Gulliver Takes Five (20 page)

MORE time? I already saw him all night last night AND all day at the beach.

“Now you don’t have to choose between me and this party.”

I don’t remind Nick that I already DID choose. I chose to come here and make money. I chose Todd and Marty Brayden. And I am not backing down from those choices.

“Congrats, babe,” I say, giving him a cheap, quick hug and kiss. “I gotta run for a few. I’ll see you up on the box in twenty.”

“Um, I was going to ask if you could hold down my feet while I did crunches.”

“Just stick them under a bench. It works just as well.”

I leave without bothering to confirm the look of disappointment I know is hanging off his face. Oh well. He’s lucky I’m not bruised from him rubbing my face in his fabulous Long Island lifestyle all morning. Then I might actually tell him how I feel about his need
to spy on me at parties he shouldn’t even be working. Apparently the house and car and perfect family aren’t enough. He can’t handle the fact that it was ME who was asked to work at the hottest party in recent memory. He can’t risk there being ONE THING I might outdo him in.

Back to the throng of gay men, which has metastasized like a tumor since I left. There’s no room to maneuver; I have to push through the dancing guys and hags toward the bars and staircases in the back. I run to the second floor, to the third—no Todd. Would he pull a no-show at his own party? That’s not like him. I can’t make out a single face through all of the fog, lights, shadows, and heads. It’s hopeless. I’ll never find him here. All I can do is hope he’ll find me.

I dash back down to my box, get there just in time. It’s smack in the middle of the people-river on the main dance floor. Nick is already up there, dancing and pumping his arms, smiling with all teeth showing. Since I left him, he’s applied a Ke$ha-like streak of makeup to his face. He looks like a slutty tiger. On any other night, I might have found it cute. Tonight, I find myself fantasizing about Nick being mauled by a tiger of the much-less-slutty, much-more-hungry variety. Headless Spice—now there’s a go-go boy Splash hasn’t yet seen.

“I already made a hundred bucks!” Nick says, hugging me when I’ve finally made it onto the box. “And I’ve only been up here for five minutes!”

“That’s great!” I say, and spin around, putting our backs to one another. If I’m going to be latched to Nick all night, at least I’ll make a ton of money in this high-traffic spot.

We dance back-to-back. From Britney to Girls Aloud to Jason Derulo to Flo Rida to Pitbull. I begin slowly, as I always do. My feet are shoulder-width apart and I rock back and forth, popping my ass to each side, my lips pursed and my eyes scanning the crowd. When it gets later, I’ll break out the bigger moves. Until then, I preserve my energy. Marathon, not a race. Marathon, not a race.

But there’s a problem: Nobody is tipping. More accurately, nobody is tipping ME.

When a hand rises up out of the thousands around us, the extended dollar isn’t intended for me. Each donation ends up in Nick’s waistline and is then moved to the armbands he never wore before tonight. That little shit! He stole my armband idea, and he’s stealing MY money, dollar by dollar.

Nick tries a few times to press his body to mine. He’s done this before. He wants me to spin him around, wrap my arms around him so we can dance together. But I can’t do that, because then I might bite his face off. I saw the schedule inside the go-go room. I was supposed to be on this box ALONE. Todd DiTempto, with his trademark kindness, just threw Nick up here at the last minute. He probably thought Nick needed the money, just like we all incorrectly assumed. But Nick doesn’t need it. I do. And I’m not getting it.

I pull my underwear lower and lower until I’m cupping my dick in my hands. I’m squatting farther and farther down. And still, Nick is making more money. I pull out my more dramatic late-night moves way too early, as if this will get the attention of the guys beneath us and divert their dollar bills toward me. Head-stands and splits. Still nothing. Every hand bypasses me and goes
straight to Nick, who smiles like a child at a birthday party and thanks every man for his generosity. I want to slap him. I want to fling him off our box and into the crowd. I want to scream at him to get the fuck out of here. I want to fire him next week when I become the dance captain at Splash. Or perhaps literally set him on fire.

Down in the crowd, I see Bruce. Or Palpatine, as Nick and the others prefer to call him. He’s dressed in a suit, sweat visible on his forehead.

And he’s tipping Nick too.

A crisp hundred-dollar bill goes under the band, and Nick pops a squat and plants a kiss on Bruce’s sweaty head. Bruce disappears into the crowd, not even looking in my direction as he goes.

Fuck this dye job! That’s the problem, isn’t it? How ironic. Coloring my hair green has led to a dire lack of said color in my underwear and armbands.

I need a drink. NOW.

I hop off the box, ignoring Nick’s pleas to tell him where I’m going.

The crowd is now impenetrable. I catch elbows in my chest, drinks spilled on my stomach. My feet get stepped on. I’m going to flip my shit if I don’t find a space where I can move my arms more than two inches. I find an additional few millimeters of personal space up against a bar by the staircase to the second floor. The bartender gives me a free drink, then a second one. I can
still see Nick from this corner, floating above all the other bodies. Every few seconds, another hand rises up from the masses and slips a dollar here, there. The money armbands grow and grow. His biceps look like millionaire planets. That’s MY money, you son of a bitch! Go back home to your family and your Jag and your private beach and your dad’s weed and leave those crumpled singles to those of us who actually need it!

“Well, hey there.”

Turns out I didn’t need to seek Todd out; he’s found me. He also seems to have found one too many drinks. He sways back and forth on his feet, his eyes shifting left and right like he’s watching a tennis game behind me.

“Hey, Todd!”

Todd covers his mouth to stifle a belch as his eyes bug out. “Oh, hey there, Green Hair.”

Wow. So he’s not drunk, as I originally thought. He’s completely and utterly trashed.

“Had a bit too much to drink, Boss?” I ask.

“Not enough, actually,” he says, wrapping his arm around me and looking out over the dance floor. “Party looks awesome, though.”

I’m tingly. I can’t help it. Having Todd touch me fills me with a warm, sparkling feeling that seems to travel from the points of contact between our bodies. I’m turned on. I’m excited. I think,
maybe, this is something? Or am I making something out of nothing? There’s only one way to find out.

“Well, what did you expect? Who wouldn’t go to a party thrown by Todd DiTempto?” I say, playing one of my fingers down his chest.

Each time I touch him, I am both worried and hopeful. I’d walk my fingers in circles around his body for minutes if I could. Just testing the waters. This is dangerous territory—an employee of Todd’s making a move everyone knows is forbidden and hopeless. But he isn’t reacting. Either because he is okay with it or he’s so tipsy that he can’t feel my fingers on him.

I should stop now while I’m ahead. If I become too bold and he pulls back, he might disappear again. I might lose my job.

Todd shakes his head as he looks at me again. “Shouldn’t you be dancing?”

“Well, you put Nick up on my box with me, and he seems to be handling it fine in my absence. Shouldn’t YOU be running around networking and fending off drunk guys’ advances?” My hand is wandering down his giant chest, his rippled abs.

“It’s been a rough night, bro. An old friend came out of the woodwork. The little bastard’s been so fucking stupid I don’t think I can...” He stops his sentence and pulls out his phone, taps it hysterically. “Rough, rough night.”

“An ex?” I ask. Because of course this would be the night that Todd rekindles things with an old flame.

“Nah. I wish it were that simple. Anyway. You wanna see the VIP lounge, cutie?”

Cutie? That’s a nickname I’m more than happy to accept.

“I’ll see whatever you want to show me,” I say.

To avoid the crowds, Todd takes me through a de-alarmed fire exit. As soon as the door slams, he shoves me against the wall and engulfs my mouth in his. His breath tastes like a bar. So many conflicting flavors. Vodka? Tequila? Triple sec? Bourbon? All of the above. This bar is fully stocked.

I’m rock hard and so is he. He’s thrusting up against me, pushing his bulge into mine, shoving his tongue down my throat like he’s digging for buried treasure. And it feels amazing. The first thing today that’s gone right. His highness, Todd DiTempto, the reigning Prince of Gay Nightlife, licking the back side of my Adam’s apple. I’m giddy. I’m horny. I’m drunker than I thought, helped along by Todd’s Long Island Iced Tea–flavored tongue. He grunts as he kisses me harder and faster. The cold of the cinder block wall feels amazing against my back and arms. I’m on my knees, grabbing for his dick.

“No,” Todd says, stuffing his hand in my face, shoving me back into the railing. “I don’t do this. Not at my parties. Not with my employees.”

Fuck. Why can’t I do anything right? I’m on my knees, looking up at Mount DiTempto, his cock just out of reach under stretched jeans. He looks down at me with a mix of confusion, pity, and concern. He’s saying, “No, no, no,” over and over again.

Yeah. I blew it. Or, well, I TRIED to blow it and have now revealed myself to be a too-eager, too-easy, pathetic hussy, one of many who have unsuccessfully tried to hook up with Todd while he was on the job.

Dammit! What was I thinking? I know better than this! Hope you enjoyed this little rendezvous, Friendly Spice, because here’s where the pleasure stops. You thought this was going to be your lucky break? Bad-date actor was right: you’ll never be happy. Go back outside and scrounge up a few more singles while Nick rolls in riches he doesn’t need. Then go back to your AC-less dorm and your OKCupid account and your sometimes-generous donations from Palpatine, assuming he hasn’t found a new favorite by now. Back to your mom in prison and your dad wherever he disappeared to and your dead grandfather. GO.

“It’s okay,” I say, getting back up. “Sorry. I’m drunk. I should go...”

I make a move for the exit—and can’t, because Todd is kissing me again. Grabbing me by my shoulders and pushing me back into the wall. Feeling me up over my tiny underwear. “Go? But you’re SO fucking hot, you punky little bitch.”

What the fuck? I’m grinning as he licks the sweat off my neck, his hands grabbing and groping and grasping. It feels so good, but my confusion cuts into the ecstasy. Maybe I was too harsh in my assumptions? Maybe I wasn’t too fast? Maybe he wants to lead? Maybe HE wants to suck ME off. Maybe I need to let go and embrace Todd’s strange intoxication. Maybe I should stop with the “maybes” and just start trying to keep up with his lips.

“Bro, that feels big. How big are you?” Todd DiTempto’s hands are down my underwear. I could shoot right this second. The combination of his strokes and the fact that HE’S doing the stroking is more than enough to get the job done.

But no. Not yet. Maybe he wants me to play hard to get. I can get into that.

“Big enough,” I smirk, pulling his hand back out and readjusting myself. “But I don’t want you to get sober and regret doing this. We should probably stop.” I lick along his lips to let him know not to take anything I just said too seriously.

“Yeah,” he says, pulling away from me again. “Yeah. Guess you’re right.”

What! Fuck! Maybe not. I push back up against him and suck on his lip, lick the underside of it. “Well, we don’t HAVE to stop if you don’t want to, Mr. DiTempto.”

He’s kissing me back. “Fuck. I guess you’ll just have to come home with me later tonight. Cool?”

“Cool,” I say. “So tell me about this VIP room.”

Todd doesn’t tell me about the VIP room—he whisks me there. And I thought the other rooms were impressive! This is the first time I’ve been amongst the elite who are too important to party with the actual party. Man, do they know how to let loose. Expensive couches and chairs are scattered throughout the room. Lights
are dim and a DJ spins in the corner for the two hundred VIPs. Bartenders happily take drink orders and refuse payment. There are even gift bags filled with swag from the many lube, underwear, condom, and clothing sponsors who have banners hanging all around the club.

Todd and I squeeze our way to a far corner and end up drinking caffeinated liquor concoctions brought to us on trays by model waiters. He introduces me to this promoter and that host as “Friendly Spice.” They think it’s cute, and they think I’m cute. I smile and play president’s wife as best I can while accepting a second cocktail.

Todd catches up with the promoters and personalities, his arm forever around me, stroking my back. Standing here like this, smiling and laughing and engaging in conversations about nightlife comings and goings, it’s hard not to imagine us dating. Todd could waltz around his events with me on his arm, introducing me to everyone, leaving me with them to entertain while he goes about important business. I could be the president’s wife, couldn’t I?

A commotion breaks up the conversation and my daydreaming.

The head of the party, some guy named Mikey Drama (so Todd tells me), comes bursting into the room, howling for all present to make way, make way, because the boys of New York Screwniversity have arrived.

And sure enough, there they are, just as I remember them. Drake and Zak and Joey leading the pack. And, in the back, as blue haired and cute as ever, is the one and only Marty Brayden. Despite the
fact that I’ve been watching him for weeks, he has somehow gotten even more beautiful. He’s ripped, tanned, impeccably hairless. His bright-blue hair is bluer than ever.

Todd seems to have gone pale staring at them. Like he’s in a trance. “Fuck,” he says.

“What?” I ask.

His attention snaps back to me. The always-on promoter personality relights in his eyes. “Just too much to drink—and yet, not nearly enough. Refill?”

Todd gets us a drink and squeezes us even farther into the corner, turning his back to the crowd. He’s trying to talk to me, but it’s obvious he’s distracted, his eyes glued on the cluster of porn stars reflected in the mirror behind me. Funny—I never figured Todd would be so starstruck by a bunch of adult-film quasi-celebrities. I guess even he has to jack off to SOMEthing (while the rest of us just jack off to him).