1
Gregory sat stiffly in the back of the dimly lit comedy club, arms crossed, trying to act like he didn’t belong there—or didn’t want to. He hadn’t planned on coming, but somehow, he’d ended up buying a ticket to see him. Mark Ronan. The pretty boy comedian with the perfect jawline and cocky smirk who everyone couldn’t stop talking about.
Gregory didn’t get it—the hype. The videos of Mark’s routines had flooded his feed, women and men alike swooning over the guy as if he were some kind of rock star. It was annoying. Mark wasn’t that funny, at least not in Gregory’s opinion. Yet here he was, in a packed room, nursing a water bottle because he didn’t trust himself with anything stronger. The crowd was buzzing with excitement, everyone there to see Mark, and Gregory found himself feeling irritated by how much anticipation there was for this guy’s show.
He’s not that clever, Gregory told himself, his gaze locked on the stage as the lights dimmed. The smell of cheap beer, sweat, and fried food wafted through the room, but none of it helped shake the unease gnawing at his chest. He leaned back in his chair, already bracing for disappointment, but a flicker of something—something he wasn’t ready to confront—itched at the back of his mind.
The host wrapped up his introduction, and then Mark appeared, strolling onto the stage with that self-assured swagger Gregory had seen far too many times online. He wore a black fitted shirt that seemed almost deliberate, like he knew exactly how to show off just enough to keep the audience hungry for more.
“Let’s talk about the weird shit people yell during sex,” Mark started, his voice casual but commanding, like he already had the crowd in his pocket. The audience erupted in laughter, but Gregory crossed his arms tighter, narrowing his eyes. So predictable.
“You ever get with someone who’s way too into communication during sex?” Mark continued, the delivery smooth, effortless. “Like, they’re giving you play-by-play commentary. ‘Oh yeah, baby, just like that, a little to the left, oh wait, stop right there, don’t move—no, seriously, freeze!’” Mark mimicked the voice of a panicked lover, and the crowd lost it.
Gregory rolled his eyes, even though he couldn’t stop his lips from twitching upward. The thing was, Mark’s timing was perfect. His body language, his facial expressions—everything about his performance was calibrated to hit just right. And that only annoyed Gregory more.
“I swear to God, I thought I was diffusing a bomb,” Mark added, sending another wave of laughter through the room. Gregory shifted in his seat, eyes fixed on Mark like he was waiting for him to slip up, to prove he wasn’t worth the hype. But deep down, there was a knot in Gregory’s stomach that tightened every time Mark flashed that infuriating grin.
“And then there’s the ones who go full National Geographic, narrating your every move like they’re on a f*cking nature documentary,” Mark said, imitating a dead-serious narrator voice. “‘Here we see the male in his natural habitat. Look at the finesse, the delicate balance of desperation and hope as he tries to impress the female. Watch as he fails.’”
The crowd roared, and Gregory’s stomach twisted tighter. He hated how smooth it all was, how natural Mark made it seem. He hated—well, he didn’t quite know what he hated about it. But he knew one thing: this guy shouldn’t be that good.
“That sounds like you,” Gregory muttered under his breath, not even realizing he’d spoken aloud until it was too late. The words were sharp, cutting, and louder than he’d intended. His heart lurched as he saw Mark’s head snap in his direction.
Mark’s eyes zeroed in on Gregory, that predatory grin spreading across his face like a cat who’d just spotted a mouse. “Oh, what’s this?” Mark teased, leaning over the mic stand. “We got a live one back there.”
The crowd buzzed with anticipation, and Gregory felt the spotlight shift toward him, the warmth of the light making his pulse race. His fingers gripped the edge of his chair, and he immediately regretted speaking up. Idiot.
“What was that, buddy?” Mark said, pacing toward the front of the stage with his eyes locked onto Gregory. “You said something about me? Don’t get shy now—we’re all friends here. Or is this one of those ‘I’ll just mutter under my breath and hope no one hears me’ kind of deals?”
Gregory forced a casual shrug, trying to play it off. “I just said it sounds like you.”
The crowd erupted with an “ooooh,” like a bunch of middle schoolers hyping up a schoolyard fight. Gregory cursed under his breath. He didn’t mean to draw attention to himself like this, but something about Mark’s presence, his vibe—it irritated Gregory. And it gnawed at him that he couldn’t figure out why.
Mark cocked his head, grinning wider. “Oh, sounds like me, huh?” His voice was light, teasing, but there was a sharpness in his eyes now. “So, let me get this straight—you think I’m the kind of guy that gives ‘play-by-play commentary’ during sex? Damn. You must really know me, huh?”
The crowd howled with laughter, and Gregory’s face burned, the heat rising to his neck. He tried to keep his expression neutral, but Mark was relentless. He leaned into the mic stand, eyes gleaming.
“What’s your name, my guy?” Mark asked, tilting his head like he was genuinely curious.
“Gregory,” he muttered, suddenly aware of how small his voice sounded compared to the confidence booming from the stage.
“Gregory!” Mark repeated, tasting the name with a smirk. “Yeah, you’ve definitely got a Gregory vibe. Like the kind of guy who spends fifteen minutes flexing in front of the mirror before a date, checking your calves like, ‘Yeah, she’s gonna love these bad boys.’”
The laughter that followed was almost deafening, and Gregory’s ears burned as the crowd ate it up. He shifted in his seat, trying not to let the heat creeping up his face show, but it was useless. He felt his own blush, felt it betray him. And worst of all—he felt that twist in his gut again, the one he couldn’t quite place, the one that wasn’t all anger.
“Oh, man, you’re blushing now, aren’t you?” Mark said, leaning in closer to the edge of the stage, pretending to squint dramatically. “Don’t be embarrassed, Gregory. You’re just giving me all the material I need tonight.”
The crowd erupted again, and Gregory cursed under his breath, trying to swallow the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He shouldn’t be enjoying this—he wasn’t enjoying this. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself. But Mark’s voice, the way it rolled over him, the way the room seemed to hang on his every word—it was electric, even if it made Gregory’s skin crawl with irritation. Or was it something else?
Mark wasn’t done. His grin widened as he extended a hand toward Gregory. “Come on up here, Gregory. Let’s get to know each other a little better. Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle. Well… as gentle as I want to be.”
Gregory’s heart raced as the crowd cheered. Every fiber of him told him not to stand up. Not to take the bait. But deep down, in the part of himself he wasn’t ready to face, he felt that pull—the one that made his feet move. The one that dragged him to the stage, no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise.
Gregory wasn’t sure why he’d agreed to go up on stage—he blamed his own ego, the heat of the moment, maybe even the beer. There was no way Mark Ronan could be as clever as everyone claimed. Gregory wasn’t here for the show, he was here to tear down the golden boy with his pretty smile and his “too-good-for-this-world” charm. Problem was, now that he was standing under the bright lights, face-to-face with the man himself, the knot in Gregory’s stomach wasn’t from irritation. It was from something else entirely.
Mark, on the other hand, was having the time of his life.
“Gregory,” Mark began, dragging out the syllables like he was tasting the name for the first time. He gave Gregory a slow, deliberate look from head to toe, pausing as though genuinely puzzled by what he saw. “Now, let me get this straight, you thought heckling me would go well?” He turned to the audience, eyebrows raised in faux disbelief. “This dude really woke up, chose violence, then thought he could win in my house.”
The crowd laughed as Mark shook his head, stepping closer. “Listen, Greg, I get it. You’re trying to make a name for yourself, maybe trying to impress a date.” He scanned the crowd theatrically, then leaned into Gregory’s space with a mock whisper. “Except… oh, wait. You’re here alone, aren’t you?”
The audience erupted, and Gregory clenched his jaw, trying not to let it show that Mark had already hit a nerve. But Mark wasn’t letting up, not with that devilish grin plastered on his face.
Mark pivoted back toward the audience, his voice dripping with faux concern. “Alone. Wow. Imagine that. Must be tough, huh? Coming here solo, thinking you could take on me.” He paused, looking Gregory over again. “And in those shoes, no less.”
Gregory shot back, desperate to regain ground. “At least I don’t dress like a wannabe Abercrombie model.”
The crowd gave a collective “ooooh,” but Mark just laughed, a low, amused chuckle that made Gregory’s stomach twist even tighter.
“Oh, Greg, that’s cute. You tried.” Mark grinned, stepping closer again. “But here’s the thing, buddy. You’re up here trying to embarrass me, and the only person blushing right now is you.”
Gregory could feel his face burn, the heat spreading down his neck. His throat was dry, but he forced himself to stay in it, stay engaged, even as Mark circled him like a shark, microphone still in hand, relishing the crowd’s laughter.
“You see,” Mark continued, raising his mic like he was delivering the punchline of a lifetime, “there’s something you need to understand about me, Greg.” He leaned in close, his lips almost brushing Gregory’s ear. “I don’t get embarrassed.” He paused, straightening with a playful grin. “But I’m really good at making sure you do.”
Gregory opened his mouth to respond, but Mark was already turning the tables. He waved a hand dismissively. “No, no, no. Don’t try too hard. You’re giving me major ‘Bambi on ice’ vibes right now. You’re slipping, bro.”
The crowd roared with laughter, and Gregory swallowed hard, every attempt to cut Mark down crumbling before he could even form the words. Mark leaned against him casually, one arm draped around Gregory’s shoulder, like they were best friends sharing a secret.
“You know, Greg, if you wanted my attention, you didn’t need to go for the insults,” Mark said, squeezing Gregory’s shoulder just enough to feel the tension. “You could’ve just slipped me a note like we’re in middle school—‘Do you like me? Circle yes or no.’”
The audience howled, and Gregory clenched his fists at his sides, willing himself to stay cool, but Mark wasn’t done. He had a way of drawing it out, making every insult sting just enough to feel personal, even though it was all part of the game.
“And, honestly,” Mark continued, smirking at the audience before turning his gaze back to Gregory, “if you’re gonna come up here and try to knock me down a peg, you should at least look like you’ve got a shot. Instead, I’ve got you standing here looking like you dressed for a tennis match, not a comedy show.”
Gregory finally found his voice, snapping, “Better than dressing like a discount Chippendales dancer.”
But Mark didn’t flinch. He simply stepped closer, eyes twinkling with mischief, his voice dropping low as he replied, “You say that like it’s a bad thing, but now you’ve got me thinking—maybe I should start charging you for this little show I’m giving.”
The audience went wild again, and Gregory felt his stomach flip. Mark was too good at this, too quick. And the way he was looking at Gregory, like he was already ten steps ahead, made Gregory’s skin prickle.
Mark leaned in close, practically nose-to-nose now, his voice soft but suggestive. “You came up here to embarrass me, Greg, but I’m starting to think you just wanted to get real close to me.” His eyes sparkled with amusement as he added, “I mean, you’re standing here, heart racing, face red, and I haven’t even touched you yet.”
Before Gregory could respond, Mark gave him a playful shove, enough to send him stumbling a step back. The crowd roared with laughter again as Mark stalked forward, keeping the momentum. “See? Just a little push, and you’re already falling apart. You’re like a fawn taking its first steps, man. Adorable.”
Gregory opened his mouth to protest, but Mark was relentless. He slid an arm around Gregory’s waist, pulling him close again, his grip firm and controlling. The audience gasped in mock surprise as Mark lifted Gregory an inch off the ground, effortlessly, as if showing off his strength.
“Light as a feather,” Mark teased, smirking at Gregory before setting him back down, one hand lingering on Gregory’s waist just a little too long. “Now, if you’re gonna heckle, Greg, you might wanna start hitting the gym—because if you can’t handle me lifting you, what makes you think you can lift this conversation?”
The laughter rolled through the room like thunder, and Gregory could only stand there, blushing, as Mark slowly let him go. The part that bothered Gregory the most, though, wasn’t that he was losing this battle. It was that some deep part of him didn’t want to win.
Mark leaned into the mic, his eyes never leaving Gregory. “Look at him. All flustered, blushing, trying to keep his cool. Bro, I’ve barely even started. If this is what you call coming at me, I can’t imagine what you look like when you’re really trying.”
Mark let the mic drop to his side, stepping forward again, his body brushing against Gregory’s as he passed. “And trust me, Greg,” Mark said, his voice low, dirty, and just loud enough for the mic to pick up, “this is the part where it gets fun.”
Gregory’s heart raced, pounding in his chest like it was trying to leap out and escape this mess he’d gotten himself into. He shifted on stage, glancing nervously at the crowd—his brain scrambling for something, anything, to salvage the situation.
“Y-Yeah, well… at least I don’t have to spend hours in front of a mirror to feel good about myself,” Gregory stammered, voice wavering, the insult landing with all the weight of a feather. His stomach flipped the moment the words left his mouth. What the hell was that? He knew it was bad. The crowd knew it was bad. And worst of all, Mark knew it was bad.
Mark blinked once, slowly, then grinned, shaking his head in mock pity. “Oh, Greg,” he said, drawing the name out like a disappointed parent, “that was… cute. Really. I mean, you had a whole stage, a mic, a moment to shine, and that’s what you gave us?” He paused, turning to the audience, eyebrows raised. “He spent all that time waiting for his shot and showed up with that?”
The crowd exploded in laughter, and Gregory felt his face burn hotter, the flush spreading from his cheeks down to his neck. He tried to jump back in, desperate for redemption, but Mark wasn’t giving him an inch.
“Wait, wait—before you say anything else, let me help you,” Mark cut in, holding up a hand like he was doing Gregory a favor. “Look, I get it. You’re nervous. You’re on stage. But buddy, you gotta relax,” Mark said, dragging out the word with a sly grin, stepping closer to Gregory until their shoulders were practically touching.
Gregory opened his mouth again, but Mark cut him off before a single sound escaped.
“No, no, I mean it—you gotta loosen up, man.” Mark cocked his head, a glint of mischief flashing in his eyes as he leaned in, his voice dropping to a playful, suggestive whisper. “In fact, why don’t we all help Greg loosen up a little?”
Before Gregory could react, Mark’s hand was on his shoulder, squeezing gently at first, then sliding lower in one smooth, deliberate motion. Gregory froze, eyes wide as Mark’s hand moved casually down his back, slipping lower until his fingers were just brushing over Gregory’s waistband.
The crowd roared with laughter as Gregory’s brain short-circuited. Is this happening? Is anyone seeing this? He felt his breath hitch in his throat, his body stiffening as Mark winked at him, then turned back to the crowd, his hand still lingering.
“See? There it is,” Mark said, voice light and breezy like he was talking about the weather. “Greg here just needed a little… personal touch to calm those nerves.” The crowd howled, eating it up, as if this was all part of the act. Mark leaned into the mic with a knowing smirk, his lips curling into a grin that said he knew exactly what he was doing.
Gregory’s mind was spinning. The laughter felt surreal, like it was happening in slow motion, the absurdity of it all crashing over him like a wave. Was he dreaming? Was this some fevered nightmare?
“Wait, wait—hold on, hold on,” Mark said, holding up a finger to the crowd like he was about to drop the punchline of the century. “Greg, my man, you’re getting a little tense again. Here, let me help you out…” Without missing a beat, Mark’s hand slipped lower, cupping Gregory’s backside with a playful squeeze, and the crowd lost it.
The laughter was deafening, a wall of sound that hit Gregory like a slap to the face. His eyes went wide, mouth gaping open in disbelief as Mark gave him a casual pat on the tush, like they were old friends, and then turned back to the audience with a wink.
“Man, this guy’s tight,” Mark quipped, his tone playful and filthy, as if he were discussing the firmness of a well-done steak. “Like, I knew he was wound up, but I didn’t know I’d have to bust out the WD-40 just to get him to loosen up.”
The audience erupted again, louder this time, and Gregory’s legs felt weak, his body swaying slightly as the absurdity of the moment hit him like a freight train. Is anyone going to stop this?
Gregory sat stiffly in the back of the dimly lit comedy club, arms crossed, trying to act like he didn’t belong there—or didn’t want to. He hadn’t planned on coming, but somehow, he’d ended up buying a ticket to see him. Mark Ronan. The pretty boy comedian with the perfect jawline and cocky smirk who everyone couldn’t stop talking about.
Gregory didn’t get it—the hype. The videos of Mark’s routines had flooded his feed, women and men alike swooning over the guy as if he were some kind of rock star. It was annoying. Mark wasn’t that funny, at least not in Gregory’s opinion. Yet here he was, in a packed room, nursing a water bottle because he didn’t trust himself with anything stronger. The crowd was buzzing with excitement, everyone there to see Mark, and Gregory found himself feeling irritated by how much anticipation there was for this guy’s show.
He’s not that clever, Gregory told himself, his gaze locked on the stage as the lights dimmed. The smell of cheap beer, sweat, and fried food wafted through the room, but none of it helped shake the unease gnawing at his chest. He leaned back in his chair, already bracing for disappointment, but a flicker of something—something he wasn’t ready to confront—itched at the back of his mind.
The host wrapped up his introduction, and then Mark appeared, strolling onto the stage with that self-assured swagger Gregory had seen far too many times online. He wore a black fitted shirt that seemed almost deliberate, like he knew exactly how to show off just enough to keep the audience hungry for more.
“Let’s talk about the weird shit people yell during sex,” Mark started, his voice casual but commanding, like he already had the crowd in his pocket. The audience erupted in laughter, but Gregory crossed his arms tighter, narrowing his eyes. So predictable.
“You ever get with someone who’s way too into communication during sex?” Mark continued, the delivery smooth, effortless. “Like, they’re giving you play-by-play commentary. ‘Oh yeah, baby, just like that, a little to the left, oh wait, stop right there, don’t move—no, seriously, freeze!’” Mark mimicked the voice of a panicked lover, and the crowd lost it.
Gregory rolled his eyes, even though he couldn’t stop his lips from twitching upward. The thing was, Mark’s timing was perfect. His body language, his facial expressions—everything about his performance was calibrated to hit just right. And that only annoyed Gregory more.
“I swear to God, I thought I was diffusing a bomb,” Mark added, sending another wave of laughter through the room. Gregory shifted in his seat, eyes fixed on Mark like he was waiting for him to slip up, to prove he wasn’t worth the hype. But deep down, there was a knot in Gregory’s stomach that tightened every time Mark flashed that infuriating grin.
“And then there’s the ones who go full National Geographic, narrating your every move like they’re on a f*cking nature documentary,” Mark said, imitating a dead-serious narrator voice. “‘Here we see the male in his natural habitat. Look at the finesse, the delicate balance of desperation and hope as he tries to impress the female. Watch as he fails.’”
The crowd roared, and Gregory’s stomach twisted tighter. He hated how smooth it all was, how natural Mark made it seem. He hated—well, he didn’t quite know what he hated about it. But he knew one thing: this guy shouldn’t be that good.
“That sounds like you,” Gregory muttered under his breath, not even realizing he’d spoken aloud until it was too late. The words were sharp, cutting, and louder than he’d intended. His heart lurched as he saw Mark’s head snap in his direction.
Mark’s eyes zeroed in on Gregory, that predatory grin spreading across his face like a cat who’d just spotted a mouse. “Oh, what’s this?” Mark teased, leaning over the mic stand. “We got a live one back there.”
The crowd buzzed with anticipation, and Gregory felt the spotlight shift toward him, the warmth of the light making his pulse race. His fingers gripped the edge of his chair, and he immediately regretted speaking up. Idiot.
“What was that, buddy?” Mark said, pacing toward the front of the stage with his eyes locked onto Gregory. “You said something about me? Don’t get shy now—we’re all friends here. Or is this one of those ‘I’ll just mutter under my breath and hope no one hears me’ kind of deals?”
Gregory forced a casual shrug, trying to play it off. “I just said it sounds like you.”
The crowd erupted with an “ooooh,” like a bunch of middle schoolers hyping up a schoolyard fight. Gregory cursed under his breath. He didn’t mean to draw attention to himself like this, but something about Mark’s presence, his vibe—it irritated Gregory. And it gnawed at him that he couldn’t figure out why.
Mark cocked his head, grinning wider. “Oh, sounds like me, huh?” His voice was light, teasing, but there was a sharpness in his eyes now. “So, let me get this straight—you think I’m the kind of guy that gives ‘play-by-play commentary’ during sex? Damn. You must really know me, huh?”
The crowd howled with laughter, and Gregory’s face burned, the heat rising to his neck. He tried to keep his expression neutral, but Mark was relentless. He leaned into the mic stand, eyes gleaming.
“What’s your name, my guy?” Mark asked, tilting his head like he was genuinely curious.
“Gregory,” he muttered, suddenly aware of how small his voice sounded compared to the confidence booming from the stage.
“Gregory!” Mark repeated, tasting the name with a smirk. “Yeah, you’ve definitely got a Gregory vibe. Like the kind of guy who spends fifteen minutes flexing in front of the mirror before a date, checking your calves like, ‘Yeah, she’s gonna love these bad boys.’”
The laughter that followed was almost deafening, and Gregory’s ears burned as the crowd ate it up. He shifted in his seat, trying not to let the heat creeping up his face show, but it was useless. He felt his own blush, felt it betray him. And worst of all—he felt that twist in his gut again, the one he couldn’t quite place, the one that wasn’t all anger.
“Oh, man, you’re blushing now, aren’t you?” Mark said, leaning in closer to the edge of the stage, pretending to squint dramatically. “Don’t be embarrassed, Gregory. You’re just giving me all the material I need tonight.”
The crowd erupted again, and Gregory cursed under his breath, trying to swallow the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He shouldn’t be enjoying this—he wasn’t enjoying this. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself. But Mark’s voice, the way it rolled over him, the way the room seemed to hang on his every word—it was electric, even if it made Gregory’s skin crawl with irritation. Or was it something else?
Mark wasn’t done. His grin widened as he extended a hand toward Gregory. “Come on up here, Gregory. Let’s get to know each other a little better. Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle. Well… as gentle as I want to be.”
Gregory’s heart raced as the crowd cheered. Every fiber of him told him not to stand up. Not to take the bait. But deep down, in the part of himself he wasn’t ready to face, he felt that pull—the one that made his feet move. The one that dragged him to the stage, no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise.
Gregory wasn’t sure why he’d agreed to go up on stage—he blamed his own ego, the heat of the moment, maybe even the beer. There was no way Mark Ronan could be as clever as everyone claimed. Gregory wasn’t here for the show, he was here to tear down the golden boy with his pretty smile and his “too-good-for-this-world” charm. Problem was, now that he was standing under the bright lights, face-to-face with the man himself, the knot in Gregory’s stomach wasn’t from irritation. It was from something else entirely.
Mark, on the other hand, was having the time of his life.
“Gregory,” Mark began, dragging out the syllables like he was tasting the name for the first time. He gave Gregory a slow, deliberate look from head to toe, pausing as though genuinely puzzled by what he saw. “Now, let me get this straight, you thought heckling me would go well?” He turned to the audience, eyebrows raised in faux disbelief. “This dude really woke up, chose violence, then thought he could win in my house.”
The crowd laughed as Mark shook his head, stepping closer. “Listen, Greg, I get it. You’re trying to make a name for yourself, maybe trying to impress a date.” He scanned the crowd theatrically, then leaned into Gregory’s space with a mock whisper. “Except… oh, wait. You’re here alone, aren’t you?”
The audience erupted, and Gregory clenched his jaw, trying not to let it show that Mark had already hit a nerve. But Mark wasn’t letting up, not with that devilish grin plastered on his face.
Mark pivoted back toward the audience, his voice dripping with faux concern. “Alone. Wow. Imagine that. Must be tough, huh? Coming here solo, thinking you could take on me.” He paused, looking Gregory over again. “And in those shoes, no less.”
Gregory shot back, desperate to regain ground. “At least I don’t dress like a wannabe Abercrombie model.”
The crowd gave a collective “ooooh,” but Mark just laughed, a low, amused chuckle that made Gregory’s stomach twist even tighter.
“Oh, Greg, that’s cute. You tried.” Mark grinned, stepping closer again. “But here’s the thing, buddy. You’re up here trying to embarrass me, and the only person blushing right now is you.”
Gregory could feel his face burn, the heat spreading down his neck. His throat was dry, but he forced himself to stay in it, stay engaged, even as Mark circled him like a shark, microphone still in hand, relishing the crowd’s laughter.
“You see,” Mark continued, raising his mic like he was delivering the punchline of a lifetime, “there’s something you need to understand about me, Greg.” He leaned in close, his lips almost brushing Gregory’s ear. “I don’t get embarrassed.” He paused, straightening with a playful grin. “But I’m really good at making sure you do.”
Gregory opened his mouth to respond, but Mark was already turning the tables. He waved a hand dismissively. “No, no, no. Don’t try too hard. You’re giving me major ‘Bambi on ice’ vibes right now. You’re slipping, bro.”
The crowd roared with laughter, and Gregory swallowed hard, every attempt to cut Mark down crumbling before he could even form the words. Mark leaned against him casually, one arm draped around Gregory’s shoulder, like they were best friends sharing a secret.
“You know, Greg, if you wanted my attention, you didn’t need to go for the insults,” Mark said, squeezing Gregory’s shoulder just enough to feel the tension. “You could’ve just slipped me a note like we’re in middle school—‘Do you like me? Circle yes or no.’”
The audience howled, and Gregory clenched his fists at his sides, willing himself to stay cool, but Mark wasn’t done. He had a way of drawing it out, making every insult sting just enough to feel personal, even though it was all part of the game.
“And, honestly,” Mark continued, smirking at the audience before turning his gaze back to Gregory, “if you’re gonna come up here and try to knock me down a peg, you should at least look like you’ve got a shot. Instead, I’ve got you standing here looking like you dressed for a tennis match, not a comedy show.”
Gregory finally found his voice, snapping, “Better than dressing like a discount Chippendales dancer.”
But Mark didn’t flinch. He simply stepped closer, eyes twinkling with mischief, his voice dropping low as he replied, “You say that like it’s a bad thing, but now you’ve got me thinking—maybe I should start charging you for this little show I’m giving.”
The audience went wild again, and Gregory felt his stomach flip. Mark was too good at this, too quick. And the way he was looking at Gregory, like he was already ten steps ahead, made Gregory’s skin prickle.
Mark leaned in close, practically nose-to-nose now, his voice soft but suggestive. “You came up here to embarrass me, Greg, but I’m starting to think you just wanted to get real close to me.” His eyes sparkled with amusement as he added, “I mean, you’re standing here, heart racing, face red, and I haven’t even touched you yet.”
Before Gregory could respond, Mark gave him a playful shove, enough to send him stumbling a step back. The crowd roared with laughter again as Mark stalked forward, keeping the momentum. “See? Just a little push, and you’re already falling apart. You’re like a fawn taking its first steps, man. Adorable.”
Gregory opened his mouth to protest, but Mark was relentless. He slid an arm around Gregory’s waist, pulling him close again, his grip firm and controlling. The audience gasped in mock surprise as Mark lifted Gregory an inch off the ground, effortlessly, as if showing off his strength.
“Light as a feather,” Mark teased, smirking at Gregory before setting him back down, one hand lingering on Gregory’s waist just a little too long. “Now, if you’re gonna heckle, Greg, you might wanna start hitting the gym—because if you can’t handle me lifting you, what makes you think you can lift this conversation?”
The laughter rolled through the room like thunder, and Gregory could only stand there, blushing, as Mark slowly let him go. The part that bothered Gregory the most, though, wasn’t that he was losing this battle. It was that some deep part of him didn’t want to win.
Mark leaned into the mic, his eyes never leaving Gregory. “Look at him. All flustered, blushing, trying to keep his cool. Bro, I’ve barely even started. If this is what you call coming at me, I can’t imagine what you look like when you’re really trying.”
Mark let the mic drop to his side, stepping forward again, his body brushing against Gregory’s as he passed. “And trust me, Greg,” Mark said, his voice low, dirty, and just loud enough for the mic to pick up, “this is the part where it gets fun.”
Gregory’s heart raced, pounding in his chest like it was trying to leap out and escape this mess he’d gotten himself into. He shifted on stage, glancing nervously at the crowd—his brain scrambling for something, anything, to salvage the situation.
“Y-Yeah, well… at least I don’t have to spend hours in front of a mirror to feel good about myself,” Gregory stammered, voice wavering, the insult landing with all the weight of a feather. His stomach flipped the moment the words left his mouth. What the hell was that? He knew it was bad. The crowd knew it was bad. And worst of all, Mark knew it was bad.
Mark blinked once, slowly, then grinned, shaking his head in mock pity. “Oh, Greg,” he said, drawing the name out like a disappointed parent, “that was… cute. Really. I mean, you had a whole stage, a mic, a moment to shine, and that’s what you gave us?” He paused, turning to the audience, eyebrows raised. “He spent all that time waiting for his shot and showed up with that?”
The crowd exploded in laughter, and Gregory felt his face burn hotter, the flush spreading from his cheeks down to his neck. He tried to jump back in, desperate for redemption, but Mark wasn’t giving him an inch.
“Wait, wait—before you say anything else, let me help you,” Mark cut in, holding up a hand like he was doing Gregory a favor. “Look, I get it. You’re nervous. You’re on stage. But buddy, you gotta relax,” Mark said, dragging out the word with a sly grin, stepping closer to Gregory until their shoulders were practically touching.
Gregory opened his mouth again, but Mark cut him off before a single sound escaped.
“No, no, I mean it—you gotta loosen up, man.” Mark cocked his head, a glint of mischief flashing in his eyes as he leaned in, his voice dropping to a playful, suggestive whisper. “In fact, why don’t we all help Greg loosen up a little?”
Before Gregory could react, Mark’s hand was on his shoulder, squeezing gently at first, then sliding lower in one smooth, deliberate motion. Gregory froze, eyes wide as Mark’s hand moved casually down his back, slipping lower until his fingers were just brushing over Gregory’s waistband.
The crowd roared with laughter as Gregory’s brain short-circuited. Is this happening? Is anyone seeing this? He felt his breath hitch in his throat, his body stiffening as Mark winked at him, then turned back to the crowd, his hand still lingering.
“See? There it is,” Mark said, voice light and breezy like he was talking about the weather. “Greg here just needed a little… personal touch to calm those nerves.” The crowd howled, eating it up, as if this was all part of the act. Mark leaned into the mic with a knowing smirk, his lips curling into a grin that said he knew exactly what he was doing.
Gregory’s mind was spinning. The laughter felt surreal, like it was happening in slow motion, the absurdity of it all crashing over him like a wave. Was he dreaming? Was this some fevered nightmare?
“Wait, wait—hold on, hold on,” Mark said, holding up a finger to the crowd like he was about to drop the punchline of the century. “Greg, my man, you’re getting a little tense again. Here, let me help you out…” Without missing a beat, Mark’s hand slipped lower, cupping Gregory’s backside with a playful squeeze, and the crowd lost it.
The laughter was deafening, a wall of sound that hit Gregory like a slap to the face. His eyes went wide, mouth gaping open in disbelief as Mark gave him a casual pat on the tush, like they were old friends, and then turned back to the audience with a wink.
“Man, this guy’s tight,” Mark quipped, his tone playful and filthy, as if he were discussing the firmness of a well-done steak. “Like, I knew he was wound up, but I didn’t know I’d have to bust out the WD-40 just to get him to loosen up.”
The audience erupted again, louder this time, and Gregory’s legs felt weak, his body swaying slightly as the absurdity of the moment hit him like a freight train. Is anyone going to stop this?
