Chapter 27 Won’t You Be My Gaybor
Mustang,
My counselor thinks we should stop corresponding. He says I’m too fragile right now. He’s worried that I’ll get hurt.
Why? Because maybe my “type” happens to be tall blondes. Because maybe I’m reading a lot more into our correspondence than is really there. Because I nearly cried over the fact that you took the time to solve my little riddle about J.C. Leyendecker.
Also, because our lives are so different. You’re the hero athlete, enjoying college life. The biggest news I can report is that my counselor convinced mom to let me start closing my bedroom door. I’m still on house arrest, but at least I get a little privacy.
Thank you again for your letters. I’ve treasured them all.
Goodbye,
Adam
10/18/’95
Adam,
You’re not misreading things. I’m interested in you, too! More than interested. Infatuated? All I know is that I can’t stop thinking about you. Your eyes. Your freckles… But if your counselor’s that worried, then tell him we’re just friends.
Please write me back!
Your friend,
Mustang
Saturday, October 21, 1995
Matt had three condoms in his wallet and hoped to spend them all before the end of this field trip to the Gayborhood. Maybe then he could stop thinking about Adam.
Gusher’s restaurant was the first stop, and already Matt felt like he was in Gay Candyland! Men were everywhere. It was like Howard Johnson’s 28 flavors of ice cream, except with men. Vanilla. Chocolate. Exotic flavors to boot. He wanted to sample them all.
He’d not been laid for five weeks. Not since his locker room handshake with Todd. Almost getting busted for—and actually losing Idabel’s friendship because of—that recklessness, had spooked him. He’d retreated from further handshakes with fellow members of the GM.
Had instead settled for shaking his own hand—masturbating, if one had to be clinical about it. It had become a daily habit, a pressure release. He was not ashamed of it but did miss the intimacy of human contact.
He looked forward to a guilt-free fucking spree on this field trip. Guilt-free but safe—hence the condoms. Hookups with fellow GM members could be bareback, but sex with strangers had to be safe. Just another rule in the 3-ring binder that governed their lives.
Gushers was inside the sprawling Habana Inn, a 170-room, 2-pooled hotel that had been built as a conference center and evolved into Oklahoma’s Gay Mecca.
Just as Muslims made hajj to the Kaaba and Catholics received an indulgence for pilgrimaging to St. Peters, Oklahoma’s gays sought temporal peace at the Habana Inn.
They dined at Gushers, partied at the Copa and the Finish Line, shopped for souvenirs and sex toys at Jungle Red, and fucked in their guest rooms—all without leaving the premises.
The Habana Inn was not the only attraction in the Gayborhood, but it was the crown jewel.
It was 7:30 p.m. The night was young. William, Paul, and Matt sat at a table in the center of the restaurant. The rest of the GM (sans Kevin, who had been stuck with security detail), sat scattered along the room’s perimeter.
“Stop drooling, Matthew,” William whispered. “Stay in character! That goes for you as well, Paul.”
Matt closed his mouth, tried to quit gawping. He recalled William’s earlier advice: “Nobody will remember how well you danced, but they’ll never forget if you were the girl desperately trying to get her dance card punched.”
The goal was to be desired—to be the droolee, not the drooler. This was the game at which William excelled: performing on life’s stage.
Playing chess—countering Colton’s many maneuvers, did not interest him. He had paid a heavy emotional toll to buy a temporary ceasefire in Colton’s war against MCU’s gays. That was good enough for him.
A waiter approached, greeted William by name, and the two of them caught up on gossip. Someone named Peter had the clap.
William: “That slut! I saw her once having sex behind the dumpster.”
Waiter, laughing: “The way I heard it, you were the girl she was fucking.”
More gossip. A guy named Christopher had run off to Dallas with a married guy who was planning to divorce his wife.
William: “That homewrecker!”
Waiter: “Christopher?”
William: “No, dahling. The wife! She’s standing in the way of true love.”
Matt noticed that other diners were watching them, eavesdropping on the conversation, whispering. He wished the waiter would move on.
The waiter’s name was Andrew. William introduced him to Paul and Matt. Explained it was their first visit to the Gayborhood.
Andrew smiled, shook their hands, took a minute to appraise both newbies. Was not discreet about it. Matt half expected to be asked to stand and turn around slowly.
Harley, who shared one of the perimeter tables with Evan and Jake, stood, and called out to Andrew. “Hey, waiter, we’re hungry over here, too!”
Andrew whirled to face Harley. “Hold your horses!” His voice was loud, commanding. “I’m helping two VIRGINS here!”
Harley sat down.
“I’m not a virgin!” Paul protested. That was true. Paul had now shaken hands with Evan, Jake, and Kevin. He was tied with Matt.
There was scattered laughter from other tables. Good-humored. Not derisive.
Matt blushed, stared down at the table. He would have preferred that it not be broadcast that this was his first time here. He would have preferred sitting at a perimeter table.
An older guy, fit but graying at the temples, excused himself from his companions, and stepped to the table where William, Paul, and Matt sat.
He slipped two twenty-dollar bills into Andrew’s hand, whispered something in his ear.
Matt noticed the older guy wore a Rolex watch and a gaudy, diamond-studded ring.
“Martin!” William gushed at the graying guy. “I thought that was you! What are you doing sitting at the adults’ table? Those other queens are too old for you! And where’s Sylvan?”
Martin chuckled. “Hi William. Sylvan’s in Switzerland again for treatment.”
Martin looked at Paul and Matt. “Let me welcome you two to the Gayborhood. Your first round of drinks is on me. If you happen to be at the Finish Line later, find my table. I’ll buy you another round.” He shook their hands, then returned to his companions.
“So, what’re you boys drinking?” Andrew asked.
William ordered for them. He was having his usual: straight bourbon, Tallulah Bankhead style. For Matt, Bourbon and Coke. For Paul, Amaretto Sour.
Andrew flitted away to his other customers.
“Pay attention, dahlings,” William whispered. “Martin is a pro at this game. He bought drinks without being asked, and he didn’t force his company on us in return. He’s definitely interested in one, or both, of you, especially since Sylvan’s away for his annual Botox and injection spree.”
William leaned in, spoke conspiratorially. “Martin and Sylvan like to spice things up with the occasional boy toy. Play your cards right, and you might be their next. Last year they took a guy with them to the Bahamas.”
“Wow!” Paul said. “I’ve never been to a beach.”
“I’ve seen plenty.” William yawned. “Which was lucky for me since I didn’t get much beach time on that trip. One-on-one with Sylvan. One-on-one with Martin. Sandwiched between them. Other combinations a lady shouldn’t divulge.”
Matt was surprised and intrigued. He hadn’t imagined any three-ways for that night’s activities. Now the possibilities seemed endless.
“I doubt we’ll visit the Finish Line tonight,” William said. “A boot-scooting hellscape. Two-stepping to George Strait and Patty Loveless. Pointy-toe cowboy boots everywhere. Just ghastly.”
Their drinks arrived. Both Matt’s and Paul’s drinks had cocktail straws with skewered cherries.
Paul was discombobulated. He started to remove his.
“Leave it,” William said.
“But I don’t like cherries!”
William sighed. “They’re not for you. They’re for the boys who do—like popping cherries, that is.”
Paul still didn’t get it. He pushed his glasses up his nose.
“It signals everyone that we’re virgins here,” Matt said to Paul.
“I’m not a VIRGIN!”
If Gushers was an ice cream fantasy, the Copa was Abercrombie & Fitch on steroids.
A&F, where the walls were plastered with oversized homoerotic posters.
Where hot, sultry guys worked the floor.
Where the perfumed air was mind-numbingly intoxicating.
Where frantic music crowded out the workaday noise.
That was A&F, which could fuel a good wank.
Not a real-life hook-up, but a wank for sure.
Now swap go-go dancers on raised platforms in place of the two-dimensional posters.
Throw in several large video screens. Substitute 100 writhing, dancing guys (some shirtless, most hot) for the 3-4 floor clerks.
Replace the single notes of A&F cologne for a heady swirl of sweat, testosterone, and a witch’s brew of cigarette smoke, body sprays and perfumes.
Pump the music up to at least quadruple the decibels, double it again.
Stir in liberal quantities of alcohol—and that was the Copa, which could fuel a real-life hookup or three. Matt did have three condoms after all.
It was 10:00 p.m. and the party had already begun when William led Matt and Paul into the Copa’s pulsing heart.
The dance floor was a sunken pit surrounded by tables on three sides, a stage on the fourth. Two go-go dancers gyrated above them. Guys below them grooved to the beat.
Matt had a solid buzz. He followed William through a maze of tables, his crotch just inches away from seated spectators who sized him up as he passed.
If William was looking for an empty table, he was on a fool’s errand, but Matt wasn’t going to be the one to break that news. He assumed they would end up huddled against the back walls like a hundred other people.
He forgot that William was not “other people.” That William had no intention of joining the hoi polloi on the perimeter. That he would not allow his two debutantes to be slighted. They were to be the Belles of the Ball—by God.