Gay Nightclub DJ

After we closed at 2 a.m., Les retired to his apartment to count the receipts while Derek, Don and I picked the place up a bit. The main cleaning crew, I was told, would be in the next afternoon to get the room ready for Saturday night. I was back that night and every weekend for several weeks. I got to know Derek and Don a little bit, talking to them as we cleaned up and walked out to the otherwise-deserted parking lot. Derek, I learned, had worked for Les a long time.

"I helped him move into this place 18 years ago." Derek said one night. "It was about a year after his wife died. Car accident. She was a lot younger than he was. I never knew her, but my, how he must have loved that woman. The second bedroom in his apartment is filled with all her stuff -- dresses, shoes, pictures, everything. He doesn't ever talk about her, but he's never gotten over her. I haven't been in that room since I helped him move in, but I saw her picture, and she was a pretty woman, very trim and tall. Les wasn't a bad-looking guy back then, either, when he had some hair and was much thinner than he is now."

As the weeks went on, I got to be more and more comfortable working at the club. It was a nice change from my classes at the university, and I got to know a lot of the regular customers. My tips got a lot better because they seemed to like me, and also, I think, because I started dressing differently. My normal outfit was a cut-off sweatshirt that revealed my midriff from my ribs to my cut-off shorts that I wore low on my hips. The top of my sweatshirt was cut widely enough to bare one of my shoulders as I bopped around to the music. After an hour or two, I'd usually really get into it and let my hair out of the pony tail to bounce around on my shoulders.

Men were making eye contact with me all the time now, and I would usually smile and hold their gaze for a few seconds before turning away shyly. OK, so maybe I was flirting with them just a little to get them to put money in my tips glass. Sometimes, Les would look over at me from the bar, holding up a Pepsi for me to come over and take with me. When he caught my eye, I sometimes found myself pushing my bare shoulder forward and smiling gratefully at him. This flirting thing was new to me, and maybe I was subconsciously doing it to the old man. Anyway, his sad face never indicated that he thought I was flirting, which was a good thing, because if I didn't find all the young, muscular men on the dance floor attractive, I certainly wasn't going to have my first gay experience with my elderly, portly boss.

I got pretty friendly with two lesbians who frequented the club. Beth was what you would call your classic bull dyke. She was about 5-foot-6, very short hair, round-faced, heavy, and always wore a black motorcycle jacket. Her girlfriend, Amanda, was one of the most beautiful and feminine women I have ever seen. Tall, with a regal neck and beautiful figure, her long, straight brown hair fell softly around her trim shoulders. She had the sweet face of an angel and a personality to match.

Beth was very possessive of Amanda, always with her arm around her. They made an incongruous pair. One night when Beth went to the bathroom, I just had to ask Amanda what the attraction was. Amanda's beautiful green eyes sparkled.

"You want to know why I'm with Beth?"

I nodded.

"Well, for one thing, men smell bad, they make gross noises when they eat and when they digest what they eat. And one of them," she said as her eyes got a little glassy, "raped me when we were on a date. Beth has never done anything like that to me, and she is very dominant in a gentle way.

"Besides," she said, taking a sip of her drink, "I don't like penises. They're disgusting. Do you like penises, Wendie?"

Everybody at the club called me "Wendie." I kind of liked it. At least it was better than "Wendell." Meanwhile, I didn't know how to answer Amanda's question.

"I like penises," I said, shrugging. "I mean, I like my own penis. I don't know any other penises."

"You could," she said. "You could know a lot of them. I've heard men around the club talking about you. Half of them want to fuck you. The other half want to give you a blow job."

Beth came back from the ladies room, dropped a five-dollar bill into my glass, put her arm around Amanda and guided her to the dance floor. Amanda smiled mischievously at me over her shoulder as she was led away.

I had been so busy playing CDs and talking to Amanda that I hadn't noticed Les trying to get my attention so he could give me my nightly Pepsi. For the first and only time, he delivered it to me. My back was to him as he moved around me in the close quarters, and he casually placed his hands on my bare waist to steady himself. I wasn't sure whether he was copping a feel, but I didn't think so. Les had never come on to me, and based on what Derek had told me, I wasn't even sure Les was gay or even bi. What I was sure of is that my whole body tingled when sad-faced Les put his hands on me.

I didn't like what I was feeling when he touched me, and the next day, a Sunday, I made it a point to chat up Linda, a cute girl from my dorm who seemed to like me. We drank a lot of wine, one thing led to another, and before too long, we were naked in bed together.

Then, for the first time in my young life, I couldn't get it up. It was so embarrassing. Moreover, I was starting to have feelings of sexual ambiguity. I couldn't possibly be gay, but an hour after Linda, who was really very nice and sympathetic, left my room, I got an erection while masturbating. I found myself fantasizing about being taken by some man I couldn't quite picture.

"I wasn't gay," I told myself. Still, I couldn't get it up for a pretty girl like Linda, and I was feeling more and more like a sex object for all the gay men at the club. It bothered me a little that I so easily fit into the gay atmosphere at the club, even though I was straight. I would compare myself to some of the young, svelte men on the dance floor and subconsciously wonder whether I was more attractive.

"You're a guy," I told myself. "You're straight. If you're prick-teasing, it's because of the tips."

And so it was.

The weeks went on, and the weather turned very cold and snowy. Still, the crowds came and danced every Friday and Saturday night, and I was making a lot of money for a college freshman. I found myself liking most of the people who came to the club, and I had come to terms with my sexual feelings.

Basically, I had none. After Linda, I decided to cool it for a while with the girls on campus until my head was totally straight. At the club, I flirted mildly, then went home with my tips. One seemingly routine Saturday night, Derek, Don and I walked out to the parking lot to go home. Since there were two of them and only one of me, they finished brushing the snow off their car before I did mine. I gave them a wave as they drove off, leaving me alone in the parking lot. It was cold, because although I had a long coat on, I was still wearing shorts and just a sweatshirt underneath. I finally finished with the snow-removal, settled into the driver's seat, turned the key and ... nothing.

The car revved, but wouldn't start. I let it rest for awhile, but it still wouldn't turn over. Finally, the battery started to drain, and I knew it wasn't going to turn over. I trudged back to the club entrance and knocked on the locked door, hoping that Les could hear me. After awhile, the door opened, and I told Les about my situation. I told him I wanted to call Triple A to see if they could get me started or tow me somewhere near the campus.

Les told me to use the phone in his suite because the one near the entrance was a pay phone. When we walked into his living room, I noticed the dining room table had two settings with fine china and two ornate candlesticks with unlit candles. I was too upset about my car to wonder who he might be expecting at 2:45 in the morning or whether he was just expecting a guest tomorrow. I called Triple A and was told it might be an hour because of the snowy weather and it was the middle of the night. I told Les about it and said I might as well go to the ballroom. I figured I could reorganize the CDs and pass some time while I waited for the tow truck. Les said to go ahead.

I was in there for about 40 minutes before sad-faced Les came in carrying a CD. I had taken off my boots and overcoat, so I was there in my sweatshirt, shorts and socks. He had changed into a pair of comfortable slacks and a loose-fitting, button-up shirt over his heavy torso.

"How ya doin’?" he asked, not really expecting an answer. I kinda shrugged, and my one side of my sweatshirt slipped off to reveal a bare shoulder. I let it stay there.

"You ever hear any Buddy Holly?" he asked.

I told him I had.

"You know," he said, "I see all you young people doing what you think is dancing every week, but I don’t think you’d know what to do with real rock ‘n’ roll like what Buddy Holly used to sing."

I looked up at him and smiled.

"I don’t suppose that’s a Buddy Holly CD in your hand right now?" I said.

"It is," he replied.

"Give it here, then," I said. Imagine him thinking I couldn't dance to Buddy Holly. It was time to put the old boy in his place, boss or no boss.