Playing for Keeps.
- Southern Suitor
- May 2, 2022
- 15 min read
Updated: May 21
Strip Poker | Power Play | Threesome
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Based on a request from a follower years ago, this one revels in all of the layers of the suit and tie, all of the accessories. What if each one were stripped off one by one? The logic of the paper doll, until one of our heroes ends up naked and plowed by the suited card shark who had been orchestrating the game all along. Enjoy.
Mo, Bryan, and Ben began their “Swanky Poker Club” after the pandemic. “Wouldn’t it be great to suit up for cocktails again just like we used to?” Mo had said to his friends, back when they first started the idea. “Yeah,” said Bryan, “I really miss keeping tabs on one another’s outfits, back when we worked in the office.”
“Gotta keep up our suit game,” texted Ben in response. Ben always looked up to those two, his mentors, both sartorially and in career, in life. He had to admit that he missed their banter, their drinks and their company. But he kept his response brief: “I’ve been dying to show off my new fits.”
So it was settled. Mo began reserving the back room at a craft cocktail bar in town. He told Bryan and Ben to show up that Friday. Sure enough, they were dressed to the nines, bathing each other in complements. Mo always loved Bryan’s highly coordinated outfits: custom shirts in bold colors, complementing richly patterned ties, complicated pocket squares and cufflinks, every detail in place. And Mo loved Ben’s power suiting, his broad ties, his double-breasted suits, French cuff shirts tailored to within an inch of their lives to flatter his beefy physique, and his broad, veiny, muscular feet in his sockless loafers.
It became the highlight of their week. Bryan and Ben would send Mo pictures of their suits, shirts, and ties, all hung together and ready for their Friday night outing. A much-needed relief to the monotony of zoom meetings. But, unknown to Ben, in the privacy of Mo’s home office, Mo’s mind would wander. He’d find himself thinking about what Bryan’s handsome salt-and-pepper beard would feel like if he were to stroke it, or what Ben’s massive pectorals would feel like beneath his palm. Their poker group had been going for several months now, so Mo decided to try something a little different.
*
Bryan, in his excitement, chose orange, blue, and gold as his theme. His tie bore a rich-woven checker in all three colors, knotted in a prince albert, asserted with the tab collar around his neck. This was another of his custom shirts, the body of it peach with a rich herringbone cotton, and white contrasting French cuffs, monogrammed in red, adorned by shamrock cufflinks. The tab collar forced his tie into a brilliant jut, a fountain of silk blossoming out of his neck, tucked into his waistcoat by a gleaming tie bar. For the suit, he chose a three-piece glen plaid with a blue overcheck, gold and blue striped socks, and his brown and blue oxfords. Back before the pandemic, his coworkers would tease him about his tendency to wear shoes in unusual colors, but for tonight only the most extravagant would do. His orange paisley pocket square spilled from his pocket, and his pocket watch glittered from his waistcoat with a fob.
In a gym across town, Ben fixed the final details in place, having just showered and edged his beard in the locker room. Ben had grown to appreciate the soreness in his legs, chest, and lats. It was a push-pull day that ended in deadlifts and bench presses, and he felt pumped, proud, ready to enjoy himself at this poker night. His gray chalkstripe double-breasted suit emphasized the power of his physique, every silvery stripe tracing the curves of his beefy calves, powerful thighs, bulging biceps. Generous, cocky lapels spread across his ample chest. Always the power broker, he had finished his outfit with a green diamond tie with deep blue and green striped braces, a crisp white French cuff shirt with a spread collar, chunky diamond cufflinks, and his aggressively pointed burgundy tassel loafers, worn sockless. He always liked to show off a hint of skin, even when fully suited. He wore the points of his crisp linen pocket square just as coiffed as his hair and beard.
On the other side of town, Mo chose his Brioni pinstripe suit, double-breasted. Ben always liked that one, Mo thought. He paired it with his burgundy tie with silver medallions that looked like spades. Double-windsor, his knot of choice: a plump, rich cone of silk filling the cutaway collar. The collar and French cuffs were white, in contrast with the subtle burgundy stripe of the shirt, accented with black and gold cufflinks that reminded him of the ace of spades, a complement to the white pocket square edged in red, which he ruffled in his pocket. Now that office dress codes were no longer a thing, he could really peacock it up with his staghorn lapel pin, gleaming tie chain—way too blingy for the office, but fuck it—with his burgundy sheer socks, burgundy sock garters, and gleaming wholecut laceups, sharp as a sword, polished to spit-shined perfection. Brushing his beard and applying one last stroke of the comb to his sidepart, he pulled on his signature driving gloves, pocketed some cigars, and, as he strutted out the door, he concealed in his jacket pocket two extra decks of cards.
*
“Heya, stud,” said Bryan, clapping Mo in a brotherly sort of hug. “Looking sharp and manly tonight!”
“Thanks!” Mo wondered whether Bryan was trying to tell him something, the way Bryan would always tease him with words like stud, hot stuff. But Mo had a feeling he’d be finding out soon. “I love the orange. Amazing color coordination, as always.”
“Thanks!” Bryan plucked his lapels, sitting at the table. He didn’t have to check his pocket watch—he had a phone, after all—but he took it out anyway, clicking it open and shut. “What’s taking Ben so long?”
“He’s getting back from the gym,” explained Mo as he sat at the table, running a gloved knuckle along the burgundy and silver blade of his tie. The perforated driving gloves rode around his knuckles as he shuffled the cards a few times, then clinked glasses with Bryan. “Cheers, mate.”
“Slainte.” Bryan thumped the glass on the table, then took a sip. That was when he noticed something: “Didn’t you bring the chips tonight?”
“Not tonight, no.” Mo grinned, shuffling the cards. “We’re going to be anteing up something a bit different.”
“Oh? Sounds interesting.” Bryan chuckled, stroking his beard. “What’re we going to be betting, then?”
“You’ll see. Let’s wait for Ben to show up first.”
*
Strutting into the bar, Ben adjusted his cuffs. Had to make sure he was showing the right amount of cufflink, after all. That was a sartorial rule Mo had told him about, years ago when they’d have their power lunches, when Ben was first learning how to dress. He nodded to the bartender. “The usual.”
The bartender picked a whiskey from the shelf, and had a single block of ice ready in a tumbler by the time Ben reached the bar. “They’re in the back room, waiting.”
“Thanks, man. I’ll keep the tab open. Cheers.” Sipping his bourbon, Ben let his brawny shoulders swagger in his suit jacket, making his way to the back room.
“It’s the stallion himself!” shouted Bryan, clapping Ben in a hug. “Looking stunning as always, muscleman.”
“It must’ve been leg day at the gym again. Leg day always takes the longest” Mo clinked glasses with Ben as he strutted by. “Great to see you, bud.”
“Man, I shredded my quads today,” grunted Ben as he planted himself at the table, spreading his knees and relaxing in the seat, an attempt to assert dominance at this table of handsome peacocks. “Work’s been hell this week.”
“Well, this is going to be our little slice of heaven,” said Mo, stroking his beard with one gloved knuckle. “Shall I deal you in?”
Ben pointed at the empty space in the middle of the table. “Where are our chips?”
“Oh, right.” Mo snapped his fingers, the gesture made all the more percussive with the creak of fine leather gloves. “I almost forgot.” Unclasping his tie chain, he planted the fine piece of jewelry in the middle of the table.
A tense pause. Ben eyed the tie bling in the middle of the table.
“Wait, what?” Bryan looked back and forth between Mo and the tie bar. “Is that . . . is that what we’re betting?”
Mo grinned, steepling his gloved fingers. “I thought we’d do things a little differently tonight. If you’re game.”
“Huh. You know . . .” Reaching into his waistcoat, Bryan removed his tie bar, adding it to the middle of the table. “Sure. Makes things interesting, don’t you think?”
Oh, so the big guys were playing for keeps this time? Ben wasn’t about to back out of a challenge, not among his guyfriends. Ben planted his tie bar in the middle of the table, too. “Deal me in.”
*
The first round came, and went.
“Shit!” shouted Ben.
Tossing his hand of cards on the table, Bryan laughed. “Well, I’ll be.”
Mo took back his tie chain and raked in the tie bars of his two friends, fixing each of them on the broad blade of his tie. The fine leather gloves creaked around his knuckles as he folded his hands. “Just a bit of fun.”
“That tie bar was one of my favorites,” complained Ben.
“Well, you could always win it back,” said Bryan. “So where are the chips, Mo?”
Passing the deck to Bryan, Mo unfastened his ace-of-spade cufflinks, then placed both glittering garnet pieces in the middle of the table.
“Shit,” hissed Ben again. “You’re . . . you’re real serious tonight, aren’t you?”
Mo was about to answer when Bryan butted in, unclasping his shamrock cufflinks too: “You know, I’m liking this. Really ups the stakes, doesn’t it?”
Pausing, Ben stared at the two pairs of cufflinks in the middle of the table. He glanced at his two friends. Mo plumped out his massive tie knot with his gloved finger, ensuring that it jutted erect from his collar. Ben always found himself impressed by that, Mo’s preening, plucking, peacocking of those hefty executive ties of his. Taking the dare, Ben undid each of his cufflinks, adding their diamond-like shape to the other pairs in the middle of the table. “Fine. Here’s mine.”
*
The next few rounds went like that. First, Mo won Bryan and Ben’s cufflinks. Then he won Bryan’s pocket watch and Ben’s wrist watch.
“Damn!” Bryan slapped down his cards while Mo raked in pocket watch and Ben’s wrist watch. “Luck’s on the side of this slick, bearded stud over here.”
Ben tried to tuck his frown away into a smile. He had to show good sportsmanship, after all. That’s what he told himself as he watched Mo tuck his and Bryan’s timepieces into his own double-breasted suit pocket. “That was one of my favorites, too.”
“Tell you what,” said Mo, raising his glass, then draining it. Planting the glass on the table, he pinched the dimple of his burgundy and silver tie, gloved fingers caressing the rich silk. “Next round of drinks is on me. It’s Bryan’s deal.”
“Yessir.” Bryan’s loose French cuffs flapped around his wrists, deprived of their cufflinks. “You know, this game is a lot more fun than our usual.”
Ben grumbled, toying with his tie, the broad silk blade hanging limp without a tie bar to support it into a rich jutting arch of silk the way he liked. He’d learned that from Mo, how to make his tie jut so proudly, and he wanted to make Mo proud. “We’re not playing for keeps, are we?”
“Depends on the cards, doesn’t it?” chuckled Bryan.
Mo returned momentarily with a bottle of tequila and shot glasses, tie knot at full mast out of the deep fold of his lapels.
“Damn! A whole bottle?” Bryan began dealing the next hand, pointing at the bottle of tequila. “We’re getting serious, aren’t we?”
Mo filled each of the shot glasses and slid them across the table to his colleagues, leather gloves creaking around his fingers with each gesture. “Salut!”
*
The next round, Mo won both of their pocket squares, which he tucked into the breast pocket of his double-breasted suit jacket alongside his own, tufting them out like absurd trophies. With a smirk, Mo broke out one of his cigars, gloved fingers rustling as he trimmed it and lit the fragrant tobacco.
“Shit.” Ben shot another glass of tequila. It was his third one in as many minutes. Part of him felt embarrassed at being deprived of his accessories, and part settled into the warm buzz of relaxation. It’d all be alright. He’d win them back, wouldn’t he? “What are you going to do with all those pocket squares?”
“Wear them,” said Mo with a grin, plucking the silk edges. Jets of blue-grey smoke trailed above his mustache as he placed his lips around the cigar, gloved fingers tapping the fine foil wrapper.
Bryan passed Ben the deck of cards, and Ben began shuffling. Meanwhile, Mo leaned under the table, unbuckling his monkstraps.
“Wait, what are you doing?” Ben had barely said the words before Mo planted his fine, gleaming double monkstraps in the middle of the table. Mo was the first guy who had ever introduced Ben to double monkstraps, way back when Ben was just building his wardrobe. Nowadays, he enjoyed shoes that exuded that kind of cockiness, confidence.
“Damn, I always liked those shoes best.” Without hesitation Bryan bent down and began unlacing his laceups.
“Uhh . . . you realize I’m not wearing socks today, right?” Ben shuffled the cards a little slower, watching Bryan’s shoes join Mo’s in the middle of the table.
“That’s okay,” said Bryan. “Don’t you have a really nice little collar pin under there?”
“Huh.” Ben noticed it, the pin cinching his collar points shut to allow his tie to make that brilliant arch of silk that he liked. Setting his cards on the table, he began to unfasten the collar pin behind his magnificent tie knot. He could feel dampness in his armpits, a hint of nervous sweat that he had to conceal as he surrendered another accessory to the pot. “Alright.”
*
Mo won that round, too, blowing a plume of fragrant smoke into the air as he tapped the ash tray with his gloved fingers. Bryan cursed as he saw Mo collect his laceups, and Ben felt his stomach sank as he watched his glittering collar pin disappear into one of Mo’s pockets. He knew Mo was good at cards, but geez—this kind of luck was a bit uncanny, wasn’t it? Or maybe Ben was just letting the tequila get to him. He had to clear his head and focus on the game. It was a game of skill, Mo had always said to Ben. Scoffing, Ben passed the deck of cards to bearded mentor, taking another shot.
“You know,” said Mo, shuffling the cards, his cufflinks glittering against his pristine French cuffs, “Ben might need to ante up those fine loafers of his. You have a huge collection of slip-on dress shoes don’t you?”
“Yeah,” agreed Bryan. “It’d be nice to get my laceups back.”
“I . . .” Ben shifted in his seat, letting one loafer slip off his bare heel, enjoying the cooling sensation of the air against his sockless arch, the moist lip of leather slipping away from his foot. Slothful and alcoholic, the tequila wormed its way through his veins. Wouldn’t it be nice to relax a little bit? Wearing these sweaty shoes sockless wasn’t exactly the most comfortable thing. “I . . . I guess that’s fair, yes.”
Bryan nodded to the middle of the table. “Ante them up, then.”
Ben snorted, relaxing his toes, letting the loafer slide off his sweaty foot reluctantly. Didn’t want to disappoint Bryan and Mo, after all. Especially Mo, who taught him so many of the finer things in life. Stifling a sigh, Ben committed, slipping his bare feet out of his loafers. “And what are you going to ante up?”
“Well, I want my laceups back.” Bryan sat up in his chair, tucking his socked feet out of view.
Mo peered over at Bryan’s side of the table, nodding, jetting smoke out of his nostrils. He pinched his tie dimple again, the tiny silver spades against the rich field of burgundy silk. “Those are side-tab suit trousers, aren’t they?”
Bryan nodded. “Kind of like gurkha trousers, yeah. I ordered them with this custom suit.”
“Why don’t you ante them up, then, and we’ll call it even?”
Ben planted his loafers in the middle of the table, the sweaty imprints of his soles still visible on the leather insteps. Awkwardness twisted his stomach into knots as the damp balls of his vulnerable feet rested on the carpet below the table. Strange, the twinge of nerves, tepid sweat sicking into the underarms of his shirt. Every sensation emphasized his lack of shoes, his pinstripe trouser cuffs settling atop his now feet. “And if one of us wins?”
Mo began dealing, gloved hands gliding over the cards with ease. “Then the winner would get Bryan’s trousers and my double monks. How’s that?”
*
But that’s not how it went. With a long, long, sensual stroke of his tie blossoming from his lapels, Mo won again.
“Fuck!” Ben barked as he watched Mo collect his loafers, aromatic with footsweat.
“Next round?” Mo stacked the cards and slid them across the table to Bryan. “After you drop trou, that is.”
“Well, you’d better enjoy this half of my suit, hot stuff.” Bryan got up from his chair, reached under his waistcoat and suit jacket, and started unbuttoning the braces from his trousers. “Don’t any of you be ogling at my crotch, you hear?” Down went the zipper of his fly, revealing his hairy thighs, his button-front boxers in stripe broadcloth, and down past his knees. His double-grip sock garters emphasized his hairy calves, striped dress socks tracing along the contours of his ankles, the balls of his feet, down to his socked toes stepped out of his trouser cuffs, throwing the trousers in Mo’s direction.
Shifting in his seat, Ben watched in silence, resting a hand in his lap to conceal his throbbing cock. He’d always knew Bryan was one of the handsomest, manliest guys he’d ever seen, but somehow knowing that Bryan wore those vintage-looking sock garters underneath everything, something about that went straight to Ben’s crotch. Maybe he’d always wanted to see a glimpse of what was under his mentor’s fine suits? And fuck—Bryan’s socked feet, now on full display—why did Ben really want to drink in the sight of those? Or drink in the smell: dress socks, garters, and boxers, with nothing to hide them. The bulge in Bryan’s boxers suggested that he kind of enjoyed the exposure.
“Full-on cabaret material.” With a laugh, Mo caught the discarded trousers, then piled his winnings alongside his chair, passing the deck to Bryan. He then filled each of their shotglasses with the last of the tequila, and concluded the motion with a draw of his cigar once more. “One of you could offer to get the next round of drinks. We’re almost done with this bottle.”
Ben raised his hand. Already feeling weird and humiliated now that he was barefoot in his suit, shorn of his pocket square, cufflinks, tie bar, and collar pin, he didn’t think he wanted to risk another article of clothing. “I’ll get the next round, then. That’ll be my ante.”
“Well, I still want my shoes back,” remarked Bryan, shooting one glass of tequila while pouring the remnants of the bottle for a chaser. “And my pants. Any chance I can get you to ante those up again, Mr. Mighty Beard?”
Stroking his beautifully coiffed whiskers, Mo held up a gloved finger, unbuckling his own monkstraps again before placing those on the table, alongside Ben’s collar bar. “How’s this? You said you really liked these monkstraps, didn’t you? I’ll let you have your trousers back, too. If you win.”
Bryan’s eyes flickered with excitement. “Deal!”
*
“YES!” Bryan threw his hands in the air, unlinked French cuffs flapping in his suit jacket sleeves around his wrists.
With a chuckle, Mo scooted his monkstraps over to Bryan. “They’re yours.”
“Woohoo!” Bryan pocketed Ben’s collar bar, then proceeded to try on Mo’s monkstraps. Too excited by his sudden victory, he left his trousers draped over the arm of his chair. Mo, meanwhile, slipped his socked feet into Bryan’s laceups, leaving them untied.
Ben sighed, deflated. Relieved, too: at least he didn’t disappoint Mo the way he had in his sloppy playing these last few rounds. And he didn’t lose any more clothing this time, which was a plus. But beneath the slippery haze of tequila he felt apprehension. Perspiration gathered in his pits, dissolving through his deodorant in rings of clammy nervousness seeping beneath. And, with an acidic burn of anger, he felt vindicated that Mo’s winning streak was over. “Next round’s on me, then?”
*
Ben’s posture looked different. As he exited the back room, far from the muscular swagger he affected when he strode in, his shoulders now slumped in his suit jacket, and his steps cautious. He was trying not to draw too much attention to his feet, broad and muscular and stark and bare beneath his suit. He padded up to the bar, unshod soles feeling awkward against the cool tiles of the floor.
Ben tucked his French cuff back into his jacket sleeve. Unbound by a cufflink, it kept wanting to unfold and fall out of place. “Another bottle of the anejo, please.”
The bartender nodded, returning the bottle with a smirk. “How’s the game going?”
“Uhh, good.” Ben cleared his throat as the bartender updated his tab. Ben then noticed stupidly that he was standing in front of the edge of the bar that opened to the kitchen.
The bartender’s eyes swiveled downward. He saw it, sure enough, Ben’s wide, stark bare feet beneath his trouser cuffs. He smirked. “Nice shoes.”
Ben’s ears burned with shame. He groaned. “Cute.”
“I had no idea it was that kind of poker match,” added the bartender with a wink. “Here’s your bottle.”
Collecting the tequila, Ben cast a furtive glance around before slinking away from the bar, his French cuff falling out of his jacket sleeve. Hopefully no one else noticed his bare feet beneath his suit.
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