The Debutante Ball

My life has been a series of random events; an endless parade of gaffes and non-sequiturs. No goals set—no plans made—just drifting aimlessly on tiny stream to nowhere. One meaningless relationship after another—dead-end jobs—no hobbies or interests that anyone I knew cared about, and an attitude that can only be described as indifferent.

"Hey, what are you doing down there?" she screeched in her whiny, high-pitched voice.

I was glad she said something—it gave me the chance to get my nose out of her pussy long enough to gulp down some fresh air.

"I'm pleasuring you," I said. Even I didn't believe that line.

"No, you're not—your tongue feels like sandpaper—you're not buffing a car—you're thirty-two years old and you don't know how to lick a va-jay-jay?"

Va-jay-jay? Good grief....

"I'm outta here," she declared as she swung a hefty leg over my head and jumped out of bed. "You know, all the girls at the club think you're cute for your age and wonder why you're single," she said as she hurriedly dressed. "I'll let'em know why—you're a lousy lay and you have a bad attitude—you can't even 'get it up'--I think you're queer--where the hell are my panties?"

I'm a lousy lay with a bad attitude? Yeah, I couldn't disagree with that.

After she stormed out of the room and I heard the front door slam shut, I rolled off the bed and searched for my briefs. Earlier, in the heat of the moment, we frantically stripped each other and clothes were flying everywhere.

I found my shirt and slacks, but no underwear. Out of chance I looked on the other side of the bed. Her red nylon panties were on the floor. I picked them up and held them in my hand. I liked the feel of them. My penis began to rise for the first time that night. I rubbed them across my chest then on my thighs. I achieved a full-blown erection.

Is this too weird? I wondered. Nah, not for me. I wrapped the panties around my cock and stroked my shaft. OOhhh, I really liked that!

I was 'into it' now. I lay back on the bed and stroked away. My entire body tingled. The feel of the panties on my cock was a whole new sensation. It felt—dare I say it—extremely 'delightful'. I was getting close—I stroked my shaft faster-and-faster—suddenly my balls contracted and my body jerked wildly on the bed. I shot jet-after-jet of cum into the red nylon panties. Whew! I lay there breathing hard—it was the best orgasm I'd had in a long, long time.

The next evening when I went to work at the club the girls whispered to each other and pointed at me, and the gay guys winked and wanted to high-five me.

People are effing nuts, I thought.

I was bartending in the service bar, as usual. The main bar in the club was staffed by twenty-somethings. Me, being in my early thirties, was considered too old to work the main bar. The difference was about 200 dollars a night in tips. Needless to say, I wasn't thrilled with my employment situation.

Toward the end of my shift, Fred the Owner came up to me. "John, I'm gonna have to let you go," he said.

"Why?" I asked.

"We been watching you—you've been over-pouring," he said with a straight face.

"How can I over-pour with an automatic liquor gun?" I asked incredulously.

"We been watching you—here's your last check—good luck finding anything else in this economy."

I took the check from him and left the club. The girl from last night was his daughter. I had to have been temporarily insane.

He was right, though. The job market was brutal. As much as I disliked that job, it kept a roof over my head. Now what? I wondered.

I bought a couple bottles of cheap wine and went home and turned on the tv and stared at it like a zombie. What the hell am I doing with my life? I asked myself. This is ridiculous. No family in this town—not even any close friends to speak of. What have I been doing here the last five years?

I was down to my last bottle of wine and was flipping through the channels when I saw that Skin-a-Max was showing a soft core porn flick. I watched it and the one that followed and finished the wine. When it was over, I unsteadily rose from the couch and went to my bedroom and stripped off my clothes. I hesitated for a second then reached down into the waste basket and retrieved the red nylon panties from the night before and went to bed.

The next few days of job searching were an exercise in futility. Nobody was stupid enough to leave their jobs in this economy so there were no openings. Rent was due in seven days and while I had enough money saved to pay it, I'd be broke after that. I was getting nervous so I made the phone call of last resort. The next day I packed my car with a few belongings, gave my apartment key to the landlord, and drove off to 'The Low Desert Resort & Spa'.

It was only a two-hour drive but it was a lifetime away from the city. The 'season' at the resort didn't start for another two weeks, but I agreed to work in housekeeping and help 'open' the guest rooms until the season started then I would be a host/cashier in the cafe. There weren't any bartending jobs available unless someone failed to show.

In my sincerest voice I had told the lady I'd be happy to do whatever it took to help out the company. I've always been good at faking sincerity.

I thought back to my previous tour of duty in the middle of nowhere. I worked five seasons there before I moved to the city. The first time around I had a love/hate relationship with the place. They have a great golf course that employees play for free, but outside of that, there wasn't much else to do. If you didn't work at night it was difficult to stay out of the bars and save any money. Some of the resort was open year-round, if you didn't mind living in a place that was hotter than Hades in the summertime.

When I arrived, I checked-in and received my room assignment. Another thing I didn't like about the place was you had to share a room with someone, and you never knew what type of person you'd be living with for eight months. I'm sure you can picture the possibilities. For at least the first week, however, I'd have a room to myself.

That night at dinner I ran into a few people who were still there from five years ago, and they filled me in with the latest news and gossip, and who would be returning and who wouldn't. There were a lot of names I still knew.

The next morning I was assigned to work with Mark and Jamie, a couple queens I'd known five years ago. They were still together after all these years. They worked there year-round and loved it.

"Tennis, golf, swimming—except for the 'job part', it's like we've been on one long vacation," Jamie gushed. When the season started, they'd both be waiters in The Gourmet Room. They only took two weeks off every year. They were excellent employees; they had a plan; they saved their money and they would retire in ten years.

The resort had two separate guest housing areas and we were opening the 'cabins'. It was dirty and hot work. The cabins had been closed for three months, all the furniture covered with sheets, and our job was to take off the sheets, dust and vacuum then clean the bathroom. September in the desert the temperatures were still around a hundred-and-ten, and you had to be careful when you pulled the sheets off—little stinging, creepy-crawlers like scorpions and vinegaroons could get pretty nasty when you disturbed their hiding places .

It was almost a fun job. We worked hard but we talked about life and world events and we laughed a lot.

"Johnny, are you still insisting you're not gay?" Jamie would tease me. "You're way-too pretty not to be—even for an 'old guy'."

The first cabin we cleaned after lunch, I was in the bathroom scrubbing, when I heard Mark and Jamie making lovey-dovey noises and kissing. I peaked out the door and watched Jamie go to his knees and open Marks pants. I stood transfixed; I couldn't take my eyes away while Jamie sucked and fondled Mark's rather large prick. I was amazed at how much of the cock Jamie could get into his mouth.

Marks' eyes were closed and his head tilted back. Jamie's hands were busy stroking the shaft and massaging Marks' balls. His head and hand moved faster-and-faster on Marks' cock. I didn't really want to watch, but I couldn't turn away either. I remembered a couple months ago when I was at work and I accidentally opened the wrong door: I saw one of the gay guys on his knees sucking a cock. When I looked at the lucky recipient, it was Fred the Owner. They didn't see me, and I closed the door quietly.

Holy shit! I thought. Why didn't I mention that when Fred fired me? I'm sure if I'd brought up his wife and daughter I would have saved my job! Good grief, I thought. Why do I always think of these things after-the-fact?

Jamie sucked Marks' cock for a good ten minutes. When I heard a low guttural noise escape Marks' lips, I knew he would cum soon. I wanted to see what Jamie would do with Marks' load. I didn't have to wait long: Marks' hips began gyrating and he cried out. I could hear Jamie make swallowing and gulping noises as he took Marks' jism in his mouth. He never spilled a drop.

"It's safe to come out now, Johnny," I heard Jamie exclaim.

I didn't know what to do or say so when I walked out of the bathroom my face was beet red, and I just stood there.

"You know, cutie," Mark said, "...if you're this excited by just watching, maybe tomorrow you can kneel beside Jamie and he'll give you some pointers." He said as he pointed at my erection pushing against the front of my pants.

"I..ah, I..." I stammered; I hadn't realized I'd gotten a hard-on watching them.

Jamie laughed, "Sweetie, would you like me to 'do' you next? Or would you rather wait until Markie gets hard again so you can 'do' him?"

I broke out in nervous laughter; my face still bright red.

"Johnny, just so you know," Jamie explained, "...I do this for Markie every day after lunch—I know how to keep my man satisfied! If you want, you can join in or come out here and watch. You can take yours out while you're watching and jerk-off, for all we care."

They laughed and I joined in. It's not like I'm a prude or anything, but after that incident, I made myself scarce after lunch until they were ready to work again. I could still hear them, and maybe my imagination ran wild at times, but I didn't feel the need or have the inclination to join them.

Every night at bedtime, I would take the red nylon panties out from their hiding place and give myself a fantastic orgasm. I learned I had to wash them after every use so the cum didn't dry and make the nylon material crusty. I shook my head in wonderment at my bizarre thinking and behavior.

When we finished cleaning the guest cabins, we started on the employee cabins. These were away from the guest areas, and were near the employee laundry room and employee pub.

These cabins were older and somewhat shabby. Many years ago they were for guests, but when they built new guest cabins, instead of tearing them down, they allowed the employees to live in them. Each cabin had two twin beds, a table and two chairs, and a bathroom. That was it. Not much space for two people living together. They were identical to the one where I was living.

It was towards the end of our work day when we approached a cabin that sat-off by itself, under two large shade trees. It was bigger than the rest, and appeared to be in better repair than the others.

"Who lives here—a manager?" I asked.

Jamie giggled, "No, this is Rique's cabin," he said as he unlocked the door.

I was stunned when we walked inside. There was a queen-sized bed in the middle of the room; a mahogany table and three chairs, heavy drapes covering the windows, plush carpeting on the floor and a full-size electric stove and refrigerator. The bathroom was large and modern, too.

"So who's this 'Rickey' person," I asked.

"Ree-que—not Rickey—short for Enrique," Mark corrected me, "...he's the best waiter in The Gourmet Room...Jamie and I are excellent waiters, but Rique is a notch above everyone here...a Type-A personality..." he added with a smile, ...and a perfect physical specimen. His other nickname is the 'Sultry Latin Lover'."

"No offense," I said, "...but how does a waiter rate this kind of place, and why is he allowed to live alone?"

They both laughed. Jamie answered my question. "Like Markie said, he's a strong Type-A personality—wait until you meet him—and he won't be living alone. He definitely is 'The Sultry Latin Lover'. After a couple weeks, Rique will 'choose' a roommate. He'll look around at the 'available talent' that's working here this season, and he'll choose someone and that person will move in here with Rique to be his 'girl'...you're going to be surprised...I guarantee there will be at least five or six queers working here whose sole purpose for coming here is to be 'Rique's Girl'!"

I told them it sounded strange to me that one guy, a waiter at that, could have so much power. It all sounded a little 'out there', if you know what I mean.

"Now Johnny, we just hope you don't become bitter and jealous when Rique doesn't pick you to be his girl...he does have standards, you know...he likes his girls to be under a hundred!" said Jamie, and they howled with fits of laughter.

"Well, I just might prove you guys wrong!" I said, and we all laughed at that one.

When we finished cleaning, Jamie went to his laundry cart and pulled out satin sheets and an ornate bedspread, definitely not standard issue linens here.

"I kept these for Rique when he left", Jamie explained.

"Good grief," I said, as I rolled my eyes. They both smiled and laughed.

The opening of the 'season' was days away, and I began helping to clean-up The Café (coffee shop, really) where I would be working; Mark and Jamie went to work in The Gourmet Room at The Lodge.

I finally got a roommate, a cook at The Café named "Bear". Like his name, he was big and hairy. We both viewed each other as necessary annoyances. His second night there he tried to crawl into my bed.

"What the hell are you doing?" I asked, keeping calm.

"This is what we do here—we 'help out' one another," he replied.

"I'm not gay," I said.

He laughed, "Get off it...I watched you work with your pretty-boy friend's today...you'll never convince me you're not a faggot...how do you want it: in your mouth or your ass?"

Now I was becoming alarmed: "Look, I'm not queer! Get out of my bed." He tried to pin me to the bed but I slipped out from under him and rolled off the bed. "Don't touch me again—you might beat the shit out of me but I'll mess you up, too!"

From then on our only form of communication was grunts to acknowledge each others' presence.

I had a PO Box at the Post Office. One day I was checking the mail and as I came outside a Lamborghini LP 700 drove up and parked; an unusual occurrence, to say the least. When the driver got out of the car, the sunlight played off his head and the trees and I would swear it looked like he had a halo over his head. I knew immediately who it was: Rique, of course.

We passed each other and I smiled and he smiled back at me. When he went inside the post office I stopped in my tracks: "Oh my God," I said aloud to myself, my pulse racing all because of his beautiful smile. Jamie's description of him didn't do him justice. I had never seen a man as handsome as him. I felt foolish about my reaction to him and went on my way.

Every night after work I went to the employee pub and lost myself in wine and bar games. I was doing exactly what I told myself I wouldn't do: spend hard earned money I couldn't afford.

To hell with it, I thought. I was pretty good at pool, pinball, and foosball and the camaraderie with my co-workers was fun and lifted my spirits. So far I hadn't seen or met any single female employees, which wasn't unusual out here. I hung out with the gay guys, they were fun, and always teasing me about my 'sexual orientation'.

It was about a week into the season when I walked into the pub after work, and the place was packed. I heard Jamie call my name so I signed the chalkboard to play pool, and found a chair next to him and sat down. When I looked up, there sitting directly across the table from me was Rique. I felt my heart skip a beat. I blushed.

"Rique, this is Johnny, he works in The Café," Jamie introduced us.

He stood, reached across the table to shake my hand and said, "It is a pleasure to meet you."

I was confused, was I supposed to stand to shake his hand? I remained seated. He had a firm grip. His hand dwarfed mine. I didn't know what to say.

Finally I blurted out, "I hear you're a helluva waiter!"

I felt embarrassed the moment I said it. I blushed again. I wondered what was wrong with me. I stared into his eyes; his gaze burned into me. We both smiled then someone yelled my name—it was my turn to shoot pool. I excused myself and left the table.

I'd be playing against Chuckie. He was a busboy in The Café. He was a little too gay, if you know what I mean. I'd call him a flamer, I guess 'twink' is another word.

I never really thought much about my attitude concerning gay people. To me, they were like everyone else, and I interacted with them the same as I would with anyone. What I found was that most of the gay people I knew seemed intelligent, were fun to be with, were hard workers and they generally had great personalities. I couldn't care less what they did in private. However, just like everywhere, there are people you just don't care for, you'd rather not be around them, Chuckie was one of those people.

The pool game we always played was eight-ball. The lower numbered balls 1-7 are called 'solids' because they are one color. The balls 9-15 are called 'stripes', they had a stripe around them. The black eight ball was neutral. Whoever 'broke', if they made a solid or stripe on the break, that was what they needed for the rest of the game. Once you made all your 'solids' or 'stripes', then you tried to make the eight ball to win the game. If you made the eight ball on the break—you won the game. If you made the eight ball before you made all of your other balls—you lost the game.

Since Chuckie was the winner of the previous game, he 'broke the rack'. He made two stripes on the break, and I had to wait until he missed. He made one more ball then missed. I missed an easy shot and it was Chuckie's turn again.

I looked at the chalkboard to see who signed up to play. Rique's name was fourth on the list. That meant, in order to play against Rique, I'd have to beat Chuckie, and the next three players. I'd played these guys before and beaten them, so I cleared the fog out of my mind and concentrated hard on the game.

Chuckie and I were both down to the eight ball and he missed a fairly easy shot. I made the eight and won the game. One down—three to go.

I had a good 'break' on the next game, and made five balls before I missed. I looked over at the table where Mark, Jamie and Rique sat. There were three flamers all vying for Rique's attention. Wannabe's, I thought. Chuckie had wormed his way into the seat next to Rique. I felt an odd and foreign emotion. What was it? I wondered. Jealousy? Can't be—what could I be jealous of? It occurred to me that Chuckie may have lost his game to me on purpose. Back to the current game, I won the game on my next three shots. Two down—two to go.

The next game I won easily. My opponent was drunk and could barely see the balls. Three down—one to go.

I looked over and Chuckie was gone from the table. As a matter-of-fact, so were Mark and Jamie. Rique was alone talking with Eddie, the host/cashier at The Steakhouse. Eddie? I wondered. Sure, he's a good looking kid, but I didn't think he was Rique's type—whatever that was.

I made a poor break on the next game. The balls were huddled together, and since Bob, my opponent and I were pretty good players, I knew we were in for a long game. No one wanted to make the mistake that would open up the table for the other guy. I kept taking furtive glances at Rique's table; he and Eddie were talking and smiling. I briefly considered breaking up the balls to give Bob the advantage but I fought that urge. After what seemed like forever, I made three balls in-a-row and made a cross-corner bank shot on the eight ball to win the game.