If Treston ever stopped working in the strip club he knew the one thing he would miss the most would be the vicious banter between the guys before a show started. When you are in a situation where you're forced to be this naked and this exposed, you say things you normally wouldn't say under any other circumstances.
J.D. smiled and said, "That's not what your wife said the other night when I fucked her brains out."
Treston pulled down his pants and stepped out of them.
Lyon laughed and said, "You never fucked a girl in your life, cock sucker." Lyon was actually married to a woman.
J.D. ignored the comment; they were only joking around. He turned to Treston and said, "Could you give me a hand, man? I don't think I can do it alone tonight. I just got this new g-string for the show and I think I might have made a mistake."
Treston removed his shirt and walked over to where J.D. was standing. Treston was the only guy in the dressing room still wearing his underwear. This wasn't the first time J.D. had asked him for help getting ready for the show. He said, "Spread your legs a little, hold your nuts, and lean your hips forward," and then he reached down and grabbed J.D.'s dick with his right hand.
While Treston pulled the g-string's waistband with his left hand and lifted J.D.'s dick with his right so he could work it into the pouch, J.D. asked, "What's happening with you and Senator Harlan Rocks?" The other guys had never liked Harlan; they thought he was using Treston. They referred to him as "the senator" with sarcastic expressions.
Treston continued to gently push J.D's dick down into the pouch. He frowned and said, "He left me at Lake Mead yesterday." He caught J.D. and Lyon exchange a quick glance and he told them an abbreviated version of what had happened at Lake Mead. He left out the part about being naked and how Cooper Boon had found him crying on a rock. That would have been too much information to tell anyone.
Lyon crossed to where they were standing and he reached down to help Treston put J.D.'s dick into the pouch. It wasn't easy. It was the first time it had taken two of them to do this. Each time Treston thought he'd gotten J.D.'s dick in the pouch, either his balls would pop out of the right side or the head of his dick would slip out of the left.
Treston pulled J.D.'s dick all the way out and started over. "I think you might have to put on something else." It always amazed him how non-sexual these things were. The men outside in the club would probably have paid three times as much just to see what happened backstage.
"Just keep working on it," J.D. said. "I'm sure you'll get it in there."
This time Treston and Lyon exchanged a glance.
J.D. said, "Well, I guess that's the end of the senator. And I say good riddance to bad rubbish. The guy was only out for what he could bleed dry from you. He's a gonif."
"A what?" Treston asked. J.D. was Jewish and he often used Yiddish words none of them knew.
"A gonif is a fucking creep who you can't trust and never will be able to trust," J.D. said. "They'll take anything they can get, and they have no moral fiber."
Treston found that if he pointed J.D.'s dick down, and then curled it around his balls, it seemed to stay in place. Of course the sides bulged and he wasn't sure how long it would stay in place, but it was the best he could do. "He's not that bad," Treston said. "I think he just owed a few people some money and he panicked. I'm sure he'll call."
Lyon rolled his eyes. "Don't count on it, bro," he said. "And if he does call you tell him to go fuck himself." Lyon was like most of the straight guys in Treston's life: they tended to be protective toward him, as if Treston couldn't be trusted to protect himself.
J.D. glanced down between his legs and said, "I think this will work."
Lyon frowned and said, "I think you'd better put on something else. I have a thong you can borrow, man. You'll love it. I wore it already and never washed it."
Treston just gaped at what he saw. J.D.'s dick was way too large for the pouch. The sides were sticking out and J.D.'s balls were exposed. "I agree with Lyon, buddy. You'd better put on something else. This won't work out well on stage. You know how Chickey is about this stuff."
"No, it's fine," J.D. said. And to prove it, he pressed his hands to his chest and bucked his hips as if he were dancing on stage. But the second time he swung his pelvis forward, his dick fell out and slapped against his thigh.
Treston said, "Ah well."
Lyon smiled.
J.D. shook his head and said, "I guess you're right," and he pulled the g-string off. When he handed it to Lyon he said, "You can have it. Why let a perfectly good g-string go to waste? I'll wear yours instead." He didn't seem to mind that Lyon had already worn it.
But Lyon stepped back and lifted his hands, palms up. "No way, dude. I don't wear other dude's shit like that."
J.D. rolled his eyes. "You were just holding my nuts a minute ago. Seriously, man."
"That's different," Lyon said. "I'm straight. I was just helping you out. But there's no way I'm wearing something another dude's dick touched. Freaks me out, man." He turned to get his thong for J.D.
Treston smiled. They each had their quirks. "I'll take it," he said. "I'll wear it under my costume tonight." He thought it would be just the right size for him-a pouch small enough to make a great big bulge. And even if it did reveal a little too much of his dick, his unusual act focused more on his ass. He didn't mind wearing a thong another guy's dick had touched.
As Lyon turned to go back to the full-length mirror and J.D. turned to put on the g-string Lyon had just given him, the phone rang and Treston's heart stopped beating for a moment. Maybe it was Harlan. Treston had actually talked himself into believing Harlan might have regretted what he'd done at Lake Mead and he would call and beg Treston for forgiveness.
One of the new strippers answered and a second later he pointed the phone toward Lyon and said, "It's your bitch, man. She wants to know if you're available to come to the phone at this moment."
As Treston's heart sank and he turned with his head down to start putting on his costume, J.D. turned and placed is hand on Treston's shoulder. In a rare serious moment for him, he said, "You gotta let this one go, buddy. He's not worth it. Consider yourself lucky he didn't get any more from you."
Treston still believed there was a chance Harlan might call, but he didn't want J.D. to think he was a complete idiot. So he looked up and smiled. Then he reached into his bag and pulled out his newest costume for an act that seemed to drive the men in the club out of their minds. It was so outrageous, and so unusual, even the other male strippers at the club gaped at him when he did this. And Chickey found it amusing. He would sit at the bar and smile through the entire act.
* * * *
If Treston had been completely honest, he would have had to admit his unusual act was not completely original. He'd once seen a female stripper do something similar in an old movie and he'd been fascinated with it. It was one of those things that had remained alive in the back of his mind for years until he finally decided to try it himself. If there was one thing Treston had learned in the years he'd been stripping for money, it was that nothing, ever, was original. Everything was a gimmick that had been done before by someone else, then redone a hundred times again. His new act would probably be performed one day in the future by another stripper. Every move, costume, step, and turn had been used and reused. The originality came into play with how an old gimmick was orchestrated and executed in a different way.
When the Bessie Smith version of St. Louis Blues started to play, Treston strutted out on the stage twirling a baton in each hand, wearing an exaggerated costume of a male cheerleader. His top was nothing more than a tight white cotton T-shirt. But the tight shorts were white patent leather and hung so low on his small hips, about six inches of his abdomen remained exposed. He wore a large white cowboy hat and white leather cowboy boots with four-inch Western heels that had bright steel tips on each toe and real spurs at the heels.
As he strutted slowly to the beat of St. Louis Blues, twirling the batons and grinding his hips, the men who had never seen his act before sat and gaped at him. But the men who had seen his show and returned to see it again, started to bellow and cheer him on. He concentrated hard on the batons; he'd had to rehearse and watch YouTube for weeks in his apartment to learn how to twirl a baton the proper way. Each step he took had to complement each twirl and turn the batons made. He never thought he'd get throwing a baton right; he'd never realized how complicated it was to work with batons. He'd gone through three lamps, two plate glass windows, and one glass shower door while he'd been learning. His neighbors had complained to the landlord if they heard Bessie Smith singing St. Louis Blues one more time they'd wrap the batons around Treston's neck.
But he'd continued in spite of all the complaints and casualties. He'd finally learned to throw a baton so high above his head it soared through the air while the men in the audience actually glanced up and followed it until it descended and he caught it. And learning to take off his pants and his shirt hadn't been easy either. The only viable way to do this was to throw both batons up, rip off his pants, and catch the batons just in time.