Gulliver Takes Five, page 13
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.”
“Well, we’ll get you boys in and out as quickly as we can. And you can chew on some ice if you can’t eat anything. Then you can borrow the cars to get out to Point Lookout. Which of you are sober enough to drive?”
“Chase, you have a license, right?” Nick asks, snaking his hand back from the front seat and rubbing it on my knee.
“Yeah, but I don’t think your parents want me driving one of their cars.”
“Nonsense.” Nick’s dad laughs. “You sober?”
“Yeah, I am.”
“Then that’s all that matters, Chase. Just be careful.”
My phone buzzes. A calendar reminder.
Shit! I completely forgot I have a date tonight!
This is exactly why I set all my calendar events with a nine-hour advance warning.
This day is getting so complicated. I’m currently on Long Island with a boy who can’t stop staring at me through the rearview mirror of his dad’s car. Later, I’m dancing at a party with a promoter I’ve been lusting after for ages and a gay porn star I’d like a second chance with. AND, in between, I’m supposed to grab Thai with this kid I’ve been chatting up on OKCupid? I should cancel. Get some sleep. He’s an actor, which is usually reason enough to opt out. I have enough drama in my own life without adding a theater major to the mix.
But he’s also smart, cute, and a pro at back-and-forth online flirting (always a promising omen of real-world chemistry). I guess I’ll keep it.
After ten minutes of driving down tiny side streets, we arrive at our destination. My breath catches in my throat. Nick’s house is gigantic, a mansion in a neighborhood filled with equally jaw-dropping domiciles. A U-shaped driveway, three (or maybe four) floors rising above us as we pull in behind his mother’s car. I guess the luxury SUVs should have given this away.
So Nick’s a moneybags? How did he never tell me during all those nights together? I just assumed he was how I imagine the rest of us are—broke as a joke and doing what we can to make ends meet. No wonder he doesn’t dance when he’s supposed to be on the block. If he lost his job, he’d be fine! Funny, the things you still don’t know after dancing nearly naked with someone for nine months...
Nick’s mom, a short and tan blonde dressed in pastels from a place like Talbots or Chico’s, lets us into the house and ushers us toward the dining room. The foyer, living room, and hallway are all immaculately white, filled with shiny black statues and oddly shaped pots holding exotic and expensive-looking flowers with long petals and crazy-colored leaves. FUCK, this kid is rich. Why does he bother working at all? I doubt his parents force him to dance in his underwear as a lesson in responsibility and independence. Wouldn’t his job be better suited for a college kid who needs the money and actually looks like he wants to be there? I’ve seen all the wannabe go-go boys that Todd sends home because all the slots are currently filled. Those kids need the money, not Nick.
Once we’ve gotten our food and sat down in the living room, Nick’s mom wants to know all about Splash—how we got there, if we like it or hate it. She shoves her son playfully and says she wants to see the place soon, and if Nick continues to discourage her from coming, she’ll just sneak in one of these nights.
Nick rolls his eyes. “Right, Ma. Aaron the doorman won’t even let you in to get your ID checked.”
“I’ll take the fact that you think he’d even check my ID as a compliment, you little brat,” she says, taking a swipe at him.
“Oh gawd,” David laments as he digs into his second bagel, “I can feel my ass getting bigger with each bite.”
“You could stand to gain a few pounds,” Nick’s mom says. “As for those of you not driving, I can whip up a few screwdrivers. But only after you sign a verbal contract promising me you won’t vomit all over my floors. I just had them waxed yesterday.”
“Chase is going to drive,” Nick says. “The rest can get shit-faced.”
“Well then, straight-up OJ for you,” she says, pouring me a tall glass.
I can’t eat. I’m too angry. Wouldn’t you be? Since he started staying over with me, Nick’s had me pay for everything—breakfast, extra booze, condoms and lube, whatever. I’ve even chipped in for his cab to Penn Station a few times. And why? To be chivalrous? I assumed he needed it! Now I know he doesn’t, and feel like I’ve been duped. Not to mention the fact that Nick gets along so well with his parents! They take time between bites to brag about how great he is, and he accepts it all with a wide smile and fake modesty. He basks in their gushing, occasionally winking at me as if to say, Do you have it this good?
And he knows I don’t.
After the others are filled with carbs and cream cheese, Nick takes us on a tour of his place, which feels more like he’s rubbing it in our faces than anything. Every room (and there are so, so many) is spacious, high ceilinged, central air-conditioned, filled with the thousands of blinking red-and-green lights of expensive technology. There’s a photo of his dad with Barack Obama—signed, of course. His mom met Martha Stewart and apparently baked a cake with her. We walk through his two sisters’ rooms, his brother’s basement apartment, the pool out back, which has one of those infinity lines that makes it look like it goes straight out to the canal behind the house. His room has its own bathroom, complete with a damn Jacuzzi, quite a contrast to my crummy dorm. And yet he stays with ME on Friday nights.
Why does he feel the need to show off all of a sudden? I thought we were going to the beach. I would pull him aside and ask why he’s doing this, but I can’t find the right chance.
As far as I’m concerned, he can come back here from now on. I’m done being so charitable to someone who obviously doesn’t need my help and is happy to take advantage of someone so clearly beneath him.
Thankfully, it is now time to actually go to the beach. We load our gear into two cars, pull out of the driveway, and honk good-bye to Nick’s parents, who stand arm in arm on their giant porch, waving ecstatically.
My nerves about driving quickly dissipate once we hit the road and muscle memory takes over. I put Raffy in charge of figuring out which button controls the AC and which one will open the moonroof. He solves both dilemmas, and we are flying along some highway in minutes. The rushing air helps me step down from my anger.
“Fuck, did anyone know Nick had it made?” Franky asks, his head hanging out the window.
Anger’s back.
“I heard he had cash,” Jake says. But Jake always acts in the know, and rarely is he telling the truth. I may have to start referring to him as Pathological Spice.
“Bullshit!” Raffy calls him out. “Why? Because he wears Armani and always has new underwear? We all do. But fuck, he’s, like, a billionaire! We should make him start picking up the check at the diner.”
“Weird that he never really bragged about it until today, though,” I say, doing my best to stay as close to Nick’s car without rear-ending him.
“Yeah,” Raffy says. “Franky is always bragging about that shit, and his house could fit in Nick’s garage.”
“Fuck you!” Franky says. “My house is huge!”
“It’s not the size of the house, Franky. It’s the size of your dick that matters,” I say, as I turn the volume up on the radio. “And, regarding either, we’ll need photos or it didn’t happen.”
“My dick’s huge too!” he yells above Lady Gaga.
The parking lot for the beach is as empty as Penn Station was a few hours ago, just as I was hoping. We pull into two spots adjacent to the boardwalk and unload the gear lent to us by Nick’s Hollywood-movie parents. The beach itself, while slightly pebbly where the sand meets the surf, is beautiful. It stretches for miles in either direction without another soul to be seen. We spread out on blankets and collapse into the sand. As soon as we’re situated, Nick pulls a bowl and weed out of his bag, lights up, and takes a strong pull.
“Do your parents know you’re a pothead?” I ask as Luis accepts the bowl from him.
“It’s my dad’s stuff,” Nick coughs out. “That’s how you know it’s the BEST.”
So even Nick’s marijuana habit is covered by his glamorous family? No wonder he’s so bad in bed. He’s never expended a single ounce of effort to get anything in his whole life.
Nick cuddles up next to me and lays his head on my shoulder, draping his arm over my chest. And now I feel shitty for being angry. Because being rich is not something Nick did to personally spite me. But seriously, what the hell is he doing with the likes of us? We latchkey kids, poor students, shitty-family runaways?
“Here, baby,” Nick says, handing me the bowl, “take a big hit.”
“I’m supposed to drive us back,” I say.
“Weed doesn’t fuck up your driving!” Raffy shouts. “Suck on that shit or I’m taking it!”
“Come on, Chase,” Nick says. “That’s like two hours from now. One pull for your lil’ Nicky?”
I take a pull off the bowl and it goes down smoother than velvet. It takes three hits to get me blazing. This shit IS the best. When the weed is spent, so are we. Within five minutes, everyone is asleep. Everyone except me and Nick.
