Gulliver Takes Five (29 page)

This will drive me insane. If Rowan’s doing this, then I am too
.

If we’re over, then we’re really, truly over this time. No more gray area
.

It’s finished
.

“I’ll be there,”
I text back
. “Meet at West 4th and we can take the train together.”

“Hot ;) see you soon, sexy.”

I drop my phone on the futon and my shorts on the floor. And I think
, What the fuck? I’ll help myself to one of Rowan’s jockstraps.
The one I grab is brand-new—pure white, traditional sports type. That’ll work wonders
.

Have your fun, Rowan. Because I’M gonna have a blast
.

This night already sucks. Nothing beats a one-hour train ride when it comes to sucking the fury out of you. Now I’m standing outside this sex party and seriously considering turning around
and going home. The rain is back to its old tricks, and I’m soaked for the second time today. I’m dying to get out of these sodden threads; then again, I guess a sex party would facilitate that nicely.

The location is a brownstone in Brooklyn, pretty standard for sex parties in this city. I read Larry Kramer’s
Faggots
and had to laugh as I took in the tale of pre-AIDS-crisis sluttery that existed in this city back in the seventies. Apparently, a guy could get head or get fucked basically anywhere: the docks, the streets, any bar or club. Not so any longer, friends. If you wanna get down and dirty with a handful of similarly bodied individuals, you’re headed to some sort of private property. The Board of Health is more than happy to shut down any actual business that places exposed pubes so precariously close to open containers of booze.

I have been standing under a tree on the corner for ten minutes. I had planned on going inside, but now I’m not. Why? Didn’t I want this? Yes, I DID—but now I don’t, for some reason. Guilt? Laziness? In all honesty, I wish I’d stayed home instead. Servy would have come back sooner or later. We could have fought or fucked—or both at the same time. (We’ve done it before.)

But I’m here. I traveled longer than I should have, WAY too far to just turn around and head home. I made my bed, and now I’m going to get fucked in it.

Yes. I’m doing this.

The door has a sliding grate at the same level as my eyes. I knock and the grate slides open with a squeak.

“Password?” asks a tough, deep, throaty voice on the other side.

“There’s a password? Uh...It didn’t say so on Grindr.”

For fuck’s sake. Tell me that he’s not going to let me in without this magical password. Tell me I’ll have made TWO ridiculously long, fruitless journeys in the span of twenty-four hours.

“Oh, fuck it, you’re cute,” says the voice. “Hold on a sec.”

The grate squeaks and slams shut as the door swings open.

Brendan has been rubbing his leg against mine for the entirety of this train ride, occasionally leaning over to lick my ear. I’m not saying this is a bad thing, but it’s not half as exciting as it should be. I’ve gotten harder sitting across from Brendan at the table in his family’s kitchen, engaging in coffee talk while we wait for his parents to go elsewhere so we can strip down and get crazy
.

Could it be that I’m feeling guilty? I shouldn’t. I know Rowan is out getting some, and he never bothered to let me know he was off to get laid. But I AM going to a sex party without texting him, which is in direct violation of not-quite-boyfriend rules. These rules aren’t that complicated. Anyone who’s been in a relationship—or whatever—for as long as we have develops their own body of laws by which they agree to comply. For us, it’s like this: we can play together, or we can play separately. If we play apart, we must let the other know in advance, and it has to be somebody we both know well enough
.

We haven’t really put this into action in months, except with Gulliver. He was new in town; he had that sheen about him. Rowan and I couldn’t wait to give him a proper welcome to the city, and in many ways, he was the perfect third, because there was never any danger that he was secretly into one of us more than the other or that either Rowan or I would fall for him. That’s always the risk. Theoretically, an open relationship is supposed to free you up so that lusting after a third party doesn’t tear you apart. But that possibility never really goes away. Sometimes I’ve watched Rowan going at it with one of our guest stars and wondered if he was enjoying it more than he enjoyed being with just me. He must, or else, why are we doing it?

Brendan’s hand finds its way between my legs, a bold move considering how packed this train is. At least it hasn’t broken down. We’re making great time, already in Brooklyn and five stops from our final destination. He kneads his hand in deep and finally my dick springs to attention, waylaying my fears that it is permanently down for the night
.

He really is cute, with his boyish face, the giant dimples that make him look seventeen
.

“Have you been to this party before?” I ask
.

“Oh, for sure,” he says, ramping up his sexy voice, closing his eyes halfway, rubbing harder between my legs. “You’re going to love it.”

“Yeah?” I ask, trying as best as I can to tease back, even though it feels weird. “Tell me about it.”

“Sixty to a hundred guys. All gorgeous. They check you at the door, and if you aren’t cute enough, cut enough, or hung enough, they send you packing. Condoms and lube and toys and slings as far as the eye can see. Live DJ, which is SO much better than the iPod most sex parties in the city have.”

“Most sex parties? I didn’t know you were a regular,” I say, letting my eyes drift down to his hand
.

“Definitely. I love them.”

It occurs to me that I met Brendan at the last sex party I went to, the one I went to with Rowan. The last time we were ever officially boyfriends
.

“How many have you been to?”

“This month?” Brendan asks, smiling
.

He keeps talking, and I watch the tunnel through the windows opposite where we are sitting. Three more stops. Two more. One
.

We have arrived
.

“Come on!” Brendan hops out of the seat and makes a run for the door. I follow and let him guide me through the station, back aboveground. Shit, it’s pouring again. We run, heads down, across the street
.

“This way!” he screams. “Almost there!”

I am drenched, my legs sore as hell. The rain is freezing cold, and my clothing is sticking to me
.

“This better be good, bitch!” I scream, laughing
.

“It’s worth it, trust me!” he screams back, grabbing my hand and pulling me along
.

Four blocks later, we get to the building. Brendan pounds on the door, yelling. It’s a good thing he does—the music inside is blaring so loud, the rain outside so heavy, that the doorman wouldn’t hear anything that registered below the decibel level of a low-flying jet. A slate in the door opens, Brendan shouts a password, and we’re in
.

I am bathed in shifting colored lights. This is already unlike any sex party I’ve ever been to. Staring down a long hallway, I can see the entrance to the main play area, but with the mixture of blasting music and flashing lights, any normal person might assume it was the portal to a regular dance party
.

The sex parties I’ve been to are really nothing more than some rich dude’s loft with a lot of guys fucking. This is a full-on production. I guess all of Brendan’s experience has paid off after all
.

The doorman has us strip down so he can inspect us prior to entry. I quickly comply just so I can get out of my sopping-wet clothing. He gets in a couple more grabs than he actually needs, but it’s no problem, considering what I’m about to dive into. Brendan whips off his underwear to reveal his massive dick—a nearly useless tool, since he’s a total bottom. Like giving a fish a bicycle. We place our
personal effects in large Hefty bags and allow the doorman to scribble numbers on our arms so we can reclaim our stuff later
.

“Have fun in there,” he says, unashamedly checking us out from head to toe (but mostly focusing just where you’d expect). “If you get caught going bare, your ass is out on the street. Cool?”

“Yup!” Brendan says, walking quickly toward the door. “Come on, Servy!”

Maybe it’s the lights. Maybe it’s the music. Or maybe it’s the freezing-cold rain that’s still dripping off my hair down to my now-unclothed body. Whatever it is, I am now excited, both internally and externally
.

Let Rowan have his fun, see if I care. I’ll worry about him later. Or better yet—maybe I won’t
.

For now, my quasi-pseudo-ex-boyfriend needs to be the LAST thing on my mind. His stupid face eating all my food and getting high and whatever. UGH. I’m practically over him already. Good riddance!

The sex party was something you’d see on one of those Sausage Party porn sites they advertise all over XTube. About a hundred guys. All beautiful, most hung, and buff, with chiseled muscles and rock-hard abs and asses...

Plus DJ Christian Robert!

Uh, yeah...can’t forget him. Anyway, I spent my first hour and a half there all alone, against the wall, sort of watching what was going on. I didn’t participate. I kept on wanting to leave. At least until...speak of the devil—

Hey! Be nice!

It’s an expression!

Well, I don’t like it. I’m not the devil; I’m a saint
.

Okay, speak of the saint. So guess who walks into the party rock hard, in a jockstrap, with his little VIP bottom boy in tow...?

Hey, be nice. You’ve fucked him too
.

True. Sorry, Brendan. Anyway. I couldn’t get hard. Couldn’t get into it. I was having a pretty shitty time, especially considering I spent like half a week’s worth of weed to get in. So when I spotted my possibly-ex-pseudo-boyfriend across the room plowing Brendan...

What can I say? I love a good gathering of gorgeous gays. And hello, it’s a sex party! It sure as hell wasn’t MY fault you couldn’t get into it!

It actually kinda was, indirectly. But yeah. Servando was plowing Brendan while Brendan was sucking off two other guys...

And?

And THAT got me...excited.

It sure did! AND?

And...I joined in. I walked across the room, got in front of Brendan, and started face-fucking him.

You weren’t mad that I went there without permission?

For a sec. But I went without approval from you, either. For exactly the same reason. And you know what? Actually...I was just happy to see you.

Aw! Me too. About you! ’Cause, believe it or not, I didn’t even recognize you for a few minutes, because I was...um...busy. Then I looked up, and there you were, giving me that sexy grin. The one where you lift one of your eyebrows, and your eyes squint, and the right corner of your mouth curls up. And after the day I had, and the fight, and thinking we might never be together after tonight...Well, I just kinda fell for you all over again
.