Gulliver Takes Five (7 page)

I drift off and am only startled awake when the road changes under the cab. We are on the Brooklyn Bridge, I think. The familiar Manhattan skyline disappears behind me, the far shorter and stranger buildings of Brooklyn rising up in front. Somewhere in this place I’ve only visited once (with Christian, the irony) is my slutty ex.

Oh, Christian. It didn’t have to be this way—did it? What went wrong with us? We were so compatible. So happy. Right from that very first night.

Okay, so maybe I checked your e-mail a couple times after you used my laptop and forgot to sign out. Who wouldn’t? And yes, I looked at your phone this morning, and that one other time you went to the bathroom and left it on the couch. I only had a moment to scroll through texts and look for incriminating names
and phrases before I heard the toilet flush and had to set it right back down where I’d found it. But again, who wouldn’t, given the chance? You could’ve password-locked your phone if you were THAT worried. A guy’s got to watch his back, particularly in New York. And you’ve just proven that I wasn’t watching it hard enough, despite my efforts.

The cab stops.

“Here,” the driver mumbles. “Twenty-five dollars.”

I tip him on my way out. He rips the cash from my hand and speeds away as I close the door, proceeding to run red lights to make up for whatever time he lost carting my ass to Bumfuck, Brooklyn.

I’m alone again, just like I’ve been all fucking night. Just like I’ve been for most of my fucking life.

FUCK. Someone get me vodka before I start an emo band. I HAVE to find Christian. Punch him until the anger comes back—’cause, trust me, fury beats sadness and all the other emotions I’ve been trying to suppress since this morning. Rage is all consuming, leaving no room to feel anything else.

Fuck you, Christian. I bet you don’t feel a single twinge of ANYTHING. Must be nice.

There’s only one light shining on this dead-end street. It’s coming from a three-floor brownstone with the kind of stoop on which you’d sit and smoke cigars with your immigrant neighbors. The illumination peeks out from a side entrance, so that’s where I head.
Beyond the door, I hear the murmur of deep bass and not much else. Flashing light seeps out from underneath and paints the tips of my shoes. I knock because I can’t find a doorbell.

A plate window at the top of the door slides open and I’m looking at a set of eyes. Is this a fucking speakeasy? Where’s the hooch?

“Yeah?” the eyes ask.

“Sexplosion,” I say quietly, more out of embarrassment than secrecy. (This, by the way, is the worst password I’ve ever heard.)

But the code works and the door opens, giving way to a dark then bright then dark again corridor. The music is unbelievably loud, and the man pulls me inside so he can close the door again. The musty smell that fills my nostrils is not what I expected, and I can’t tell if the heavy, dank stink has always been here or if it’s a byproduct of the activities that are happening somewhere deeper inside.

“Take off your shirt and pants, please.”

If only guys were always this direct! My instinct is to protest—but at this point, what does it matter? I do what the doorman asks and submit myself to a “discretionary door exam.” He’s being paid to make sure every guy who enters this brownstone is hot enough for the other hot guys already inside—that I am either buff or toned and trim and that my dick isn’t undersized. He must not be making much, because he is milking this body-check for everything it’s worth, taking the one fringe benefit that came along with the gig.

And I, of course, am letting him.

“Sixty dollars,” he says, opening a cash box.

“I don’t get a discount for being cute?” I joke.

“That IS the discount. Sixty.”

Highgay robbery! At least I’m investing in catching my asshole boyfriend literally with his pants down (or off and checked at the door, rather). “How is it in there?”

He looks up from the cash box and smiles in a way that makes me shiver. “Un-fucking-believable, buddy. You’re gonna have a great time. Condoms are on all the tables. Lube too. Water sports in the showers in the back room past the main area. If you get caught going bareback, you’ll be ejected immediately.”

He scribbles a number on my hand with a black marker, a number that coincides with the shopping bag that now holds all of my clothing, including my underwear. I am then left to stumble through the dark hallway on my own as the next guest knocks on the door behind me.

How will I look naked, beating the shit out of Christian? I doubt the crowd would take kindly to me using my iPhone to record the grand climax of tonight’s manhunt. Are Servando and Rowan still here? This won’t be the first time they’ve seen me unleash my inner hounds on a bitch.

The hall opens up on a two-story room, which is probably the living room of whoever owns this place. Couches, chairs, and any items of value have been cleared out in advance, the floor
covered in blue tarp. Above me is a wraparound balcony and the second floor that shows what this room probably should look like—portraits and a grand piano, tapestries and coats of armor. Robyn’s “Call Your Girlfriend” is blasting, competing as best it can with the many entangled couplings, triplings, quadruplings, and quintuplings getting it on in every corner and on every remaining surface.

Hands and the men attached to them find their way to me quickly. I’m too busy searching the room for Christian to care. Unfortunately, only so many faces are in view, what with so many others being buried in assholes, between legs, pushed into chairs and walls. I’ll never find him unless I go from pairing to pairing and pry them apart.

Which I will actually do. Because, hey! Look at that! I’m angry again. I’m pissed at the guy who’s started sucking my limp (well, now kinda limp) dick. At the couple sloppily rim-sixty-nining right in front of me, preventing me from going farther into the room. And I’m angry at Christian for dragging me all the way out here to drop trou (and sixty big ones) just to humiliate him. I’ve already cock-blocked dozens at one skeezy sex party tonight. Do I have to cock-block everyone here too?

I would’ve come here with Christian. If he’d just sat me down and told me monogamy wasn’t his thing. For him, I’d have made an exception; I’d have been willing to separate sex and love, even if it took some getting used to. But clearly, I wasn’t worth enough for him to try.

He’s dead.

He is so dead.

And he is standing right next to me.

Christian is fully dressed. All the way up to that tie he once left at Grant Majors’s apartment. God, it feels like years ago.

“Brayden?”

He’s spinning at a turntable. And the whole room is spinning now too as it dawns on me:

He’s the motherfucking DJ.

Morning, Starshine!

And now I’ve forgotten how to speak.

“What are you doing here? Besides getting blown.”

I am? Oh, right. Well—not anymore. I don’t mean to push the guy off me as hard as I do, but it works. He’s only flat on his ass for a few seconds before he’s off to find the next cock to gobble.

“Huh. I didn’t really figure you for the sex-party type.”

“I’m not,” I manage. The truth.

Christian steps away from his table to get closer to me. “Oh, so there’s some other explanation for why you’re standing here naked with some creep’s mouth on your dick?”

Fuck right there is—but I don’t have time to tell him right now.

“What...What are YOU doing here?” I sputter.

“What does it look like?” He doesn’t need to say much else, but he says it anyway: “I’m the DJ. Well, I was. I asked if I could cut out a little early tonight. I wanted to stop by your place and maybe clear up all the bad blood from this morning.”

“Shit,” I say. But he doesn’t hear me.

“Did Servando and Rowan tell you I saw them?”

Fuck me.

“Yeah. They did.”

Now it makes so much sense why Servando and Rowan didn’t detect the seriousness of the situation when they reported my ex’s whereabouts. And now I’m crying again. Christian notices, and his face softens, his anger and confusion disintegrating.

“Are you okay? What’s going on? Why are you naked?” He has his arms around me. He’s moving in to kiss me. “I’m sorry about this morning. It was early, I had a hangover. I didn’t mean to call you crazy. It just freaked me out to see you with my phone, and the card...I always do this when things get serious. I do something stupid that fucks it all up.”

I pull away and shake my head. Because I’M the one who fucked it all up. Big time.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were DJing at a sex party?” I ask, not even bothering to wipe the tears now drenching my face.

“I didn’t know ’til this afternoon. I’m subbing for a guy who missed a flight back from Miami. And what does it matter? I’ve spun at The Cock, Rawhide, The Eagle...Is there a difference?”

I look around at the men who are having far too much fun to care about what’s happening a few feet away from them. Christian’s right. There is little difference between the bars he listed and this party. In fact, there are probably fewer people having sex here than there tonight, and here, they’re a lot better looking.

“Nothing. I just didn’t know. Have you been here all night?”

“Since the doors opened at eleven,” he says, checking his watch.

Which is about the time I went banging into Grant’s apartment.

This is too much. This is all too much and I can’t think straight and I can’t handle it.

“Check my phone if you want—Grant and I never hooked up, never talked about hooking up. I don’t even like the guy! Totally self-centered prick. I only talk to him because YOU like hanging out with him. I’ll delete that Broadway slut’s number from my phone, you can watch me!”

I’m shaking my head. While Christian’s proposed gesture might have worked this morning, now it’s much too late.

“I just...” he starts, then starts again. “I’ve been thinking about you all day. I wanted to text you and apologize, but my phone’s been dead since this morning, and you have my charger. I ran into Grant earlier, which I guess you should know. He had my tie, and he offered to let me check my e-mail at his place so I could try and line up a gig for tonight. I almost e-mailed you then, but I thought that would be impersonal. Then I had to run to pick up this check so that I’d have enough money to—well, I was gonna go get you some flowers and then come by and see if you were home. I know it’s corny. But it IS our anniversary. Or, it was, anyway. Before we let that stupid fight ruin it.”

He’s rambling. It’s adorable. My heart is breaking.

I can’t tell him. I don’t want to tell him. And I won’t. He’ll hear it all from someone else—EVERYONE else, most likely. Surely someone managed to save that video I uploaded to Facebook, long before they yanked it down (and probably deleted my account for such an obscene violation). Even if he doesn’t lay eyes on it himself, by now I’m sure Christian’s entire circle of friends knows I fucked Grant Majors. A few of them know I beat up some random naked kid at a penthouse party on the Upper East Side. No doubt even more of them saw my ass getting handed to me by a drag queen in the West Village. The moment he finally fires up that phone of his, he’ll be bombarded with texts telling him what a freaky, fucked-up, vengeful loser I am. Then he’ll rightfully hate me for the same reasons I wrongfully hated him this entire evening.

Christian called it this morning: I’m crazy. A little crazy when I go after a boy I like. A LOT crazy when I go after a boy I hate.

Well, not just crazy—I’m psycho-fucking-bat-shit INSANE.

The good news is, I have succeeded in my goal to ruin a life tonight. The twist is, it’s mine instead of Christian’s.

I sniff. “You should probably go.”

“Planning on it. Are you...staying?”

Fuck, this is hard. Going from vigilante to villain. Is it possible to beat the living shit out of yourself?

“You should probably stop by my place first and grab your stuff, okay?”

“I’m sorry?”

“No. I’m sorry. Just. Get your stuff from my place, leave the key, and go home. And this time, don’t forget your charger.”

“Because I spun at a sex party? Because I got an unsolicited dick pic? What?”

I kiss his poor, confused face. I kiss it until my mouth hurts from stubble burn. “You just have to go, baby.”

“Are you fucking ON something? Nothing that happened today is a big deal, Brayden! I’ve been thinking about you nonstop since this morning! That means we have something here. That means we’re worth another shot!”

“I just...wish...you would’ve told me sooner.”

“So you came to a sex party. So what? You’re single. I don’t like it, but I can get over it. And we can talk about what kind of relationship this is...”

I’m silent. He studies me.

“Did you know I was gonna be here?”

I nod slowly.

“So you came here for me?”

I nod again. He reaches out for my hand, hope glistening in his eyes.

“So then what’s the problem, baby?”

“There’s no problem. I came here to get fucked. You’re welcome to stay and watch, if you like. I just figured you’d be tired.”

Christian Robert doesn’t cry. But tonight it looks like he just might. “Am I allowed to ask why?”

“Because I’m crazy.”

Christian’s face goes sour. He’s angry—but he won’t lose his temper. That’s MY special power. Plus, he’s a professional and this is his party. Instead of dressing me down (no pun intended), he slings his bag over his shoulder and nods. “Maybe we can talk tomorrow? When we’re both feeling better?”

I shake my head. I know that’s not going to happen.

I won’t let myself give in to him. Because then I’M the one who gets hurt—next time or the time after that, whenever Christian decides my crazy is just a little TOO crazy for him. It’ll happen—it always does. So better luck next time to the both of us. Somehow I know he’ll come out of this fine and I’ll be worse for wear. This cookie crumbles the same damn way every time.

“Well, have fun getting fucked. I’m spinning at a brunch tomorrow, so I guess I’ll be going home to sleep.”

I watch him storm out of the brownstone, the door slamming behind.