Gulliver Takes Five (16 page)

Visions of my lumpy twin bed fill my head, as tantalizing to me as what I’m currently doing is to the guys below. But no, I’ve got miles to go before sunrise. Don’t wanna be too tired to do the shower show at 3 a.m. All fifteen dancers will be expected on the
main stage, where the guys in the DJ booth will throw a switch and water will come pouring out of the ceiling.

The water, by the way, is frigid, and after fourteen minutes of freezing frolicking, the resulting full-body chill doesn’t fade for many, many hours. Yet through it all, we’re smiling and dancing as sweat and ice-cold water rolls down our chests and stomachs, faces and legs. We dance and dance and dance. Because when you walk in the club, we’re the first thing you see across that vague, blurry fog of gay humanity that’s dancing and drinking and kissing. We’re above everyone else, fully in view. We are the face of the party. And if the owner of that face isn’t having the time of his life, what chance do YOU have of enjoying your evening?

I’m checking my hair and abs in a mirror ten feet from the bar, watching my moves and trying my best not to ask someone for the time. (On nights like this, the minute hand moves about as quickly as it does on my tattoo.)

An anonymous hand grabs my attention AND my balls, shooting an immediate, fierce pain straight to both of my heads. OW! Some of the other go-gos would kick the tugger in the face without bothering to look down, but I check just in case. And I’m glad I did.

Hello, lover...

Todd DiTempto, the promoter and host of FreakOut Fridays, stands beneath me, smiling and squeezing. Pain? What pain? It’s impossible to conceal a hard-on in the tiny excuse for underwear I’m wearing, and judging from the salacious smile on Todd’s face, he realizes that I’m sporting a semi as well.

In my own defense, no one would blame me for my junk’s blood-filled reaction. If Todd’s power and celebrity in gay New York City nightlife doesn’t get you hot and bothered, his muscles, perfect complexion, and killer smile will. Every go-go boy has taken a shot at going home with him, and though tons say they succeeded, anyone who’s been here as long as I have knows they’re bullshitting. It’s an impossibility, because Todd doesn’t shit where he eats. This fact doesn’t stop the gay grapevine that has reported Todd in the locker room bathroom, or around the corner in an alley, or back at his apartment in Hell’s Kitchen, with this dancer or that bartender. Anyway, what was I saying? Oh yeah, I’m now hard as a fucking rock.

I’m also not entirely sure that Todd knows my name.

“Hey, Todd, what’s up?” I ask, gently removing my balls from his palm and squatting down to his ear.

“Looks like you’re doing pretty okay for yourself,” he says, fanning his hands through the money in my armbands.

“There are some very generous benefactors on the floor tonight!”

“Uh-huh. You could probably teach some of the other go-gos a thing or two. They’re all bitching about how cheap those guys are. I bet they’d make more money if they took a few minutes away from those nightlong cigarette breaks to actually do what I’m paying them for.”

“Nah, they’re working too!” I say, even though I’m definitely lying for some of them. Specifically Nick (LI Spice), who hasn’t been
on the box once since he got here, leaving an empty surface that’s been taken over by drunken customers who are a liability for the club if they fall off and crack their skulls.

“Look at you trying to save their asses. You’re a good team player, bro. You interested in becoming dance captain?”

“What about Rafael?” I shout back. Rafael has been the dancing troupe’s fearless leader since he was hired, just a few weeks before I came aboard. And like me, he’s rarely, if ever, away from his assigned station.

“Well, he’s going on vacation for a few weeks and needs a fill-in. And hey, if you do a better job, maybe it can be yours full-time.”

This is beyond flattering, but not something I would ever do. Bros before bills. “I’ll fill in, but I don’t want to cause any drama in the ranks. A go-go’s only as good as his reputation, right? I’ll step down when he gets back, is that cool?”

Todd pulls back so he can show me the grin on his face. “No wonder they call you Friendly Spice.”

Okay, so even if he doesn’t know my actual name, the fact that he knows my nickname is an enticing development.

“Guess I should get back to doing what you pay me for?” I ask, winking.

“Wait!” he says. “I didn’t just come over here to grab your balls. Well. Maybe I did. But that’s not it. You working tonight?”

“I’m here ’til you close!”

“No, no. I mean tonight, like, Saturday night! A spot just opened up on the go-go squad for this one-time party I’m hosting. Pay’s great. Four hundred up front plus however many tips your armbands can carry.”

Those two words are music to my ears: “Pay’s” and “great.”
Ding ding ding!

I had planned on getting to sleep early, since I’m dancing again on Sunday and already feel like I’m about to drop dead from exhaustion—but there’s no way in hell I’d turn an offer like this down. Not when loans are past due and interest keeps growing.

“That sounds amazing!”

“They’ll provide the underwear, since there’s a sponsor, so you can keep that too. Drinks are free. It’ll be a blast. I’ll get you the address. Just show up at ten; you go up at eleven. Cool?”

“Totally cool!” I say, unable to mask my excitement. “Thanks, Todd!”

Todd plants a kiss right on my lips, holding it a split second longer than your average, everyday friendly kiss might last. But this is Todd DiTempto. He kisses who he wants to, how he wants to, and for however long he wants to. And it means nothing. Still. Wow. It was nice. “See you tonight, cutie.”

And then he’s gone, heading back into the crowd of heads and shirtless torsos.

Fuck. I’m going to be exhausted by the time this is through. But there’s still more money to be made tonight. I spin around, grab a bartender, and ask for a Red Bull. There’s two more hours of dancing ahead of me, and I’m going to need all the liquid energy I can absorb.

Raffy has discovered a fiver in my ass crack. Don’t ask me what his hand was doing back there. I didn’t even notice until he began to pull at the bill.

“Gurl, what you been eatin’?” he asks, yanking the bill out of the back of my tiny orange shorts. He waves it around in the air, gives it a good sniff, and crinkles his nose. “Yuck! You should probably leave THIS as the tip.”

Our waiter watches this exchange silently and then whispers, “You like more coffee, sir?” Our booth of ten explodes in laughter as he refills our cups and rushes back to the kitchen.

I take the bill out of Raffy’s hand and add it to the stack in my wallet. This means that I made $409 tonight, which might be the most I’ve ever made in a single evening. Celebration was called for, which is why I’ve actually ordered food this week instead of sitting pretty and mooching off the other guys.

Raffy (Boss Spice), David (Easy Spice), Jake (Fruity Spice), Luis (Spicy Spice), Franky (Cocky Spice), Nick (LI Spice), AJ (Joisey Spice), Conrad (Stud Spice), Matt (Flyin’ Spice), and I are the second coming of the Breakfast Club, except we’re all gorgeous, gay, exhausted, and have FAR better hair. And while we’re often
in trouble, that’s not why we’re here tonight. Every Saturday at around 3:30 in the morning, we put our clothes back on and leave the FreakOut Friday party at Splash, giggling, flirting, and skipping around the corner to the Hollywood Diner—our weekly haunt. The club stays open for another hour or so, with the last party people still dancing themselves into puddles of sweat. But we have our paychecks and wads of tips in hand, and we’re starving.

There’s nothing particularly glamorous about our tried-and-true breakfast stop, despite its name. Its title actually comes from a painting that stretches around the walls of the diner—a not-necessarily-beautiful depiction of those famous rolling Hollywood hills. But it’s open all night long, it’s right next to the club, and the waiters couldn’t care less about how loud we get and how obnoxiously we behave. The staff doesn’t even bat an eye when Jake lies on the table and shoves AJ’s face between his legs, or when Raffy mimes rimming his toasted whole-wheat bagel with butter, or when other late-night Splash party people run into the diner screaming one of our names, glitter and sweat flying everywhere. It’s home. We hold court in a large booth in the back corner, often surrounded by others from the party, talking about nothing but this party, past parties, and future parties. Added bonus: the blindingly bright overhead lights do no one’s complexion any favors, which is just what you need to make sure the guy you met in the blinking darkness of the club is worth taking back home. And the diner is open 24/7, which means we can stay here as long as we want.

“Did you guys get a visit from Palpatine tonight?” Nick asks, eyes rolling as he sucks up his vanilla milkshake.

“Hell yeah, girl. He tipped me a twenty,” Luis says, dipping a french fry in gravy. “He also asked me to marry him. But only after he defeats the rebel Jedis.”

The peanut gallery howls with laughter, minus this particular peanut. It would be so disingenuous to join in, considering that there’s that hundred still tucked away in my wallet. “He’s harmless,” I say. “And he’s basically bankrolled this breakfast, queens.”

“Better than harmless, didn’t you hear he gave me a twenty?” Luis says. “But man does he have a set of skeezy eyes! If he wasn’t tipping, I’d have Todd call security.”

Maybe you should try speaking to him
, I think. But I’ll leave this potentially toxic topic alone. Many a morning-night has turned into an awkward affair because I went to bat defending the older gentlemen who are the sole reason we leave the club with more than our paychecks. These arguments usually end in laughter and a group conclusion that I’m a daddy-fucker, getting extra cash from the gentry on the side. Whatever. We all need this money, otherwise we wouldn’t be here. Go-go boys fall somewhere between janitors and post office workers on the respect spectrum. Surely each of my fellow Spice Boys has gotten plenty of shit about what he does to pay the bills. I’m not about to turn around and disrespect somebody else who is equally undeserving of such scorn. Unlike my scantily clad brethren, I’m actually related by blood to plenty of people who HAVE earned the kinds of low blows my boys are so liberally lobbing at Bruce. I will store up all my shit-talking venom for those who actually deserve it, thank you kindly.

At 6, the sun makes its grand return to Manhattan outside the window, spilling warm, early pink-orange light onto Sixth Avenue. The drunken clusters of boys in torn tank tops and tight jeans have transformed into duos of old women walking their dogs, paper cups of coffee clutched in their free hands and the Saturday-morning paper under their arms. I’m just about ready to go down for the count.

My plans for the day are as follows: Go home. Shower. Jack off to the memory of Todd kissing me. Sleep. From there, we’ll see. If I have to work again tonight, I should probably preserve what little strength I’m able. It won’t be pleasant, but I can pull it off. The change of scenery will be nice—new faces to stare at, new lights and projections, new music and drag queens. If I’m lucky, all of this change will give me the energy it takes to dance without falling asleep on my feet like a horse and plummeting into the crowd below.

“Chase. Snap out of it, sister!”

It’s Rafael, slapping me in the face with a fry.

“Yeah?” I blink a few times and stare down at my uneaten BLT. I take a bite, but I’m not really hungry. Plus, AJ’s burger melt looks a hundred times better. I’ll have to order it next time.

“Girl, wake up. Eat up. Pay up. We’re going to the beach.”

“I hope you all have a lovely time.” I yawn, taking another bite. “I’ll be sure to dream of sandy ass cracks in your honor.”

“Riiiiiight,” Nick says. “You’re coming, Chase. And you don’t have a say in the matter!”

“Aw, wifey’s putting her foot down,” Franky pouts, earning an angry glare from Nick.

Okay. So Nick and I slept together a few times. Or maybe a few more than a few times. Usually when we’re both drunk, which allows us to pretend it didn’t happen. Well, it allows ME to pretend it didn’t happen. This, of course, leaves Nick as the braggart who obviously clued in all the other boys. I don’t really dignify their jibes with an answer either way. He’s not that good, to be honest. He’s one of those pretty boys—short, with a butt that’s way too big for his body (in a good way). His Long Island accent, complete with “dawgs” and “cawfee,” can be cute sometimes. But he knows he’s gorgeous and likes to lie back and let you do all the work. The time he puts in at the gym and the willpower it takes to eat nothing but fresh fruit and salads sans dressing counts as his invested effort. He enjoys your mouth, hands, and dick, and you enjoy the fact that it’s your mouth, hands, and dick that he’s enjoying. That’s it. Much like how he hardly works during his shift, he barely musters any effort between the sheets. I only keep doing it because he relentlessly hounds me into letting him crash at my place and I sympathize with his reluctance to get back on a train bound for Long Island at 5 in the morning. What Princess wants, Princess gets.