Friday night, you and your best friend Juan meet outside the small local nightclub to shoot some pool. You both decided on coming early because the club gets packed pretty quickly on Fridays, and the only pool table there will undoubtedly be hogged by some random group of thugs who don't know the meaning of time limit.
You and Juan go inside and rush anxiously and excitedly to the billiard room. You step through the doorless entryway, into the dimly lit billiard room, only to find that the table is in use. However, it's not the typical group of scruff men with facial hair and thick, gaudy tattoos; rather, it's four young-looking guys in their twenties; they're clean-shaven, have buzz cuts, and wear identical white tank tops that expose either a couple sparse, tasteful tattoos or none at all.
"Aw, great," Juan grumbles, and he droops like a wilted flower.
"Yeah, it sucks, but how were we supposed to know?"
Juan pouts.
"Ask them when they'll be done. They seem like good-looking guys—err, I mean, nice . . . they seem like nice guys. Yeah, Juan, go ask."
Every time you get tongue-tied in front of him, you're afraid he's going to find out. Luckily, he's totally oblivious to such things, despite being a major homophobe (ironic, isn't it?).
"You ask," Juan mutters.
You look at the four cute guys and hesitate. Your breathing suddenly gets heavy when you notice the one with the muscles. It would be a dream to have a friend like that who could be your personal bodyguard, one who also happened to have a stunning, chiselled, perfectly smooth baby (yet also manly) face; buzz cut dark brown hair, which he probably shaves himself since he obviously takes good care of his appearance; and a body that speaks for itself—even if he were wearing a black t-shirt, the way his body would fill and shape it would say it all.
"Well?!" Juan elbows you in the ribs impatiently.
"Aaahaha. Don't! Not now, I mean."
"Well then, go ask them!" He frowns at you, then scowls at the four identically-dressed boys.
You take a deep breath and walk up to one of the more slender guys. The muscular one is lining up a shot, but when he sees you, he freezes in that pose and looks up at you.
"Uh, um . . . ummm." Your heart pounds as you fixate on the boy with the long stick.
"Can I help you," he asks, still holding the pose.
"Um, n–n–no, s–ssssorry, sorry."
You slink back to Juan and continue walking toward the open entryway.
"Hey, bro!" a deep, yet boyish, voice calls.
You turn. The hot guy stands at the pool table and leans on the pool cue in front of him. Juan gives you a nervous glance and comes and stands next to you for support—or to make a quick getaway, you're not exactly sure which.
"W–what?"
The boy still doesn't smile, nor does he frown or scowl; he just looks—intense. "Did I say you had to go?"
You twitch your head left and right as though you had tremors.
"Well, then." He looks and points his stick at one of the wooden chairs strewn about the room. Then he glances back at you and resumes taking his shot.
"This reeks, I'm going home," Juan whines. "You coming?"
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