The Dirty Boys Club
This must be the place, Bobby thought, and kind of shivered. He looked at the blue piece of paper in his hand, then up at the building again.
The old warehouse in a dimly lit alley way south of Market Street had a handwritten sign taped haphazardly to its rusting metal door. "D.B.C." Just that.
"Scuse me," he said, then repeated himself more loudly. The filthy man half-asleep in the doorway grunted and rolled over far enough for the redheaded boy to push the doorbell. There was a long, loud buzzer, and Bobby pushed open the door. A dark corridor, a faintly visible open doorway at the end. The door to the street swung loudly shut behind him.
He shuffled down the passageway, past a couple of closed doors. The room at the end was barren, dark, paint peeling on the walls, and it smelled of mildew. There were half a dozen metal folding chairs against one wall, a pile of papers and some ballpoint pens on a rickety card table. Nothing else.
A voice, bodiless, said, "Walk to the end, please, take an application form from the table, and have a seat." Dang, what have I gotten myself into? Bobby wondered. He almost turned around to leave. Oh, what the hell, he was already there. . . . He fetched a form from the card table. "FILL OUT COMPLETELY," it began. Bobby grabbed a pen and sat down. At first, just the usual stuff: name, address, Social Security number. Nothing about employment history, but places for height, weight, and, a bit surprisingly, sexual orientation, the last labeled "optional." Even more surprisingly, there were only two boxes to check, "gay" and "bi." And it got even weirder: at the bottom of the page, the form said, "Feel free to remove as much of your clothing as you wish."
He filled out the paperwork, and then just sat there, feeling unsure and somewhat foolish. But he needed money. He surely did need money.
Within a few minutes, the buzzer sounded again.
Bobby heard the disembodied voice again: "...and have a seat."
"It's like a damn haunted house, yeah?" said a Southern-sounding voice echoing down the dark corridor.
"It's not quite what I expected," said another, deeper, calmer voice.
"Wish we'd brought Scooby-Doo along," said the Southerner. "The things a guy'll do to get a job."
"Jesus, this is spooky." The deeper voice sounded more than a little unsure. "Let's get the hell out of here."
"A job's a job, Adam. And we need jobs. Remember? We really need jobs."
Two boys walked into the room. One was handsome, with long blond hair and a vee-shaped torso, his nipples prominent beneath a tight, pale green T-shirt. He looked kind of startled when he saw Bobby sitting there.
"You here about the job, I guess?" the blond boy said.
"Yeah," Bobby said. "I guess. What do you know about it?"
"The job? Just what I saw on this flyer." He held out a blue paper exactly like the one Bobby had. "Not much information there, huh? Just wanting to hire good-looking young guys, good pay, and this address."
"Yeah, it's pretty mysterious. But we need jobs," the Southern boy said, peering through wire-rimmed glasses.
The Southern boy was cute. Very, very cute. Bobby felt his heart give a little leap. Also his dick. "Me, too. But I was thinking of leaving. I filled out this form, and sat here for a while, but nothing's happened."
"How long you been waiting?"
"Half hour or so. But except for the voice I heard when I first came in, I haven't seen anybody. Except you. Oh, I'm Bobby, by the way."
"Pleased to meet you," The boy drawled. "Name's Will. And this here's Adam." The boy smiled. Nice smile. He lit a Marlboro Light, and only then asked, "You don't mind if I smoke, do you?"
"You shouldn't," Bobby said. "It's not good for you."
"I keep telling him that all the time," Adam said, looking up from filling out the form. "Don't I, Will?"
"Yeah. Filthy habit," Will said, inhaling deeply.
"So you guys are a couple?" Bobby asked.
"Um, sort of."
Will gave Adam a funny sidelong look.
"That's, um, nice," Bobby said, feeling like he shouldn't have asked.
"What are you doing, Adam?" Will asked.
Adam had pulled his T-shirt off, baring his nicely muscled chest, a Grateful Dead dancing-bear tattoo strutting across one pec. "Says here to take off our clothes. I figure if I'm going to get the job..."
"What the hell kind of job is this?" Will's accent was growing stronger. But Adam had already kicked off his shoes and was unbuckling his pants.
"I read that, too," Bobby said. "But I figured since nobody was here to see me strip, I'd keep my clothes on." He couldn't help but notice how big Adam's nipples were.
"Demure of you." Will took another puff.
Adam was down to his white briefs and gym socks now, his hefty cock well outlined by the thin white cotton stretched over his dick and balls. Bobby couldn't stop himself from staring. "You sure are taking this job-hunting thing seriously," he said. . . .
copyright 2007 by Simon Sheppard