#smithopen

The event was boring. The events were always boring, but the booze was always free and flowing and the bartender wasn’t half bad. Smith had been stuffing his tip jar all night, making big puppy dog eyes as his father rubbed elbows with the other big Texas business owners, the politicians, the other 1%ers. Smith was just there for the old women to get their panties wet over, coming up to him, commenting on just how much he had grown, about how their husband and them knew him when he was just a bundle of fat and a tuft of blonde hair. And they’d hung him a little too long, all bone and loose skin, and they all spelled like Elizabeth Taylor’s White Diamonds powder, and they all wore giant fabulous rings, and Smith was bored of forcing conversation with them. No one here wanted to talk about queer politics or CrossFit or Britney Spears. No one here could keep his interest besides the bartender: all muscles and salt and pepper hair everywhere. And that’s why he waited a couple minutes when the man slipped away to the bathroom, slipping in behind him, locking the door behind them both, and watching the man’s back as he heard the tell-tale hit of urine to toilet water. He leaned against the doorframe, but being a gentleman and not peeking.... yet.