A few weeks later, Sam was up on that same stage. He had been bringing hundreds of dollars a week into his house. Of course, his family thought that he was just working at a restaurant, and doing quite well, therefore, earning a lot of cash in tips. Whenever his father would say how proud he was of his son, and how glad he was that his son was helping out, Sam would feign a small smile. His heart would begin to beat out of control, and he would run into the nearest bathroom, lock the door, and sit on the floor until the tears fell again.
The truth of the matter was that taking this job was probably the stupidest decision that Sam had ever made. Every day, he walked into the building, he prepared, he danced. But every day, Sam wished that he really was working at a restaurant. He'd take off articles of clothing piece by piece until he was always nearly naked except for a small pair of underwear. He'd get money thrown at him by girls, but the scariest part of the job was the fact that guys also did it. They watched him, and they watched him with cruel-looking smiles on their faces, and yes, it made Sam uncomfortable.
Now, Sam wasn't homophobic. He had been friends with Kurt, and he had loved him like a brother, but the way that these guys were just staring at him? It would've scared anyone, and it did. Even the homosexual employees would go behind the stage between numbers, and the looks on their faces were horrendous. Once, Sam saw a boy – who couldn't have been much older than 15 – crying into his friend's arms out of sheer fear. He's seen scars on the arms of one too many of the boys that he worked with – always covered up with stage makeup or long sleeves.
Sam saw these scars, and he worried if he was going to end up like them. Right now, he definitely felt as if he were heading down that direction. He hated himself for doing what he was doing – he felt dirty. He was ashamed at who he saw in the mirror, and he felt angry – not just at himself, but at all of the horrible people who came into this room – who forced him to continue to do what he despised.
Currently, Sam was dancing to another one of the club's stupid songs. Directly in front of Sam was a man wearing a long trench coat and a fedora – just like the classic detective would. He was looking up at Sam as he peeled the last bit of his pants off and turned his back to the audience for a part of the song. The guy next to Sam looked at him, "Are you okay?" he mouthed. Sam nodded, but he wasn't okay. He was on the verge of tears, again.
Thankfully, the song ended. The person controlling the music always tried to keep the songs short, because he, too, knew what it was like to be up on that stage, a hundred beady eyes staring at you.
The boys posed together, all flashing smiles that meant nothing to themselves. A curtain closed, and Sam fell to the ground, clutching his stomach. The boys called his name; one was instructed to fetch a bucket. Sam was groaning. The volume of the voices in front of the curtain was rising. Sam was hyperventilating now – a boy's hand was on his bare back, telling him that it was going to be fine, but Sam knew otherwise. A bin was placed in front of him; he grasped both sides of it and vomited. The hand rubbed his back. Sam looked up to see the fifteen-year-old boy with tears on his cheeks. Sam gave him a small smile. "I'm fine. It must just be a bug." The concerned look on the boy's face did not change, and Sam knew his argument wasn't convincing.
The manager of the club came backstage. "What the fuck do you think you boys are doing back here? Clean that bucket out. Get off of here. Get changed. Go home, or wherever you spend your free time. You're all disgusting me right now." He walked away, and the boys began moving around. One carried the bucket away from Sam and towards the bathroom; a few others walked through a door into the changing rooms, and one of them brought Sam all of his clothes.
Sam looked down at his pale hands which were now shaking. A boy named Justin squatted down in front of him and looked him square in the eye. "Sam," he said in a calm voice. Justin had been here for about five years now. His face was hard, but still kind. "Breathe, boy." Sam did as he was told – deep breaths. Justin patted him on the shoulder. "You're going to be okay, I promise. You're strong. Come on. Think of your family." Sam did. He thought of his brother and sister and how they needed him. He smiled at the thought of them and whispered a 'thank you' to Justin, who left after the scene.
Sam was now alone on the stage. He looked at the floorboards and realized how crooked and cracked they were before slipping all of his clothes back on, then he walked into one of the changing rooms – still alone – where he kept the rest of his things.
As he was stuffing a sweatshirt into his bag, he heard footsteps at the door. The sound put the fear back in his stomach, and he felt nauseas again. He turned to face the door, and when he saw the man in the trench coat, he forced himself back a few feet and his eyes widened.
The man stepped into the room and closed the door. Sam was trapped. He wanted to scream out for one of the other boys to come to him, but he knew that was a stupid idea. The man took his hat off and put it down on a bench.
"You're shaking," he said, and Sam was, and he couldn't say anything rude to this man. The store manager had made it very clear that if they were to disrespect any customers, their job position would be terminated.
So all that Sam could do was stand against the wall, his chest heaving up and down with the pulse of his heart as the man moved closer to Sam.
"I want to cut straight to my reasoning for being in this room with you right now." Sam knew what the man was getting at. He'd heard stories from the other boys about the scariest things that they'd been through with customers, and he didn't want to become another storyteller – another statistic.
"I like girls," Sam blurted out, before realizing what he was saying, or why he was even saying it. The man paused for a minute, but began his walk after a brief stop.
"I don't care, and you shouldn't either. I'm not going to ask you for anything… that serious. In fact, if you close your eyes, you can imagine that I am whoever you want me to be." The man was directly in front of Sam now, and he took a good look at him. The man was older, probably in his late thirties or early forties. His face was thin and the hair that was left on the top of his head was a dark grey, but not quite black.
The man reached down and began to touch Sam through his pants. Sam closed his eyes. He didn't want this. He didn't want any man's hands on him like this, let alone a strange man who came to night clubs.
"Please, let me do this. Just stay here. I need to taste a boy again." Everything about that sentence from the words to the way the man said it made Sam shudder. The man was now pressing his mouth to Sam's neck, and Sam wanted to slap him, but he knew he couldn't. He was still trapped.
"Three hundred dollars," the man mumbled. Sam's eyes widened at the number and pushed the man back for a minute.
"What?" He questioned.
"I'll give you three hundred dollars if you just let me have you for forty minutes." Sam thought this over. Three hundred dollars was three days of work, and a lot of food for his family. The man was looking at him with desperate eyes.
"Make it thirty," Sam said. The man smiled, an leaned back into Sam's neck.
