“Yeah,” I say. “It’s hell out there.”
Grant doesn’t wait for my sentence to finish; he goes right back to dressing up.
“Just...Stand on that doormat right there. Don’t touch anything, especially the walls.”
Grant’s hair doesn’t look any more messed up than it normally does. No sweat or post-fuck sheen on his skin. When I take a big sniff for a hint of recent-sex stank, I come up with nothing. He must be heading to some Broadway party. A place where the swishy tenors are bragging about their motivation and whining about their expiring equity contracts and gossiping about who’s got photos of which chorus boy taped up next to their dressing room mirror, all while appetizers are passed around on doilies by community-theater-lead losers who think they stand a chance at getting a part in a great big Broadway show just by rubbing elbows with the theatrical elite.
Just the sort of party up-and-coming “talent” agent Gulliver Leverenz would have attended, it occurs to me, if he hadn’t up and disappeared two months ago. Little Gulliver. The last guy who fucked with me. If you ever find him, be sure to ask him how THAT worked out.
Grant’s place is a large studio, decked out like a French whorehouse you might find in
Moulin Rouge!
, complete with a queen-size bed stage center, covered in an array of colored, semi-transparent fabrics. Staring down on the bed from all four walls are headshots of Grant from probably the last ten years of his career. He’s leaning his chin on his hands and smiling full toothed here, sitting up against a brick wall in a loose hoodie that shows off his toned chest there. The two closets in the studio are wide open. The bed is too low to the ground to conceal anything beyond shoes. Even the bathroom door is open, everything in it in plain sight.
No. Christian isn’t here. Plan B it is, then.
“What are you looking at?” Grant asks, standing in the middle of his apartment and staring at me.
“Nothing. Just soaked to shit. I was heading down to Ritz and the fucking skies ripped open! And, being the closest gay I know, you lucked out with an unannounced visit!”
“Lucky me, indeed. Well, somebody up there must like you.” Grant smirks. “I’d be at
Mamma Mia!
right now if I hadn’t taken the night off for this Equity Fights AIDS dinner.”
“Always busy,” I say, returning the wink. “Can I borrow a towel?”
“I guess. Fuck! I need to carry an umbrella now? That’s going to be SO annoying. I abhor coat check.” He stomps past me, keeping his distance from my soggy shirt, and goes into the bathroom, slamming the door.
Actors. Jesus.
The bathroom faucet begins to roar. It sounds like he’s practicing some sort of speech. I guess I won’t be getting that towel. No biggie. It’s not why I came here. I tiptoe to a large antique dresser on the far side of his bed, which is covered in a pile of dirty clothes. It’s now or never. No. It’s just now.
“Why’d you ask if Christian was here?” he calls out.
My heart stops. I look over my shoulder. False alarm. Grant hasn’t left the bathroom. I finish up quickly and tiptoe back across the room to the kitchen, which is right next to the bathroom.
“Just wondering where he is, that’s all,” I say, peeling off my wet T-shirt and wringing it out over his kitchen sink. “He sort of disappeared a few hours ago.”
“Wish I could help you, hon. Maybe he’s spinning tonight? You try texting him?”
Grant comes out of the bathroom, wiping a streak of concealer from under his eyes. If he’s at all put off by me now standing shirtless in his kitchen, he’s too preoccupied with himself to show it. The asshole didn’t even bring me that towel I asked for. “How does my face look? Can you tell I just used spray tan?”
“Your concealer is all fucked,” I say, meeting him halfway between the kitchen and the bathroom. I use my pointer and middle finger to rub out an invisible glop, taking a lot longer than anyone would need to. “Just curious...How does someone get tan lines when they use spray tan?”
“Tan lines?”
“Mmhmm.” My eyes work their way down his body to his waist. “Morning, Starshine.”
“What? It’s dark out.”
Not the brightest ball of gas in the galaxy, is he? Guess I’ll have to spell it out.
“Christian showed me the cock shot you sent him this morning.”
His eyes, which were just admiring his own headshots on the wall, dart to meet mine. “He did?”
I’ve been wondering if Christian and Grant talked about our spoiled anniversary before, during, or after whatever happened here. But frankly, I don’t think Grant Majors is a good enough actor to play this dumb if he’d been informed of this morning’s drama.
So he didn’t know we were broken up when they got it on this afternoon? Cheeky. They’re BOTH two-faced—which must be really handy when they’re going down on each other. Wonder how they decide which of their four faces gets to do the sucking?
“Quite the hot little photo,” I say, shoving Grant up against the wall. His eyes squint shut, his face turns away from me. He must have heard stories about the lethal behavior of a scorned Brayden Castro—each of which, I’m proud to say, is a hundred fucking percent true. I can smell the fear on him. Bruises and cuts won’t look good under the spotlights. How will he explain it to his cast mates? His director? His agent and publicist? The crowd at this Equity Whatever dinner tonight? I love it. It’s been a while since I’ve felt this rush. Grant’s chin feels stubbly between my thumb and pointer finger as I stroke the sides of it, then open his eyes with my other hand. “Have to say I wasn’t so happy about it.”
Grant laughs awkwardly. He would easily lose in a fight. Wouldn’t stand a chance even if four of his dancer buddies were there to back him up.
“I was just messing around, Brayden. Don’t take it so seriously. He didn’t ask for it or anything. I mean, I must have sent that to like five guys this morning. As a joke, really.”
“Well, then how come you didn’t send it to me?” I pout. “Christian’s dick is a joke. Yours, not so much. Besides, Christian’s not even the one who thinks you’re cute. He thinks you’re too full of yourself. I’m the one who’s had a thing for you since that night we all met.” (All of this is at least partially true.)
Grant’s face transforms from panic to pleased. Of course the easiest way to an actor’s heart is through his ego. Now he’s interested. Honestly, I could never date someone like Grant, already so in love with himself that there’s barely room in his heart for a third
party. He could be cute, if you’re into that tiny-muscled theater queen thing—but this isn’t about attraction. It’s about revenge. On Christian. On Grant. And it starts right now.
“Brayden, are you flirting with me?” he asks.
My answer is a forceful kiss. I jam my tongue in between his lips. He offers no resistance.
“Brayden,” he says, breaking away. “I don’t know...”
“What? Is there a problem?” I back off, smiling just the slightest bit.
“Um...Christian?”
“Christian,” I repeat, and let the name hang there in the air for a moment before continuing, “will only know what I want him to know.”
Grant smiles and kisses my neck, the side of my chin, sucks on my ear. “Then no. There’s no problem.”
Huh. Here I am, shirtless in this queen’s kitchen, anticipating my very own private production of
Broadway Bares
. So far, this seduction has been a resounding success, and the funny part is that I never would have been so ballsy if I actually cared about hooking up with him. I’d have been shy, demure—coy, at best. And Grant Majors would never have given me the time of day. Deep down, beneath my spiny exterior, I’m kind of a pansy when it comes to guys, too afraid of getting hurt. Maybe if I sought
revenge more often, I’d get a lot more action. And Grant is cute, but he’s cocky as fuck. Always has been. To me. To everyone I’ve seen him interact with.
“Can you be late to your little party?” I say, walking my fingers up his chest.
“I’m going to blow your mind, get you off, and have you dressed again so fast your head will spin, sir.”
“Big promises,” I say.
“But,” he says, suddenly serious, “let’s just fold my clothes neatly on the chair. I don’t do wrinkles.”
Actors. Jesus.
He strips down in an unsexy fashion, taking exquisite care with how he unbuttons his sleeves and unzips his pants. I, on the other hand, tear off my remaining clothing and fling it against the wall. Interestingly, he no longer seems to care about potential water damage to his possessions. His dick looks even larger in real life. But, shit, I’m distracted. That’s not good. All the red and anger is blinding me so bad that I space out while this self-professed Broadway god does his best to make me shoot, riding me at hyper speed.
That’s a surprise too—I’m somehow the top in this show-stopping duet. Word amongst the theater queens and sluts (including Todd and the crew when they introduced us) is that Grant Majors is a total top. At first, when he was grinding into my dick, I thought maybe he was just teasing. Then when he started working me
inside him, I thought maybe he was versatile. Now, watching him go, there’s no question: he’s a card-carrying power bottom. No wonder Christian went after him the moment we called it quits.
And he loves talking dirty, which has never been a fondness of mine. But until I start cursing and belittling him, he can’t get it up, keeps giving me hints and asking me if he’s a dirty whore or a little bitch. Ordinarily, I might abstain, maybe even leave before sealing the deal—but come to think of it, there are a few choice phrases I’d like to throw Grant’s way right now.
“You little slut. You conniving, lying, cheating skank bitch.”
I must be a little too convincing with that one, because Grant stops his riding and asks me again: “You okay, sir?”
First off,
sir
? And what, exactly, is he worried about? That I’m suddenly guilty? That I might go and tell my pseudo-boyfriend and ruin whatever it is they’re up to on the side?
I snarl. “Don’t ask questions, you fucking whore. Just do what I tell you. If you’re lucky, I won’t tell everyone on the Great White Way how big of a bottom you are. What would they think of that?”
It still feels weird saying this shit, but you gotta do what you gotta do. The bad-cop talk is all it takes to push Grant over. He shoots everywhere, squealing like a puppy run over by a pedicab (yes, that’s the actual image going through my mind). He’s gasping and grinding his teeth. I’m trying to pull out. I don’t need to get off; I need to get OUT. But Grant’s hand secures me inside of him—the first bit of force he’s used tonight.
“I’m not done ’til you get off, sir,” he says. Again with this “sir” business. I feel like a fucking army drill sergeant, for the first and hopefully last time in my life.
“Do your friends know you like calling the guys you get fucked by ‘sir’?” I ask him, my chest heaving as he redoubles his efforts.
“No, sir! They’d never let me hear the end of it!” He’s smiling. He’s licking his lips. “Everyone thinks I’m a total top, sir!” And Christian thinks I’M crazy? I really don’t get the deal with this charade—like it’s somehow shocking and scandalous for a Broadway boy to be a big ol’ power bottom. Leave it to Grant Majors to feel the need to “stand out” by living a total lie. Clearly, he gets off on the subversiveness. Psycho.
“Maybe I should tell everyone at your show that you’re some fucking nelly bottom queen who begged me to seed him bareback? Post it on the Broadway Fanboy message boards?”
Grant pushes his face against mine, kissing me and talking on top of my mouth. “What if I told Christian you fuck around behind his back?”
Cute. From the bitch who just gave it to (or with today’s revelation, got it from) my ex.
Don’t worry, baby. Christian will know soon enough.
“Then I might have to punish you.”
Grant’s hard all over again. Amazing the power a few words can have. And all this time I’ve been working with my fists to get a reaction out of people!
“What if I did, Brayden? What if I told him all about how good you gave it to me?”
“I will ruin your life,” I play along. “Do everything in my power to see to it that you never see those big, bright stage lights again.”
“Oh God, YES, Brayden! Ruin me! Destroy me!” He’s hard and turning red again, and I’m pumping into him harder and faster. His head tilts back, his eyes bulging.
Not far enough back, though, to see my iPhone perfectly positioned on the dresser right past the bed, aimed to capture every second of our fuckfest. There’s over twenty minutes of tasty footage on there already and we’re still rolling.
“I’m close,” I gasp. Because I actually am. He knows what to squeeze and how to swivel. He locks his mouth on mine, pumping harder, bouncing up and down and whining through his clenched teeth. He shoots again. I shoot too. And my iPhone’s video camera is still shooting, shooting, shooting.
Grant turns to kiss me, but I’m already up and walking to the bathroom, dropping the condom on the floor and snatching my phone as I go to wash his shit and cum off of me. (For a bottom, he could do a better pipe-cleaning job.)
In the bathroom, I catch sight of my face in the mirror and rearrange my hair, which has finally dried. Am I really about to do this? Did I really just do what I think I did? Yes. And yes. I clearly need more to drink because the last thing I need now is to second-guess my gut. Anyone in my path gets destroyed tonight—myself included, if necessary. Go, team, go—to hell, if required. I finish washing and return to the bed, where Grant’s still glistening and heaving.
“How was my performance?” Ever the actor. He sidles up close for a kiss.
“Why don’t you tell me?” I ask as I spin my phone around and click the Play button.
Grant’s curtain call comes quickly after. I tell him I’m ready to send a copy of this ovation-worthy performance to the e-mail box of a friend. (Shane will be serving as this friend, since no one else in my crew would understand what I’m going through or help me with my latest life-ruining bender. Or want to see me naked.) I add that this unnamed friend will be ready to upload the video to XTube and then spread it across Facebook quicker than one of those “Oh my God, look at this video of you, LOL!” viruses. Shane probably won’t do this, but I would. Gladly.