Gulliver Takes Five (4 page)

Imagine the damage, I tell him. He’ll be un-castable! He might even lose his current role, his character and family-friendly persona permanently assassinated by a high-definition video of him taking it up the chute better than Brent Corrigan heffed up on a gallon of poppers.

Grant, meanwhile, is crying, looking at his many smiling and Photoshopped framed headshots on the wall like it’s the last time
he’ll ever see them. The Great Grant performing a shit show, complete with waterworks. What do I want? He’ll give me anything. Blah blah blah. Fuck, I could probably have him cut me a check from his bloated bank account—and for a moment, this is tempting. He swears, as he wipes snot from under his nose, that he never fucked Christian, top OR bottom. Tonight or ever. But anyone who enables a cheat like he just did with me can’t be trusted. Just like Christian can’t be trusted.

“So you want to continue playing dumb instead of admitting you were with Christian tonight?”

“We just bumped into each other! He came by to get that tie he left here last time we all watched
Mean Girls
together!”

The prick is light on his feet, I’ll give him that. Christian WAS wearing a tie at some point that evening. We went straight to Grant’s from some nightlife awards ceremony, where he took home the prize for Best DJ, and he wanted to look fancy as fuck to accept the honor. And if I remember correctly, his only other tie is still at my place, bunched up on the top of the bookcase I tore apart this morning. “Bullshit,” I say. “Why didn’t you mention that when I first asked if he was here?”

“He told me you guys had a fight,” Grant mumbles. “I just...didn’t want to cause any drama.”

I have to smile at that one. At the still-naked sad sack groveling before me. “I still don’t believe you. Christian was here; I can SMELL him.” I raise my hand in the air rather theatrically, with my finger aimed at the Send button.

“No! Please. I’ll do anything. I’ll be your personal sex slave for life.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. This one session was more than enough. Took you a LOT longer than you promised too.”

“But I’m telling the truth! Just let me erase that video...” He makes a move toward me, his hand outstretched.

I slap his wrist away. “Ah, ah. Didn’t anyone ever tell you you shouldn’t touch other people’s phones?”

And that sets him off crying again. I fake pout. “Aw, why so blue, Grant? I thought you got off on this whole being-destroyed thing.” Then I toss him the clothes he so neatly folded prior to our life-ruining fuck. “Better get dressed for your party.”

“It’s not a party! It’s a benefit! And how can I go there with my face looking all puffy like this? Please, Brayden, delete the video. Please! Fuck! I was supposed to find out if I got cast in the First Equity National Tour of
Wicked
tonight! I was so happy!”

Crap. I feel terrible. Really I do.

The trouble is, I feel a lot sorrier for myself. So I issue his marching orders: one, he promptly tells me where I can find Christian, and two, he doesn’t tell Christian that I’m coming. Grant looks hopeful, despite the continued crying, and agrees that he’ll do this right away. He sends some text queries about Christian’s whereabouts to his pals, then apologizes that it’s taking so long for them to get back to him; it is a Saturday night, after all.

Grant sits, still naked, on his bed in silence, staring at his phone, urgency growing more evident on his face. I replay the video, turning up the volume so he can remember our time together. This breaks him down into sobs again. It’s like prodding him with a Taser. Five minutes later, he gets a text message with an address. I make him check its legitimacy with another friend. Confirmed—they both saw Christian at this Upper East Side address.
“Some old dude’s pad,”
one of them writes.

Now I know my next stop. Where I will let Christian know that I know why he really broke up with me, what he was REALLY doing this evening. Also: where I will proudly show him my homemade porn, still fresh from the fuck oven. Two can play at this game, you deceitful shit.

I wish Grant good luck as I head to the door and tell him I hope he gets the part. Because once I’m done with my ex, Grant will want to be as geographically far away from me as humanly possible.

I also tell him to invest in some fucking enemas next time he sluts around. And that “sir” is a weird and creepy thing to say to someone you’re fucking.

In the stairwell back down to the street, I decide (’cause why the fuck not?) to upload a choice segment of the video to XTube and Facebook anyway. And when it asks me to title the piece? Only one phrase pops into mind. “Good Morning Starshine.” How’s that for dramatic irony?

Christian loves riding the subway. We used to search out empty cars late at night and swing from the handlebars or dance around the poles in the center like we were the MTA’s personal go-go boy troupe. He’d read the ads aloud and comment on how smart or dumb they were. He always tipped the guys who played mariachi music, gave a dollar to the deep-voiced six-foot-five black man who carried a plastic bag full of fried chicken for anyone who needed something to eat that night. Me? I’m a cab type of guy. The subway smells like shit and barely works. Christian made it tolerable—fun, even. But now he’s ruined it. I’ll never go beneath this city again.

I feel only marginally bad for shoving aside a guy who tries to climb in a cab he rightfully hailed outside the Port Authority. The ride is far too slow, and glaring at the drivers clogging the streets doesn’t help. My hands won’t stop shaking, my fingers maniacally wiggling. All this excess energy surging inside me and I’m stuck in Saturday-evening gridlock. Having to cross Times Square to get to the Upper East Side is always a nightmare; add to that this fucking rainstorm and you have the worst-possible driving conditions next to a mandatory evacuation of the entire island of Manhattan.

I’m willing Christian to stay where he is. I want to destroy him—then I want to get home and pass out. I swig two Red Bulls and another baby vodka bottle I picked up at a liquor store outside of Grant’s apartment to pass the time and sustain my buzz, trying to drive from my mind any cute memories of Christian. Or should I let them have their way with my head? Each one makes me smile, then fills me with rage as soon as I think of him with Grant.

Stay put, Christian. Don’t you fucking move.

When I finally reach the Upper East Side high-rise where Christian’s presence was confirmed, it is past midnight. I may need some sort of alibi to get past the doorman and up to whatever shindig I am about to crash. Turns out I’m wrong. A pack of cute, screechy gays, most quite a few years younger than I am, strut in at the same time. The doorman sighs, shakes his head, and points us to the elevator; he’s probably seen many more like us this evening and doesn’t need to ask where we’re headed.

For the entire twenty-floor elevator ride up to the penthouse, the boys giggle and spank each other, swigging out of flasks they’re hiding in their pockets and checking their asses in the elevator’s reflective walls.

“Do you think Marvin’s going to be there? I hope so. He says he’s taking me to the Tonys—the dress rehearsal AND the live show!”

Just my luck. More actors.

“Nuh-uh, queen. He told ME I’m his date!” says his jealous friend, arms crossed petulantly.

“Shut up, BOTH you bitches. He’s got a whole fucking ROW. We’re all his dates!”

“Whatever. Let’s just make this quick. That eWrecksion party is going on downtown, and I’m not missing it for a fucking seat at the Tonys. I don’t care if it’s right between Audra and Cheyenne!”

The boys crack up and toast their evening plans with their flasks. Not a one tries to speak to me—probably a good idea for all.

The elevator door opens directly onto a massive duplex penthouse. The entire back wall of the residence is glass. New York City looks so squat and ugly compared to what’s here on our side. A jazz quartet is deep in a set in the far corner, just beyond a bar and buffet. The saxophonist wipes sweat from his forehead and takes his solo. Too bad no one else even notices; he’s actually really good.

It doesn’t take me more than two bars of the sax man’s solo to realize I’ve found my way to a sugar soiree. Twelve old (and very rich-looking) dudes are flanked by five times as many pretty (and no doubt pretty poor) boys that look more like me than I care to admit. The old men guffaw, regaling their twinky charges with stale stories, the listeners nodding as they try to figure out how to hold a brandy snifter correctly.

Christian is here?

Really?

That conniving tramp! Makes sense, though. I don’t care how good you are as a DJ, nightlife gigs don’t pay all that much, my friend Todd has told me this much for certain. Yet Christian was always falling over backward to buy me gifts, take me out to dinner, drag me to a show at Roseland or Highline Ballroom featuring some DJ I’ve never heard of that he idolizes. If I pulled out my wallet, he’d look at me like I offended him before taking out his own card. I work retail, plus the occasional bartending gig, so no—I can’t always afford a nice dinner out or a concert on my own. But I never expected Christian to pay my way. Certainly never asked him to. If money was a problem, I’d have been just as happy curled up on my couch, watching whatever he wanted on Netflix. Instead, it seems
he’s been sticking his dick in passageways older than the Holland Tunnel in some kind of effort to impress me with his mountain of riches! Every gift he ever gave me, every dinner out, is in question. I’ve been living on dirty, disgusting daddy money!

The thought of him letting one of these skeezes crawl his wrinkled fingers all over him just so he can pick up the check when we go out turns my stomach. Tonight is jam-packed full of revelations about the guy I thought I knew reasonably well. Who IS Christian Robert? A Broadway star–fucker? A daddy hunter? Was I really so blind this past month? Is it that easy to pull the wool over my eyes? I need to find him just so I can stop this tsunami of disturbing discoveries. I can’t even imagine what other twisted skeletons he’s got blowing each other in his closet.

I enter the penthouse, doing my best to keep my distance from the oldest of the guests, and come upon the centerpiece of the party: a stainless-steel table that is functioning as a social magnet, pulling everyone in its orbit closer and closer. And with good reason: its surface is covered by a mountain of whiter-than-white cocaine. While the food sits uneaten near the jazz band, boys and men approach the table at their leisure, scrape off a generous line or bump, and snort it to Brainsville. Well, why not? I shovel up a few, sending them into the soup of shots and martinis already circulating inside me.

Now we’re cooking.

My eyes move more quickly, empowered by my super-snort. I survey every face in the room looking for Christian and, unfortunately, come up empty-handed. The bassist is now taking over
the quartet’s rendition of “How High the Moon.” The moon’s got nothing on how high I’M feeling right now.

Christian has to be here. Two of Broadway Bottom’s buddies confirmed it! But if he is, he’s definitely not in this room.

As the cocaine continues to work its wonders, everyone around me starts to grate on my nerves. Every bad joke immediately followed by insincere laughter, every old hand placed on every youthful thigh. Shady bitches—the young and ancient alike. I order a martini and offer the attentive cocktail server a tip. Judging by the shock on his face as he hands me back my five dollars, I’ve just committed a grievous faux pas. I swig the martini and promptly return to the coke pile to inhale another couple Andrew Jacksons’ worth of the stuff.

Boys and men enter and exit the room. Still no Christian. I leave in search of a bathroom to relieve myself and splash water on my face. Things are rocking back and forth; I decide no more martinis for now. More coke? Sure.

Back in the salon, I spot Christian by the bar. My palms break into a sweat. Finally! Wait. No, it’s just another swoopy-haired gay, a sight about as unique as a losing lottery ticket. The Christian twin leans on a wall next to the coke table, laughing with a geezer who could be his fucking grandfather. They look ready to strip each other naked—though I think that sort of activity would be frowned upon out here in front of everyone.

The bedroom.

Fuck. Of course!

There must be one or two (or possibly ten) May-December couplings doing their business in private rooms somewhere. And if Christian isn’t in this living room milling or meandering...

“Well, hello there.”

A hand is on my shoulder. It belongs to a man who looks almost identical to Anthony Hopkins, except he’s dressed to the nines, tens, and elevens. He wears a perfectly pressed, fantastically tailored suit. His hair is slicked back, luminous. Slimy, even. He holds an almost-empty martini glass, an olive on a toothpick doing pirouettes inside. He looks like he’s about to introduce an upcoming segment on
Masterpiece Theatre
.

“Hey, pops. How’s it hanging?”

I am looking for bedrooms. He is making his move very boldly, stroking my neck like he’s about to offer an old-fashioned lather and shave. Just. Smile. Deep breaths. Keep it civil.