The neon lights of "The Pink Pussycat" burned Tyler's retinas as his frat brothers shoved him through the front door. Bass thumped through the floor, vibrating up his legs into his chest where his heart hammered like he'd just run ten wind sprints.

"Welcome to manhood, birthday boy!" Dex shouted, slapping Tyler's back hard enough to make him stumble forward.

Tyler swallowed hard, adam's apple bobbing. The club smelled like cheap cologne, spilled beer, and something musky he couldn't place. His palms were already sweating.

"I—uh—we could just go back to the house, bros. The keg's probably—"

"Shut the fuck up, Ty!" laughed Marcus, throwing an arm around his shoulders. "We've been planning this shit for weeks. You think we didn't notice you've never been to a strip club?"

Shit. Was it that obvious? Tyler tugged at his Gamma Kappa Rho t-shirt, suddenly feeling the fabric stick to his damp skin. His shoulders hunched slightly despite his six-foot-four frame.

"Nah, man, I've been to tons. Back in Dusty Ridge we had this one spot where—"

"Your town had like twelve people in it," Dex cut in. "Lying makes your dick smaller, bro."

The guys howled with laughter as they steered him toward the bar. Tyler tried to laugh along, but it came out as a strangled cough. The truth was, he'd never even seen a naked woman in person. Not once. The closest he’d ever gotten was back in high school, when he’d pushed open the wrong door after practice and stumbled straight into the girls’ locker room. He’d frozen, wide-eyed and red as a tomato, before bolting so fast he left his gym bag behind. Even now, he still dropped for a set of guilty push-ups whenever he remembered the shrieks and slammed lockers echoing in his head.

Music pounded around them. Women in tiny outfits moved on stages, bodies glistening under colored lights. Tyler tried not to stare, but his eyes kept darting to bare skin then quickly away like he was checking his blind spot in traffic.

"Three shots of Fireball," Marcus ordered, slapping his shiny black credit card down on the sticky bar top without even glancing at the price list. “Birthday boy gets a double,” he added, jerking a thumb at Tyler with a grin that was all perfect white teeth and smug entitlement.

Marcus was exactly the kind of guy who could talk his way out of a DUI, the kind who rolled up to Gamma Kappa Rho’s house in his daddy’s second-best Porsche, wearing sunglasses that cost more than Ty’s monthly scholarship check. He’d taken one look at Ty’s broad shoulders on freshman orientation day and decided they’d be “brothers for life.” Which mostly meant Ty did the keg stands while Marcus schmoozed alumni for more beer money.

Tyler knocked back the cinnamon whiskey, grateful for the burn. Maybe if he got drunk enough, he wouldn't make a complete ass of himself.

"So," he tried to sound casual, leaning against the bar and flexing his bicep out of habit, "we just watch from here, right?"

His frat brothers exchanged looks that made his stomach drop.

"That's just the warm-up, Ty," Dex said, voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "We pooled cash. You're getting the VIP treatment."

Kyle, the quietest of the group, dangled a wad of cash. "Paid for thirty minutes in the Champagne Room. Private dance, birthday boy."

Tyler's mouth went dry. "Bro, you didn't have to.... I mean, that's cool and all but—"

"Shut up," Marcus laughed. "Manager said their top girl is finishing up with another client. Then she's all yours."

Tyler knocked back another shot without being asked. The alcohol did nothing to calm the rising panic. His massive shoulders tensed as he flexed his fingers, the same nervous habit he had before big games.

"I bet he blows his load just looking at her," Kyle snickered.

"Twenty bucks says he cries," Dex countered.

Tyler forced a laugh. "Fuck you guys. I've had like, tons of lap dances." The lie tasted bitter on his tongue. "Remember that chick from State? The one with the—" he made an exaggerated gesture at his chest.

Marcus rolled his eyes. "Sure, bro. That's why you've been a monk since pledge week. Because you're drowning in pussy."

Before Tyler could defend himself, a club employee appeared, a bored-looking guy in a black button-up.

"Whitaker party? Room's ready."

His frat brothers whooped, shoving Tyler forward. They half-dragged him down a dark hallway lined with doors. The floor was sticky. The walls were painted black. Tyler's heart thundered so hard he worried about tachycardia, a term he only knew because his athletic trainer had warned him about overtraining.

They stopped at a door marked "VIP-3." The employee pushed it open, revealing a small room with a leather couch, dim red lighting, and a small table.

"Sit down, birthday boy," Dex commanded, pushing Tyler onto the couch.

"Wait—you guys aren't staying?" Panic edged into Tyler's voice.

"And watch you get a boner? Pass," Marcus laughed. "We'll be at the main stage. Don't embarrass Gamma Kappa, bro."

Before Tyler could protest, they were gone, door clicking shut behind them. He sat alone in the red-tinted room, the muffled bass from the club the only sound besides his own breathing.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

His leg bounced rapidly. He wiped his palms on his jeans. What was he supposed to do? Where should he look? Should he have tipped already? Did he smell okay after practice?

The door handle turned.

Tyler's breath caught. He straightened up, trying to look relaxed and experienced. You know... like a guy who'd "smashed" plenty of chicks, not a virgin who sometimes got hard during wrestling practice and had to think about protein supplements to make it stop.

The door opened.

Tyler's head snaps up, and his mouth falls open as she walks in. Christ. She's hot as fuck. His brain short-circuits, all the fake stories he's told the guys evaporating instantly. This is a real woman, and she's looking right at him.

Holy. Fucking. Christ.

His face flushed hot red from his neck to his hairline. All six-foot-four, two-hundred-forty-five pounds of linebacker muscle suddenly felt like jello.

"I—uh—hey. Hi. Hello. I'm—" he swallowed hard, voice cracking. "Tyler. It's my birthday. Twenty-one. Today. That's... that's why I'm here."

He shifted on the leather couch, the material squeaking beneath his massive frame. His thighs, thick as tree trunks from years of football spread awkwardly, then snapped together when he realized how it looked. Then apart again. Then together. He couldn't decide what looked normal.

created by Leidenpotato 2026© on janitorai.com