Gulliver Takes Five (28 page)

And if I’m alone, then I’m going out.

I fire up Grindr. I immediately feel better as the
pop!
of incoming messages sounds. Now, that’s more like it. Looks like there are at least twenty complete strangers who appreciate me more than my friends and pseudo-boyfriend.

A pop-up message appears on the screen:

“PARTY IN YOUR AREA: DISCREET HOOKUP EVENT! BROOKLYN! ONLY HOT GUYS ALLOWED INSIDE! CONDOMS, LUBE, BOOZE PROVIDED. EIGHTY-DOLLAR COVER. DISCOUNT FOR CUTIES. SPEND YOUR SATURDAY NITE WITH HOT AND HORNY GUYS AGED 20–30!”

That’s weird. I’ve never gotten a sex party invite on Grindr before.

Servando and I actually met at a sex party, back before Grindr existed (GOD, I’m old). We never tell anyone that our first kiss happened AFTER Servy’s dick was in my mouth, since it carries an even larger stigma than saying you met online. But despite what you might think, it was actually sorta cute. He looked down, pulled my face off his cock, and said, “Shit, you’re pretty.” Then he kissed me full on the mouth. That night, we separated from the rest of the homo hubbub to a corner where we got it on with each
other, slapping away hands, mouths, and other such appendages that tried to violate our coupling. They could watch, but that was all. We traded numbers after, he called me the next day, and it just sorta picked up from there.

A sex party? Would I really do something like that? On my own? The most recent one I went to was a little over a year ago, with Servy—and it didn’t end well.

I’m not even looking for sex. I fired up Grindr out of habit, because it’s fun to flirt with strangers and then go silent when the pic trading takes a turn for the more physical and immediate.

But who’s to say Servando isn’t out fucking someone else now? I could see him doing that, especially if he’s about to break up with me. He’s ultra-competitive. He’d want to fire the first shot, to say he beat me to the finish line.

I read the invite again. A random hookup with a Grindr guy is a crapshoot. But if the door is as...discerning as the invite says, I’m guaranteed far prettier people at the party. And if I change my mind when I get there, I don’t have to do anything. I can stand in a corner and watch. (Voyeurism is a kink that sex parties are more than happy to accommodate.)

But then again, it’s in Brooklyn. I can’t remember the last time I got on a train and left Manhattan. Oh, wait, yes I can. It was TODAY. When I went to the Bronx Zoo to NOT get weed. And if I went all the way out there for something I didn’t end up getting, what’s one more long-distance trek? The weed was a bitter disappointment. Hot, willing naked guys seem a fitting substitution.

Fine. I’m doing this.

I jump into the shower and clean myself appropriately, return to the studio, and select a cute jockstrap that will allow fantastic access to any part of me. I grab a tight T-shirt and a pair of short shorts and head out.

I wish I’d come face-to-face with Servy as he walked into the building. With that apologetic smile and his arms open wide, ready to have that makeup sex we do so well.

But there is no Servy. Not in the hallway nor on the sidewalk nor in the subway station.

He’s not on the train and he’s not at the stop where I get off to transfer to a Brooklyn-bound train. Before going into the bowels of the second station on my trip, I stop by a nondescript ATM, standing alone and dirty in a corner by a shuttered barbershop. I look around again, one last time, even though I am well aware that the odds of Servy being here are slim to none.

Turns out the odds are none.

Fine, Servy. Fine.

I’m going through with this. No turning back now. And this time, I make sure to withdraw MORE than I’ll need to get what I want.

By the time I’m back in Hell’s Kitchen, I’m not in the mood for a frozen cosmo
.

For one, I’m soaked. For two, I’m so dehydrated I’d probably die of alcohol poisoning. And for three, all I really want is Rowan. With all this excess energy and testosterone bouncing around inside of me, I’m ready to fuck his brains out
.

Except, Rowan isn’t home. I buzz three times with no response and finally give up, fishing my keys out of my pocket. When I get inside, I can see that he was here. And busy. Our place hasn’t been this spic and span in FOREVER. Why the fuck was he cleaning? The apartment smells like weed, but it always smells that way, so who knows if he was smoking up recently
.

“Rowan?”

I can see every corner of our apartment from the entrance, including the open bathroom. If I can’t see him, he isn’t here
.

I’m still heaving, covered in sweat and rain. I haven’t run that far in a very long time. Ripping off my clothing, I head to the bathroom, where I find Rowan’s outfit from today hanging, dripping into the tub
.

Where the hell did he go? Why didn’t he text me?

Deep breath in, deep breath out. I peek out the window by our bed, into the unkempt garden space behind our apartment, just in case he snuck out for a smoke. No such luck
.

So...He got stoned, cleaned the apartment, then left? I feel like a gay Sherlock Holmes, rearranging clues to figure out where he could possibly be. No answers come to me
.

He probably just went to find something to eat. I myself haven’t eaten since breakfast, which was interrupted by the damned rat that set this day’s many unpleasant, potentially life-threatening events into motion. So I make some ramen
.

Oh, wait. NO, I DON’T
.

Because Rowan ate my last ramen! I KNOW I had one last cup. It was the spicy-shrimp flavor, and sure enough, the empty container is hanging out of the fucking garbage can, a few stray noodles on the floor. (And Rowan wonders why the fuck we have a rat!)

New clue: he ate my last fucking ramen. And he KNOWS I hate that. We’ve fought over this at LEAST forty times
.

I’m trying not to get angry, but the feeling creeps up as I imagine Rowan getting high, cleaning, eating my food, and then fleeing the coop without a word to me. And to think I was ready to forgive him! I was primed for makeup sex! In the short period of time he was home without me, Rowan’s done a bang-up job of doing every single little thing that pisses me off
.

Didn’t he wonder why I wasn’t back yet? For all he knew, I hopped right back on a downtown train after I left him. If that were the case, I would have been home waiting for him. It really never occurred to him to wonder
, Oh, gee, where’s my boyfriend? Maybe I should
call him just to make sure he’s not about to get his ass kicked by five thugs in Washington Heights.

But no, why would Rowan take a fucking second to care about anyone except himself?

This, of course, is nothing new. THIS is why I won’t be his fucking boyfriend. Rowan gives too many shits about himself and not half a shit about anyone else. Why would I want a boyfriend who’s so distracted and stoned and careless all the time? That makes me look like a fool. I deserve better
.

I start to text him, but stop myself
.

Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe he thinks I’m still walking off my anger. That makes sense, right? Even though I don’t think that a stoned Rowan is capable of such reasoning, I give him the benefit of the doubt. It was I who instituted the halting of communication, wasn’t it? Maybe he thought I’d want to be alone when I got back—which would have been an accurate assumption, if I hadn’t had my run-in with the violent homophobes earlier
.

I take a deep breath, dig through the refrigerator, and come back out with a bottle of Gatorade. I take three huge gulps, the chill of the sugar water cutting right through the back of my head. As I recover from the assault of brain freeze, I send a quick text to Rowan:
“Hey, I’m home. Where are you?”

Twenty minutes later, no response. I’ve finished the Gatorade, and I’m seething. I send another text:
“Where the fuck are you?”

That’ll get his attention. Whenever I get pissed like that, he writes back pretty fucking quickly
.

Twenty minutes later, still nothing. And now I’m worried. What if he and his dealer got caught by the cops or something? No—he would have gotten that one permitted telephone call. He would have called me. And I don’t have any missed calls (believe me, I know, because I keep checking my phone every thirty seconds just to make sure I didn’t somehow miss him trying to contact me)
.

Besides, that wouldn’t account for the miraculously clean apartment
.

I text Todd, asking if he’s seen or heard from Rowan. No response. I crash down onto our futon to distract myself with something stupid on TV. Soon Rowan will come back blazed and fed, and who knows? Maybe with more ramen. He does endearing little things like that every once in a while
.

Wait
.

Rowan’s underwear drawer is open. Not all the way, but open enough. I can’t believe I didn’t notice that until this second! One of his jockstraps is hanging out. I open it farther
.

Ha. The fucking asshole
.

Conspicuously missing from the tangle of underwear is a certain jockstrap, a blue-and-yellow one we bought together at a boutique in Chelsea. And I know for a fact he hasn’t worn it in weeks
.

No, this means Rowan is wearing the jock right now. And Rowan doesn’t wear jocks unless he plans on fucking around. (Who does?)

That piece of shit. That son of a bitch isn’t answering my fucking texts because he’s busy getting a dick shoved up his ass by one of his dom top buddies, who’s probably got the jockstrap knotted up in one hand, pulling him back deeper and harder
.

That’s his way to deal with our disagreement?

Yes, we’re in an open relationship, but there’s such a thing as the wrong fucking time. And our rules have ALWAYS been that we let the other know BEFORE it happens. NOT okay
.

There are so many ways I could retaliate. Lock him out. Text the hell out of his phone until it explodes. Break up with him for real. For good
.

But no. I have a better idea
.

I’ll go out and get some myself. Because if Rowan’s not going to be back anytime soon, I’m sure as hell not going to hang around waiting for him
.

I send out booty texts to my three favorite bottoms. Brendan, the skinny actor/model from Boston with a mop of brown hair. Jay, a sprite of a thing with nipple rings and a penchant for posting underwear pics of himself on Facebook. Travis, a dangerously tall blond who only bottoms for me
.

I wait
.

Then, finally, my phone beeps. It’s Brendan, tonight’s big winner. Two can play at this game, Row-Dog. If you’re getting some, then I will too
.

“Sup Servazoid?”
he asks
.

“Wanna play?”

“Of course I do,”
he texts back
. “But I’m not home.”

“When will you be back?”

“Not for a while :(”

Or maybe not
. “Oh. Maybe another time.”

“No! Wait! You can come too. Going to a party.”

On any other night, I could be convinced to party. But not tonight. In all honesty, I don’t even want sex. I want Rowan. But since that’s out of the realm of possibility, I can’t let him win this undeclared war. He is already en route to victory, and I just can’t. Not after this afternoon. No way
.

“No thanks, babe,”
I text back
. “I don’t feel like doing the social public thing tonight. Just lookin for some fun.”

Brendan texts back:
“Not THAT kind of party. This is more of a...get-together. Of the sexy variety.”

“Go on.”

“It’s in Brooklyn. I can get you in without having to pay the stupid crazy cover. Jockstrap recommended. Everything else will be there. You can be the first of many I take tonight ;)”

Now we’re talking
.

I’ve been to three sex parties in my life. At the first, I just watched gorgeous men all around me go crazy; I had enough material to beat off to for the next six months. The second was where I met Rowan, which is probably the most romantic thing to ever come out of an organized orgy. The third was actually where Rowan and I “broke up” and ditched our label. We’d reached that point where we both wanted to fuck other people in public, so who were we kidding calling each other boyfriends? From there came Servando and Rowan 2.0—the open-love revision of what we once had. And that was it for the sex parties
.

So perhaps number four will be equally monumental? Maybe I’ll meet someone new. It worked that second time around, so I won’t rule out the possibility
.

“Well? You coming? About to hop on the train,”
Brendan texts
.

I’d much rather spend the night with a hot mug of tea and Thai food delivery. All that running tired me the fuck out. I could even go to bed early, wake up, and start a new morning-running regimen
.

But who am I kidding? That’d be a great way to spend the evening if, say, Rowan was at work. But right now, he’s getting his hole pounded. The very thought of Rowan squealing as he takes that dick—making that half-pain, half-pleasure face he does when you get all the
way in—dashes any hopes of staying in tonight. I wouldn’t be able to sit sipping tea if I wanted to. I’d more likely crouch in the corner and chomp straight through my mugs, gnashing the ceramic down to dust. Thinking about the positions he’s in. How many times they did it. If the other guy was better than me. What Rowan said. What the guy tasted like
...