Chapter 27 Won’t You Be My Gaybor #2
William led them to the best table in the room, one that overlooked the dance floor and was close to the stage. One that Evan and Luke were holding for them, having apparently slipped out of Gushers early for the sole purpose of staking a claim. One they readily relinquished.
William motioned for Matt and Paul to sit.
Evan and Luke left to get fresh drinks from the bar.
“Hi!” A beautiful brunette with Tom Cruise dimples materialized. He could have stepped out of an A&F catalog. His t-shirt cupped his hard, muscled pecs, could not hide the two small nipples pointing south. He leaned over the table, locked eyes with Matt.
“Dance?” he asked. No introduction. No small talk. And the way he said “dance” was ambiguous enough to cover both the musical and the mating kind.
Matt had never done the former and wasn’t keen on making a fool of himself. He was interested in the latter. His dick was ready to try on a prophylactic hat.
“I’ll dance with him if you won’t,” Paul said to Matt.
William patted Dimples’s hand.
“Give us a few minutes, dahling, will you? Mama asked me to chaperone my sisters tonight. I forgot to warn them about handsome dark-haired devils. Dimpled devils. Present company excluded, of course.”
Dimples just smiled. He seemed unaccustomed to rejection, and truth be told his eyes were somewhat glazed.
William shooed the guy away. “Come back in five minutes. You know, little hand on the ten, big hand on the three.”
Dimples melted back into the crowd.
Matt forgot the guy, sought other eye candy.
Then he saw him: a flaxen-haired youth who reminded him of Adam. The guy was dancing in shirtless abandon. The Greek god Pan, patron of flutes, forests, and fucking. That Pan—but with Adam’s fair coloring and elfin figure.
Matt wished the real Adam were there.
What he wanted was to dance with Adam, to spend his three condoms on Adam.
But Adam had quit responding to Matt’s letters. And, besides, Matt was on Rumspringa—not a character in some Harlequin romance.
William snapped his fingers. “Pay attention ladies! Let’s review some things. What’s rule number one?”
Matt noticed that one of the large screens was flashing a countdown. 47:26, 47:25, 47:24—BELLA BOTTOMS—47:21, 47:20, 47:19—BELLA BOTTOMS…
“Drink in moderation. Buzzed is okay. Barfing is not. And don’t accept drinks from strangers. They can pay but not serve.” This from Paul, who had removed his glasses and was cleaning them with the tail of his Hawaiian shirt.
Yes, Hawaiian. Layered, unbuttoned over a crew-necked, white t-shirt. William wanted him to lean into the whole Revenge of the Nerds look, be as cocky and outgoing as Booger—without any nose picking.
Paul’s mild Asperger’s dulled his social awareness just enough that it could be perceived as swagger. And the layered shirts smoothed his pineapple-shaped frame.
Evan and Luke returned with fresh drinks, set them on the table, wished Matt and Paul good Fuck, then went to sit with the rest of the GM.
Matt sipped his bourbon and Coke, hoping to bump up his buzz without veering into forbidden territory.
William watched him drink. “And rule number two, Matthew?”
46:11 on the countdown clock. Who or what was “Bella Bottoms?”
“Do not leave the premises under any circumstances—unless Brad Pitt is driving, in which case we’re to invite you to join us.”
William smiled wistfully. “And number three: Change dance partners frequently. Leave them before they leave you. Come back here if you need to. Better that than being stranded on the dance floor. Never get stranded on the dance floor.”
Forty-five minutes and change remained on the countdown clock when Dimples reappeared. He took Matt’s hand and led him down into the pit.
The pit was crowded. And wildly dynamic. Infinitely more so than any soccer field, which never held more than 22 players, all of whom were rational actors once one understood the purpose of the game. Not so with dancing. It was anything but rational.
Dimples edged into a tight space, whirled, and faced Matt. He leaned in close, put his lips to Matt’s ear. “You’re so fucking hot!” he slurred. Then he started dancing.
Matt smiled. Hoped it was a smile and not a goofy grin. He couldn’t be certain. His face felt numb.
Matt’s feet froze to the floor. The best he could manage was a slight side-to-side wobble. Like a Weeble.
William had assured him dancing would come naturally. It was in the gay DNA, which obviously wasn’t true in Matt’s case. Six generations of fCOC inbreeding had extinguished any genetic markers for rhythm.
William had been right about one thing, though. He’d somehow guessed that Matt, who exuded confidence in most situations, who charged in recklessly where others urged caution—would be a wallflower at his Debutante Ball.
How William had guessed it was a mystery.
But just as he’d coached Paul to lean into the cocky nerd vibe, he’d told Matt to embrace shyness and uncertainty.
To dress like a straight boy—no matchy colors, nothing tight, white socks even—and to let people assume his nervousness pertained to being in a gay space for the first time.
Apparently, converting straight-ish boys ranked #3 in gay fantasies. Mormon missionaries knocking on one’s door was #1. Number 2 was too freaky to be recounted.
Paul marched into the pit, accompanied by a guy wearing cut-off jeans and combat boots. Spiked hair. A skinny, baby-faced guy trying to look like a tough.
Paul, in his Hawaiian shirt and nerdy glasses, owned his piece of the pit. He wasn’t hot enough or a good enough dancer to dominate the whole floor, but he absolutely controlled his 4 square feet of fame, and Mr. Spiky ate it up, worshipping him.
The song wound down.
Matt stopped swaying. That stupid countdown flashed overhead, but the numbers were too blurred for him to make out.
A new song amped up. The bass pulsed through the air like a frantic message in Morse Code.
“Molly?” Dimples asked. Had to repeat it louder.
Matt smiled. Or grinned? How did this guy know Molly? It really was a small world!
“Molly! Yes!” Matt enthused. “She’s my SGA buddy!”
Dimples frowned.
Only then did Matt notice that Dimples had been offering him a small pill.
Dimples tongued the pill, swallowed it. Pulled off his t-shirt and tucked it into the back of his jeans, where it hung like a sexy tail. His perfect pecs seemed almost molded.
Matt wanted to flick one of the guy’s nipples, test its authenticity.
Dimples grasped Matt’s hips. Guided him into the beat. Pulled Matt closer until they were staring into each other’s eyes.
“Lift your arms into the air!” Dimples shouted. “Now close your eyes and feel the beat! Trust me! I’ll keep hold of you!”
Matt did as instructed. Closed his eyes and surrendered himself to the rhythm.
He didn’t open his eyes again until the song ended, at which time he noticed that Evan and Luke were dancing nearby. They were such a cute couple: the tall, Gallic Evan, the willowy Luke.
As soon as the first few bars of the new song pierced the air, Luke pivoted toward Dimples and smiled demurely.
Dimples let go of Matt’s hips, pursued Luke’s—hips, that is.
Evan, meanwhile, engaged with Matt. They danced for a minute (Evan danced, Matt wobbled), and then Evan maneuvered them to the edge of the pit, to the steps leading up.
“How about a break?” Evan said. “Let’s get you some water.”
Back at the table, Matt sipped water.
“Sobriety check, dahling.” William said. He pointed to the large screen with the flashing countdown. “Can you read that for me?”
Matt shook his head. The screen was a beautiful blur that seemed to pulse with the beat, which reminded him: he’d been rocking the dancing thing!
As for the screen, Matt remembered it involved a countdown. Remembered there had been numbers and words. Scrunched his face in concentration. What had it read? “Belly Buttons?” … “Belly Bottoms?”
Then it came to him. “Bella Bottoms! What’s that?” He reached for his drink.
“Stick to water,” William said. “We’ve got a little more than thirty minutes to sober you up before Bella takes the stage. And shortly after that, you’ll be up there with her.”
“WHAT?”
William ignored Matt, spoke to Evan, who was watching the dance floor below. “How’s our other debutante doing?”
“Excellent!” Evan reported. “He danced two songs with the guy in combat boots, then started dancing with that wild, shirtless guy. See them in the center of the floor?”
Matt followed Evan’s gaze towards the middle of the dance pit. Sure enough, there was Paul, dancing with the guy who looked like Adam! Matt was jealous.
“At least one of my pupils gets a gold sticker,” William groused.
“What did you mean when you said I’d be ‘up there’ with that Bella person?”
“Onstage, dahling, assuming we can get you sobered up a little.”
Matt blanched. He did not like stages.
“Thanks for looking out for Matthew,” William said to Evan. “Will you ask Jake to watch Paul? I’ll keep this one in timeout until Bella’s show begins. You and Luke can enjoy the rest of the evening.”
Evan patted Matt’s back encouragingly, then left.
“What did I do that was so wrong?” Matt asked William.
William pushed more water Matt’s way. “Let’s see. Things Matthew did wrong. Matthew drank too much. Matthew started a third dance with the same guy. Matthew was a minute—two minutes max—away from leaving to fuck that guy.”
“I thought that was the point of the evening?” Matt said. “Finding fuck buddies.”
“Not before midnight!” William was horrified. “If you’d left with that guy at, what, 10:30, your reputation would be in tatters! Slutty is one thing. That’s what we do. Being an easy slut? Well, dahling, there’s no recovering from that!”