Smash the Stripper (Part 1): A Male WAM Story

Scene 1: Have You Ever Considered Using Your Good Looks for Money?

Steven was always kind of shy, the type that would disappear in a room full of people. It didn’t help that he was pretty skinny, kind of short, devoid of facial hair, and didn’t drink a lot, which made people wonder whether he was really a college student or someone younger in disguise. He just didn’t look the part, especially at Florida State University, a notorious party school.

Still, the potential was there. Even as a smaller guy, he had a great body and took good care of himself. He dressed well, his medium-length dark brown hair was always molded perfectly in place, and his olive skin was immaculate, always moisturized,, and acne-free, a rarity amongst his hard-partying, take-a-shower-when-it-suits-me peers. He seemed to walk with a perpetual glow. It was as if he couldn’t even see his untapped potential.

Unconfident around women, and questioning whether the person he was becoming was the person he wanted to be, Steven often trawled various corners of the internet to explore whether his true identity lay elsewhere.

And in some ways, it did. He felt drawn to exhibitionism, and thought that the idea of stripping for people’s entertainment was something he wanted to try out. He was straight, but couldn’t rule out the idea of performing for guys if it came to that.

So it seemed like fate when, one Friday night, at another one of a seemingly never ending series of frat parties, perhaps the most attractive man on campus approached him out of the blue. Even as a straight guy, Steven could admit: this guy was smokin’. And he was talking to him, only him.

“Hey dude, I’m Archie,” he said. Archie offered an open palm to dap Steven up, as if they’d known each other forever.

“Steven.” He returned his palm for a handshake. Slap palms. Slap each other’s back. Bro hug. Sup, dude.

“Listen,” Archie said, “I’ve been seeing you at these parties lately. I can tell it’s not your cup of tea, but I gotta give you credit. You’re putting yourself out there. You dress well, you look good.

“Have you ever considered using your good looks for money?”

Steven was taken aback by this come-on. “Oh no, man, I’m not like that. I’m not looking to be some kind of escort. Thanks, though.” He began to walk away.

Archie gently grabbed him by the left shoulder. “Bro, no, it’s not like that at all. No clients, no standing on street corners, nothing.”

Archie guided Steven out of the main room with its throbbing music, to settle on a back deck that was much quieter and more private.

“This is different. I’m a talent scout for a high-end gentlemen’s club. We look for all kinds of guys to perform at the club, and with the way you present yourself, I think you’d be perfect.”

Steven was surprised, though with his secret background, very obviously intrigued. “Are you sure you’ve got the right guy, man? I don’t have a jacked body. I’m like, 5-foot-8. I don’t have, like, a 16-inch dick. Why me?”

“No, no, no,” Archie interjected. “I think you’re misunderstanding me. We’re looking for all kinds of guys. Our clients like guys of all shapes and sizes. And they LOVE twinks like you.

“Plus, this isn’t your average strip club. This is the most upscale club in the city. Our clients are all well-off, there’s an entry process to become a member, and it’s all totally discreet. Plus, you can’t just apply for a job here. We scout people, which means you’d be part of an exclusive club, one of the best of the best, performing for some of the wealthiest people in town. What that means for the guys is a TON of earning potential, as long as they have what it takes. With the money I’ve made, I’m taking a loooong backpacking trip across Europe after graduation. It’s serious cash, dude. So do you have what it takes?”

“I dunno,” Steven said. “I mean, secretly, I think I’m an exhibitionist, but I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“Relax, bro,” Archie said. “All it takes is a good attitude and a willingness to learn, and you’ll be taking home fat stacks in no time. I mean, look. We’re in college. There’s NO WAY you can afford all these nice clothes on student loans and campus jobs, am I right?”

Steven looked down at the ground, embarrassed. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“You don’t even have to say yes yet. Come down to the club, meet some of the guys, get to know us a little bit. No pressure, and if it’s not your thing, totally cool. You’ll never hear from us again. What do you say?”

“Who’s the owner?”

“Oh, to be honest, he’s rarely around. I’ve been working there for about eight months and I’ve only seen him maybe once a month. I think he has a whole portfolio of businesses, so we just never see him. It’s mostly me and one or two other guys who run the club day-to-day.

Thinking nothing of it, Steven agrees to come by for a visit.

“Bro, you’re a superhero. This is gonna be great.

“You should know though, this is a gay nightclub. So the clientele are all men. And because of the high bar for them to get in, they’re really looking to be entertained. So you gotta learn on the job quickly. Are you cool with that?”

Steven pauses, as if reconsidering. Did Archie withhold this information until he already got a commitment from me, he thought. So that I look bad if I back out now?

But this offer was like manna from heaven. Among Steven’s vices was a propensity to buy expensive, designer clothes. Clothes for going out, clothes for working out. Gucci, Brooks Brothers, Rhône. He had his eye on a luxury watch. They were all brand names and took giant chunks out of his discretionary budget. His work-study job at one of the campus cafeterias, scanning student ID cards, wasn’t cutting it. On his budget, it would be lenient to say he was stretched.

Steven shrugged his shoulders. He was ready to explore his inner stripper. “Fuck it, let’s go.”

Steven’s club visit went as well as it could have. The guys were all nice to him, with a kindness that rarely got extended to him by the snobby guys on campus. They were either indifferent to him, or outright hostile. On campus, he was that aloof, preppy dude who didn’t seem like he fit in, even as a 21-year-old senior. Here, he was seen as someone else entirely. One of the guys.

As predicted, the owner of the club was absent that day, but Steven already expected this, and wasn’t torn up about it.

He was sold. Archie interviewed him on the spot, more as a formality than anything else, and before he knew it, Steven was walking out the door with a new job, one that both he and Archie knew would be much more lucrative than scanning FSU meal cards.

Except it wasn’t. Or not really. Whether it was due to his inexperience, a lack of chemistry with clients, or his general awkward nature, Steven had struggled to pull down tips in his first month on the job. He was still bringing home decent amounts of cash, more than enough to give him breathing room, but he had a nagging feeling – whether it was seeing other guys with bigger crowds around them, or through the locker room talk in the back – that he wasn’t pulling his weight.

But the chatter amongst his fellow performers was positive. People struggle to find their footing at first, one of them said. You just need to find the right clients, said another. Pick up extra shifts, regulars come at regular times and if you catch the right guy on the right night, he’ll take care of you for as long as you work here, said yet another.

This was all good advice, and Steven intended to start doing those things in the month ahead.

Scene 2: Monthly Dues

“Our monthly ‘Smash the Stripper’ event. Tonight. 8pm at The Club.”

The text message was short and to the point. It went to all of the club members on this, the first Tuesday of the month.

Tuesdays were traditionally slow nights. So the club owner came up with this idea to drum up business on a night when most of his members would ordinarily stay home, especially after a long day of work. It was like doing a trivia night, strip club style.

Performers treated it as an all-hands-type event, where everyone had learned to be there as a condition of their employment. Coincidentally, Steven had been scheduled for a shift on this night, his one month anniversary of joining the club. Whether it was intentionally withheld from him or not, he was totally unaware that Smash the Stripper was a monthly occurrence. Or that it occurred at all.

In his first couple of weeks at the club, he found that the clients who did seem interested in him wanted to see him in skintight clothing. He figured it was common for lankier guys like him to be seen as quasi-feminine or cardio freaks, so he began dressing up almost exclusively in lycra: tight shirts, tight pants. He even started shopping in the women’s side of athletic stores like Nike and Lululemon, since he found women’s clothes fit his slim body better, and accentuated the features he did have: a broad chest, toned (if not exactly muscular) arms, and a plump, round butt. And of course, without a built-in cup, women’s leggings embellished his crotch area in a way that gave him a ton of confidence.

When performing, these clothes would come off pretty quickly, revealing some sort of skimpy underwear that sent his clients into a tizzy.

Steven walked into the club about 20 minutes before his shift began, dressed in what resembled his now-standard outfit: a bright pink cropped tank top with only one strap over his left shoulder, and sky blue yoga pants that made his ass look enormous and his crotch look like a snack. He was especially proud of this outfit, a brand new pairing he just bought the day before with some of his tip money. A spotlight shone on the rarely-used stage in the back, and several rows of chairs were set up to face it, with the entire first row roped off with “RESERVED” signs on each seat.

A few of his fellow performers had already been seated in those chairs, so Steven approached them and asked what all this was about.

“You don’t know?” one of them said incredulously. “Tonight is Smash the Stripper. We hold it every month to honor one of us for their hard work. Mr. Johnson, the club owner, even comes by to give the lucky guy his prize.”

The performer purposely painted the proceedings in a positive light, knowing that this was Steven’s first time and knowing he had been a poor performer thus far. If past versions of Smash the Stripper were an indicator, there was no way Steven would be able to avoid some ridicule tonight.

Meanwhile, Steven figured he was too new to be honored in any type of way. He hadn’t been getting the astronomical tips of some of his peers, but many told him that was normal for a guy just starting out. He was just excited to meet the mysterious club owner, this “Mr. Johnson” fellow. He hoped to shake his hand, to thank him for the opportunity to work here, especially as a guy with his look and no prior experience.

A few minutes later, members started filing in, taking seats in the rows behind the performers. Steven recognized a few of them, a couple of whom waved and blew kisses in his direction. He never knew how to feel about this as a straight man, especially with these guys being 15, 20, or 25 years older than him. But he knew he was playing a role, and winked right back at them.

Still, Steven had only worked weeknights, so he was amazed at the sheer number of members in attendance. This many people can just come here on a random Tuesday? he asked himself incredulously. There had to have been 40 to 50 people there, and they filled up all the seats. The fact that this event would eventually become standing room only was both intimidating and exhilarating to Steven. A lot of people to perform for, but if for some reason he was brought up to be honored by Mr. Johnson – maybe he’d be introduced as the newest performer and get a round of applause – he could attract some more clients and earn more tips.

Before long, the clock struck 8:00 and a trance music beat began to play. Out came the emcee, none other than Steven’s recruiter, Archie. He walked right up to center stage, right beneath the bright spotlight, and rested his hand on a single metal folding chair. The chair itself was on top of what looked like a massive plastic sheet that covered most of the stage. It crunched underneath Archie’s feet as he moved.

“Welcome, welcome, welcome! Thanks for coming to the March edition of Smash the Stripper! As always, we’ve got a fantastic show for you tonight, and if I may say so, this could be the most epic show yet!

“As you know, every month, we ‘honor’ one of our lovely performers with a wonderful prize he’ll never forget, and this month’s honoree is someone truly near and dear to my heart.”

Steven looked around at his peers. Many of them looked amused, but some of them looked genuinely worried. What could cause a reaction like this? he thought.

“I met this great guy on my college campus a couple of months ago, and once I started talking to him, I knew he’d be perfect for the club. He’s just so cute! He’s such a shy guy, but as some of you know, he has a hidden sexy side that no one on campus knows about. He’s just now beginning to explore that side of himself, and I think he’s got a bright future ahead!”

Steven is frozen. Against all odds, he might just be the one to be brought on stage to be honored. This club is awesome! he thought. Way to make a guy feel welcome!

“So without further ado, please welcome up to the stage, one of my best friends at the club, and the club’s newest performer, let’s give it up for Steven, everybody!”

There is rapturous applause as Steven slowly stands up. He takes a look back at the crowd, smiles, and waves. He simply cannot believe he is receiving such a warm reception. He’s only worked here a few weeks! He had been told that getting a job here was extremely difficult, but with how easy his interview was, and now this, it felt like he was living a dream.

Steven bolted up the few steps to the stage, and greeted Archie with a big bro hug. He found it amusing that Archie was wearing one of those tuxedo t-shirts along with a pair of glittery short shorts, but this was a strip club after all. Whatever kind of fake award show this was, everybody had to at least pretend.

“Steven, thanks for joining us, and congratulations! You’re this month’s honoree!”

“Thanks, what do I get?” Steven said naively.

The crowd chuckles and groans. This guy has no idea what he’s in for.

“Hold your horses there, sport,” Archie says. “First, I’d love it if you could take a seat in this chair here.” He tapped the seat back of the metal chair with his hand. Steven obliged.

“Now,” Archie says, “Have you ever met our club’s owner, Mr. Johnson?”

“I haven’t!” Steven replied.

More groans from the crowd. He really, truly, doesn’t know.

“Oh, well in that case, we shouldn’t keep you waiting! Ladies and gentlemen, please give it up for the owner of our little community here, Mr. Johnson!”

A swell of applause ensues, as Mr. Johnson’s entrance music – “Battle Without Honor or Humanity” from the Kill Bill movie – plays and Mr. Johnson purposely stomps his way on stage. He cuts an intimidating figure: he’s over 6 feet tall, husky with thick legs and massive arms, wearing black high-top combat boots, tight black spandex pants, a tight black stretchy long sleeve shirt, and a black mask. In the darkened room, as he stands just off the illuminated part of the stage, he looks like a reaper.

Steven’s demeanor immediately changes from excited to intimidated. Maybe this ceremony is not the “honor” it’s been made out to be.

Mr. Johnson has a wireless microphone behind his ear, and in his deep baritone voice, he thanks Archie for the introduction and takes over the proceedings.

“Gentlemen, we all know why we’re here today, right?”

A wild roar from the audience as they all shout YES in unison.

Turning his attention to Steven, he says, “I understand your name is Steven, is that right?”

In a suddenly timid voice, Steven replies, “Yes, Mr. Johnson.”

Mr. Johnson: “And you’re our newest performer, I hear. How long have you been working with us?”

Steven: “About a month, sir.”

Mr. Johnson: “A month. Excellent. Well, thank you for your hard work, I’m sure many people here appreciate it. Did you attend last month’s ‘Smash the Stripper’?”

Steven: “No, sir, I didn’t. I didn’t even know it existed until today, to be honest.”

“Aha, interesting.” Mr. Johnson pauses. “So you must have no idea why you’ve been brought up here, is that right?”

Steven: “N-n-not a clue, sir.”

Mr. Johnson: “That’s an interesting outfit you’ve got on. Pink crop top. Blue yoga pants. What’s the idea behind that?”

Steven: “Um, well, sir… I’ve been told by some of my clients that with my body type, they’d like to see me dress in tight clothes that don’t leave a whole lot to the imagination. I’ve been told it looks good on guys like me.”

Mr. Johnson: “Yes indeed, you do look great. And these are your own outfits?”

Steven: “Yes, sir. As a matter of fact, I just bought this one yesterday. It’s Lululemon. It was pretty expensive, but it’s worth it.”

Mr. Johnson: “Oh, that’s a shame. Especially because of what we’re about to do to you in it.”

Steven: “I’m sorry, sir?”

Mr. Johnson: “You mentioned your clients. Any idea how many regulars you have? How many are in the audience tonight?”

Steven relaxes just a tiny bit at this question. “Oh, definitely a few, sir. But it’s growing. And there are a few there in the second row.” He waves at them. “Hey guys, thanks for coming!”

The three guys snicker, and shake their heads in reply. Steven is taken aback by this.

Mr. Johnson: “You see, Steven, I know quite a bit about you. I know you’re our newest employee, I know how many regulars you have, and I also know that you haven’t been bringing in much in terms of tips, have you?”

Steven starts to get really nervous. This is turning into an inquisition. “Well… no, sir. But I figured it’s because I’m just starting out. It’s getting better though. Especially last week, I was–”

Mr. Johnson sternly interrupts him. “Steven, we have high expectations here at the club. And the fact of the matter is, you’re not meeting them.

“Archie was being kind when he said we were going to honor you. The fact is, ‘Smash the Stripper’ is a monthly event where we look at all of our performers, see who has the fewest clients and who’s brought in the lowest amount of tips, and we give them, let’s say, a bit of a warning.

“In the last month, that person… is you, Steven. And for that, you, and this cute outfit of yours–” Mr. Johnson grabs the strap of Steven’s one-shoulder tank top and snaps it back against his body “–have to pay the price. Archie?”

During this dialogue, Archie had disappeared backstage. Upon receiving his cue, he returned to the stage, wheeling out a giant seven-tier bakery cart containing literally dozens of cream pies, a few large sheet cakes, buckets of colored slime, jugs of various syrups, and even a couple of water guns, their nozzles dipped into a large bucket of what looks like white cream.

The crowd is whipped into a frenzy. Normally, ‘Smash the Stripper’ features maybe a dozen pies and a couple of other messy items, but apparently Steven’s performance this month was so poor that it warranted a response equivalent to a five-alarm fire.

Mr. Johnson continued. “You see, Steven, we’re paying you quite a lot to be here, and so far, you haven’t been worth the investment. So, we need to show you what happens if you don’t pull your weight around here.”

At least Archie is an ally, right? Steven thought to himself. He recruited me, he’s been supportive of me all month, giving me all this advice. He won’t let Mr. Johnson do this to me. Maybe I could bargain my way out of this…

Steven barely finished the thought before he swung his head around to see Archie holding the first cream pie and staring daggers right into Steven’s eyes. It looked so dense and heavy, so overflowing with cream that some of it dropped to the floor at Archie’s feet.

Desperate to stop this from happening, from ruining his outfit, from starting his shift this way, Steven resorted to begging for mercy.

“Please, Archie! Mr. Johnson, please! I’ll do better!”

“You ever been pied in the face before?” Mr. Johnson asked.

“Just once,” Steven said nervously. “It was a fundraiser for charity.”

“Well, consider this a fundraiser, too,” Mr. Johnson replied. “In that you better start raising some funds or else this will keep happening to you.

“Let him have it, Archie.”

The crowd rose in unison. One loud voice shouted, “YEAH, PIE HIS ASS!”

Archie shouted in his direction. “I’m sorry, Steven. But you deserve this.”

Steven screamed. “No!!”

BLAM. No longer his ally but instead back atop the senior class food chain, Archie showed off the incredible throwing arm that made him a star pitcher in high school, launching the pie hard and straight at Steven’s face, shutting the twink up with a devastating direct hit.

The crowd roared at the very moment Steven got obliterated. The tin clanged against his face with a loud BANG, while whipped cream, graham cracker crust, and an entire can’s worth of blueberry pie filling exploded all over Steven’s face, hair, and upper body.

Blueberries and cream began cascading down Steven's half-clothed body, staining his skin and his pristine pink tank top, before settling in his lap, wrecking his brand new, extremely expensive yoga pants.

In response to the suddenness and violence of the pie hit, Steven yelled “OH MY G–BLERGH!” but was forcibly silenced by a pie he didn’t even see coming, this one filled with cream and vanilla pudding, which Mr. Johnson had picked up with his massive paw and slammed even harder into Steven’s face.

Steven’s neck arched backwards from the force of the hit. He let out a pained moan, kicking up his legs in a desperate attempt to restore his balance. The crowd went berserk a second time.

After just two pie hits, Steven’s entire top half – his carefully styled hair, his acne-less face, his sexy crop top – was completely destroyed. Mr. Johnson swirled the pie around Steven’s head three or four times before shoving it up into his hair, where it came to rest looking like a crumpled hat.

Steven’s face was revealed, though it was entirely featureless, with globs of cream, crust, and pie filling covering every square centimeter of it. Gobs of pie came flooding out of Steven’s mouth, dribbling onto his chest and into his lap, where pie remnants were rapidly collecting.

And there was so much more to go.

Next, Archie grabbed the back of Steven’s head, held it in place, and mashed another pie right between his eyes. Steven’s arms flailed in response, his body shuddering as it reacted to the most violent hit of the three. More cream exploded in all directions, and more slop slid down the pink top.

The cheers only grew louder.

Not to be outdone, Mr. Johnson approached Steven from behind. With a pie in his right hand, he placed his left hand just underneath Steven’s chin and pushed it upwards. With a shocked, open mouth, Steven looked up to see his boss staring right back at him with the massive cream pie. He shook his head “no” in Mr. Johnson’s hand, but it was of no use. The bossman reached high over his head with the pie and theatrically slammed it straight down on Steven’s face. Steven’s feet kicked in shock from the hard hit.

Chocolate pudding, whipped cream, and pie crust collided with the pile-up already on his face and showered the rest of his body, leaving only slivers of clean skin and clean clothes left.

Several people in the crowd were on their feet at this point, cheering on the carnage like a mini-Roman colosseum. A couple of Steven’s clients were among the most vocal in the audience, howling at him, knowing it was their guy getting taken for a ride. They had developed a bit of an attachment to him, so to see him being honored, even in such a brutal, humiliating way, was a point of pride for them. Everyone associated with this place, it seemed, was just a little fucked up in the head.

Meanwhile, Steven sat in the stool gasping for air and pathetically trying to wipe pie off his face and body. All he really did was smear it all over himself further, which looked strangely sexy to many in the audience. He thought back to how Archie had approached him that fateful night at the frat party. He had no idea it would have ended like this. No matter how much money he needed, was this worth it?

Steven’s stupor was suddenly interrupted when, out of his peripheral vision, he saw Archie and Mr. Johnson on either side of him, re-armed with a pie in each hand, four pies total.

With his wireless microphone, Mr. Johnson could easily rile up the crowd even with his hands full, and that’s exactly what he did, calling for a three count before burying Steven in a barrage of pies.

ONE! TWO! THREE!

THUNK-PLOONK-DUNK-BOONK. Steven’s head whipped back as three of the four cream pies exploded all over his face at practically the same time. The fourth was aimed right at his chest, where it detonated in a shower of cream, blueberries, deep blue pie filling and chunks of crust. Whatever vibrance was left in the pink crop top was instantly destroyed, as was the rest of Steven’s face, buried beneath inches of thick cream. His hair was literally blown away, splaying out in all directions, frozen in place by the pie mess, giving new meaning to the phrase “frosted tips”.

By now, any poise that Steven had was completely gone. He wailed for mercy, begging for the onslaught to stop. But it wouldn’t. All it did was rile up the crowd more, and made Archie and Mr. Johnson get even more creative.

The two executors looked at each other, nodded as if knowing what the other person was thinking. Each grabbed yet another pie and moved toward Steven, who had his palms out at them, trying to get them to stop. Instead, each of them grabbed one of Steven’s arms, pulled him up to stand, and forcibly turned him around, making his ass face the crowd. The crowd rustled in anticipation of what would happen next. They knew.

And so did Steven. Powerless to stop it, Steven felt each guy place a hand on his back and push it downward. He obliged, putting his big butt in the spotlight in his clean sky blue pants. Needless to say, they didn’t stay clean very long.

Steven could hear the audience count, and he braced himself for the impact.

ONE! TWO! THREE!

THOONK! Archie gave Steven his first ever pie spanking, blasting his right ass cheek with a cream pie filled with butterscotch pudding. Steven emitted an agonizing groan in response.

Archie nodded at Mr. Johnson. GOONK! Another elongated scream from Steven as he took a second pie spanking, this one to his left cheek. Cream sprayed everywhere as both pies got rubbed in for good measure. The tins were lifted to reveal an explosion of red cherry pie filling and cream mixing in with the butterscotch to leave an unholy blast zone of white, yellow and red.

Both men followed that up by rubbing their hands all over Steven’s ass, driving the muck deeper and deeper into the fabric of his pants, ensuring they would never be worn again and that the $128 price tag was $128 not well spent. Steven was costing Mr. Johnson’s business money. This was his way of getting a little revenge.

The assault on Steven’s butt was not over, however. He was once again turned around to face the audience, now applauding him for his bravery (even if he had no choice in the matter). Mr. Johnson took Steven by the shoulders and forcibly shoved him back down onto the chair, where he felt yet another gooey, cold situation underneath his butt. Archie placed a round, pink frosted vanilla cake on the seat and Steven’s fat ass crushed it!

The audience shouted OHHHHH as they saw the once pretty cake disappear for good, and Steven’s ‘O’ face in reaction to the surprise. Steven immediately stood back up, twisted at the waist and looked down at his once-cute sky blue pants stained pink from the cake’s intense food coloring. Large chunks of cake fell off his butt and onto the floor, leaving a sticky coating of pink all over his bottom.

Steven gently sat back down on the now-flattened cake, looking carefully at where he placed his bottom. He once again turned to face the crowd, and with his mouth still wide open in shock, Archie saw the perfect receptacle for one more treat: Pie in hand, Archie waited until Steven’s eyes met his, then launched a banana cream pie straight at him, generating another loud CLANG as the dense dessert bashed his face, filling his mouth yet again with pie cream and rich, sweet filling.

Steven almost surely lost a few more brain cells from the force of the hit, the cells spiraling into oblivion along with the pie tin. More pie came pouring out of his mouth, his saliva mixing with the thick cream to create long wet strands of goo that stretched from his mouth to his lap.

Archie raised his arms toward the audience, who responded by giving some of the loudest cheers of the evening. As Steven cleared his eyes, he braced himself to see another pie or another cake flying toward him, but as he looked out at the crowd, he saw nothing coming. No pies, no cakes, no Archie, no Mr. Johnson. He could see many of his fellow performers giving him encouraging thumbs-up, though some of them admittedly were pointing and laughing at his plight. Meanwhile, the club members were all seemingly mocking him in one way or another. Some twisted their closed fists in front of their eyes to simulate a crying child, some licked their lips at him, others mockingly tried to point out where he had something on his face.

One man caught his eye though. He was one of Steven’s regulars, and he was pointing to the area above Steven’s head, as if to say, look out!

Just as Steven looked up, he saw four hands: Archie and Mr. Johnson had teamed up to lift a 60-quart container above his head and slowly dump its contents all over him: it was an ungodly amount of thick green slime. Steven’s shoulders shot up to his ears, a desperate attempt to protect himself. His hands went upturned at his face, and they caught some of the slime as it cascaded down his body. He could hear the crowd continuing to roar, looked up once again and quickly looked away as his mouth was instantly filled with the green goo.

The slime started seeping inside his crop top, then came flooding out of the bottom. He briefly opened his eyes, looked down at himself, and saw that there wasn’t a speck of pink left on his top; it had all been smothered with the green stuff.

As the deluge kept coming, Steven kept sliding around in his seat, the cake he sat on providing no traction for his squirming body. His blue yoga pants were slowly going the way of the pink top, slime collecting in his lap, pouring down the sides of his legs, pooling at his feet. Whenever he tried brushing it off his legs, a new layer oozed down to replace it. Eventually, the pants finally gave up, the sky blue having turned completely green from hips to ankles.

FInally, the onslaught ended, and Steven could hear the empty container hitting the floor behind him with a shallow thud. The crowd was on its feet yet again, but Steven couldn’t even acknowledge it. All he could do was complain.

“This is so unfair!”

“Archie, how could you? I trusted you!”

“These clothes were so expensive!”

“Please god, no more pies!”

Once again, Archie’s eyes met Mr. Johnson’s. Steven could see them conspiring again, but couldn’t hear or read what they were saying. They cupped their palms in front of their mouths as they planned their next trick.

What Steven couldn’t hear them saying was:

Mr. Johnson: “This is your guy, huh? He’s a whiny little bitch.”

Archie: “I know. I’ll get that out of him.”

Mr. Johnson: “I can’t take it anymore. Do we have anything that’ll shut him up for good?”

Archie: “I know just the thing.”

Archie left the stage again, leaving Steven with Mr. Johnson. Even though Archie had been just as mean to him today as Mr. Johnson had been, at least Archie was still a friend. Sort of. Now, left standing here with just his scary boss, Steven was frightened. From an introvert at a frat party to being covered in pies and slime at a strip club. All because of this guy. What could his fucked up brain think of next?

“You know,” Mr. Johnson said, “Steven, we were going to stop right here. But you’ve been so loud, so disobedient, such a little bitch, I think we need to keep going instead.”

“Please, Mr. Johnson, I’m begging you!” Steven begged.

“See,” Mr. Johnson replied, “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. I can’t deal with that anymore.”

Archie re-emerged from the back. This time, he was carrying scissors, handcuffs, a paddle, and a ball gag.

Mr. Johnson: “So now, we’re going to make it so you can’t complain anymore.”

To be continued...