“So, what’re you boys drinking?” Andrew asked.
William ordered for them. He was having his usual: straight bourbon, in honor of his icon, Tallulah Bankhead. For Matt, Bourbon and Coke. For Paul, Amaretto Sour.
Andrew flitted away to his other customers.
“Pay attention, dahlings,” William whispered to Matt and Paul. “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, lowered his voice. “Martin and Sylvan, like to spice things up with the occasional boy toy. Play your cards right, and you might be their next. A couple of years ago, 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 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 gyrating above them. Guys below them grinding to the beat.
Matt had a solid buzz and a partial hard-on—the “I’m-waking-up-and-paying-attention-down-here” kind. 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.
Matt forgot that William was not “other people.” That he 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.
William led Matt and Paul 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 them 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’ 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 felt a flash of guilt that he was there, and the real Adam was not. Scratch that. He’d done nothing wrong where Adam was concerned. What he felt was sadness—and longing.
What he wanted was to dance with Adam, to spend his three condoms on Adam.
But Adam wasn’t there, and the breadth of their relationship was a few letters back and forth. They were pen pals, free to fuck whomever they wished. 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 Gay Mafia.
Matt sipped his bourbon and Coke, hoping to bump up his buzz without veering into forbidden territory.