Gulliver Takes Five (17 page)

Including, I guess, my presence at the beach.

“What beach?” I sigh, knowing this war is already lost.

“My parents have a special pass to this private beach by our house on Long Island!” Nick says. “We won’t have to deal with the crowds of GTL meatheads. Just us. The sun. You’re coming!”

“I don’t know. I’m running on empty, bitches.”

“Come on, Friendly,” Nick says, rubbing my exposed thigh. “I owe you for all those nights you let me crash at your place.”

“Yeah, and crash on his cock,” AJ adds.

“Shut up!” Nick howls, flinging a sugar packet at AJ, who bats it back at him.

“But I gotta work tonight!” I say.

“You do?” asks Matt, aka Flyin’ Spice, our own tight-package twinky aerialist-in-training. “Since when do you work on Saturdays?”

“Just tonight.” I tear open the battle-worn sugar packet, pouring it into my already-cold coffee. “I’m doing that eWrecksion party.”

“No way!” Conrad says. “DiTempto put you on that?”

“Yup!” I try not to sound like I’m bragging, though I’m sure I am, slightly. “I think tonight’s the night he’s going to ask me to marry him.”

“Right,” Nick says, clearly jealous. “And he won’t be at all distracted by the live sex show when he’s down on one knee, ring in hand. How romantic!”

“I’ll bet Friendly will be down on BOTH knees, not Todd!” Raffy roars.

“Shut up,” I say. “What’s this about a live sex show? If I’m going to be doing all that, I think I’ll have to raise my fee!”

“Not you, Friendly. You know, actual professionals, unlike your amateur ass?” says Conrad. “They’re from New York Fuck College, or something like that.”

Uh-oh. The plot thickens. That can only mean one thing.

“You mean New York Screwniversity?” I ask, feigning as much innocence as a go-go boy possibly can.

“Oh, ho! So someone’s a paying member!” Nick says.

I shrug. “I just go there to read the articles. So...Some of those boys will be there?”

“Todd said all of them,” Conrad corrects me. “He’s VERY excited about the crowd they’ll bring out.”

Wow. The fact that the boys from New York Screwniversity will be at the party makes tonight infinitely more interesting. I’m not really a fan of gay pornography, preferring the detailed and intimate scenes my own brain can conjure over the forced, usually chemistry-free stuff you find online. But I know of the infamous Screwniversity via personal experience. I’ve been inside it—and it, in a way, has been inside of me.

Full disclosure: I met the thirteen “dorm mates” and even had drinks in their living room. And on one drunken, hazy, strangely magical night last month, I got fucked by one of them. His name was Marty Brayden. And while he may not be the star of the site, he is certainly the most noticeable: a tight, toned twink with an eyebrow ring, chinstrap, and spiky, bright-blue hair.

If Marty was telling the truth, we fucked in front of thousands that night. Despite some slight stage fright, I performed spectacularly. I guess when you dance in front of thousands of gay men in person, it’s not the biggest deal when those thousands are invisible and stuffed inside a video camera silently monitoring your exploits.

It was amazing. Some of the best sex I’ve ever had—which makes sense, since Marty’s no doubt had a lot of practice. I’ve found myself thinking back to that night during my last few hookups with Nick, but that only makes Nick’s shortcomings in the sack stand out all the more.

Most one-night stands I’ve had end up being just that—a hot time and that’s it. Most of the guys I never think about again. But for some reason, I can’t forget my time with Marty. And I’m severely jonesing for a repeat.

Is that primarily because I can’t have it?

Maybe.

I left Marty my number and got nothing in return. Not a call. Not a text. Not a Facebook friend request. It stung even more
when I checked NYScrewniversity.com, only to find that our scene was the top viewed on the entire website. Marty didn’t even think to shoot me a text to clue me in on our collective victory? Ouch.

While I didn’t watch gay porn before that night, I do find myself watching it now. A lot. I blew a full (slow) night’s worth of tips to get a monthly membership. Now I spend my few free nights watching Marty get fucked by his dorm mates in every which way, including some epic three-way they advertised the hell out of. And when I jack off, I’m picturing myself as whoever he’s getting it on with. I spend hours clicking through the archives, getting to know the mystery boy I never really got to draw a bead on when we shot our scene. And with each clip, I find myself becoming more and more preoccupied with him. My favorite videos are his interviews (weekly testimonials with the dorm mates go up every Tuesday at 2). The more time I spend listening to him, the more I feel like I’m dating him in reverse. Getting to know him little by little, piece by piece.

But does he even remember me? I guess there’s no reason to seek sex with someone like me when you have twelve potential partners every night just waiting to give it to you.

I tried sending a few e-mails to the website, but the webmaster clearly had no interest in relaying my requests. And why would he? It’s not like I have extra cash to blow on a pricey private video chat. Especially considering that if Marty wanted to see me again, he could easily have texted me. Why waste any more time or money, only to get blown off again?

Tonight, I’ll waste neither. When I see Marty Brayden, I’ll go right up to him. I’ll be direct. I’ll tell him I want to come home with him again and repeat our last performance. Outdo it. He’ll say yes because, well, our video is still hovering near the top of the most-viewed list. Refusing to do another scene featuring Chase Bliss? That’s just bad for business.

Now I’ve had a month to get buffer, thanks to my membership at the NYU gym. I’ve had plenty of days out on Chelsea Piers with the other go-go boys, baking my skin to a deep brown that makes me look almost Hispanic. There’s no chance I’m not going home with Marty again tonight—and this time I’ll make sure I get HIS number.

“So, you coming to the beach, bitch?” Raf asks as he and the other boys gather their gym bags and split the bill. “We’re leaving!”

“Yes, he’s coming!” Nick says, grabbing my hand and pulling me up from the table. “Right?”

What the hell. My dorm doesn’t have AC. I’d probably spend the next few hours baking to death. I’m sure there will be opportunities to sneak a wink in here or there on the train ride out or on the beach.

And I could stand to go a shade or two darker. Might help my chances at landing Marty tonight.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

Penn Station is dead. All the storefronts are closed, except for one magazine stand staffed by a man who can’t even keep his eyes open. The janitors are mopping the corridors in preparation for the rush of weekenders who will soon flood the building with suitcases and crying kids en route to Fire Island or the Hamptons or Montauk. It’s so empty that the other boys and I are able to race each other from corridor to corridor. Luis said he’s the fastest, but I leave him in my dust just as our train pulls into the station.

Our train is just as empty as Penn, so we stretch out across an entire car, our feet illegally propped on the seats opposite us. The sleepy conductor doesn’t bother us about this fineable offense; instead, she sits down to bitch about her fiancé and how she thinks he might be gay and cheating on her with his college buddy. Go-go boy therapy. Luis, still pissed from losing the race, is no doubt bitching about it to David, who is busy texting some guy who gave him his number tonight. AJ and Conrad, who may or may not have something going on between them, have fallen asleep on each other’s shoulders. Matt is wondering if he can draw a mustache on one of their faces without waking them up. Franky and Jake are likewise asleep. Nick is holding my hand, and I’m letting him.

I don’t regret my choice to train it out to Long Island instead of back to my dorm, but I think my body does. I’m weathering that weird zombielike sensation where your brain feels like it’s been sucked out of your head, shoved in a blender, and poured back in through your ear. I let my eyes close for a few minutes.

If I were to write a memoir, I’d name it
Breakfast With Go-Go Boys
. Because that’s where I’d start it—during one of the many mornings I’ve spent with my buds after the club.

It would be a memoir of excitement and possibility and camaraderie, not a fucking sob story. I’ll gladly skip the crackhead mom. The deadbeat dad. The deader-beat stepdad. The actually dead grandfather. The legal emancipation trial, complete with my mom not actually showing up to the courthouse, which only helped my case. My legal name is Winterman, but it used to be Summers. I think the stark opposite is all the symbolism required to explain just how far behind me I want to leave my past.

Where would I have ended up if I hadn’t split from my family, borrowed money from my sister, and fled Connecticut for New York City? I don’t know and don’t want to. Back in Connecticut, I was stuck in stasis, like a kid raised by wolves. My life didn’t even begin until I got out here.

Now my dream has already come true: I got away. Everything from here on is gravy.

And I don’t pretend that my sob story entitles me to skate through the rest of my life with ease or gives me a license to be a bitch to people. I know people like that, and they aren’t fun to be around. Seriously—after such an unpleasant past, why would I waste any more time on nastiness? Being Friendly Spice is so much easier.

The way I see it, we all have stories. Marty Brayden, Palpatine, Todd DiTempto. We never really know who’s suffered what. Most of us have moved on from something or other. And in this city, you’ll rarely hear about it. Here, people don’t talk much about their childhoods or families or friends back home. No one comes to New York to dwell on the past; we come to live in the now and get on with the future. We’re our own men. Our own boys. Whatever.
Where we came from pales in comparison to where we are now. You can’t look back when you’re living in Manhattan; you’ll get hit by a cab or mugged or raped or robbed or killed if you stop for a second and let your guard down.

Like right now.

“Chase!” Nick yells. “Wake up! We’re gonna miss our stop!”

Wow! Was I out for that long? I jump up from my seat, grab my gym bag, and let Nick drag me out onto the station platform. My eyes register nothing but fuzzy blur as the train doors
whoosh
shut behind me.

The sun stings my face. I block it with my hand as we stumble down the stairs to the parking lot.

The town we’re in is called Merrick, or so a giant navy-blue billboard with gold lettering says. Fancy. Nick herds us all to two SUVs idling alongside the curb. “Be nice, they’re my parents!” he warns us before we get to the open doors.

I didn’t know we’d be picked up; I just assumed we’d cram into Nick’s car. It’s apparent by the looks on the other boys’ faces that I was not alone in this assumption. Our first beach trip will also mark our first time meeting a set of someone else’s parents.

I end up in the Jeep with Nick, Raffy, Jake, Franky, and Nick’s dad. Nick takes the front seat, while we pile into the back. We’re all silent once the doors slam, not quite sure what we should (or can) say in front of him. Does he know who we are? How we know Nick?

“Hello, boys,” Nick’s dad says. “Welcome to Long Island. Hopefully you won’t have to stay too long.”

Nick’s dad is an attractive man, with a full head of gray hair that he keeps cropped short. He has the windows open to let the warm, fresh air into the SUV and the AC on to fight it off and keep things cool.

The silence is so loud. We elbow each other in the backseat, hoping one of us will say something.

Thankfully, Nick’s dad speaks up again. “So do all of you guys dance at the same club as Nick?”

“Yeah, Dad, you’ve got the full go-go boy squad from FreakOut Fridays coming to the house. How does that make you feel?”

“Like a chauffeur to the stars,” he says, turning on the radio. “I’ll keep the music down—I’m sure your ears have had enough techno for the day.”

So Nick’s dad knows his son dances on a bar in his underwear for cash? That’s something I never would have expected. Franky and Jake look equally shocked and commence to whispering back and forth. I mean, we’re not porn stars (well, THEY aren’t), but I’ll bet very few of us are up front with our parents about what we do.

My mom sure has no idea, but that’s because she’s in jail, where she can rot, for all I care. I’ve thought about visiting her unannounced, dangling a G-string in front of that glass partition between the jailed and the free. But the price of the train fare
wouldn’t be worth the look on her face. Wouldn’t she be proud? At least I’m not selling drugs across state lines like she was.

“By the way, Nick, your mom was so excited your dancer friends were coming by that she ran to the Bagel Boss and bought a spread to welcome you home.”

“Jeez, Dad!” Nick says. “We just ate at a diner!”

“Who cares?” Raffy says. “Mister...um...Nick’s dad...We’re happy to eat more.”

“Maybe you are,” says Franky. “I have a photo shoot this evening.”