Matt stood shyly. He unsnapped his shorts and pushed them and his boxer briefs down to his thighs, letting his boner spring free, certain that, had he not already sealed his eternal damnation, this would guarantee it. Hopefully, this would end the singing.
Todd and Jake smiled at sight of Matt’s cock.
“One more time!” Jake said. “Everyone sing! ‘This lit—'”
William held up a hand. “Dahlings, being Methodist, I was thankfully spared from learning this ditty. It explains so much about your denomination. If you insist on singing it, at least tweak the lyrics. They assume not only that all candles are little, but that little is a good thing. You, of all people, know better than that!”
Matt, Jake, and Todd snickered.
“Let’s review our candle sizes,” William said. “There are birthday candles, which, sadly, are little—and don’t do much to light the fire.” He held up a pinky finger by way of illustration.
“Tapers are next. Basically, long birthday candles. Same low-wattage light-wise. The only girth is at the base.”
“Then come pillar candles. Those have varying girths, and range in height from five to seven inches tall. This—” William pointed to Matt’s cock—”is no birthday candle or taper. This is a fine pillar of a candle, at the high end—excuse the pun—of the spectrum.”
Jake jumped in. “And it certainly lit my fire!”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” said Todd petulantly.
Matt blushed again.
William smiled indulgently, motioned for Matt to pull his pants back up. That part of the lesson was over.
Matt gladly complied.
“The final candle type,” William said, “is not used in your acapella, ditty-singing churches. They are used by Catholics, Presbyterians, and Methodists. Civilized Christians. They are called ‘Paschal Candles.’ They pick up where pillar candles end, and range in height from eight to eleven inches. Beautiful. Nice for the occasional ceremony. Practically speaking, regular use would burn the house down.”
***
The last time Matt had worn one of these molded plastic masks, he’d been in elementary school. Still an innocent, leaving cookies for Santa, believing the only monsters were those that lurked under his bed.
He knew better now, as did his fellow members of the Gay Mafia. Hence the masks and other precautions during member interviews. It was why Josh wasn’t joining them tonight. He was on security detail, per the rules, providing them all with iron-clad alibis should this interview go south and Paul rat them out to the Dean.
Matt had spent hours combing through a bin of masks at the clubhouse. To claim one, he just had to write his name and the date on the inside. Permanent marker recommended. He’d seen the Pirate mask with Evan’s name. Its previous owner’s names dated back to ’86. Jake was the first guy to be the Clown. Matt guessed there would be a clamor for that mask once Jake graduated, especially if the blue high tops went with it.
William’s mask was the oldest, and was crammed with names, dating back to ’75.
The mask Matt had ultimately chosen was starting to chip along the edges. The first guy who’d worn it was “N. Covington” in ’81. Now Matt’s name was there.
Matt loved this connection with the gay ghosts of the club’s past, guys who had also fought to survive the school’s homophobia. Matt had picked his mask for its warrior quality, even though the soldier it depicted had fought for the wrong side. Matt was a Star Wars stormtrooper.
Matt doubted Paul was fooled as to his identity. He also hoped Paul would overlook any negative Star Wars connotations.
Paul sat facing his masked interviewers, blinking, bug-eyed behind his thick glasses. He was not making a good impression despite an updated hairstyle and newish clothes from a thrift store. Matt had hoped for better but could hardly claim surprise. Paul was a person whose oddities enveloped him like a forcefield, repelling even the best-intentioned people. His strengths were the opposite: hidden, like the elusive red mushrooms in the Super Mario game.
Matt tried focusing on this train wreck of an interview, but was distracted by Todd, who sat to his immediate left. Todd was masked as a Mouse but was playing the cat. So-called saloon slut in his garter belt, fishnet stockings, and stiletto heels, he was a dam in heat. He fretted with the cuffs of his dress shirt, stroked his red necktie seductively, feeding the flame of Matt’s desire. Matt’s cock wanted to douse Todd’s fire.
Earlier when Evan and Luke had arrived, Evan had asked Todd why he had such an elaborate costume when everyone else just wore masks.
“He’s trying to make sure the new guy doesn’t pick me,” Jake had said. “Jealous because I hold the club record. Chosen three times in a row because of my lucky high tops.”
Evan had disagreed. “Who says this Paul guy will even be admitted? Last time I checked, five of us must vote in favor. No offense, Matt. I know he’s your friend.”
Luke had chimed in, addressing Todd. “You’re fishing in the wrong pond if you want Paul to pick you.” He glanced at Evan, then corrected himself. “Assuming Paul gets admitted, I mean. He seems like a bottom is all I’m saying.”
“Who says I’m fishing in that pond?” Todd had asked.
Had Matt imagined it, or had everyone glanced at him?
Harley, Paul’s sponsor, was moderator, and was the only member not masked. Every group needed a Harley, someone with a middle child’s peacemaker personality, someone singularly focused on ironing out differences, helping the group achieve its goals. Everyone’s friend. Like Idabel.
It was Harley who had met Paul in the hotel lobby, led him to this third-floor suite, and explained the rules of “Truth or Bare”: The seven masked members would proceed in order, each asking Paul to pick “Truth or Bare”. If he chose “truth”, he had to honestly answer a question from that member. Choosing “bare” required removal of an article of clothing. Paul could never choose “truth” more than twice in a row. Then Paul would have a chance to pose the same choice to that questioner before the game moved on to the next masked member.
So, here they were, having finished the first round. Paul had been stubbornly determined to keep his clothes on. Of the eight times he had been offered the choice of “Truth or Bare”, he’d only chosen “bare” when required to do so by the rules: truth, truth, bare, truth, truth, bare, truth, and surprise…truth. What articles of clothing had he removed? His new three dollar shoes that didn’t stink.
When Paul had asked Matt “Truth or Bare”, Matt had chosen “bare” and quickly peeled off his shirt, trying to send a subtle signal to his friend. He should have remembered that Paul did not get subtlety.
Matt frowned behind his mask, willing Paul to lighten up. Not only was Paul giving the impression that he was uncomfortable with nudity, but answering questions wasn’t his strong suit. His voice was flat, emotionless. His answers were curt. He was in his default mode.
Matt had debated telling Paul about this game, coaching him, but had decided against doing so. Matt was not a cheater.
The only bright spot in the interview thus far had come when Kevin asked Paul who was his hero. Kevin was the least assuming member of the group, an old soul in a young body. His Devil mask did nothing to conceal his innate kindness.