I had not been at university more than three months when I started to get into trouble. Not trouble with my studies, which were going well. Not trouble with relationships; I had made friends of both sexes. No, my trouble was financial; I just couldn't survive on my student grant.
In the summer before going to Uni I had worked in a bar, and was hoping to get evening bar work to help my finances. Unfortunately, bar work was at a premium and there were no openings anywhere.
In desperation, I answered an advert for a barman in a gay bar in the city. I didn't expect to get a reply but the owner phoned me up and offered me the job, despite the fact that I wasn't gay.
"I don't know if you can hack it," he said. "All our barmen earn good money, which they can double in tips. You have to work naked apart from a little black leather thong and matching sandals. I have to warn you that some of the guys will make personal comments, some will proposition you, and some will take every chance to grope your young body. If you let a guy stroke your ass, then he could well slip a banknote into your thong, it all depends on how much you need the money. Being straight won't protect you from wandering hands; in fact it is likely to inflame the guys even more. So if you are willing to give it a go, be at the club on Tuesday night and we'll try you out."
I felt very worried when I appeared behind the bar virtually naked, while every eye in the club was turned towards my body. There was a mirror at an angle on the bar floor, so anyone buying a drink got a good view of the barmen's little asses. Luckily, it was fairly quiet that night and apart from a few comments like, "You have too perfect a butt to be straight," and, "You might be straight now, but in a few months you will be on your knees sucking cock, like the rest of us," the members were well behaved.
On Saturday night, however, it was a lot different; the club was crowded and the guys were rowdier. Every time I went to collect glasses from the tables, I had to run a gauntlet of wandering hands. Hands that stroked my legs, bum and cock, and even tried to pull my thong down. I felt like packing the job in, until I counted up the money that I had made in tips.
Over the next few months I got used to all the handling, all the remarks and all the propositions.
