Schuyler walked into Club Metro to dazzling lasers of blue, red, orange, and pink, the beat of Sylvester singing his way through You May Me Feel Mighty Real, beefcake boys twirling around poles in tighty-whities, and bearded muscle men in black tank tops and Ray-bans. There must’ve been a thousand men in this cavern under the Wells Fargo building – all for an AIDS benefit of some sort.
They were always throwing AIDS benefits in those years. Any excuse for a party to take drugs, drink liquor, and have sex. Schuyler wondered just how many more infections happened at those parties to raise money to prevent more infections.
“Hey you, there, bud, you’re kinda cute in that Izod. Nice tight jeans, too – love your bubble butt.”
Schuyler turned around and looked at the shirtless man – thick beard, Ray-bans covering his eyes. He looked at the guy’s torso. Nipples almost a half-inch long and a quarter-inch thick. He’d definitely worked them over … or somebody had. Nice stomach, though, and narrow hips. Maybe he’d give him a night.
“Love your hairy chest, man,” Schuyler said. “What’s happening?”
Schuyler cringed at the small talk. Why couldn’t they just get to the chase? So do you want to have sex tonight, buddy? That’s what was really happening.
“Just checking the place out. Have a good evening, bud,” the man said, and turned around and swigged his beer.
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