TITLE    : The Calendar
STORYID  : the-calendar
SUMMARY  : Pinups aren't always about girls.
AUTHOR   : Cal Y. Pygia@lit
DATE     : 2005-06-02
CATEGORY : gay-sex-stories
FLAGS    : 
TAGS     : |calendar|gay|faggot|queer|client|customer|barber|boobs|bikinis|bitches|


"You should put up a calendar, Bob," Jim Nattering said.



It was about the hundredth (or the thousandth) time I'd heard the same advice.



"Give us old geezers something to look at."



"Nothing wrong with a few big boob bitches in bikinis," Roger Nabob had suggested the day before.



"Nothing like a little cheesecake to make a haircut more enjoyable," Tom Nugget had suggested a week before, "if you get my drift. I'm a leg man myself." He smiled. "What about you, Brice?"



I clipped a bit of stray hair I'd missed. "I'm an ass man," I confessed.



"Nothing wrong with a girl's ass, of course," Tom had replied, "but the legs--damn!" He nodded. "Yes, sir, Brice, you really ought to put up a calendar."



"Be good for business," Bob declared, bringing me back to the present. "You really should consider a calendar, on the wall, right there, easy to see."



"Maybe you're right, Bob," I said.



"Might bring in some more customers, too."



I brushed clipped hair from the back of his neck, unfastened the paper collar I'd placed around his neck, and removed the cloth I'd placed over his shirt and tie. "You're all done," I told him.



Getting up from the chair, he produced his wallet, removed several bills, and paid for his haircut, including his usual generous tip. "Be back in a month," he said, running his hands across the sides of his head to feel the smooth cut of his hair above the temples.



"See you then, Bob," I answered.



On his way out, he called over his shoulder, "You really should think about getting a calendar."



My next customer, Sam Mann, set aside his copy of the Review-Journal, waddled slowly toward my chair, and sat his massive bulk in the plush, upholstered seat. Settling back, he said, "I think Bob's got a good idea, for once, Brice. A calendar would be a hell of a lot better to look at than that damned Norman Rockwell print." He winked. "Especially if it was an X-rated one."



A month later, Bob was pack in the shop, waiting his turn among the other customers. He looked nervous, squirmed in his seat, and alternated between arching an eyebrow at one or another of those seated near him and scanning the headlines of the newspaper he intermittently hid behind. His fellow customers were far different than those to whom he was used. One client wore eye shadow and had a limp wrist. Another customer was eyeing Bob amorously, whether seriously or with tongue in cheek, I wasn't sure; neither, from the looks of it, was Bob. A third patron wore more jewelry than Cleopatra, and a pair of hot-pink short shorts as well. I repressed a chuckle.



When I called his name, he thrust the paper aside and nearly trotted down the aisle between the chairs. He climbed into my chair and looked at me with indignation. "What the hell is going on?" he demanded.



Placing a cloth around him, I frowned. "What do you mean?"



"The whole damned place is full of faggots!"



I continued to play dumb as I fastened the paper collar about his neck. "Faggots?"



"You know--queers! Homos! Faggots!"



"Oh, that," I said, taking my clippers in hand.



"What do you mean, 'oh, that'?" Bob demanded, irate at my nonchalance. In his indignation at having found "faggots" in his favorite barbershop, Bob hadn't noticed the new, X-rated calendar on the wall. Now, seeing it for the first time, his eyes widened and his mouth dropped. "What the hell?" The calendar showed buff, bronzed men--nude men--in passionate embraces. They hugged, they kissed, they cupped one another's tight, firm buttocks in their hands. Some sucked cocks while others were impaled on erect pricks. "Brice! That's a fucking gay calendar!"



The set of clippers began to buzz as, switching them on, I began to cut Bob's hair. "I know," I said.



He looked at me, as puzzled as he was outraged. "Why in hell would you put up a gay calendar?"



I smiled at him. "Because I'm gay, Bob."



He looked startled to discover that the barber who'd been cutting his hair for fifteen years was a "faggot."



I gave him a broad, lovely smile. "You were right," I replied. "The calendar did fetch a whole new clientele." 

