Gay For You, page 1
Gay For You
Jeremy Jenkins
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
A Note from the author
Afterword
1
Evan
“You’re Evan White!” Cried one of the women at the table I was serving followed by a symphony of squeals.
Shit.
Even though I disguised myself with thick glasses and baggier clothes when I went to work, fans still discovered me from time to time.
“Oh My God, I’m a a huge fan! We all are!” She exclaimed, gesturing to all of her friends at her table, her auburn curls bouncing. “Can we get a picture with you?”
“Of course!” I smiled brightly, trying not to think of the fact that my persona online would be tagged as a waiter… again.
Attempting to paste a genial smile on my face, the six women gathered around me and posed for the camera.
Six-hundred thousand followers would be reminded that I work as a waiter at a shitty Mexican restaurant.
Six-hundred thousand followers would be yanked out of the illusion that I was a professional college athlete, who spent his days training hard for them.
Anything that appeared online aside from that was a slap in the face to my fans. But they had to understand that likes and follows didn’t pay the bills…
Luckily there were only two other customers in the restaurant to bear witness: Two men at the bar in suits. I jolted as I recognized the owner with the flaming red hair.
The other guy I’d never seen before, but he was clearly dominating the conversation. He looked like he was about 6’4” and 230 pounds of pure muscle. A pair of stylish glasses adorned his face, an excellently trimmed beard decorated his chin, and his posture was perfectly straight, conveying the air of a practiced politician. But the most fascinating thing about him was the fact that he seemed to be emanating an overwhelming aura of power.
When I glanced over at them, the bigger guy swirled his amber drink. Then, as if he could sense my gaze boring into the side of his face, he turned his head and fixed me with an intense stare that stopped me in my tracks.
I didn’t know what it was about him— the way he moved so controlled and poised, the way his hand gently yet firmly gripped his cocktail, or perhaps it was the way the cocky smirk slid off his face when he saw me.
Whatever it was, something in my gut told me that guy was important.
What had just passed between me and this stranger was gone the instant I heard “Say cheese!” from across the table.
Even though it had only lasted for a second or two, I felt whatever instinct that had been awakened cling to me, as if some obscure mechanics deep within the core of my mind had been permanently altered.
Suddenly I felt an intense fear of what this stranger thought of me. Did he recognize me?
Maybe that was the reason for his intense gaze.
If that’s the look a complete stranger gave me, it filled me with anxiety knowing that after tonight, my carefully curated Instagram account would be polluted by this toxic slice of my real life. I made a mental note to remove the tag later to minimize whatever damage this did to the swim team’s reputation.
When I found a moment to escape, I leaned against a wall in the kitchen trying to calm myself as I listened to the symphony of sounds around me. The chef was cussing repeatedly under his breath to the cadence of the clinking cookware and sizzling sauté.
“You okay, kid?” My manager Bernice asked, popping out of the woodwork. She rested her hand on my shoulder gently.
Warmth spread through my body and nourished my soul. Bernice was one of those people that when they lay a hand on you, it felt like an angel’s touch. She reminded me of my mom before she changed.
“Yeah, just dealing with some picky patrons…” I mumbled with a weak smile.
“Well, if anyone could handle a table like that, it would be you.” She praised earnestly, her eyes crinkling up at the corners. “Now get your ass back out there!” She chuckled good-naturedly.
Glancing at the bar, I noticed that the two men in suits were gone.
A strange wave of disappointment passed through me that I couldn’t place. Maybe it was sadness that I was left alone with no one but these six rowdy women to pay attention to. Maybe it was the fact that there were no more witnesses to keep them in check.
Whatever the reason, the women kept drinking, insisting on more pictures and subjecting me to their humiliation. I had to play along for what seemed like hours.
When they finally got up, they left the table in a disgusting state; it looked like they’d had a food fight.
Scowling, I picked up the signed bill and peeled it apart; how they got it sticky was a mystery to me. When I managed to pull it open, my eyes zeroed in on the tip line and my mouth popped open in disbelief.
Two zeros looked up back at me, as if the bill had eyes of its own. That couldn’t be right.
“Go home, Evan, I’ve got this.” Bernice said, emerging from behind me. She slopped a sudsy rag on the filthy table with a big plop, then rested her hand on my shoulder.
I tried to fold the bill to hide it but it was too late; she’d seen.
Without hesitation, she plunged her hand into a pocket on her apron. “Here, take this…” she implored, pulling out a wad of crinkled cash. “No one should have to work a table like that and get nothin’.”
“No, I couldn’t…” I protested, knowing for a fact that was her own tip money.
“Take it.” She insisted, meeting my eyes with her warm gaze. She took my hand and pressed the wad into my palm, closing my fingers around it. “I saw how hard you worked today. I want to make sure my people are rewarded.”
Feeling a lump form in my throat at her act of kindness, I accepted the money. “Thank you so much Bernice.”
“It’s the least I could do for our top earner.” She said with a wink, “Now before you go, could you do one last thing for me?”
“Anything.” I said as I tucked the cash in my pocket.
“Clean up those two glasses the owner and his friend left at the bar, would ya’?”
So that guy was the owner’s friend, I thought to myself as I picked up the two heavy glasses. Either way, my heart sunk knowing that this stranger had seen me as a server.
I shook the disappointment off, comforting myself with the fact that I’d probably never see that man again.
2
Sam
After leaving the restaurant with my buddy, I casually asked him about who he had on staff that night.
Because honestly, I couldn’t take my eyes off that waiter.
“Oh, that’s our best server, Evan White.” He answered, oblivious to my obvious infatuation. “He’s a student at the University of Michigan; he’s on the swim team or somethin’. A good guy all around.”
After I heard the name, I could barely pay attention to the rest of our conversation. All I wanted to do was find out more about this man who’d hooked my interest with a single look.
As soon as I got into the backseat of my car and my driver started the journey back to Ann Arbor, I tore into my phone. I searched the name “Evan White,” but it was dreadfully common.
However, once I paired his name with the only other bit of information I knew about him— the fact that he attended the same university I did, I was able to unearth his Instagram page.
He had Six-hundred thousand followers. Damn, that was impressive! Eagerly, I clicked into his account to explore.
Excitement flooded through me as the car accelerated down the highway. The grid of pictures that greeted me on his page were all of him shirtless, in his speedo, either near a pool, swimming through the water, or showing off his gloriously delicious body.
Damn, I thought to myself privately, letting out a small breath, It should be illegal to be that good-looking.
I was even more delighted to find that they were all pictures of him swimming. There were a few of him standing in a group and posing with all of his hot teammates, but even then he stood out as far more handsome than the pack.
My heart began to race with excitement upon noticing one simple thing: There were no pictures of him with women anywhere in his profile.
Could he… could he possibly be gay? Was this a dream come true?
A frown crossed my face as I clicked on his most recent picture; an image of him clearly staged, just getting out of the pool, showing off his abs and tousling his hair with a towel. Though the picture made me drool, the caption underneath read,
evan_white027: So grateful to be the fastest swimmer on the UM swim team! You can look like this too — if you work hard enough ;)
#goblue #blessed #grateful #leaders&best
My lip curled up into a grimace and my eyebrows came together.
r /> Hoping that was a fluke, I read through another post. The next one was an image of him on a beach, and the camera had a full shot of his bulbous, toned ass in a speedo. His torso was twisted, and he was pulling down the waistband of the speedo to show his tan line.
evan_white027: Who wouldn’t be excited for summer when you have a body like this?!?
#goblue #fitguy #cutaf #ladykiller
My eyes narrowed as I read through that post, then zoomed in on that last hashtag. Ladykiller?
Not only was he probably the most self-absorbed ass I’d ever seen, he was also straight.
I took a glance at the comments. They were mostly from women, complimenting how hot he was and leaving little heart and kiss emojis. There were at least half a dozen that asked if he was single.
He didn’t reply to any of those, I noticed. But I had to remind myself that I didn’t care.
This Evan White was deeply in love with himself. And there was nothing worse than pretty guys who knew they were pretty.
Mindlessly, I clicked the home button to return to my customized feed and was greeted by a barrage of nearly naked men. As I scrolled through the flesh-colored posts, my thumb halted the reel when I glimpsed something bright blue and orange. Looking closer, I noticed it was a new piece by my artistic idol, Fiona Gabon!
She rarely posted at all, but when she did it was always something sublime. This image was of her looking at the camera kindly with her head resting in her hands. Behind her and dwarfing her small form was a massive painting of electric blue and sizzling orange that looked like it would engulf her.
Nice work, Fiona, I admired, letting out a low whistle as my eyes traced the delicate curls and swirls of the masterpiece.
One of the first comments was someone asking how much the piece was.
Fiona commented “2.4m”
And then shortly after that, “Sold, sorry!”
My breath caught. Though it wasn’t uncommon for Fiona Gabon to sell multi-million dollar pieces straight off of Instagram, this was the first time I’d seen it happen within a few minutes.
Still in awe, I scrolled past the post and continued my mindless browsing through the tiny windows into other people’s lives.
I wished I hadn’t.
Next on my feed was a picture of him. The man that had wrapped barbed wire around my body, mind, and heart for the past four years. And he had his arm around some other guy.
My teeth clenched as a cocktail of emotions brewed in my gut. Picking my thumbnail cuticle with my free hand absentmindedly, I looked down at the comments, expanding each one.
I had to know.
Sure enough, he responded to a question with, “Finally found the love of my life!” Followed by a few star emojis.
My pulse quickened and I blinked a few times.
I’d forgotten to unfollow him, I realized.
Quickly, I remedied my costly mistake. But it was too late — I’d already stepped in an emotional bear trap.
Trying to clamber out of my spiral, I began staring out the window and willing myself to think of something — anything else.
Something my sister had taught me was, when it felt like I was being overwhelmed with negative shit, to close my eyes. She told me to imagine throwing a big fishnet over all the feelings metastasizing in my mind, capturing them all like they were small wild animals thrashing about. Pull it tight, and then throw it over a cliff into the waters of my subconscious.
And just like that, my mind was back to my goal of achieving artistic fame like Fiona’s, whirring away at how to angle myself next semester; during my very last semester as a student. There was always a massive project assigned during the end of November, and students were supposed to work on it throughout the entire spring semester. Everything was due a week before graduation.
I’d heard of some students that got a failing grade right before the ceremony, and failed to earn their diplomas.
I could only imagine what my mentor, Professor Washburn, had in store for me. She was notorious for assigning nearly impossible final projects to students, especially the ones she liked.
Anyway, with the upcoming semester-long project looming, I didn’t have time to be thinking about guys. Especially not conceited asshats like Evan White.
I was certain that I’d never see Mr. White again.
3
Evan
On the dingy bus back to Ann Arbor at 11pm that night, I praised Bernice. Though even with the extra money she’d given me, I was still fifty bucks short for the rent due Wednesday.
Jake was gonna kill me…
As the bus curled around the highway entrance ramp and picked up speed, I pulled out my phone and began researching. There had to be a way to come up with that fifty dollar difference before Wednesday when I had to pony up my portion.
With a fierce determination, I Google searched “Student gigs at the University of Michigan.” The first result was a page of job listings for the art school.
Art school? I didn’t even know we had an art school…
Curious, I clicked the link. It brought me to a sleek, well-designed page with a list of student gigs.
Photography assistant, Tuesday, fifty bucks. That could be interesting… but I didn’t have any camera experience. Another one was trying to recruit a letterer, whatever that was… and then my eyes were pulled in by an image of someone that looked familiar on the sidebar.
He was a good-looking guy for sure, with a chiseled jawline, a well-trimmed beard, and thick, fashionable glasses. For whatever reason, even while he was beaming in the photo, something about him looked so serious.
The photo was nested in the school blog, populated with stories from… it looked like current art students. Then it struck me like lightning where I’d seen that face before — that was the same man that was staring at me from the bar!
The article was entitled, “Making it as an Artist — My Passion.”
Intrigued to find out more about this stranger, I clicked.
Why did I choose art? It’s vastly more accurate to say that art chose me.
A few years ago when I was enjoying the overnight success of my small business, I went on a short vacation to the French Alps.
Once I was humbled beneath the vast heavens and stark wilderness, I was pressed with an urge to meditate. When I sat down, closed my eyes, and began to control my breathing, It took almost no time at all to feel like I was one with the mighty mountains and the magic of the night.
Then a great green light flickered and illuminated the insides of my eyelids. I opened my eyes, jolted out of my deep meditation to see a massive meteor streaking through the sky as it burned up in the atmosphere. It dawned on me that the universe was trying to send me a sign:
Just like that meteor, I was burning out.
There was something I was supposed to do in this life; some assignment to complete, and I had strayed from my path. Then it dropped into my head. I heard a voice, not my own stream of consciousness, but something else entirely. Something ancient and powerful.
The voice said, “You were meant to be an artist.”
And when that happened, I felt that deep knowledge penetrate me down to my very bones. The truth of it vibrated throughout my being, shaking me to my very core.
The very next day when I was back at the base camp, I began the paperwork to enroll in the University of Michigan Penny Stamps School of Art & Design. Why here? I’d heard from a colleague that this school in particular doesn’t force you down any certain path, and leaves you free to let your soul point the way.
