Page 88 of Muscle Cub

“We’re doing last looks,” Gunner lied. “About to head up now.”

“Well, fix your wigs and come on.”

Hank helped Gunner zip the back of his dress. Bailey pulled on a rainbow wig and started frantically digging through a pile of clothes asking if anyone had seen his clown nose. Austin went to the mirror with a handful of blue bills he’d seemingly produced out of nowhere. “Where’re your bucks, Prof?” he called over his shoulder as he slid a few of his own into the neckline of his singlet.

“Um… in my trailer.”

“You didn’t bring the fanny pack?”

I shrugged. “I still have pockets.” I pulled out the single red bill the golf-cart driver had given me on my way here.

“Give me that.” Austin snatched it from me and opened my coat. “You need to tuck some into your jock. Like this. It’s kinda like a tip jar. It needs to be seeded.”

Albie snickered at the word and reached to hand me another bill. With a smirk, Kevin slipped me one too. “For your seeding.”

One by one, the others presented me with their contributions. God. These undeniably beautiful young men, voting for me of all people. My face flooded with warmth, but I managed to murmur my thanks.

“See?” Austin smiled. “It works.” He continued tucking and arranging the bills behind the elastic band of my jock, slipping his fingers into the pouch a little deeper than was necessary a few times and accidentally grazing my dick.

With the pill in my system and the promise of being alone with him later, my cock started to swell uncomfortably. “If you keep that up,” I muttered, “we’re gonna have to skip the party.”

“We don’t have to stay long.” With a look of intense heat, Austin waggled his eyebrows. “There.” He stepped away and turned me toward the mirror. “Check it out.”

Good grief. “It looks like I’m wearing a fucking papier-mâché tutu.”

“But it matches,” Austin insisted as if that were enough to convince me to appear like this in public.

Bailey snapped a few group selfies on the porch of the bunkhouse, and Albie and Kevin peeled off in an ATV. After Gunner convinced Austin to leave behind his cartoonishly large Styrofoam dumbbell—“Props are a pain in the ass to keep up with!”—the five of us crowded into Hank’s king-cab truck.

Austin did bring a backpack. “A change of clothes,” he whispered, unzipping the flap enough for me to see my red Nikes. “For later.”

Vehicles jammed the parking lot near the Cubby Hole. We had to park down the hill in the Village and hike the rest of the way. There had to have been twice the number of people as last time I was there. Hundreds of bodies crowded the outside deck watching stilt-walkers, jugglers, fire-eaters, and poi performers on the ground below.

Austin made a crack about the abundance of sword-swallowers.

When we finally reached the top of the stairs, a large figure in a long-sleeved Victorian dress stepped in front of Gunner, barring his way. “Oh, hell no!” Jim said, hands on his hips. His beard had been teased into a sort of chin bouffant and sprayed with glitter. “I’ve about had it with all you bitches trying to steal my look.”

Heads turned to see if the confrontation was real or not—more than a few of them bearded ladies—but Jim and Gunner were laughing and exchanging air kisses.

“There’s your competition, Prof,” Austin whispered.

I followed his line of sight to the handsome man with the full head of dark hair perfectly graying at the temples. He was super butch and obviously didn’t give a fuck about costume themes. He was shirtless with a carpet of perfect fur covering his defined pecs. He wore a single armband around his left biceps, black leather chaps over jeans, motorcycle boots, and aviator sunglasses.

He caught me staring, grinned around the stub of his cigar, and up-nodded.

“S’up, Smokey?” Austin said, playing it cool.

I snorted. “Smokey?” I said under my breath. “The Bear? For real?”

“Yeah. He’s always doing the whole cigar-smoking-daddy schtick. Jim told me he goes to all the events around the country snatching up as many contest titles as he can.”

The man’s pockets were stuffed with red bills. “I doubt he’d find me much competition for anything,” I muttered. “Other than maybe night vision.”

“Well, you are,” Austin said earnestly.

I rolled my eyes and kissed his fake mustache. “You’re sweet. But I don’t really care about this contest. I’m here for you.” I opened the door for him, braced myself against the thumping assault of dance music, and followed him inside.

The domed ceiling had been draped with red-and-white striped fabric, and with the round shape of the room, it made a believable approximation of a circus tent. Aerial artists spun on ribbons above a crowd of clowns, more bearded ladies, a few Tiger Kings, and men in bear onesies.