Chapter 3

I am eighteen years old and just a couple months into my freshman year. All through high school I was shy and I just blended into the background. In college, I am forcing myself to be more social. I have made a few friends, joined the swim team and I go to The Mockery every weekend. It’s way more than I imagined. I figured my time would be spent in class, in the dining hall and in my dorm room. That’s it. But I’m doing okay.

My best friend so far, Nyck, is also on the swim team. We’re currently at practice, poolside, watching as the upperclassmen go through their paces.

Nyck says to me, “What’s with the number 4 on Grant’s shoulder?”

I shrug, “He’s not the only one. A few of the other guys have numbers on their shoulders too.”

“Grant didn’t have his last week,” Nyck notes. “It’s new over the weekend. What do you think the numbers mean?”

I shrug again, “We could ask him after practice.”

Nyck scoffs, “He won’t tell us anything. We’re freshman. We don’t exist to him.”

“No harm in trying.”

Asking Grant is a bust. We are in the locker room after practice and he sneers at us, mumbling something about a secret society that we will never be a part of. Then he shoulders his way past us, almost knocking us over.

It occurs to me that there is a tattoo place next to The Mockery. It also occurs to me that I saw Grant at The Mockery last weekend. In fact, I think I saw him step into the backroom with the owner.

I share these realizations with Nyck and he grins at me, “Let’s do a little detective work. We’ll go to The Mockery next Saturday, grab a table, order a few drinks and observe.”

Nyck and I have been camped out at a corner table in The Mockery for over and hour and nothing has happened. But when a beefy muscly guy walks up to the bar and does not appear to be ordering a drink, I leave our table and sneak up behind him to listen in.

The muscly guy is all bluster: “No way! Maybe most people, but not me!”

The bar owner, I remember his name is Clark, says: “If you’re up for a challenge, you can prove it to both of us.”

And the two of them disappear into the backroom. Just like Clark did with Grant last weekend. I head back to our table and report my learnings to Nyck.

“Prove what?” asks Nyck.

I have no idea. I say to Nyck, “How about when Clark comes back, you go up to him and tell him that you’re up for a challenge?”

I laugh when Nyck’s eyes almost pop out of their sockets. “No way, dude! You do it.”

We end up flipping a coin. When Nyck loses, he insists we do two out of three. But then I lose the next two coin tosses. Shit. Well, I did want to force myself to be more social.

It’s forty-five minutes before we see Clark again, but as soon as we do, Nyck is grinning and goading me on. “His name is Clark, right? Go on. Go order another drink.”

Nyck starts nudging my sneaker under the table with his own, “Blake, now’s your chance. Go talk to him.”

I actually have talked to Clark a couple times before. He’s a nice guy. Super friendly. I don’t know why but every time I talk to him I find that I’m blushing. I guess there’s really nothing to be afraid of.

I slide out of my booth and meander over to the bar. Clark sees me, smiles wide and I’m already blushing.

Just the fact that he remembers my name makes my blush deepen.

“Hi Clark,” I shift from one foot to the other. “Um, I was wondering…” I trail off, losing the little confidence I had.

He just smiles at me, “What is it?”

I clear my throat, “The numbers on guys’ shoulders. What do they mean and why do they have them?”

He holds his smile, “What do you mean?”

“Come on, Clark. I know there’s some kind of challenge. Everyone who follows you into the back comes out with a number tattooed on their shoulder.”

“It’s nothing. It doesn’t apply to you.”

“What if I want to take the challenge?”

He sighs, “Blake, whatever you think you know, you should just try to forget it.” He leans in and whispers, “We can’t be heard talking about it. There is a confidentiality that cannot be breached. I am sworn to secrecy.”

“I am an expert secret keeper.”

His smile returns, “I bet you are.” He puts a hand on my shoulder and the warmth of his touch is electric. “You’re not like the other guys. Those other guys will never tell what the number is about because of so many reasons: Embarrassment, denial, failure, humiliation… They all learned something about themselves that they couldn’t have imagined was true, but it is. You are not one of them. And we shouldn’t be having this conversation out here.”

“So take me in the back and let’s talk in private.”

“Look, Kid… No one can see you walk back there. If you are seen walking back there, then anyone who has been back there will assume that you know. And when they see that you don’t have a number…”

“So, I’ll do the challenge and take my number.”

He squeezes my shoulder, “You can’t be seen walking back there. For your own safety.” He sighs again but softens when he meets my eye. “Go out the front door, go into the tattoo shop, ask for Leo and tell him the Clark wants him to let you through the back. I’ll meet you in the backroom in five minutes.”

This is so clandestine. I give Nyck a quick thumbs up as I walk by and out the door. He looks confused, but I shoot him a wink and wave for him to stay where he is.

I find Leo in the shop next door and when I tell him what Clark told me to say, he doesn’t question it. I’m led through to his back office and a store room that has a heavy wooden door against the far wall. Leo heaves it open and Clark is waiting for me on the other side. I enter and see a padded table with restraint straps dangling from all four corners. My eyes bulge.

Leo looks me up and down from head to toe and says to Clark, “I’m guessing you will not be requiring my services in twenty minutes.”

Clark grins at Leo, “You assume correctly.”

Leo turns back to me, “Come see me sometime Kid if you want some real ink.” He looks me up and down again and it feels like he can see through my clothes. He says, “I bet you’re a blank canvass of smooth delicate skin.”

I blush again and Leo disappears, closing the door.

“Is that part of the challenge?” I point at the table.

“Blake, no one can know you’re back here.”

“For my safety, you said. Why? What goes on?”

“The Challenge is about proving to deniers who they really are.”

He hands me a clipboard and I read the agreement attached. It explains what the Kinsey Scale is and Clark’s assertion that no one is 100% heterosexual. Everyone has at least a touch of bisexuality. The challenger agrees to be at Clark’s mercy for twenty minutes. If Clark, using no tools or toys, just his hands and mouth, can bring these so called straight guys to orgasm, then they lose. They admit they’re bisexual and they wear their Kinsey Score on their arm. A score determined by Clark. But their names and the challenge they participated in will remain confidential.

I tell him, “I’m up for the challenge.”

He shakes his head, “You don’t meet the criteria.”

“I’m eighteen. I’m a legal adult. I can make my own decisions.”

“That’s not what I mean,” he sighs for a third time. “You’re not an arrogant asshole denying who he really is.”

I blush again, “I–” I stammer. “I’m not…” I trail off.

“Blake, young man, you know exactly who you are.” He looks down at my feet, “Dude, you’re wearing purple shoes!”

It’s true. I’m wearing my purple Nike high-tops. I scoff, “That doesn’t mean–“

He cuts me off, “No. You’re right. It doesn’t. There may very well be three straight guys in the whole world wearing purple shoes right now, but you are not one of them.”

I open my mouth to say something, but he stops me with a raised palm.

“Blake, you might not have come out yet to your family at home, but you will. You are only eighteen. You have all the time in the world. You’re a sweet kid at the beginning of life’s journey. Soon enough you’ll be out and proud and living your best life.”

“How do you know all of this?” I look down then back up, “And don’t say it’s my purple shoes.”

He snorts, “You’re funny. No, not the shoes. I know it because I was you ten years ago. Looking at you, it’s like looking in the mirror when I was starting college. Do you see now? This challenge isn’t for you. None of those guys who’ve been through it were completely gay. No one has ever been stamped as a 5 or a 6. If you walk around with a 6, then you’re different from the rest of them and a perceived threat to the secrecy of the club. That’s why your safety would be at risk. You, Blake, are a fine young man and the day you come out is right around the corner. Again, if you are openly gay and you have this mark, you are a perceived threat. Those other guys trust each other because telling on any of them means telling on themselves too.”

He’s right, but still. I feel a little disappointed. Maybe he was just like me. A gay, but closeted, eighteen year old. A virgin wishing he wasn’t a virgin.

I ask, “What if it’s not The Challenge? What if you just do what you do and I don’t sign anything and you don’t have your friend brand me with a number? What if I just want to…”

He surprises me with a hug. “This,” he points at the padded table with the restraints, “is not what you want your first time to be. And not with this old guy either. You need to be with someone special.”

“But what if I never…”

His hand goes back to my shoulder, “Blake, that someone special might be closer than you think he is.”

He smiles, “The boy waiting for you at your table. Nyck, right?”

Now I scoff. “Nyck is just a friend. A teammate.”

“His shoes are green.”

“Straight guys don’t wear purple Nikes or Kelly green Chuck Taylors.” He spins me around by the shoulders and says, “Go talk to him. He’s a lot like us.”

Without knocking or anything the connecting door swings open revealing a grinning Leo. Was he listening the whole time?

I walk back through the front door of The Mockery and rejoin Nyck at our booth. He’s buzzing in anticipation.

“We just talked. He’s a nice guy.”

Nyck is incredulous, “You just talked? Do you have a number on your shoulder?”

“What do the numbers mean?”

“He wouldn’t tell me.”

“What did he do with Grant last week?”

“It was like Grant said. It’s a secret society and we’ll never know.”

It takes another five minutes of Nyck grilling me before he accepts that I have nothing to share. He asks, “So what did you talk about?”

I think for a moment before saying, “Shoes.”

I put my foot up next to him on his bench. “Apparently I have good taste in shoes.”

He looks down at it, “I like the color.” He traces the instep with a finger. “We’re always barefoot at swim practice.”

I reach under the table and pull his foot up onto my bench seat. “Yours are pretty cool too. Maybe we could swap sometime.”

Nyck is my best friend here in college, but in the two months we’ve known each other, we haven’t talked-talked. We don’t know much that’s real about each other. As we finish our drinks, I ask him about his family and he asks me about mine. We spend an hour really getting to know each other.