Aaron
He felt weightless in the water. Smooth and fast, coursing through the pool's clear blue like a jet stream. It surrounded him like a warm, liquid blanket, muffling all the noise of the world but the hum of the filter and the echo of the splashes. In the water, his mind could finally synchronize with the rest of his body, going blank except for that practiced rhythm... inhale, stroke, exhale, stroke. In all of Aaron's nineteen years, the water had been the only place he'd ever truly felt at peace. His worries, his fears, his anxieties, all of it seemed to slip away underwater.
He touched the wall and surfaced with a gasp, pulling his goggles up to his forehead. His chest rose and fell, and he blinked as his eyes adjusted to the daylight shifting around him. He looked up at Coach Jackson, who stepped up to the edge, clipboard in hand. He squinted at his stopwatch. "Fifty-five seconds," he said, scribbling the time on his log. "That's not bad, Matthews. Not bad at all. Keep it up, alright? We can shave off another half-second by next month. Sound good?"
Aaron gave a breathless smile as he vaulted himself out of the water and into the cool, damp air. "Yeah, great. For sure," he said with a nod, still catching his breath. Coach Jackson clapped him on the butt with a grin before turning to bark at another swimmer. Aaron's bare legs trembled slightly as he walked to grab his towel, not from exhaustion, but from the rush, the sweet ache he only found here. He slung his towel around his shoulders and stepped into the misty heat of the showers.
He had to press the button a few times before the shower turned on. When it did, he closed his eyes, letting the warm fresh water rinse away the slight stickiness of the chlorine pool. His hands ran up and down the long, lean muscles of his form like he was a sculptor admiring his work. He'd definitely toned up since he started at Berkeley almost a year ago. He was already in great shape when he left home, but the intense practices and training had carved him into something stronger, more defined. He massaged his toned chest and his hand traveled down his abs, only stopping when he cupped his bulge.
He glanced around, suddenly embarrassed, but there was no one else in the showers. He closed his eyes again, succumbing to the running water that trickled down the lines of his body. He rubbed his growing bulge through his tight blue speedo. The biological desires of a nineteen-year-old boy raced through his mind. Bouncing tits, round asses, pink pussies. He thought about Megan, her perfect body, and how much better it would look in his bed, naked. Her full lips, her long, silky blonde hair, her perfume, her laugh. He moaned in his mind, feeling his hard dick pop out of the waistband of his speedo.
His cock was already slicked with sudsy water and it slipped so easily into the palm of his hand. With slow, soapy circles he jerked off thinking of her. He could almost feel the tight walls of her pussy hugging his dick as he thrusted in and out of her. His hips naturally bucked forward and a spasm of pleasure melted through him. A few more pumps and he could feel his balls tensing, his toes curling. He thought again of her screaming his name as his dick exploded and filled her up... and he felt ropes of thick, hot cum spurt all over his hand and up the wall.
As he caught his ragged breath in the steam, a gaggle of voices pulled him back to the present moment and he turned away just as some other students strolled into the showers, swinging towels and cocks. "A-Ron," one of them nodded. He felt a pinch and looked down with a start, awkwardly stuffing his boner back into his speedo.
"Yeah, hey," he said, smiling sheepishly, his face reddening. He swiped his hand under the stream and hoped they wouldn't catch the scent of his cum in the moist air that was already so thick with musk.
After his shower, he put on his work clothes — slim black trousers, black button-up dress shirt, and his black Vans. He threw on his grey UC Berkeley hoodie and hurried out of the locker room with his backpack slung over one shoulder. The time on his phone read 4:42. He'd be late again he realized with a half sigh, half groan.
About an hour later, he pulled into the parking garage near his work. He finally allowed himself to breathe. He had a whole fifteen minutes before the start of his shift. He did almost get into accident speeding on the freeway, but... he wasn't going to be late. The golden sun had just begun to set over the glittering bay and the skyline of downtown San Francisco.
PING.
He picked up his phone.
5:48 PM
Mom: Hey Bean! I hope work and school is going well.
Mom: Are you working at the restaurant or the gas station tonight?
5:49 PM
Hey mom. Ya it's going good.
Restaurant lol
5:49 PM
Mom: You know I hate asking but rent is due next week. Emily's meds went up again, otherwise I wouldn't ask. Work has been slow for me. I was hoping you'd help me out again this month like before.
5:51 PM
Mom: I will pay you back as soon as I am able. This hurts me as much as it hurts you baby. I can promise you that.
5:51 PM
K. I'll send half. Still 500 right?
5:51 PM
Mom: Thank you baby!! I love you so much. We miss you.
"Okay, who ordered the lasagna? Oh, right here. Perfect. And the calamari... yep." He set down the steaming plates. "Okay, guys, let me know if you need anything else at all. How are we doing with the drinks? Some more waters? Absolutely. I'll be right back, okay? Enjoy." His smile dropped as soon as he turned away from the table, and it took all his willpower to not roll his eyes.
He'd been working at Peninsula's for about nine months. The Italian restaurant was nestled in the heart of San Francisco's financial district. It liked to pretend it was the kind of place where you needed reservations for weeks in advance, but the host stand was always dead by nine o'clock. The fake chandeliers were always buzzing or flickering overhead until a disgruntled teenage employee (like Aaron) got bored enough to change the bulbs. Every table seemed to have its own bottle of overpriced Chianti or a California red marked up by 400%, poured into glassware stained by hard water.
The guests too were just as fake. Between loud financiers in loose suits and messy girls with designer knock offs, Peninsula's seemed to attract those desperate to perform a lifestyle they couldn't afford to live themselves. But each one of them still paid $38 for a plate of pasta that had come from the back of a freezer. Aaron quickly learned to laugh harder and smile wider whenever someone mentioned their Tesla or flashed a fake Rolex. They didn't just pay for overpriced food, they paid for flattery, for ego-stroking, and Aaron had gotten very good at stroking egos.
He checked up on some other tables and then ducked behind the service counter. He grabbed two clean glasses, some fresh napkins, and the stainless steel pitcher than was sweating in his palm. The ice machine rattled, a line cook yelled, "Pick up for five!" Other servers rushed by him, a very blonde woman laughed but it sounded more like a choking bird, and the speakers blared jazz covers of pop songs. He took a moment to inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale....
"Aaron. Aaron." He felt her hand graze his shoulder and he turned. Megan's blue eyes smiled before the rest of her face. She looked mischievous. "I've got an eight-top for you. Table twelve. Stockbrokers. They wanted Marissa, but she's full. So... I sat them in your section. It's all yours." Aaron laughed softly.
"You're welcome?" she suggested after a moment, tilting her head to read his face.
Aaron feigned excitement. "Aw, eight douchey finance bros. All for me?"
She playfully hit his arm and then helped him fill the glasses with water. "Yes, sir," she said, her voice thick with sarcasm. "Guys like that love you. You're like our number one girl."
"Damn," Aaron laughed, setting down the pitcher. "I mean, I know how to make money, if that's what you're trying to say."
"You just better think about me when you tip out tonight, okay? They're already looking at the wine lists and you know it's a dick-measuring competition over there," she said as she made a jerk off motion behind the counter. Aaron snorted a laugh and nudged her. His eyes lingered on Megan's and he felt his cheeks blush.
"Oh, great. More people," she said. She stepped away toward the host stand and then turned, whispering, "Just unbutton your shirt a little. Always works for me." She winked, and with another giggle she set off to greet the new wave of diners. With her laughter playing over in his mind, he set the waters on a tray and grabbed a bread basket for another table. He slipped back into the chaos of the dining room with his smile just slightly more genuine.
When he approached table twelve, he could already feel the eyes on him. It was like a frat reunion in suits, and he knew that look all too well. Aaron didn't have tits and he had singlehandedly ruined their night.
"Welcome to Peninsula's, gentlemen. My name is Aaron. I'll be taking care of you guys tonight. Can I get you started with some drinks?"
One of them finally cleared his throat, swallowing his disappointment. "Yeah, I'll just get an old fashioned. Thanks." He didn't even look up from the drink menu.
"I'll get the same," said another.
"A Corona for me. Two limes."
"Yeah, let's do a round of tequila shots for the table. Hey, boys?" A chorus of equal parts groans and cheers was the response.
"Perfect," Aaron didn't even have to write anything down. It was almost always the same thing every time. "And for you, sir?" Aaron smiled expectantly at the man who sat closest to him. He looked like he was in his late 40s. Tall, thin, and pale with beady black eyes and a salt-and-pepper goatee dusting chin. He studied Aaron's face for a beat too long and then smiled back.
"A glass of your best red for me, buddy. Any recommendations?"
"Yeah, of course," Aaron said with a smile. He was quick to put on his sommelier hat. "Are we feeling like something full-bodied or maybe something a little lighter tonight?"
"Full-bodied," he said immediately, still not talking his eyes off of Aaron. He licked his lips. "Always full-bodied. If I'm gonna drop $200 on a bottle then I want something that actually tastes like something." That got some guffaws from the other men. Aaron offered up his most convincing chuckle.
"Well, then I'd go with the Chianti Classico. It's balanced, not too dry. It's been very popular tonight and—"
"Yeah? Has it?" Something about the man's tone made Aaron uncomfortable, which wasn't easy to do after so long working with the public. It was different than the usual patronizing condescension. He said everything so carefully like he was setting up some elaborate joke that only he was in on. His eyes seemed to move across Aaron's face, his hands, his chest, his crotch, his legs. It was almost as if the man was inspecting him like cattle... or worse. "How long did it take you to memorize that little speech?" The whole table laughed, quick and mean, except the man with the goatee. He waited for Aaron's response, like a predator stalking its prey.
Still, Aaron's practiced smile didn't slip. "Oh, not too long. I'm a quick learner. I actually don't even have to say the whole thing anymore, because most people don't let me finish and just order whatever sounds the most expensive."
The ripple of laughter turned. It was still at Aaron's expense but now good-natured.
"Most people don't let you finish?" he asked with mock concern. "Now, that's just not right." Another wave of barking laughter. Aaron started to feel a knot of anger tighten in his throat. "What's your best red?" He repeated the question. His tone was more pointed now, more direct. The others had gone quiet now, eager to see how he would volley.
Aaron swallowed before he answered. "Well, I guess it depends on the man who's drinking it. Some guys like a smooth ride, other guys like something that makes them work a little harder." A couple of the men laughed. Again, the man with the goatee didn't laugh, but he smiled a crooked smile and weighed the retort. "So," Aaron said, his tone sharp yet professional, "what kind of man are you?"
The man's smile flickered, almost approvingly. "We'll take two bottles of the Chianti."
Aaron nodded. "That's what I thought. I'll be right back with your drinks, gentlemen." The man finally laughed along with the rest of the table and Aaron locked eyes with him before he turned to leave. As he walked away, he could feel the man's gaze on him, like he was groping him telepathically. The thought of it made Aaron walk slightly quicker. He was used to being belittled and mocked by men with egos bigger than their bank accounts, but this somehow felt worse. He felt dirty, like he had taken part in some sort of mental game against his will.
He came back with their drinks, and more drinks, and more drinks, and then appetizers, entrees, and even some desserts. By the end of the night, they had racked up a monstrous check. It was more than Aaron's weekly pay. The laughter that flowed so easily before had softened to a low argument over the total. A few of them were red-faced and glassy-eyed, talking over one another as they struggled to divide the bill. Aaron stood a few steps back, his customer service smile locked in place as he waited patiently for the pack to decide.
It was nearing eleven now, and the dining room had thinned out. This was the last table standing between Aaron and his bed. Silverware clinked behind the service counter, the faint reek of spilled wine and truffle oil hung low in the air. Finally, the man with the goatee snatched the check from the table. "It's on me," he said, more to Aaron than to his peers, who all protested politely. He signed quickly, scrawled a number that made the others wince, and slid the folder to Aaron. Their fingers brushed as Aaron picked it up, but he forced himself to avoid eye contact. "Thank you," the man said, his voice softer and hushed, as if he wanted Aaron to catch every syllable, "for keeping up with me." Aaron could smell the wine on his breath. He nodded, smiled tightly, and began clearing the table as the men slipped out and shuffled around him.
He didn't even open the folder until after they had left and the doors were locked behind them. Inside was a crisp $100 bill, folded once, and a sleek-looking black business card. There was no name, no numbers, just a QR code and a strange design of a snake twisted in a knot, embossed in silver. Beneath the total and the generous $500 gratuity, there was a message scrawled in cursive:
For a smooth ride.
For a moment, he just stared at it, thumb tracing the edge. He felt Megan step up to him and he slipped it in his back pocket, along with the cash.
"So, did you satisfy them," she said while trying to balance an armload of slippery menus.
Aaron showed her the check and couldn't help himself from smiling when he saw her face light up. "It think that's pretty good, hey? I wouldn't know though, because I'm not a dickrider."
"Five-hundred dollars? As in five-hundred dollars?"
"I don't know what to say," Aaron said with a cheesy smile. "They loved me."
Her eyes fell to his chest and she snickered. Aaron instinctively looked down and noticed that the top two buttons of his shirt had become undone somehow over the course of the night. He suddenly felt hot with embarrassment as he hurried to do them up.
"Look at you," she said, practically beaming. "I'm so proud of you."
"Hey, it was really hot in here tonight, alright?" He secured the last buttoned. "Right?"
"I never said that it wasn't hot." There was beat between them that hung in the air like a spark. "Now, hurry up and bus, boy. Bus!" She laughed to herself as she slinked away. "I wanna go home." As Aaron finished clearing up, he felt that heat in his chest bloom into something else, something warmer, and he grinned like an idiot. Still, his mind went back to the sleek black card in his pocket and the way the man looked at him, like something hungry... like Aaron was on the menu.
When Aaron finally got home it was past midnight and he could barely make it to the front door. His legs felt like they weighed one ton each and he was positive that his shoes were filled with dried blood. Every muscle in his body hummed with the ache that came after too many hours on his feet. A different ache than the kind he chased in the pool. The house was quiet, the lights were off. A fan droned from a bedroom upstairs. His roommates were asleep. He shook his head when he saw the dirty dishes piled up in the sink, the pizza boxes on the counter stacked beside discarded red solo cups. Old leftovers in uncovered pots and far, far too many condiments for one household was all he found in the fridge. He decided he was too tired to eat.
He stripped down to just his boxers and tossed his work clothes to the floor in a heap. He moaned out loud when he threw himself onto his bed.
PING.
12:14 AM
Mom: How was your night Bean?
"Shit," he said with a heavy sigh. He swiped open his banking app. His thumb hesitated for just a second before he sent $500 from his savings to his mom's contact. Half a grand gone in three little taps. He hated that slow, sinking, crushing feeling that only meant another massive leap backwards. It was for rent this time, like the month before. It had been the car the month before that, and the furnace before that, and always Emily's meds. Every time he gave her what she needed, borrowing from his student loans, and every time she promised to pay him back. She never did. He still remembered the Christmas Eve their landlord changed the locks to their old house, his mother crying in the driveway into a handful of losing scratchers.
12:17 AM
It was ok. How's Em?
12:22 AM
??
He shut his phone off and turned over on his side in bed. He scoffed to himself. He thought about all the wines he upsold, all the smiles he faked, all the egos he stroked to make that money. He felt his stomach twist. For a moment he stared up at the ceiling, the room span from exhaustion. Then he remembered the man's words. "For a smooth ride," he whispered aloud. His eyes drifted to his pants, crumpled on the floor, the faint outline of the little black card still visible in the pocket. He hopped out of bed and fished around for the card. He flipped it around in his fingers.
It was just curiosity. That's what he convinced himself as he reached for his phone again. The silver QR code came into focus, neat and square on the glassy black surface. He hesitated... then tapped.
