Clothing optional

August 3rd.

Another entry in the ledger for Billings, Montana.This last month vanished into that weird, sluggish timeline the Pacific Northwest uses to trick your brain. The coastal side practically seduces you with its climate, offering endless summer days, crisp mornings, and a total lack of blood sucking bugs.

Seattle is always a circus, but a profitable one. My expansion there succeeded entirely because I poached my head manager straight off the sales floor of the flagship Nordstrom store. We became instant friends. She is a force of nature covered in heavy silver jewelry, completely obsessed with birth charts, and plagued by a wild mane of curls. She rolls into work on a motorcycle smelling like a potent mix of high grade cannabis and patchouli, preaching animal activism to anyone within earshot. She is basically every single Seattle cliché rolled up into one beautiful, heavily tattooed package. Behind her razor sharp wit is a brain that treats human resources like child’s play. Hiring her was the single greatest thing I ever did for my coastal shops. She also dragged me to my first authentic African dinner up on Capitol Hill. That restaurant was where I met her girlfriend, and one look at them told me they belonged in my corporate inner circle.

The city itself is an ever expanding landscape that cannot quite shake its grungy, historical past. The casual hookups there are half the fun, mostly because Seattle hides a couple of phenomenal bath houses. I make it a point to frequent them every single time I visit. The city likes to play prude, and for a place famous for being a queer mecca, there is a hilarious amount of “straight acting gay,” if you know what I mean. My partner, Quinn, absolutely never lets me hear the end of it. He always teases me about my true motivations for traveling out here. I know your kink isn’t actually the coffee shops, he will say, laughing. It is that specific brand of Pacific Northwest man. The kind where you can’t actually tell if they are straight, bisexual, or gay because every single one of them sports a manicured man bun, a rugged goatee, drives a Subaru, and has a kayak strapped to the roof.

But the real trip is the long drive out of that bubble, watching the mossy, rain soaked green fade away as you climb over the Cascade pass. All of a sudden, the trees vanish, and you hit that harsh, high desert plateau. It is a completely different side of the Pacific Northwest, and it comes with its own price tag.

Spokane sits right in the middle of it. I guess the cost of living is cheap enough, but the winters are absolutely brutal, burying the place in ice for months. Still, it is an interesting community. As the second biggest city in Washington state now, it is progressively coming along, slowly dragging itself into the modern era. Even so, the local vibe still leans heavily into minivan driving, suburban territory where people love to preach religion to you. I prefer to keep my head down, hit the gas, and ignore the locals entirely. Our presence is limited to one single drive thru kiosk way up on Division Street. It is purely strategic. The stand sits directly on my route heading northwhen I need to escape to my private, isolated lake cabin.

Then there is the Billings empire, my personal trilogy of doom. I have three high volume locations out here in eastern Montana, catering to a population that is violently, aggressively over caffeinated.

The locals call their jittery energy an outdoor athletic lifestyle, which apparently means swimming, kayaking, and water skiing until they drop. Honestly, the sheer enthusiasm is exhausting.

Right on cue, as I hit that desolate, mind-numbing stretch of Interstate 90 between Washington and Montana, my phone lit up. It was my twin brother, the doctor. He is the family enigma. We look absolutely nothing alike, yet our parents swear we shared a womb. He leads a secure, ridiculously private life that feels alien to my world. I have not seen him in years, but his quarterly video chats are non-negotiable. It is his medical duty to ensure his brother is playing safe and staying on PrEP. I will have to pull over at some sketchy highway rest stop to take the call and endure the family updates. Our history is a low budget soap opera. You can tune in after three months and the plot lines have not aged a day.

My phone vibrated against the passenger seat of the rented Subaru Outback, throwing a calendar alert for a 9:00 AM walkthrough at the downtown location.

This is only my second trip to Yellowstone County this year, and the high-desert climate is already mocking me. You expect sweltering August heat, but dawn in eastern Montana delivers a freezing chill that makes espresso a literal medical necessity. I blasted the heater, watching my breath fog up the windshield while the engine rattled to life. I always rent a Subaru up here. Nothing screams Pacific Northwest coffee mogul quite like it, and heaven forbid I fail to look the part.

I checked my watch. 8:15 AM. Back home in Palm Springs, it was already pushing ninety degrees. Quinn was probably waking up to an outdoor meditation session, playing host to whatever Shirley MacLaine style guru or mushroom eating spiritual crowd he was entertaining this week. I love him for it, but out here, my reality was strictly operational. Expanding a coffee shop empire across the Pacific Northwest means spending less time holding crystals and more time checking supply chains.

Outside, the parking lot was a sea of lifted trucks. Big Sky Country, as the locals proudly remind you. The Gateway to Adventure. I caught myself grinning at the slogan plastered across every tailgate and bumper in sight. Apparently, adventure requires a decal here. I sat there in my rental, humming along to a static choked radio station, thinking maybe they were not wrong, just a little too enthusiastic about it.

I signed off on my digital checklist, shifted the Subaru into drive, and pulled out onto the frost nipped asphalt.

Ten minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot of my Billings location. I was already at work, and today, work meant a termination.

I have a confession. I get a corporate, intoxicating erection from firing people. There is a dark, sharp thrill in holding someone’s livelihood in your hands and cleanly cutting the cord. My usual routine is a masterpiece of corporate sadism. I take them out to a beautiful lunch, let them order the expensive entree under the illusion that they are being celebrated or promoted, and then slip them the severance paperwork right after the server clears the plates. Watch the smile vanish while they still have truffle fries in their mouth. It’s magnificent. But today is a little bit different.

I used to love firing people on Fridays. Not over lunch anymore, just a Friday meeting. Cleaner that way. Still there was a time I would take them out first, order something nice, make them feel celebrated. The last supper, in a sense. Fire them on the spot.

It was not random. I went after the chronic complainers, the ones who infected a good crew with their bad energy. I could see it happening, the way one sour mood could rot a whole shift. Getting rid of them felt like pulling a thorn from the foot of the business. Beneficial for everyone. Necessary even.

My friends do not get it. They think it is just me being sarcastic, that means the spirited gay streak I am supposedly famous for. Maybe they are half right. I like to keep people guessing. It is easier to play the cynic than to explain that what I am really protecting is the work, the pulse of the thing I built. They see cruelty. I see quality control.

Standing inside one of my coffee shops, watching steam rise off a fresh pull of espresso, I wondered, not for the first time, what exactly I was doing there.

On paper, I am what people like to call successful. The kind of man who flies in, fixes what is broken, and keeps seven coffee bistros running across the Pacific Northwest. Washington threw Montana. I look the part too. Patagonia vest, button down shirt, coffee in hand, the polished Pacific Northwest businessman.

But when people take a second glance, it is not the clothes they notice. It is the man who seems a little too aware of being seen.

I stand six foot three, two ten, the kind of build that still remembers its twenties. Broad shoulders. Gym cut frame. Hair the color of sun worn sand, long enough to tie back. Sometimes a loose ponytail, sometimes a man bun, depending on where I have landed. In the Northwest, I keep it pulled up, rain or shine. Practicality masquerading as style. A trimmed goatee. Eyes the color of sea glass. Hands that still bear the memory of real work.

My skin keeps its color from the desert sun back home, the kind that settles on you after too many afternoons by the pool with nothing on your mind, or your body.

Men stare at my physique. Tight ass. A cock that makes an impression whether it is soft or hard. Even my feet draw attention. Men tell me my toes are perfect, that they want to suck them the same way they suck my ass, leaving me slick, open, and gasping. That is the body that wears Patagonia to work.

And I do not travel light. I pack without apology. Cock rings, lube, porn that would make even another gay man blush. A portable sling. A chair for proper ass worship. Spandex and leather that make my bulge look filthy. And always a jockstrap, because nothing feels better than my ass catching the breeze, knowing I am walking through an airport with a dirty secret. Because when the mask comes off, what I really crave is sun and skin.

That is why I return to the islands again and again. Hawaii, mostly. Beaches where the palms hide shadows, the sand is sticky with sex, and men disappear under trees. Places where I can be what I have always been. A nudist. A man who gets hard just watching another body stretch in the sun. A man who is not shy about stroking himself in the heat until he is pumping cum across his chest.

Clothing optional. That phrase defined me when I was young, when my hormones had me jacking off every four hours. Beaches were not just released. They were identity.