crowd-pleaser.
“Luke. Bro. When are you gonna be done proofing my essay?” A fellow dancer—and fellow student—lumbers over. Brock attends a nearby community college and strips to pay for classes. He also waits tables, dabbles in landscaping, walks dogs, and works at a carwash. Poor kid is so busy, I offered to proofread all his papers this semester.
I’m a good friend. I’m also an idiot. Because holy shit, I barely have time to write my own papers, let alone proof someone else’s.
“I’ll have it back to you by Sunday,” I promise. “You said it wasn’t due till Monday.”
“It’s not. Just wanted to make sure you didn’t forget.” He slaps my shoulder and then calls out to another dancer. “Hey Lance, did you steal my suspenders? I can’t put out fires without my suspenders, bro!”
“Luke,” scolds Heather. “You’re on in ten. Get naked. Now.”
“Someone light a fire under this one’s ass!” jokes Lance, who’s already decked out in his firefighter gear and may or may not have stolen Brock’s suspenders.
I strip out of my hoodie and undershirt, then unzip my pants. But I don’t put the costume on yet. Instead, I dutifully wait for George to rub oil all over my bare chest.
“Best job in the world, eh?” His palms glide up and down my six-pack, and he’s grinning as if someone just gave him a winning lottery ticket. The funny thing is, George isn’t into men. He just honestly thinks rubbing oil on each other and shaking our asses on stage is the best job in the world.
“You’re a strange guy, G.”
“Oh come on, like you’re not having a blast, Bailey! Good music, good company, good pay… Tell me this isn’t fucking awesome.”
I guess he’s not entirely wrong.
“Shit, yes, there they are,” Brock says happily. His blond head pops out of the props closet he was rummaging through, and he holds up a pair of red suspenders. “Found ‘em!” And then he unzips his pants.
A lot of unzipping goes on in this room. And I ain’t gonna lie—I work with some seriously hot specimens. But while I might be an idiot about some things, I’m wise when it comes to the workplace. As in, I never, ever shit where I eat. Most of the guys at Jill’s know I swing both ways, and although one or two have not-so-casually insinuated they’d be down for…anything, I made it clear I’m not interested in going there.
I show up, I dance, I count my tips, I leave.
Oh, and sometimes I get to wave a big fireman’s hose around and pretend I’m spraying my oiled-up coworkers.
But first I need my costume. I don a wifebeater; we use a special extra-cheap brand that I will literally tear off my body a little later. Cue the high-pitched female shrieks of joy.
Then I jump into the yellow fireman’s pants with their attached red suspenders. There’s a jacket with snaps that I can pluck open one by one when the cue comes. We’re here to put out the fire...in your panties!
Yeah, it’s no wonder why I don’t tell anyone at Alpha Delt what I really do for a living. This job isn’t subtle. Tomorrow I’ll be a bleary mess. Sunday I’ll be even worse. But I’ll have money for groceries, rent, and gas. And I’ll have part of the money I need for the fraternity event I’m throwing.
But right now it’s time for a real-life Dance-off. He who gets the best tips, wins.
My Own Mental Syria
Keaton
Sunday morning I wake up when my alarm goes off at ten.
My father is in town. That’s the only explanation for why I’d set an alarm on the Sunday following a football victory and a night of intense—and well-deserved—partying.
Annika is asleep beside me. We’re both naked, but I’m pretty sure we were too drunk to fool around.
No time like the present, then.
I roll toward her and wrap an arm around her sleeping body. My eyes drift shut again. But I don’t fall asleep. My mind goes back to the text convo I had. And the homework assignment SinnerThree asked me to do.
Fill in the rest, he’d said.
I’ve tried not to think about it these past two days. I mean, this threesome is supposed to be about Annika, not me. I’m not supposed to be intrigued by SinnerThree, or be wondering what it’d feel like to fool around with him.
But he’s right. If we go through with this, I should have an idea of how far I want to take it.
So, fine. I’ll do the homework. I mean, what’s the worst thing that could happen? I’ll have an orgasm? Jeez, the terror.