My muscles are coiled tight as I throw a leg over my bike. When it roars to life between my thighs, I relax a fraction. Fuck Rebel for putting me in this position.

It’s not like I’m against bottoming. I’ve had a few boyfriends I even asked to top me. But none of them wanted to do it.

I always figured I’d let someone top me eventually. Likely a boyfriend, hopefully someone I really loved and trusted in a perfect world. But here I am, agreeing to let a man I hate do it, just so I don’t lose face...or a fuckton of money.

I signed the contract, so I’m stuck doing it now. But holy hell, I do not want to lose my ass virginity in front of millions of viewers. I can’t think of many good options, unfortunately. I can’t go back on the contract I just signed. That money will go a long way to get me ahead of my tuition and living expenses. Plus, I’m not going to back down from Brewer.

I guess the best thing I can do is find someone to fuck me before I get in front of the camera, so at least it won’t be the first time. But who? If Rebel was single, I’d probably ask him since he’s the closest thing I have to a friend. It can’t be Campy or Pixie; that just doesn’t feel right. Heart is an option, but he’s in that nebulous space of being someone I know too well for a one-off hook-up, but not well enough to ask for a favor like this.

So, where does that leave me? I could hit a bar and pick up a random, but the thought of that makes me itchy.

Fucking hell, there’s no good way around this.

The only logical thing is to head to Bottoms Up and try to find someone to fuck me. I cringe inwardly at the idea of letting some random all up in my ass. But the alternative of taking it for the first time on camera is far more horrifying.

I take a deep breath and head toward the club. If I don’t do it tonight, I’m going to end up overthinking this. Better to get it over with. It’ll be like ripping off a Band-Aid. Who knows, maybe I’ll even like it.

Doubtful.

The line at Bottoms Up is out the door and down the street, like it always is. But one benefit to fucking on camera is that they always let you skip the line at the gay club. I approach the bouncer, Greg, with purpose.

“Tank, how’s it hanging, man?” Greg asks when I reach him.

I grunt in response and shrug.

“One of these days I’m going to find the magic words to crack that granite exterior,” Greg warns me with a playful smirk.

Huh, maybe this will be easier than I thought.

“You top?” I ask point blank.

Greg blinks in surprise and takes a few seconds to recover from his shock.

“I’m vers,” he answers, flicking his gaze to the guys at the front of the line who find themselves fascinated by our conversation.

“Want to hook-up when you get off work?”

Greg looks at the other men again and then crooks his finger to motion me closer. “You’re sexy as fuck, stud, but you’re not really my type. I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m kind of into pretty boys, like Brewer or Pixie.”

I nod in understanding and pat him on the shoulder to show him there are no hard feelings. He gives me an apologetic smile and then steps aside to let me through the door.

I knew that would’ve been too easy. That’s okay, there’s a club packed full of men. One of these guys will want to fuck me, right?

I head straight for the bar and order a whiskey on the rocks and then seat myself at the corner of the bar to take in the area. There are plenty of hot men here tonight, but none that particularly trip my interest. That isn’t the point of tonight, though. This isn’t about finding my next boyfriend, this is about getting someone to fuck me in the ass so I can get it over with.

My ass twinges at the thought. I know mentally that it must be enjoyable, considering tons of men choose to bottom exclusively. But it doesn’t sit right on my mind. It feels wrong on multiple levels, but there’s no time for self-pity and idealized bullshit. Life doesn’t always work out how you expect it to. I’ve learned that lesson too many times for it to surprise me at this point.

“Is this seat taken?” a timid voice asks from over my left shoulder.

I turn my head to see who the lucky winner tonight might be. But it only takes one look to know he isn’t the one. I offer the kid a half smirk. I’m not even sure he’s old enough to be in a bar, and he’s got twink written all over him. Not that a little femme dude can’t top, but he’s got fuck me eyes.

One of the most frequent questions people want to ask you if you’re a gay man is how do you decide who tops? And the answer is, it’s all about a look. There’s a silent communication we all seem to have encoded in our DNA. A few seconds of eye contact and you can tell exactly what the other guy is hoping for.

The challenge I knew I’d be facing tonight is the stereotype that a big bear like me only wants to top. Any other night that would be true, fuck you very much, Rebel. I don’t understand why people get so stuck in their head about expected roles.

“I’m waiting for someone,” I lie to the kid.

He deflates a little but then gives me a quick smile that says there are no hard feelings. I turn back to my drink and continue looking around the club. My stomach is in knots as I try to convince myself that this is a good idea. I can’t lose my ass virginity to Brewer on camera. I seriously fucking can’t.

My hand tightens around my glass, and I throw the rest of my drink back in a swift gulp before flagging down the bartender again.

“You okay, big guy?” Nick, the bartender, asks when he comes over to refill my drink.

“Eh,” I shrug. “You top?”

Nick looks me up and down and snorts. “Sugar, I’m certain you’re a ride I wouldn’t survive.”

I sigh in resignation and slouch down on my stool, focusing on my fresh drink. This was clearly an exercise in futility. I’m going to need another plan, and I’m going to need one fast, because I only have a few weeks before my ass belongs to Brewer.