Thunder Sandwich #26 - Glen Fowler fiction

Turning Tables

Muscle Boy grabs his kit bag, throws it over his shoulder and heads for the exit. On the way he passes Big Marty on the bench press, 1 hup!, 2 hup!, 22 hup!, 43 hup! . Marty's a fraud. The only time he's sweating is when Muscle Boy's checking, other times he's perving at the girls, slobbering over the ladies as their asses bob and weave at the step machines. He's not alone.

The guys from the factory crowd the Pilates babes like kittens around a fish tank. They're dreamers, living a delusion that maybe one of these housewives will leave their accountant husbands for a steroid pumped monster with a singlet and no future. The ladies know better. They've got no time for losers but they don't mind Muscle Boy.

'Hey Rob, where ya going? You buying coffee?'

'Working Candy, no caffeine, no nookie.'

'Teaser!'

Don't mess with the paying customers. That's the mantra, say it loud and say it often.

In the gym or at work it's the same; no complications. He's working his way through college, struggling to say afloat. Better to stay slick, skip the hassle, take the legal money and find his women in other places, in college or on buses, anywhere but wound up with the job.

In his kit bag is his working uniform, tanning oil in a plastic bottle, a CD player, mini silver underwear. Today he's working West Side. He's never been so in demand since he started with the new agency.

Another few months and college will be paid. Stick to the rules. Gotta keep his nose clean (his pecker too) and hands off the babes. It's in writing, 'no fraternizing', easy he thinks, not a problem for a self-controlled youth with his eyes on the prize.

He arrives at the gig. An outdoor café, 'Tortellini's' crammed between the Court and Farrell's MicroBrewery. The party's underway. Kit in hand, he walks through the entry and is met at the desk.

'You the guy?'

'Sure am, your lady here?'

'Out back. Wow you are the guy, rippling muscles or what! You got your gear?'

'Five minutes I'll be ready, line her up.'

Rob strips down, all bulging pecs and triceps, slaps oil on his quads, across his chest and arms.

'Need a hand with that dearie?'

An old lady from the kitchens stifles a scream as he whips off his pants. She stares goggle eyed at the silver pouch. Adonis couldn't look more perfect, but the light is dim and it's been a while since she saw a man naked.

'She's ready, Hon, name's Susan, be gentle.'

He switches on the CD player, pumping up the volume and struts into the room with the boom box blasting. Twenty five booze-frazzled office chicks turn to the sound and then stop goggle eyed as he pirouettes between them.

Rob is all muscle, the perfect six pack, the padded silver pouch is jiggling as he writhes to the music. Ahead, young Susan Parker sits, restrained by two secretaries in a dining chair.

'Whooooo Whoooo. Yeah man! Take him Susie.'

Rob slithers forward, pushing his writhing torso up to her. Susie gets a close up of Rob in contour. Rob's glistening under the strip lights, jigging to the music, the girls start clapping, slow clapping, then faster and excitable. They've been here all afternoon, too many champagne and pina-coladas, done for the afternoon and birthday girl all embarrassed but pumped with Southern Comforts.

'Show us yer dick!'

'Take him Susie!'

Rob is not Marty, he holds himself clear. 'Give them value, but don't let them touch the merchandise.' The best bit of advice he ever got. Rob's in it for the money. He's going places. He's gonna be a lawyer, along the way he's making a lot of girls happy, look don't touch. He's leaving push-ups for the gym. Gotta be careful with these girls.

Egged on by her friends Susie's getting bold. She's out of the chair and coming at him. Her hand is held low, open, in her eyes are mischief and liquor. Rob becomes the dancer, value for money. She's so close, he's the matador, she swipes, olé, swipes again, olé. Rob pulls away, the music trails off and he's ready to collect his pay.

'Thank you ladies. My name is Rob, please tell your friends, book me again if you liked the show.'

'Show us yer dick! Muscle Boy! Show us yer dick!'

Rob has an exam in the morning, another gig at eight and a promise of castration if he steps across the line. He needs the money. The girls are holding twenties, fifties, waving the notes in the air and grabbing at the pencil thin ties on his pouch.

The room is full of money. A man's gotta do the right thing in these circumstances, gotta have a resolve. He steps down from the stool and makes his way, arms outstretched through the crowd.

'Thank you ladies, do tell your friends.'

[Index]