CHAPTER 2: TITAN IS BORN

TRISTAN'S POV

I stood outside Club Inferno. Cheers and shouts, fueled by who-knows-what, spilled out into the night. This was it. I took a deep breath, adjusted the black sleeveless hoodie I wore over simple black pants, and pushed towards the entrance.

Two gorillas in black suits blocked my path. They were all muscle and suspicion. I reached into my pocket, pulling out the card Trevor had given me. The light glinted off Trevor’s number scrawled on the back.

The guards exchanged a look, their eyes raking me from head to toe. It wasn’t a friendly gaze. I felt exposed. My palms started to sweat. I just needed to get through this.

After what felt like an eternity, they finally stepped aside, the taller one giving a curt nod. I pushed through the heavy doors and stumbled into a sensory overload.

The air was thick with sweat, cheap perfume, and something vaguely metallic. The music was deafening. Everywhere I looked, there was exposed flesh. Male strippers dominated the scene. Some writhed on stage under blinding lights, their bodies glistening. Others were giving lap dances, their movements bordering on aggressive. Still more were lounging at tables, laughing and drinking with clients, and then there were the body shots. I swallowed hard. This was the price of my dreams?

A wave of discomfort washed over me. This was so far outside my comfort zone. The thought of actually doing this, of being touched, ogled...it made my stomach churn. But I clamped down on the feeling. I needed the money. Badly. This wasn't about desire; it was about survival. Cafe wages weren't cutting it. This offered a way out, a way to keep my head above water while I chased my actual dream.

Scanning the room, I felt utterly lost. I didn't know who to talk to, where to go. Then, above the din, I heard a familiar voice.

"Tristan! You actually came!"

Trevor. Relief flooded me, quickly followed by a healthy dose of embarrassment. He was running towards me, a wide grin on his face, wearing nothing but a fitted pair of black boxer shorts and a ridiculously tiny bow tie.

"Dude! I didn't think you'd actually do it!" He clapped me on the shoulder, his touch surprisingly warm and reassuring.

"Yeah, well…" I shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "Desperate times, you know?"

"Seriously, I didn't think you'd actually do it," Trevor said, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "But hey, I'm glad you did! Come on, the manager's waiting."

He grabbed my arm and steered me through the crowd towards the back of the club, the music pounding in my ears. We stopped in front of a massive red door that screamed 'off-limits'. Trevor nudged me forward. "Go on. She's not as scary as she looks."

Taking another deep breath, I pushed the door open and stepped inside. The room was smaller, quieter, and dominated by a large, imposing woman with a severe expression.

The manager, a woman with a steely gaze and a perfectly lacquered red bob, sat behind a large desk littered with paperwork. She looked me up and down, her expression critical.

"So, you're Trevor's recruit," she said, her voice sharp.

Trevor had followed me in. "Yeah, Ms. Bianchi. This is Tristan. He's got potential, I swear."

Ms. Bianchi rose from her chair, her heels clicking on the polished floor as she approached me. She gripped my chin, tilting my head from side to side, scrutinizing my face from every angle. My heart hammered against my ribs.

"Strip," she commanded, her voice surprisingly low.

My heart jumped into my throat. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Take your clothes off."

"But… I…"

"You're auditioning to be a male dancer, Tristan. A stripper. If you can't handle a little nudity, you can walk right back out of that door."

Trevor nudged me again, a silent plea in his eyes. "It's just part of the process, dude. Don't sweat it."

Swallowing my pride, I slowly began to strip. My hands fumbled with the zipper of my pants, my face burning with shame. Soon, I was standing before her in just my underwear.

Ms. Bianchi circled me, her eyes dissecting every inch of my body. I felt like a specimen under a microscope. She checked my biceps, my abs, my legs, my chest, cataloging everything with a clinical eye.

Finally, she stepped back, her expression unreadable.

"Face and body perfectly in shape. You're hired. Dance classes start tomorrow. And what name do you want to use?"

"Name?"

"Your stage name. You can't call yourself Tristan out there."

I thought for a moment. I needed something powerful, something that would project an image I didn’t quite feel.

“Titan,” I said, the word feeling foreign on my tongue.

Trevor clapped me on the back, grinning. "Titan! I like it!"

Later, back in the relative calm of the bar, Trevor clapped me on the back. "See? I told you you'd be great! Now watch, learn, and get ready to make some serious cash."

Weeks flew by in a blur of music, sweat, and choreographed movements. I learned to gyrate, to tease, to play to the crowd. I pushed myself in dance classes, surprisingly enjoying the physicality of it.

I learned the moves, the poses, the art of seduction. It was a performance, a role I played. And the money flowed. I kept telling myself it was just for six months. I would get eighty percent of my profits, enough to get me back on my feet. I wore a mask that covered my eyes, becoming a different person.

I became Titan. Chains, masks, tight boxer briefs – that was my uniform. I did the stage dances, gave the lap dances, endured the touches, the bills tucked into my underwear.

There were clients who wanted more, who offered to take me home. Promise me a huge sum of money and pleasure. I always declined. It wasn't part of the deal. Trevor understood.

Trevor was surprisingly supportive, offering tips and tricks, never making me feel like competition. He was a genuine friend.

My popularity soared. Titan became the hottest draw in the club. The money was good, really good.

Six months flew by in a blur of sweat, music, and flashing lights. My last two nights. I could taste freedom. Then Ms. Bianchi dropped another bomb. A bachelorette party, a wealthy family. My least favorite gig.

"This is your last dance, Titan," Ms. Bianchi said, patting my shoulder. "And it's a big one. Make it count."

I think it will be my sixteenth bachelorette party for the past six months. Bachelorette parties are unpredictable... some are just the usual... stage dances, lap dances and body shots but some are more intimate... hands and mouths involved.

She paused, her expression softening slightly. "I'm sad to let you go. I'm going to miss you, you know. I was hesitant about you at first, but you worked hard. You earned my respect."

Her words surprised me. Maybe I wasn’t just a body... a talent to her. Maybe I had actually earned something here, besides a paycheck.

I walked away, feeling a strange mix of relief and… something else. Something I couldn’t quite define. But one thing was for sure: Titan’s story was about to end. And Tristan was ready to start his new chapter.