Nebraska Peasant
by Chris Schacht
The first night, he thought it was just a good lay.
He’d met the businessman on Grindr, represented by a fit, 40-some-year-old torso. They chatted a little, and though Clayton was 20 years younger, he thought, fuck it. I’ll give it a go. Not only had the sex been fun, there was room service, wine, and some giggly joking before falling asleep. A good night.
He woke just as the businessman was leaving for an emergency board meeting. The businessman told him to take off whenever he wanted, and that he’d be in touch about getting together later. Clayton gave his best flirty smile as the man left, then laid back on the bed. California King. He’d heard about them, but never been in one. He fanned out his arms and legs, making snow angels in the bright sheets.
That lasted all of ten minutes before he remembered his Saturday shift at the bar. Seven to close. He relied on weekend tips to get him through the week. Maybe a bartender could save up enough to blow off a random weekend, but not a lowly server, not after a year of pandemic back rent and three years of degree-less college debt and car payments and parents so shameless that they sometimes asked him, their shameful gay son, for money.
On the other hand, when would he get to stay in this bed again?
Clayton ran the numbers, fudged them, threw out the red marker, then texted a coworker about a shift trade. No Saturday night shlepping beers and tots for him, no matter how desperately he needed the money. He had a date with a daddy.
#
The second night, he thought he was blessed.
Clayton did not eat lunch, partly for sex reasons, partly for vanity, and partly because the businessman promised luxury room service for dinner. They ate surf and turf, the businessman feeding him slices of oranges, the asparagus untouched. Then sex in the chair, interrupted by a call from the front desk. Moans are okay, the businessman said after the call. No more screaming. I’ve got an account with this chain. I can’t afford to be on their shit list. After sex, sleep, because the businessman was tired. He’d had a long day, even though it was Saturday. That was okay with Clayton, though he could have gone again. He laid there, quietly rubbing that soft sheet against his chest as the businessman slept. He was #blessed. Eh, just blessed. For real.
The businessman had a Sunday business brunch, with business people, talking business. He told Clayton to linger in bed again if he liked. So Clayton tried. He tried and tried but boundless energy propelled him out of bed. He felt like he slept twenty hours while on a caffeine drip. He did pushups and sit-ups, then waggled his dick in front of the full-length mirror. The shower was so big it didn’t have a curtain or a door. He took a few pictures of himself in the bathroom mirror before toweling off, then a few after, with the towel dangling from his hip.
It was only 8 am. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this alive at 8 am.
#
The third night, he thought he was in love.
That night, the businessman wanted to take him out to eat. Clayton suggested an Omaha steakhouse, but the businessman was tired of fancy restaurants. So Clayton took him to a dive Indian restaurant on Leavenworth, a place Clayton went once a month, yet he felt giddy throughout the entire meal. The naan was too oily and the conversation pleasant but he was floating. They were out. Lots of people came to this spot. The businessman could be seen. With Clayton. And he didn’t care. And eating Indian at all, that signaled he didn’t have to top tonight. Sure enough, they went back to the hotel, to that big bed, and laid down together. The businessman gave Clayton a handjob, circling a finger around Clayton’s nipple, and when it was over wanted nothing in return other than for Clayton to stay the night again. The generosity reminded Clayton of Holli-boy, his college boyfriend, and the only person who came to mind at the mention of true love. Until now. Maybe he would think of this now.
#
The fourth night, he thought he might scream.
Clayton woke to the businessman packing his things, and Clayton ran to the bathroom to control his breathing and make sure not to cry. He came back out smiling. The businessman didn’t know when he’d be back in Omaha, but he’d give Clayton a call if it happened. Clayton nodded and managed to say it had been fun.
Monday night at the bar, industry night. People asked him where he was all weekend. “Getting wasted,” he said, picking up their empty glasses without making eye contact. A few cold shoulders and they let him be.
Home by 1 am. His first night back in a full bed after three in a California King. And what a piece of shit. He’d bought it used from a couple that upgraded to a queen. He bought the thing for $100 bucks, which he could barely afford. He laid down and immediately slid to the center, where the springs had given way. As he laid there, the long muscles on the sides of his hips began to tighten, and a dull throb in his heel tingled with pain. That crick in his neck, the one he had completely forgotten over the last three days, it returned, bringing a sharp pain like a wire stabbing his ribs. And that’s when he knew he’d been infatuated with the wrong thing. After all, the businessman didn’t share anything about his life, didn’t make promises, didn’t hold Clayton through the night. He let Clayton sleep. And Clayton did sleep. He slept very well.
Now back at home, in his own second-hand bed, Clayton couldn’t sleep. But he could scream. He could always afford to do that.
After many years as a tour guide, landscaper, and failed law student, Chris now lives in Colorado, where he does none of those things. His work has appeared in Analog, The Hopper, West Trade Review, The Bellevue Literary Review, and others.