‘And the lesbians from the roller derby club said they’re fine with us opening a men’s-only bar but they’ll be, uh, sending us a cake … shaped like a … you know …’
Ahmed spits his piña colada out. ‘Ew. They didn’t. They didn’t.’
Curtis stares into his whiskey glass with a look of frozen horror. ‘Shaped like a what?’
Zeke’s cheeks blink scarlet. ‘Shaped like a pussy,’ he confirms. ‘They’re sending us a vagina cake.’
We all lose it laughing.
‘As long as I don’t have to eat it!’ Curtis wheezes. ‘But what about the biggest influencer we were promised? This Xander Sullivan?’
‘He didn’t confirm, but said he’d do his best to make an appearance,’ Zeke reports.
‘Weird, since he made such a fuss about getting an invite,’ I remark.
‘When you’re famous, it’s not easy to say yes to everything,’ Ahmed points out crisply. Because of his modelling career – mostly past tense – he thinks of himself as a D-list celebrity, when he’s actually dropped off even the Z-list at this point.
‘Well, I hope he comes,’ Curtis says, draining his glass. ‘A positive endorsement from him would be a game-changer.’
Wednesday night is the Tool Shed’s soft opening.
We get a decent trickle of guys, with a third of the booths filled and patrons perched on the perve stools along the front. Me and Ahmed work the bar and there’s mostly easy orders, although it’s frustrating seeing guys’ faces drop if we don’t stock their favourite drink.
Curtis anticipated we might have awkward conversations with women or straight guys showing up, but the signs out front seem to work. One is a humourless, laminated sign stating the bar is male-only with government approval. The other is a painted mural on the front wall, depicting a muscular, shirtless tradie wearing a tool belt and nothing else, flexing and winking. We figured it was so gaudily homoerotic it would repel any straighties.
Something that doesn’t get immediate traction is our cruising lounge. A few guys sit there for a drink, but none seem to know it’s designed for hunting on Grindr.
When it gets quieter, Curtis sends Zeke to plug his phone in and scroll the apps to show what the space is meant for. When I go for a toilet break, I walk past Zeke making a point of holding his phone out almost comically obviously, the Grindr screen clearly visible.
‘Get back to work, you horny little seed,’ I jeer at him.
Zeke’s face goes pink. It’s so funny how easy it is to embarrass him.
On my way back from the dunnies, I slide onto the sofa next to him. ‘Is this idea going down like a lead balloon or what? We thought it’d be sick.’
Zeke shrugs. ‘Personally, I think it’s great. Surfing Grindr with a full phone battery and a drink in hand. Nobody knows about it yet. Once word gets out, it’ll work.’
‘Hope so,’ I mutter. ‘I’m so sick of things not working.’
‘I did notice the nearest profile was yours,’ Zeke says. ‘D’you want me to block you?’
‘Why would I care if you see my Grindr profile?’ I say. ‘Just don’t tap me. Or send me hairy Zekey nudes. I think we’ve established you’re not my type.’
Zeke nods. ‘We’re on the same page.’ He pauses too long; it turns into a silence.
‘What?’ I ask. ‘What were you gonna say?’
Zeke shakes his head. ‘Totally inappropriate, sorry. Never mind.’
‘Charlie, are you due back on shift?’ Ahmed calls from the bar in a tone that says he knows full well I am.
I leave Zeke, but spend the rest of my shift wondering what he was going to say.
When we get home, near midnight, Zeke’s silence is still on my mind.
As we get into bed and say goodnight to Tom of Finland, I ask about it.
‘Oh, that was nothing,’ Zeke says.
