Working in a bar.

I have an odd job.  It's not odd to me but to the straight people I talk to it is different.  I'm a bartender in a gay bar.  Am I gay?  No, I did grow up with a single mom and her "best friend" Patricia who I now know as my other mother, so I didn't have that strong male role model, which could be why a lot of kids in school thought I was gay.  That's why I started going to the gym a lot; I truly am a gym rat or if I'm at work a gym mouse.  Being a bartender lets me spend time with my girlfriend, or my beard when I'm at work, and let's me spend time at the gym.  Some nights are great some are terrible and some are so-so.

Last night was  mediocre, the only saving grace was a sugar daddy that came in and sat at the bar.  He'll tip decently and more if my knowledge of the others help him score or stay away from certain "types".

Pretty simple really, he talks (about himself, he's a sugar daddy and that's what they do) and then he'll ask me about some possible conquest.  If the potential kept man has a bad history I know about I'll write a short note on a napkin and then put his plain water chaser on the napkin.  Once he's read it I always throw it away quickly because these other guys tip also.  He still thanks me for saving him from a pig/bug chaser combo when his beer goggles were on.

It was a slow night before a beer bust so this customer is telling me a joke...or a life lesson, I'm not really sure which.  Here it is, what's the difference between a metrosexual and a guy giving another guy a blowjob?  Two fuzzy navels.

Just a bit of short fiction by yours truly.