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The Repository - (Complete Story, 10/15/21)


TQuintA

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Not a single character has felt flat and two dimensional to me. So it’s interesting to see where you’ll take it, and how our protagonist will change. Not often a story on here can keep me so engrossed.

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So this story isn't a quick pump session for me, if you know what I mean. So I let Part 2 sit for a bit and then binged! Its very hot in a slow burn way and your character building, wit, and references are just so good. Its a tantalizing story that brings me to the edge of my seat every time I read. So so well done! I await Friday's installment.

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Part 3 – The West California Wild Card

Chapter 3

            I waited three days for Puck to call me, but he didn’t.  I would’ve just called him, but I couldn’t.  I tried to find his phone number online, but I couldn’t do that either.  I’m sure someone proficient in social media or online culture could have, but that’s not me.  It was really frustrating.

            Not sure what to do, I called Shafe to ask him about it.  He was coming into town to visit me in a few days, and I figured he’d have some advice.  Unhelpfully, Shafe suggested I consult a shaman he knew in the San Fernando valley.  I called Jonah in hopes of getting more pragmatic advice—he was similarly unhelpful, basically suggesting I go to every strip club in LA.

            When day four came, I had a meeting at my publishers to talk about the release of Hollow Maple.  After my meeting, I swung by H. K.’s office.  The door was open, so I walked in while knocking.

            “Am I disturbing you?”

            “Not really,” he said, finished typing a sentence, then looked up at me.  “What’s up?”

            “I met your brother at your birthday party.  I was wondering if you would give me his number?”

            “You want E. C.’s number?”  H. K. raised a circumspect eyebrow.  “Does he owe you money?”  H. K.’s tone was hard to place, and the question marks were exaggerated.

            “I was hoping to ask him out, actually.”

            “You want to ask my brother out?”

            “Yes.”

            H. K. launched himself out of his chair and sprang to me at the door.  He grabbed both of my shoulders and looked me squarely in my eye.  “You want to date my brother?  Not a hook-up or a fling, but an honest-to-goodness date?”

            “Yes.”

            H. K. pulled me into a hug.  “Thank God.  Yes, I’ll give you his number.  And his address if you need it.”  He let go of the hug.  “Sorry, but E. C. needs a man like you in his life.”

            “I’m just asking him out on a date.  I’m not his personal savior or anything.”

            “Sorry again.  I’m overreacting.  It’s just,” H. K.’s tone turned to one of mild disgust, “the last couple of guys my brother has been with have been…” he trailed off, then finished the sentence in his normal tone, “worrying.  Everything he’s done for over a year has been…” he paused, clearly looking for a non-judgmental word, and finished the sentence with, “worrying.”

            “You know I’m going to tell him you said that,” I announced.

            “As you should.  Do you think he’ll say yes?  To going out with you?”

            “I hope so.  We hit it off at the party and flirted up a storm.  I called him Puck; he called me Muscles.”

            “You’re Muscles?”  H. K. punched me in the shoulder, a dopey grin on his face.  “Well, then, yeah.  He’s going to say yes.  He told me he had met this guy named Muscles.  He didn’t tell me it was at my party.  I thought you’d be some bruiser from a biker gang.  Or something worse.  Thank God it’s you.”  H. K. held out his hand and gestured that he wanted my phone.  When I put it in his hand, he started typing.  “This is his number.”

            Quickly and painlessly, I left his office and went back home.  As soon as I got back to my condo, I crashed on my favorite chair and pulled out my phone.  Then, I just stared at his number for two minutes.

            Calling him felt too direct. 

            Texting felt too much like a college move. 

            But, lacking social media, those were my only two options. 

            After a longer chunk of indecision than I was comfortable with, I decided blunt was preferable to amateurish, so I called him.

            He picked up on the second ring.

            “Well, well, someone’s forthright.”

            “Someone else said he’d call me four days ago.”

            “Yeah, that’s on me.  On a lark, I went to Mexico with a co-worker, and I figured it would be best not to call you until I got back.”

            “You were really going to call me, then?”

            “Most definitely.  I’ve been home all of five hours, or I would’ve called you already.”

            “Excellent.”

            “How’d you get my number?  Cyber-stalk me?”

            “I got it from your brother.”

            “Old school and daring.”  Puck sounded impressed.  “I bet brother dearest got down on his knees and kissed your feet when you asked for my number.”

            “No, but he did hug me.”

            “I was joking.”

            “I wasn’t.  Why was he so eager for me to ask you out?”

            “I’ll tell you all about it over dinner.  You free tonight?”

            “Yes.”  Since I was being forthright, I added, “I have a friend coming in from out of town tomorrow.  He’s staying in my guest room.  But I’m definitely free tonight.”

            “Splendid.  Let’s say 7?  I’ll pick you up at your place.”

            “That sounds just fine.  I’ll text you my address.”

            “No need.  I cyber-stalked you.  You’re practically an online ghost, Muscles, but I found your echoes.”

            I wanted to ask some details about where he planned to take me, but my intuition told me this was another test.  I had to agree to anything, or the date would implode before it even happened.  Instead, I said a simple goodbye and ended the call.

            By 6:50, I was showered, groomed, and wearing my favorite date shirt.  It was a long sleeve red button down, and it really showed off my arms and my chest.  I, of course, left the top few buttons unbuttoned so my chest hair could poke out.  I also wore a pair of white linen pants as that worked for dress up fancy and on-the-beach dive.  Puck hadn’t told me where he was taking me.

            He showed up five minutes later, and he was a sight to behold.  He wore a deep purple shirt with a floral design in white threading that matched the white buttons.  The shirt was diaphanous and mostly see-through.  He was a compact and tight man, but with just enough definition to bulge in the right spots.  His pants were similarly tight, and they were a bright, neon, toxic green.  He also was wearing fashionable sunglasses, and his nails were painted to match his pants.

            When I opened the door to let him in, he threw himself against the jamb and said, “Your escort has arrived.”

            “Happy you found the place alright.”

            Still leaning against the door, he looked me up and down and said, “You look edible, Muscles.  Absolutely delectable.”

            “You look nice too.  Want to come in for a drink before we go… wherever it is we’re going?”

            “Thank you, but no.”  He grabbed me by the hand, and began running.  I followed after him, barely closing my door behind me.

            Once we were in the car, Puck asked, “Have you ever been to a Russian restaurant?”

            “Not to my knowledge, no.”

            “Neither have I.  I just found out about this Russian place twenty minutes from here.  Fancy trying it?”

            “Sure.”

            “Excellent.  I’m sure it’s wonderful.”

            The food was quite good, but it was the company that made it a night to remember.

            After a few minutes of talking about the waitstaff, the ambiance, and the food, and after Puck took a seventh picture of his entrée for Instagram, we finally moved on to talking about each other.

            “Why did your brother hug me when I told him I wanted to ask you out?”

            Puck swallowed while making a dismissive hand gesture.  “He’s one of those overprotective big brothers.  The last few guys I introduced him to did not meet brother dearest’s approval.  There was the unemployed DJ who was crashing on his sister’s couch.  Then there was the twice divorced (from women) surfer who was twice my age.  The last man I introduced him to was an overly tattooed guy who had spacers in his ears and described his work as ‘knife puppeteer.’  I never saw his show, so I don’t know what that actually means.”

            “Eclectic bunch.”

            “I didn’t date any of them seriously,” Puck continued.  “But they were nice enough guys and nothing like the snooty patrons and twink-y dancers I’d dated in the past.”

            “He’s your big brother.  It’s sweet that he’s worried.”

            “Brother dear thinks my life has gone off the rails and sees you as a sensible choice and evidence that I am coming back to my sanity.”

            “Has your life gone off the rails?”

            “Eighteen months ago, I quit my job and became a stripper.  That after-school special enough for you?”

            “What did your job used to be?”

            He spread his hands out in front of me as though he was presenting the finale of a magic trick.  “You hit it on the head at the party. I was a dancer.”

            “What type?”

            “I was a member of the L.A. Ballet.”

            “Why’d you quit?”

            “Stefano.”

            “Nasty break-up with an ex?”

            As Puck spoke, he emphasized important words with hand gestures.  His face was also very animated.  A passerby could tell he was a dancer.  “Even though he’s ten years older than me, Stefano was my best friend in the company.  When he turned 35, they kicked him out.  Gave him the boot.  He’d spent his whole life dedicated to the art.  He never made premier dancer, and at 35, they just sacked him like yesterday’s trash.  They made it look like he retired, but we all know they fired him.”

            “That’s awful.”

            “He was so devastated that he moved back to Florida to live with his mother.”

            “And so you became a stripper?  How are those two things related?”

            “Stefano always reminded me of a slightly older me.  I sacrificed most of my life to dance as well.  I spent my teen years at the barre and the first half of my 20s in the rehearsal hall.  I went to a performing arts high school.  I got a splendid education, but I lived a very sheltered life.  I didn’t get to do the things normal people do.  I never just spend a weekend hanging out with my friends.  I never went to college.  I didn’t even have my first boyfriend until I was 22.  I wasn’t going to let what happened to Stefano happen to me.  So, I left the company to find myself before it’s too late.  I’m living life to the fullest.  Carpe-ing every diem.  Trying things I’ve never done before just to see if I like them.  Like dating those strange men.  I’d never been with a slacker or an older man or a bad boy.  And that trip to Mexico.  I’d never been.  I’ve lived in L.A. my whole life, and I’d never been to Mexico.  So, I went.  It’s why I picked this restaurant too.”

            “That still doesn’t explain the stripping.”

            Puck took a sip of his drink.  “I tried it one night just to try it.  It was fun.  Dancing, but liberating.  Exciting.  Nothing so strict as ballet.  I make good money to support my carefree ways.  Is it a forever plan?  Of course not.  I’m sure in a few more months I’ll get bored and find a solid, stable job teaching ballet to children.  But in the meantime, I’m 26, and I want to have fun while I’m still young enough to enjoy it.”

            Internally, I laughed.  That’s what Flynn had accused me of doing with him.  “Sounds exhilarating.”

            “It can be.  Water skiing was a blast.  Some things, though, do not live up to the hype.  Mexico was a letdown, mostly because I was only there for three days.  Not enough time for it to make an impression.  Poetry slams?  I do not see the appeal.  I’m sure the poetry was excellent, but I was mentally checked out the whole time.  I found it pretentious and overly artsy, and I danced ballet professionally, so I know pretentious when I see it.”

            “Gotcha.  If I’m going to a poetry slam, don’t invite you.”

            “That’s right!”  He clutched his pearls.  “You’re an author.  Did I just horribly insult you?”
            “I don’t write poetry.”

            “Still.  What about you, Muscles?  If my brother likes you, it must mean you’re an upstanding citizen.”

            “Depends on what you mean by ‘upstanding.’  I’m a published author, I went to a prestigious college on full scholarship, I’m committed to fitness, I pay my taxes, and I tip generously.  Yeah, by most metrics, I’m upstanding.  But I’ve sowed my oats.”

            “You’ve had sex.”  He dismissed me with a flourish of his hand.  “Who hasn’t?”

            Then I told him just how many men I’d slept with, and he seemed impressed.  He even applauded, though it may have been sarcastic applause.

            “You’re a fuckboy?  I never would’ve guessed.”

            “Nope.  When I commit, I’m monogamous and committed.  But when I’m not committed, I’m a free agent.”

            “Scandalize me, Muscles.”  He leaned in over the table to listen more intently.

            “Well, if this goes well and we have sex, you won’t be my first stripper.  You’d be my eighth.  I went through a phase freshman year.”

            “Impressive, but not altogether scandalizing.”

            “I had a three-way in high school, and I’m still friends with one of the guys.”

            “A bit more scandalous.”

            “I scammed two rich kids out of $100,000 with an ex-boyfriend.  It’s why there’s so much money in my bank account and how I afforded my condo before I was published.”

            He looked delighted.  He leaned in further, perched his elbows on the table, bringing his hands together in a bridge that he rested his chin on.  “Tell me everything.”

            I told him an edited version of the story, and he was riveted.

            “You are scandalous.  Even with my newfound joie de vivre, I have never broken a law in my life.”

            “It technically wasn’t illegal.  But, if your brother knew about it, he probably wouldn’t be so excited for us to be together.”

            Puck was about to ask a follow-up question, but an alarm went off on his phone.

            “Shoot,” he said.  “I forgot I have a shift in 20 minutes.  And I was having such fun.”

            “I could always come with you to work.  I’ve never been to a strip club.”

            “And yet you went through a stripper phase.  Odd that.  This we must remedy.”

            As we were getting ready to leave, a lightbulb went off in my head.  I turned to him and slyly said, “You forgot nothing.  You planned on bringing me to the strip club this whole time.”

            “Guilty,” he said, rising from his chair.

            We paid the bill, and Puck dragged me to Grove, the club where he worked.

            Inside, there were a lot of people sitting at tables—a healthy mix of men and women—and a covey of half-dressed and practically undressed men dancing on a stage and mingling through the floor.  I’d no more taken three steps inside when a buff man in a thong stopped me, told me I was cute, and asked me if I wanted a private dance.

            “He’s with me, Rico.”  The buff man backed off, and Puck sat me down in a rather uncomfortable chair right near the stage.  “I’m on in five,” he said.  “I promise to put a little something in it for you.”  He patted my cheek, and then he was gone.

            While I waited for Puck to grace the stage, I looked around at the men.  It was a cornucopia of bulging thongs, shiny and pert pecs, ripped abs, and asses everywhere.  While there were dancers and half-naked men pretty much everywhere, the DJ would occasionally introduce a featured dancer on the mainstage.  Only the featured dancers got completely nude.  Troy was followed by Dominick was followed by Dallas.  Each was hot in his own way.  And I was surprised by Troy’s thickness and Dallas’s beautifully sculpted abs.  But I was here to see Brad.

            When the DJ announced that the next featured dancer would be Johnny, I figured Puck was working some other part of the stage or floor—maybe doing a private dance.  So, I settled in to watch Johnny dance.

            Johnny came out dressed in workout clothes, like he was some kind of personal trainer.  He had close-cropped black hair, a thick black beard, and gorgeous blue eyes.  Of course, his face was not the focus of his act; that would be his body.  Johnny had some very nice, taut muscles.  They weren’t explosive or huge, but they were tough and well worked.  He strutted onto the stage like a macho alpha jock who was here to lift weights or start a fight, a persona he kept up the entire routine, no matter how little clothes he was wearing.  He did a faux workout routine—pull ups, pushups, and basically anything else calisthenic that causes ab muscles to undulate and flex.  After each exercise, he would shed a piece of clothing, much to the audience’s delight.  When he got down to just his thong, he bent over to touch his toes and…

            “Puck?” I asked out loud.  Johnny was acting nothing like Puck, and he had completely transformed his face somehow, but I would know that ass anywhere.

            Maybe he heard me, maybe he didn’t, but as soon as I said that, Johnny did a perfect pirouette.  At the end of it, he ripped off his thong, revealing a beautiful and large cock.  Even completely naked after doing a pirouette, he kept up that alpha façade.  He strutted down to the edge of the stage, right where I was sitting, and thrust his naked cock in my face in time to the music.  He was good at his job.  I was definitely hard.

            At the end of his routine—the whole dance had lasted about five minutes—he dove off the stage, practically right into my lap.  Then, completely naked, he lifted a leg up and put it on the arm of my chair.  His cock dangled inches from my face, taunting me.

            “Hey, Muscles,” he said in a deep baritone, much deeper than his normal speaking voice, but somehow utterly convincing.  “Care for a private dance?  I’ll make it worth your while.”

            “If I got a private dance, I couldn’t stop myself from fucking you right here right now.”  I pointed to the bulge in my pants.

            Puck (as Johnny) sneered, and moved on to another potential customer.

            I sat in my chair, noticeably erect, not knowing how I was going to get through the rest of Puck’s shift without ravishing him in public.

            Thankfully, after a minute of me sitting there sweating, a woman came over and tapped me on the shoulder.

            “You Johnny’s date?” she asked.

            I nodded, and crossed my legs.

            “Come with me.”

            “No offense, but I’m not here to do anything with any woman.”

            “Trust me.”

            Hunched over and walking a little funny to hide my erection (my pants were way too tight for this), I followed her.  She led me behind a heavy metal door to a nicely but simply decorated room with a lot of folding chairs, a surge protector that had half a dozen phones plugged into it, and a washer/drier.  Inside were four or five women, chatting, eating, or on their phones.  When the door closed, I could no longer hear the loud music from the club.

            “This is where the girls hang out while we’re waiting for our husbands and boyfriends.  A lot of the guys get too drunk to drive themselves home, so we come and pick them up.  The guys use it too when they’re on break and need a few moments without customers.”  She pointed to the washer.  “It’s actually just the club’s laundry room, but we’ve claimed it as our own.  We brought these chairs ourselves.”

            “You’re not the first gay guy we’ve had back here either,” one of the women said.

            “You looked like you were suffering out there,” the woman who’d saved me said, pointing to my erection.  “I figured you deserved the break too.”

            The women and I chatted—they told me I should see Zane’s routine because he had an enormous dick; they clued me in about the challenges of dating a stripper, namely the hours and the stigma; they filled me in about the real Johnny, who actually is a macho straight guy.  The conversation made this odd night feel a little more normal.  They left one by one as their men’s shifts ended.  Eventually, I was the only person in the room.

            When Puck came in—two hours later—he was still made up as Johnny but with a thong on.  I tore out of my chair and kissed him deeply while the door slammed shut behind him.

            When the kiss ended, Puck caught his breath, whistled, and said, “That was fabulous.”  He was using his normal voice again.  “How’d you get so good at that?’

            “I didn’t recognize you at first.”

            He showed me his unpainted nails.  “Acetone.”  He pointed to the hair of his head.  “Wig.”  He took contacts out of his eyes, and they turned back into their usual grey color.  “Contacts.”

            “And the beard?  It’s an entirely different shape, and much thicker.”

            He peeled off two strips that connected his goatee to his sideburns.  “Magic.”

            “I thought you were Brad at work.”

            “Oh, I am.  But I was covering for Johnny tonight.”

            “That macho act—it was nothing like the real you.”

            “You can’t dance ballet unless you can act with your body.”

            “What do you do when you’re Brad?”

            “Pole dancing.”  Puck shrugged as if the answer should’ve been obvious.

            “I might come and see that.  If it’s not too much for me.”

            “I noticed that.  I was going to give you that private dance for free, but I could tell you’d get yourself kicked out, you rulebreaker you.”

            “Is Johnny’s shift over?”

            “Yes.”

            “Mind giving me a private dance back at my place?”

            He dropped into his Johnny voice again.  “Dude, what makes you think I’m gay?”

            I grabbed his cock through his thong and stroked it until it chubbed up.  “This.”

            He showered and changed lightning fast, and we were back at my condo before my horniness could dim even an ounce.

            Once inside my bedroom, I tore off my clothes rapidly.

            “Slowly, slowly,” he cooed.  “Strippers don’t rush.”

            But by then, I was already naked and half erect.

            “If you wanted to be a stripper, Muscles, you totally could.  Your body is spectacular.  You’d just have to learn to pace yourself.”

            I sat on the edge of my bed and smiled.

            “Condom?” he asked.

            I slipped one on, a lubricated one, saying, “Just to get ready,” and then added, “I believe you owe me a dance.”

            “Normally, I’m the only one who’s naked for these dances.”

            “Who cares normal?”

            “Who should I dance as?  Brad?  Johnny?”

            “You.”

            Puck raised an eyebrow quizzically.  “Nothing normal about this.”

            He pulled out his phone and began playing a song like the ones they played at the club.  Then, with his back to me, he began gyrating slowly, his ass prominently front and center.

            “You know what I like,” I said as my erection grew ever harder.

            He ripped his shirt open, his back still to me, but the buttons flying everywhere was a dramatic touch.  Then, he turned around slowly, his pecs and abs showing through his open shirt.  He began to roll his torso, occasionally dropping down to elongate the roll.  Then, he fell to his knees, took off his shirt, and threw it directly at me.  It covered my face, so I had deeply inhaled his scent—a musky cologne that smelled warm and inviting, especially mixed in with the soap from the shower and sweat from the hot California day.  I could have breathed that in forever, but I was missing the dance, so I peeled it off my face.

            Once my vision was unobscured, Puck put one hand on each of my knees, then pulled himself up, dragging his torso torturously close to my dick, just grazing the tip of it, causing it to quiver.  His pecs also brushed my face, and I caressed them briefly with my cheeks.

            “Your beard feels majestic,” he said.  Then, he put his hand behind my head and pulled my face close to his abs.  Once it was there—I couldn’t help but love the sight—he thrust his crotch, and his bulge got so close to my mouth.  I practically salivated.

            He let go and backed up a few steps, showing off the thickness of his thighs.  My eyes now drawn to his legs, he lowered his pants slowly, slowly, slowly, just revealing the faintest flash of his underwear, then—bam!—all at once, his pants were on the floor.  In a flash of green, they were tossed to a corner, and Puck stood there in nothing but his briefs.

            He sauntered towards me, swaying his shoulders to accentuate his pecs and abs.  He walked right in between my spread legs.  Then, just as he almost walked right into me, he turned around, and rubbed his ass into my erect cock.  I almost exploded right there, but I grit my teeth and held it in.

            “You’ve got some control.  Nice.”  I was thankful for the condom as I was leaking pre like a faucet, but I hadn’t erupted yet.

            With a fan kick, he got off my lap.  He then planted a foot on the bed just outside my thigh.  With a leap, both feet were on the bed, one on each side of my thighs.  His bulge was directly in front of my face, just his briefs separating me from his cock.

            “Take them off for me,” he said, thrusting his hips forward.

            Leaving my hands by my side, I bit the band of his briefs, and pulled it down, caressing his stiffening cock with my beard as I pulled his briefs lower and lower.

            “Points for creativity,” he said, his voice going up as I tickled his shaft.

            When I could bend no further down without knocking him off the bed, I grabbed his briefs in my right hand and pulled them all the way down.  He kicked them off his feet, and then he lowered himself onto my dick, our torsos pressed together as he slid lower and lower.  When I was fully inside him, I put my hand on his erect cock.  It had to be over 7 inches.  I hoped he would let me ride it someday.  But tonight, he clearly wanted me inside him.

            We ground our bodies together, I stroked his cock with my right hand, and we kissed passionately.  It could have been seconds; it could have been hours.  Time slurred into a solid mass, and then I was breathing heavily as I shot my load.  He shrieked in ecstasy as he shot his.

            And then, we collapsed on the bed in a pile.

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Part 3 – The West California Wild Man

Chapter 5

            “Did we take forever, or are you back early?” I asked Shafe, sitting next to him at the table.

            “Probably both.  My workout was depressing me because of how little I could lift.  It’s a bad trip to be this size.  I look like a pathetic little twig.”

            “Oh, you can have your muscles back,” I said empathetically.

            I shrank back down, my clothes now a little too big for me, the way I’d preferred my gym clothes the last few years, and Shafe swelled back up into his mighty mountain range of muscles.

            “Thank you,” he said, and began fondly stroking his pecs.  “I missed them.”

            Puck joined us at the table, sitting on my lap instead of the open chair, and asked, “How much of our sex did you hear?”

            “Most of it.  But it’s not the first time I’ve heard Vaughn go at it.  He and his ex once got extra loud at a party I threw. The girl I was with that night—she was competitive.  The two of us tried to see which pair could have the louder sex.  They won.”

            “I had forgotten that until you mentioned it,” I admitted.

            “It’s a great story,” Shafe added, punching me lightly on the shoulder.

            “Am I really that loud?” I asked.

            Shafe said nothing, but raised one incredulous eyebrow.   That gave me my answer.  Then, changing the subject, he asked, “How long have you and Puck been dating?”

            “This is our first date,” we said simultaneously.

            “Damn.  Some first date.”

            “You’re telling me,” Puck said.

            “It was a night of firsts.  We did a whole bunch of stuff we’d never done before.”

            “I’m on a ‘live life to the fullest’ kick,” Puck elaborated.

            “Oh yeah?  What did you do last night?”

            “This is the first time I’ve slept with a guy on the first date.  He’s also the first muscle guy I’ve ever dated,” Puck said.  “I learned just how much I like that, in part thanks to you, Shafe.”

            “He took me to my first strip club,” I added.

            “You’d never been to a strip club?”  Shafe was genuinely surprised.

            “Nope.”

            Shafe shook his head, disappointed.  “I let you down, man.  I let you down.  If I’d known, I would’ve fixed that years ago.”  He turned to Puck.  “You took a guy to a strip club on a first date?”

            “Well, I work there,” Puck said.  “As a stripper.”

            Shafe looked at me, grinning.  “Did I tell you he was a Sagittarius, or did I tell you he was a Sagittarius?”
            I just nodded as if that meant anything to me.

            “That sounds like a lot of fun.  In fact, this whole condo has an opener vibe than it ever has before,” Shafe said.  Then, off-handedly, practically thinking out loud, he said, “I should try something I’ve never done too.”  Puck seized on it.

            “Name it,” Puck said, leaning in.

            “I wasn’t thinking of anything in particular,” Shafe replied.

            “Ever kiss a man?” Puck said leadingly.

            “No, I have not.  You want me to kiss you, Puck?”  Shafe leaned in.  “Then, I’ll kiss you.  I’m not scared of you, I’m not scared that I’m secretly gay, and the kiss won’t mean anything.”

            “Oh, no.  I was suggesting you kiss Muscles.”

            “Pardon?” I said.

            “Of all the men I’ve kissed, Muscles is the best kisser.”

            “You a good kisser, Vaughn?” Shafe asked.

            “I’ve been told.”

            “Prove it.”  Shafe leaned back in his chair and opened his arms wide, inviting me.

            “I’ll call your bluff.  Besides, I’ve never kissed a straight guy.”  I got up, sliding Puck into my seat, and went over to Shafe.  For a moment, I just leaned over him, almost daring him to chicken out.  Then, I held the back of his neck with my left hand and his cheek with my right.  I pressed my lips against his, and I explored his mouth with my tongue, delicately and methodically.  To my surprise, Shafe leaned in, and kissed back.  After easily fifteen seconds, I released Shafe and went back to my seat.

            “And the verdict is?” Puck asked, sitting back on my lap.

            “Not bad,” Shafe said.  “Definitely an intense, passionate kisser.  I didn’t care for the beard.  That was uncomfortable and, no offense, a huge turn-off.”  He rubbed his face where my beard had scratched him to soothe the skin.  “I think if I was going to be into dudes, I’d be into… what do you call them?  Twinks.  Someone less hairy and a lot smaller than me.  But it wasn’t a bad kiss.  I’ll stick with chicks, though.”  Shafe went back to his tea.

            I was stunned.   “I blame you,” I said to Puck.  “You get people to do things they wouldn’t do in a normal state of mind.”

            “I stand guilty as accused.”  He looked at his phone.  “Shit. Is that really the time?  I’ve got to run, or I’ll miss my ballet class.  Shafe, a pleasure to meet you.  Muscles, I’ll call you later for another date.”  Puck gave me a perfunctory kiss on the cheek and raced out of the condo.

            “I like him.  You should keep dating him,” Shafe said.

            I spent most of that day catching up with Shafe and hanging out with him, playing some insipid video games together like we used to back in college.  We even did a workout together—Shafe pushed me harder than I’d pushed myself in years.  It felt right and normal, easy.

            As promised, Puck did call later that afternoon.  “Are you busy on Thursday afternoon?” he asked.

            “I’d planned on doing some writing, but I can push that.”

            “Excellent.  We are going out on Thursday.”

            “Shafe will still be here then, so if you want to have sex afterwards, we should do it at your place.”

            “Bring Shafe along.  He’ll love this date.”

            “Just because we kissed doesn’t mean I converted him.”

            “Not what I meant.  See you Thursday.  With or without Shafe.”

            I hung up and turned to Shafe.  “Puck and I are going out on Thursday afternoon.”

            “Weird time for a date.”

            “He’s a stripper.  He’s busy most nights and weekends.”

            “Right.  Makes sense.”

            “Anyways, he invited you to come along.”

            Shafe looked at me quizzically.

            “It’s three days from now, two days after your show tomorrow.  If you’re in, I think it’ll be fun.  I suspect he’s got something outlandish in store.”

            “If you say so.  But if it gets threesome-y, I’m ducking out.”

            “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

            I, of course, went to Shafe’s show the following day.  He won, handily.  There was no competition.  He went in overconfident because his psychic predicted he’d win, but that didn’t diminish his thrill of victory.  He was so jazzed from winning, that between then and Thursday, it was like one big party.  The condo rarely had fewer than ten people in it hanging out, and four separate women left his guest room happier than they’d entered.  It made it challenging to get my work done, but I did own headphones.

            When Thursday came, Shafe was more than excited to tag along on my date.

            Puck picked us both up in his car.  He was dressed super-casually (for Puck) and he’d told us to dress comfortably.  I had no idea where we were going.  I didn’t until we got to the site.

            “Hang-gliding?”  I asked.

            “I’ve never been, and you two seemed like the perfect people to try it with for the first time.”

            “Sounds like a blast,” Shafe said.  “I’ve been skydiving, but never hang-gliding.”

            “Are you sure it’s safe?” I asked.

            “This place specializes in beginners.  We take a safety course, and then we go hang-gliding in a super easy place over an open field with a medic standing by.  The website shows 12-year-olds and senior citizens doing it.  Two manly men like you will be fine.”

            “Alright, then,” I said.

            Shafe didn’t stop whooping the entire time, and Puck livestreamed his glide, steering his glider back and forth in bizarre patterns, much to the safety advisor’s chagrin.  To me, though, it was an almost religious experience.  Flying over the ground, even just for the short time we were up in the air, I felt invigorated.  I could’ve cried it was so breathtakingly beautiful.  I felt alive in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time.

            When we had extricated ourselves from the safety equipment, Shafe, entirely too overexcited, began trying and failing to do cartwheels.  Puck came over and embraced me tightly.

            “What’s the hug for?”

            “You get me.” 

            The three of us sat in the field for a while, enjoying the warm afternoon sun.

            “You’re picking the next date,” Puck said.  “And I expect to be wowed.”

            “This was amazing, but I’m not an outdoorsy kind of guy.  Whenever I pick a date, it’s going to be an indoor date.”

            “Fine by me,” Puck replied.  “I’m not all that much of a nature lover myself.  Wow me with an indoor date.”

            Changing the subject, I asked, “What would you two say if I started lifting again?  I mean, seriously lifting?  Packing on some serious muscle?  I kind of want to get big again.”

            “I’d say go for it,” Puck said, shrugging.  “Why not?”

            “I’d ask why you got so damn small in the first place,” Shafe said, practically grunted.  “You’ve got this awesome talent.  I’d be the biggest man who ever lived if I had your skill.”

            “There’s this voice inside my head telling me not to draw attention to myself, not to let my secret out.  I don’t think I’d be big forever.  But I think for right now, I want to be big again.”

            “You don’t want to draw attention to yourself, and yet, you’re a twice-published author,” Puck said.

            “How many authors are extremely famous?  Like, five.  The rest are just everyday people.”

            “True enough,” Puck acquiesced.

            “Besides, neither book is under my name.”  I shook my head.  “The last two times I bulked up, I did it for someone else.  I want to get bigger for me this time.”

            “Then don’t even bother asking Shafe or me,” Puck said.  “How big are you thinking?”

            Shafe flexed his arm and waggled his eyebrows.  “A guy like you could catch up to me again in no time.”  Shafe bolted upright excitedly. “I’ve got a few months ‘til my next show.  Why don’t I stay here and train with you?  I’ve missed my lifting buddy.”

            “Just so we’re on the same page—my life can’t just be about working out.  I’ve done that once.  It wasn’t for me.  I have to keep up with my writing responsibilities, and I plan on dating this guy extensively.”  I patted Puck on the shoulder.

            Shafe nodded.  “Naturally.  You’ll have plenty of time to write, and I’ll get my own pair of noise-cancelling headphones and find where the straight girls hang out in your very gay neighborhood.”

            “If I understand the rules of this Repository thing,” Puck said, “I have a suggestion on how to maximize your efforts.”

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Part 3 – The West California Wild Card

Chapter 7

            Shafe left two days after I stopped growing, insisting that I had to keep up my new bod because he vowed to come back as soon as he was even bigger than me.  The goodbye wasn’t sad because it felt more like an “I’ll see you later.”  He even left some of his belongings in the spare room, semi-claiming it as his home away from home.

            And just like that, I lived alone in my condo again.  Suddenly, it felt empty.  I’d lived alone for years and only lived with Shafe for two months, but now alone felt… lonely. 

            Even tasks like getting my mail reminded me I was living alone.  Of course, it was not helped by the mail I received.  I got a save the date for my 10th high school reunion.  That made me feel old.  I’d get coupons for free tarot readings.  Shafe got us on that mailing list right quick, but now that he was gone, they were just reminders of his absence.  The most painful were the flyers for restaurants advertising dinners for one.  Even though I was seeing someone, those felt pointed like personal attacks. 

            The two months Shafe lived with me, I hadn’t spent much time with my L.A. friends, especially with all the lifting I’d been doing to get bigger and my new relationship with Puck.  I was sure I would shake off the loneliness in no time.

            Thankfully, the routine I developed was now second nature, so I still saw a lot of Puck, I had a plan in place to stay on top of my workouts, and I was still making excellent progress on all of my writing.  The exercise and meditation (yes, I was still doing that), helped keep any negative thoughts at bay.

            A few days after Shafe left, Natalie called me into her office to talk about what was next for my career.  She was shocked at how big I was.  She coughed so profoundly she nearly hacked to death.  Like my advisors at Crocker, she suggested I slim down.  When I said no, she shrugged and said, “I would’ve been a bad agent not to say it, but it’ll be the last time I say it, kid.”  She gave me some places I should be submitting short stories to, and she suggested I start developing a screenplay or two since I lived in LA.  At the end of the meeting, she said, “I’m not gonna tell you how to live your life, but you should show H. K. your new look.  They’re releasing two of your books in a month.  He might pitch a fit.”

            To keep her happy, I set up a meeting with H. K. for the next day to make sure I wouldn’t give the company cold feet.

            When he saw me, his eyes bugged out of their sockets.  I also saw him look down at his own arms and chest, covertly comparing his healthy but normal-sized body to my monstrousness.  I could almost hear his ego deflate.

            After a second or two of that, he snapped back to his professional self and said, “Wow, G. P.  You got even bigger.”

            “Yes, I did.”  I pulled my arms to the side, forcing my chest to jut out, threatening the buttons of my shirt.

            “How much bigger?”

            I shrugged.  “A hair over 80 pounds.”

            “In this short a period of time?  You’re not on steroids, are you?”

            “Nope.  I’ve always put on muscle fast.  I’ll take a drug test if it matters to you.”

            “For now, I’ll take your word.  But it may come to that.”

            “I just wanted to make sure that this won’t derail any of the plans for promoting my books.”

            “We’re not really using you for Hollow Maple,” he said, “except for a few print interviews where they won’t even be in the same room as you.  But Death Knell...” he trailed off.  H. K. twiddled his fingers on his desk and fidgeted in his seat while thinking.  “No.  I don’t think it will,” he concluded.  “Though, you’ll probably want to pick some more muted clothes for any interviews with the press that arise,” he added, pointing to my lemon yellow shirt.

            “I like this shirt,” I said honestly.  “Your brother picked it out.”

            “You and E. C. are still dating?” he said, trying to hide the excitement in his voice.

            “Yep.  He hasn’t mentioned it?”

            “Not once since my birthday.”

            “It’s going extremely well,” I reassured him.

            “Is that why you’re getting all… big?  For my brother?”

            “Nope.  I just like how it feels and looks.”  I flexed my arms again, pushing out the fabric of my sleeves.

            “Well, thanks for giving me the heads up.”

            It looked like the meeting was about to end, when H. K. stopped me by clearing his throat.  After a pause, he said, “G. P., would you call E. C. your boyfriend?”

            I thought about it.  “Yes.  And I suspect he would call me that too.  We’ve been dating exclusively for two months now.”

            Surreptitiously and quietly, he added, “And he’s not doing drugs?”

            “I wouldn’t be with him if he was doing drugs,” I said.

            “That’s what I thought,” H. K. replied.  A bit more assertively, he continued.  “And he’s not a prostitute or a rent boy, or whatever it’s called?”

            “No,” I said.  “He’s just a stripper.”

            H. K. looked physically relieved.  “I know I’m just his older brother, but I feel responsible for him, and I want to make sure he’s okay since he gave up ballet.  He’d put so much of himself and his life into it, and then he just quit.”

            “Oh, he didn’t quit ballet,” I said.

            “What?” H. K. gripped his desk tightly, his fingers practically digging into the wood.

            “He quit the L.A. company, but not ballet.  He still goes to lessons four days a week.  He’s not doing the full commitment of a professional.  It’s closer to 15 or 20 hours a week, but he still takes classes.”

            H. K. slinked back in his desk chair.  “I cannot tell you how happy that makes me.  For the last year and a half, I thought he was just floundering.”

            “He doesn’t plan on going pro again ever, but he’s told me that he’ll eventually become a ballet teacher.  He just needs some time to enjoy his youth.  He got scared because of what happened to Stefano.”

            “This is about Stefano?” H. K. asked in an exaggeratedly sharp tone.

            “Yeah.  What did you think this was about?”

            “I had no idea.  He said nothing.  He quit his job, which had been his passion his whole life, out of nowhere.  Just one day, he up and quit.  Then he shaved his head, grew a beard, and became a stripper.  And he’s doing all of these other off the wall things.  And dating these sketchy guys.  I mean, beside the stuff he’s telling me he’s doing, I’ve seen his Instagram account.  I thought the worst.”

            “He’s still doing off the wall things.  With me even.  But I’m the only guy he’s dating.  He’s just having some fun before it’s too late.”

            “Why didn’t he tell me this?  I was so worried!”

            “I shouldn’t say this, and I’ll deny ever saying it in front of Puck, but he gets a kick out of making you worry.  He thinks it’s funny.”

            “Glad my high blood pressure makes him laugh.” 

            The meeting ended, H. K. invited Puck and me to his apartment to have dinner some night, and I went home.  Puck was sitting on the floor near the big window, reading.  “Did you narc on me to my brother?”

            “By telling him you’re not on drugs?  Yes.  And, yes, I told him you’re still taking ballet classes.”

            “Well, there goes that fun.”

            “You’ll think of new fun.”

            Puck stuck his tongue out at me and then went back to reading.

            That first week Shafe was gone and I was no longer rapidly fluctuating size, Puck and I settled back into our lives.  One day, we invited some people (including Lizzie and Janelle) over for brunch.  The next day, I was so wiped from my workouts that day that we spent the entire evening reading under the same blanket in my bedroom.  The next night, Puck confessed that he’d never had the time to be a couch potato, so we binge-watched some Buffy the Vampire Slayer.  Puck sat on my lap the whole time, cuddling up to my massive pecs.

            The day after our TV marathon, I was washing our dinner dishes and mentally working on some notes for the next chapter of my book.  As soon as I was done washing, I was going to go right to my desk to write.  With a placid grin on his face, Puck came over and took a picture of me doing the dishes.

            “Blessed domesticity,” Puck said looking at his picture.

            I smiled at him, then went back to my ruminations.

            All of a sudden, he came over to the sink, grabbed a plate from my hand, and threw it to the floor.

            “What the fuck, Puck?” I screamed.

            “We have now stayed in for three nights in a row.  We have a steady, predictable schedule.  We’re going to my brother’s for a dinner party.  We did brunch!  We’re too comfortable.  We’ve become boring.”

            “We’re not boring,” I said, defending us.

            “We’re boring,” Puck said, ignoring my objection with a dismissive hand gesture.  “I don’t know how it happened so fast.  Just last week, we were exciting.  This week, I’m taking a picture of you doing dishes!  Was it because Shafe left?  Was it because you told my brother this isn’t my forever plan?  Was it because my brother approves of you?”  He looked me dead in the eye and added, “I refuse to be boring!”

            “Okay,” I said.  “What exciting thing do you want to do?”

            He thought for a second, and then his face lit up.  “I’ve been noodling about your ability as The Repository.  And I have a sinful, sinful idea.  We’ll have to tell one more person about what you can do, but I guarantee you he’s trustworthy.  And if I’m right, we’re going to do something with your abilities you’ve never done before.”

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