Musical Chairs

By Kinsey Blais

Exotic dancers, candle wax, and self empowerment.

Follow the journey of two separate storylines, both starting a new chapter in their lives. Tawny is a young, handsome eighteen-year-old with endless potential, but he has been given a rough go in life, causing him to find himself starting out in the male stripping industry. Wolfie is a stripper approaching middle age who has been dreaming of getting out of the lifestyle for years now, but with little to no experience in anything else, he is finding himself stuck.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Apr 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9780228849360

Kinsey Blais

I'm Kinsey Blais from Toronto, ON, Canada. I grew up in a very small town in Southern Ontario up until late adolescence when I moved myself to the city. Growing up gay in a small town is an experience within itself. However, moving to the city and being part of the LGBTQ+ community, you are really given the opportunity to learn many backstories and understand the mentality of the collective, from coming-out stories to happy endings, and the ways we've been accepted and sometimes the ways we've been left behind. You never stop learning the value of a community and the strength in numbers.

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Copyright © 2021 by Kinsey Blais

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Tellwell Talent

www.tellwell.ca

ISBN

978-0-2288-4935-3 (Paperback)

978-0-2288-4936-0 (eBook)

"It’s all musical chairs

in life and in game shows.

I guess my time to

dance is ending…"

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 1

The parquet wood flooring feels cold on my back. It feels nice. The morning sun is streaming through the uncovered windows, allowing light to cover my body in a warm glow. I’m shirtless, wearing a pair of faded blue jeans, and my tousled sandy hair is probably just enough of a curly mess to look cute but not homeless. For a while, I just lie there awake staring at the dust particles floating in the light around me.

No, this isn’t a rustic Calvin Klein ad or some hipster boy tripping on acid. This is literally where I slept last night. I look around my empty New York studio apartment. Three hundred square feet never looked so huge. Though I know if I put a mattress in here, there would barely be room to walk. There’s a small kitchen right across from me with an oven, a fridge, a sink, and a total of three cabinets above the beige countertop. Next to that is a door that opens to the washroom, and next to that is a small closet. Home sweet home.

I look over at the door to my new apartment and see my black duffle bag with my guitar case resting on the wall next to it. I chuckle that everything I own to my name can fit in one small corner.

Oh shit, is that a cockroach?

I hope I’m just imagining things as I pick myself up off the ground and walk myself into the cozy washroom. I splash some water on my face to wash the sleep out of my eyes then run my hands through my blond curls. I turn my back to the mirror over the sink and see the crisscross marks the parquet flooring left on my tan skin. I guess I could have laid down a towel or something. But I only have the one, and I want to use it for my shower.

I stand there for a bit, staring at myself in the mirror like a narcissistic stereotype. I’ve always been told that I’m handsome. My body is lean and toned, I have a strong jawline for someone my age, and my pale-blue eyes contrast nicely against my tan skin and sandy hair. I’ve heard jokes my entire life that it is ironic my name is Tawny given my colouring.

I turn to the shower and start running the water, giving it a chance to warm up. I stride over to my duffle bag by the door, fish out my red bath towel, and bring it to my face to give it a sniff just to remind myself that it’s clean. I head back to the washroom, the floor squeaking under my bare feet. I slide my faded jeans off my almost hairless legs. I’m not wearing any underwear underneath, and I step into the steamy shower, sliding the glass door closed.

I let the hot water run over my hair and my body, feeling it wash away the day before. I hum and sing to myself, not bothering how loud I’m being. This is the first time I’m showering in my own apartment. I love to sing. It’s been my dream for as long as I can remember. The roar of the crowd, the thumb of the base in my ear, the feeling of validity knowing that my art means something to someone. That’s why I chose to move to New York, to pursue music. The closest I have ever come to fame was when I was in sixth grade and I made the paper. Well, my whole family did.

At the end of the sixth grade, my class had an end-of-the-year trip to the Statue of Liberty. It was cool to see, and the view was great, but like all tourist attractions in New York, the lines were long. Especially for a ten-year-old kid.

But enough of my long-time bitter grudge against waiting.

After a long day of waiting in lines and holding my breath while standing next to smelly people, the school bus dropped me and my class back at the school, and we waited for our parents to pick us up.

Pick-up time was 5:30 p.m., and most of the kids’ parents were already waiting at the school by the time the bus rolled up. I was expecting to see mine already waiting there as well. Dad was super punctual. If you’re on time, you’re late!

But 5:45 came… 6 p.m.… At 6:37 p.m. precisely, the teacher on field trip duty, Mrs. What’s-Her-Face, had me come to the office and give my parents a call to see where they were, as I was the only one still waiting to be picked up.

I’ll save you all the tears and dramatics. Long story short, my parents never came back to pick me up. They were hit by a drunk driver, swerved into another lane, and were sandwiched in between two cars. Needless to say, not my favourite field trip. But I did make the paper, a lot of papers actually.

Ten-Year-Old Orphaned

Car Crash Leaves Clark Boy With Nowhere to Go

Tawny Clark Loses Parents in Deadly Accident

Unfortunately, both my parents were only children, and the only grandparent I had left was in a nursing home with Alzheimer’s. So, after my parents died, I was put into the foster care system.

In the beginning, it was hard. I stayed with two different families in two years. In the first home, I was removed due to reports of abuse from me and two other foster kids that were staying with them. If we made a mess or were too noisy, the foster parents would lock us in a closet with no lights.

Funny enough, that wasn’t the only closet I had to come out of…

The second home I was removed from wasn’t so bad. They were nice enough, a young married couple. But as young married couples do, they ended up reproducing. Once the new baby came, they decided they had too much on their plate, and I was placed in a new home.

My third and last foster family is where I stayed up until a day ago. Two weeks ago, was my eighteenth birthday.

Happy birthday to me! You’ve aged out of the foster system…

The family was the Hobbers: an older couple, Sharron and Joe. They also had two biological daughters, Cassie and Tessa. Cassie was a year older than me, and Tessa was a year younger. The family was nice; they were good to me as long as I was good to them and pulled my weight around the farm.

Oh yeah, did I forget to mention? There’s a farm…

The Hobbers lived on a small poultry farm and apple orchard in a town called Woodstock, NY. That’s right, this pretty face was wracking chicken shit and spraying apple trees with pesticides. But I didn’t mind the hard work. It saved me a gym membership, and, in all honesty, I counted myself lucky. You wouldn’t believe some of the horror stories I would hear in my foster group meetings.

The Hobber family was very religious and conservative, so I kept my sexuality to myself while I lived there. The only one who knew was Tess, my younger foster sister. She was a little dreamier than the rest of the family. She wanted to get off the farm and see the world. I think her knowing I was gay made her feel more cultured. I was probably the only gay kid at our high school. So that was our little secret.

The day I turned eighteen, I received a small inheritance of money my parents had set away for me. In the adult world, $20,000 doesn’t seem like a substantial amount of money, but to an eighteen-year-old foster kid… I was feeling like a McBaller. That is, until I went apartment shopping in New York. Apparently, you actually had to be a McBaller to afford any decent sized place in Manhattan. But I didn’t care about the square footage. I’m not a size queen. All I cared about was the location. I had to be close to the people: the artists and the ones that could help jump-start my music career.

So, flash forward to me showering in my tiny studio apartment that still has no furniture and fuck! I don’t have a toothbrush. I turn off the water and slide the shower door open, reaching for the towel. I wipe my dripping skin dry and step out onto the bathroom tile. The floor is cold on my bare feet. I walk out into the living room/bedroom/kitchen with the towel wrapped around my waist and stare out the window.

I bet some pervy peeper is having the time of his life on the other side of this view.

I stroll back to the washroom and unwrap myself from the towel, feeling a chill between my legs, and hang the towel up on the hook at the back of the washroom door. I head over to my black duffle bag and snag a pair of black jeans and a maroon V-neck tee. I unzip one of the pockets on the side of the duffle and find a couple bucks in change.

Thank the caffeine gods. I need coffee.

I slip the change into my back pocket, along with my keys and phone, then head out the door. Just as I’m leaving, I see my next-door neighbour coming home. This is the first sighting of any of my neighbours. He’s a tall, skinny guy in his late twenties probably. He is in all black, has a bright green mohawk, and smells like spilled tequila and rave smoke. I give a cautious wave, Hey… He gives me a crooked smirk and a head nod, and he unlocks his door then continues his way in, shutting the door behind him.

That went well!

I walk over to the elevator and press down; the door swings open right away. I must have caught it right after smelly, green mohawk guy. I press G and wait to slide down four floors. The great thing about this building is that the lobby is next door to a coffee shop. Prime real estate for a caffeine junkie like myself.

I walk into the shop and smell the aroma of the life-providing beans the second I inhale. Standing in line, I overhear two pretty boys whisper fresh meat almost in my direction. I just brush it off. For all I know they aren’t even talking about me. It’s a busy coffee shop, and I’m sure I don’t stand out that much. I make it to the front of the line. The barista girl smiles. Hi hun, what can I get you?

Her eyelids have more glitter than a twink’s chest at Mardi Gras.

Hi! Uhm, could I get a large mocha iced coffee, one cream, no sugar? My stomach rumbles. And a blueberry muffin please.

Sure thing, love. Coming right up on your left! she says, giving me the kind of energy that I assume only comes from drinking too much of the company goods.

Thanks. You’re saving my life, I reply with a grin and hand her the change from my pocket. Cracking a joke seemed like a good plan since we are probably going to be seeing a lot of each other.

I walk over to where the glitter girl pointed and wait for the love of my life to be handed to me. Once I receive my precious, I scoot through the crowd and find a table for one so I can sip my coffee and scarf down my muffin in comfort. The two pretty boys are still whispering in my direction. I look around the coffee shop at the other people slurping coffees and gossiping. There’s a lot of pretty boys in here.

I take out my phone and connect to the coffee shop’s free Wi-Fi and type in Lower East Side Manhattan. First thing I see pop up on my screen is the nicknamed Gayborhood.

Well, that explains it.

Okay, full disclosure. I really didn’t do much research before I put up first and last month’s rent on this place. I’ve learned that in the city, shopping for an apartment is very buy or die, and I was already out of the foster system, so who knew how long the Hobbers were going to keep me without getting a government cheque. They were nice people. I lived with them for four years. But honestly, you never know how people can change in an instant. You see that firsthand growing up as a foster kid.

That’s precisely why I feel so self-conscious. I know when people are talking about me as if I’m not in the room.

Like guys, I didn’t finish the muffin that fast…

I shift my torso to the left and watch some of their eyes follow. I