Chapter 5

He finds my right palm and leads me through the meat market of torsos, shoulders, thighs, arms, backs, tattoos-a-plenty, and curious cocks. I’m touched a hundred or more times. Grasped. Fondled. Played with. Coveted. Pinched. Tweaked. Brushed against. Everyone in The Warehouse wants some action with the cowboy—me—and I don't seem to mind at all now that I've had a beer in my system.

Once outside, sucking in the summer’s night heat, I say, “Corey, we left our shirts on the bar stools.”

“We’ll get them tomorrow.”

“If they’re still there.”

“Trust me. You look better with the shirt off. A massive chest like yours needs to be shown off.”

As if on cue, whistles from a passing cab’s open window find us. Some twink stranger with spiked blond hair yells out at us, “You dudes are hot!”

The cab rolls away, and I say, “I am not in Hiding anymore.”

“Believe me, you never were. Everyone knew you were a faggot when we were kids.”