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 floorcovered 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,
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 floorcovered 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,
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