Gulliver Takes Five (37 page)

The house lights are still on, exposing the club for what it actually is: an abandoned warehouse. Sound checks are in progress, with technicians laying and taping down wires. A speaker next to my head explodes in deafening static and whining. “Sorry!” someone
calls out from across the room. The diva nobody, whatever her name is, is practicing her choreography. She’ll probably end up lip-synching, like most club acts do. The lighting guys are setting up premade patterns of shifting colors. I move between the three levels, oversee the construction of the VIP area on the top floor, and tell the bartenders about the porn-inspired drink specials (of course there’s one for Marty Brayden).

Tonight was going to be so amazing, and once again, Gulliver has found a way to ruin it. First my party on Fire Island, now this. Thanks so much, bro. Really great way to show your fucking appreciation for everything I did for you.

Michael finds his way to me around 9:30 and is all hugs and smiles, like he didn’t just threaten my nightlife career hours earlier. He’s probably completely forgotten. Although he overreacts to even the smallest potential problem, once it’s solved, it’s like it never happened.

“DiTempto! Get us some shots!”

What I’d like to do is take a shot at his fucking face. He’s smiling a shit-eating grin, clapping me on the shoulder. He gestures out to the empty space and yells, “Tonight, we make fucking HISTORY!”

At least Xavier will see that I helped make this happen. That’s the one good thing. Even with my personal life as chaotic as it currently is, I’m here, throwing one hell of a party. And just because I can’t have a good time doesn’t mean the rest of gay New York should suffer. Tonight, they party.

“So,” I say, smiling at Drama. “You said something about shots?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely! What’s your fancy?”

“Cuervo and Patrón would be perfect.”

Blur. Everywhere. Lights and banging sounds. Drinks and more drinks. This party is awesome? Think so. Hear Drama laughing his ass off.

DJ needs the AC turned up, diva that he is. Bartenders are out of Stoli. Barback missing. Barback found. Bathroom attendant leering at customers at the urinals. Bathroom attendant fired. Extra barback promoted to bathroom attendant. Music blasting. Ke$ha. Beyonce. Britney. Gaga. Ke$ha again. ‘NSync? Think so. LOVE it.

Go-go Chase is cute. Go-go Chase is flirting with me. I am letting him flirt. I am flirting back. I’m kissing him. He’s huge. He’s not my type? He works for me? His breath tastes good. I burp quietly and blow it over my shoulder so he doesn’t smell it. I’m smooth like that. He tries to suck my dick. I stop him. No. Not here. I know not to do that here.

Or at all anymore. Right?

Go to VIP. Chase loves it. So posh, yeah? Yeah. No Gulliver yet. Er, Marty. Whoever. Slut. More drinks. Hiccup. Burp. Stomach gurgle. Sounds like someone is drowning in my belly. Talk about something with go-go Chase. Flirting? Sure. Yeah, I’ll take him home.

I want to be home.

Shit. Gulliver. Marty.

Drama laughing. Drama screaming. Drama pulling me across the room. Gulliver. Fuck Gulliver. Shaking his hand. SHAKING HIS HAND. Fists sweaty. Hands trembling. Still smiling. Blinking. Not sure what to say. Something. Nothing. Moment passes. Maybe said something? Maybe said nothing. Meet other porn stars. Cuter in person. Fuck. Get me out of here.

Blur.

Chair.

Blur.

Phone.

Blur.

Back downstairs, now on the main stage. So many blurry faces. Thousands of them. Christ. Introducing the porn boys. Smack Gulliver’s ass as he passes. Leave before he looks back. Through the crowd. SO many boys. So much money. So fucking drunk.

Graham? Nah. Can’t be. Now I’m imagining people I haven’t seen in years. Don’t want to see anybody else. Whether they’re really here or not. Must. Go.

Find go-go Chase. Kiss him. Pull him out the door. eWrecksion fades away. Cab door opens. Take us home, driver. Get me the fuck out of here.

Chase is naked and whimpering. I’ve got my arms around him. All part of the plan.

Except, he’s crying. Not part of the plan.

Rubbing that weird pocket watch tattoo, which I’ve only just learned is inspired by his dead grandfather’s actual pocket watch. A heartbreaking backstory. I pull his naked body close to mine and kiss him on his trembling lips. His stray tear reaches my tongue.

We’re not going to fuck tonight.

It was my idea—we each share something personal. It seemed intimate, kind of sexy. A good way to get to know each other—actually, an excuse.

This is the way it played out in my mind:

I shake Marty Brayden’s hand. He looks at me. “Help me,” he says. “Todd. Get me out of here.”

I do.

Señor yips with delight as Gulliver rushes into the apartment. They roll around on the floor, Gulliver giggling, Señor panting, both tongues wagging, and I just watch, marveling at how right it all feels.

“I don’t know what I was thinking, Todd,” Gulliver says later, scarfing pizza, drinking hot cocoa. For some reason, his hair is wet. He’s got a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, like I just rescued him from drowning. Well. Maybe I did.

“You weren’t thinking, I guess. But porn, seriously?”

“I was so lost. I didn’t know how to tell you. And this guy who runs the website...Well, he said it was just one video, and no one would ever see...”

“Shh,” I say. “It doesn’t matter.”

Gulliver looks at me. “There’s something different about you, Todd.”

“Nah, bro,” I say. “Just happy you’re home.”

“No...” He looks me right in the eyes. “You look...different. Todd. Are you okay?”

I say, “It’s nothing you need to worry about, Gullzo. It’s my shit.”

“But I do,” he says, taking my hand. “I do need to worry. Todd, you’ve done so much for me. You saved me tonight. From having
to go back to that place. From doing something that’s going to haunt me for the rest of my life, on stage in front of thousands of guys. Someone would have seen me. Recognized me. My life here would be over. I can’t count all the things you’ve done for me over the years. So please. Let me, for once, return the favor. Let me be here for you.”

“Okay,” I say. I’m choking up. I’m crying. I realize I’ve been aching to tell someone—well, not just someone. Him. My best friend. I can’t go through this alone.

I wrestle with it for a minute. Maybe more.

Then I tell him.

And at approximately the same time, my world starts spinning again
.

But.

This is what actually happens:

Instead of Gulliver, it’s Chase.

He wants to fuck. More than wants to—he’s begging for it. Willing to do it bare, even, if that’s what it takes.

There’s no cocoa.

I am drunk enough, and horny enough, that I really don’t care at this point who knows what about Todd DiTempto. Tell a go-go
boy. Let him tell the other go-go boys about it. Let it spread through the nightlife world like they’re playing a game of gay-sex telephone. If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll only have to have this conversation once; let gay gossip take care of the rest and that’s the end of my career as the up-and-coming golden boy of the New York gay party scene.

But didn’t we already establish that I’m not lucky?

Gulliver looked right through me like he was a complete stranger tonight. I guess that’s what he is. Whoever this Marty Brayden guy is, I don’t know him.

Chase, on the other hand, is a sweet kid.

I want him. I want to feel like my old self.

Unfortunately, that means telling him. My mistake: suggesting he tell me something personal first.

I was planning to be the emotional drunk tonight, but Chase has that covered. He’s talking about his mom in prison, his grandfather’s death. Heavy shit. “I’m sorry, I don’t usually get so worked up about this stuff,” he sniffs. “I guess it’s just been a while since I actually talked about it out loud.” I pull him in tight and let him weep and shake in my arms.

“It’s okay, bro,” I tell him. “Let it out.”

And he really does.

At the same time, I am giving myself the opposite advice.
Keep holding back, DiTempto
...

I stroke the back of his head, shush him. When he’s done crying, he says, “Wow. Thanks for listening. It’s been a long time since anyone did that for me.”

“No big,” I respond.

“Now it’s your turn to tell me something.”

I nod. I reach for his underwear, crumpled on the floor. I hand them to him.

We were supposed to fuck tonight, but I can’t do that now. He’s too exposed. Too vulnerable. Too naked—emotionally, that is. He’s just a kid, really, and there’s nothing sexy about this interaction. Despite my recent muscle loss, I’m still a good deal larger than this boy, making it all too clear who is the comforter and who is the comfortee. I console him, because that’s what he needs. He’s just the latest Root Beer Tapper customer to walk into the bar after all the others left. I’ve done my job, but he can’t return the favor. That’s not how this works.

I’ll never be able to fuck him. Once I take on this role with somebody, our relationship changes. Mikey Drama. Irwin. Servando and Rowan. I’m the guy they come to when something’s gotta get done. And done it gets.

It’s not so bad, being needed—not usually, that is.

There was a time when Gulliver and I might have had sex, a long, long time ago. And then that first time I saw him flipping out over some text his boyfriend sent him. Tears and drinks. The door was closed on fucking, leaving us to explore a more fruitful path: best friendship.

A lot of these relationships are essentially one-way streets. Anything but give and take. But not Gulliver. He’s seen me at my weakest. He’s been there when I needed him. He’s taken care of me as much as I’ve taken care of him—well, almost. Maybe it’s selfish, but right at this second, I don’t care about Gully’s self-destructive porno bender. I don’t care how Brayden and the other guys feel about being betrayed. I care about having my best friend back in spite of it all, because I need him.

Yeah. This time it’s ME with the need.

“What’re you giving me these for?” Chase asks, taking the dangling skivvies. “I thought we were gonna fuck.”

“Are you really in the mood to fuck after those waterworks?”

Chase shrugs. “I guess I’m just tired. Like I said, I didn’t sleep last night.” He yawns, then shakes it off, like he’s trying to muster some energy. “But I still want to! Come on. What did you want to say?”

“How about we save talking and fucking for the morning, and go do what the night was made for?”

“I thought that WAS fucking,” Chase says sleepily as I help him step into his briefs. “Okay, but in the morning, it is ON.”

I nod in agreement, knowing full well that nothing will happen.

I get Chase a glass of water and walk him to my bedroom. I turn the AC on low, filling the room with a soothing hum. He slips into the sheets, and I tuck him in tight, kiss him on the forehead.

“Are you coming to bed?” he asks, weakly.

I will be sleeping on the couch tonight, but he doesn’t need to know that. “In a few, bro. Just gotta feed Señor.”

“Thank you, Todd,” Chase says, eyes already closed. He is lightly snoring before I’ve even closed the door.

What a fucking night. No—what a fucking summer. My head is spinning, and not just from all the caffeinated booze Drama poured down my throat. I don’t know how I manage to take care of people in this state; I can barely take care of myself. But somehow, I do. More than manage, actually—I succeed with flying colors. At least, that’s what they think.

I’m good with people. When they’re around, I function. I thrive. It’s being alone I have to watch out for. When there’s no one but me to take care of, that’s when I don’t know what the fuck to do.

I switch on a lamp, filling the living room with warm yellow light. Señor hops up from his doggy bed and skips to me, his tail shaking excitedly. I pick him up in my hands and take a whiff of him. He’ll need a bath soon, but in the grand scheme of things, this slutty pooch has the easiest problems to solve. A pill here. A bath there. Man’s best friend, indeed—one I will never discover
has secretly been doing porn under a false name or fucking my good buddy’s ex and lying about it. Thanks to Señor, I never come home to an empty apartment. And of all those who require my constant attention, he doesn’t leave me feeling taken advantage of. I don’t think I’d take care of myself half as well if I didn’t know Señor was depending on me.