His name was Dale Carothers. Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? He had short brown hair, jet black eyes, olive skin, and he was h-o-t.
From afar (think like a stalker), I loved Dale Carothers with all my heart, until he went away to college and his parents moved. Or were they arrested for mortgage fraud? Hmmm. I couldn’t remember which. Note to self: look Dale up online and see if he still has that yumfactor.
Anyway, right then and there, I knew I was different. So I’d stated, “Mom, Dad, I’m a homosexual.”
My father smiled at me, and the hard wrinkles around his blue eyes softened as he’d replied, “Son, that three-syllable word seems mighty big for something which isn’t that much of a deal. Being a homosexual is no different than being a heterosexual, you just like dudes is all. We clear?”
“Gotcha,” I’d replied, somewhat relieved and possibly disappointed that it was pretty anti-climactic at the Morgan’s house. Maybe I’d subconsciously hoped for a parade or at least a pizza party.
Years later, I’d learned from my fellow LGBT peers that my ‘coming out’ experience had gone rather smoothly and that was I was lucky.
Dad wasn’t a philosopher of sorts. He liked his life the way he liked his dinner: simple, well done, and on time. That usually meant meat and potatoes with small talk about the weather. Nothing more. Nothing less.
My folks never made a fuss over me being gay, so they’d never treated me differently. However, everyone in the seventh grade thought I was a drama queen, that eventually I’d come around to liking girls, but no. I never did. I’d tried, though. It just wasn’t for me.
See…that’s the thing about me…I’m always willing to try anything once. Sushi: so meh! The rollercoasters at Cedar Point in Ohio: talk about a thrill. Pussy: been there, done that. And yes, even a little BDSM with a boy I’d been crushing on since the first day of college, but more about my kinkiness later.
Much later.
In the tenth grade, I wanted more from my education and begged my parents to let me move out and attend boarding school. And so I left home before I could even drive a car.
Mom was right. I was always a few steps ahead of everyone else.
With that said, it seemed logical that on that night, at the age of eighteen, I, Blake Morgan III, would be sneaking into a ‘twenty-one and up’ club with a fake ID (that we got from my mafia friend Toni Borgata) along with my three besties, Lex, Taddy and Vive. Why wait till we’re twenty-one, right?
Right!
Ontz Ontz Ontz!!!
The DJ spun Birdie Easton’s latest hit “No More Drama, Mama” over the speakers, filling the room with an urgency to dance. Don’t want no more hurt. Don’t want no more tears.
I swayed my hips back and forth, but not too much. Hello! I didn’t want to look like a flamer.
Getting all agitated as if someone had poured fire ants in her pants, my best friend for life (BFFL), Vive Farnworth, stood next to me.
“Well, for the love of debauchery. I could cunt-punt the moron who invited us to this place!” she shouted, looking up from the cocktail menu, probably realizing the VIP section of the club where we were lounging wasn’t serving her favorite liquor brand—the one her parents owned—Farnworth Firewater. She carried her Lhaso Apso, Hedda Hopper, with her like it was that year’s handbag. “How could they not carry my signature spirits?”
Oh. Gawd. Here she goes…
For Vive’s recent birthday, her parents had launched a new branded beverage with her face plastered all over the bottle. It was called Vive’s Vodka. The slogan and advertising campaign had read: Party with our girl, Vive.
Isn’t that memorable?
According to the Bureau of Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms, who’d recently placed Farnworth Firewater under investigation for marketing an alcoholic beverage to minors, most places in Manhattan had stopped carrying Vive’s Vodka because they deemed it inappropriate for Farnworth Firewater to coin a liquor after anyone who wasn’t of legal age.
Even though Vive’s folks were from Sweden, where it was okay for anyone over the age of eighteen to drink, I could see their point.
“Stop your bitching. We just got here,” sassed my best friend forever (BFF), Taddy Brill, who was trying to score us a few drinks. At nearly six-feet tall, if anyone could get the server’s attention, it would be her.
“Let’s have some frickin’ fun,” demanded my very best friend (VBF), Lex Easton, as she gave Hedda Hopper a love pat on the top of her furry head. “I haven’t had a night out with you Manhattanites in forever.”
“What did you tell your boyfriend we were doing tonight?” Taddy asked, as I noticed Lex wearing a full face of makeup.
“Nothing…” Lex glanced away from us and licked her pink, glossy lips.
“Liar!” Taddy’s laugh was scornful.
“What did you say to him?” I probed harder.
“That…we were going to study…you know…for our midterms.”
Snort.
We’d had our fake IDs for only a few months and were putting them to good use. Hell, we’d paid enough for them. They sure as fudge weren’t cheap.
Lex’s boyfriend, Officer Ford Gotti, worked for the NYPD. Hot as Hell, inked from head to toe with a jacked body like a superhero. He loved Lex. However, if he found out we were at Glamorama, he’d for sure kick her juicy booty to the curb, and probably arrest us.
“We might as well be at the library studying,” Vive whined. “This place stinks, literally. What is that smell?”
At only eighteen, Vive had already developed a discernment for the finer things in life, such as top-shelf alcohol, couture fashion, and fine perfume.
“I think that’s marijuana you smell,” I clarified. Personally, I never smoked the stuff, but my roommate, Thor Edwards, sure did. He had pipes, bongs, and rolling papers stashed all over our dorm room. Yuck. I hated the stench it gave off, which was why I never lent Thor my clothes. They’d always come back smelling like a cat peed on them.
Regardless of the odor, I didn’t mind Glamorama.
The 25,000 square feet models-and-bottles swanky joint debuted the previous year. It was comprised of a multi-level main room, a lounge, and a rooftop terrace boasting panoramic views of the George Washington Bridge. I set my sights on the laser light show and the fact that Diego and Miguel stood a few feet from us. I could almost taste them. Almost.
I’d been crushing on, lusting after, and yes, totally jacking off thinking about those two men since school had started and I’d first met them. I had them both in my English class. They were Latin and spoke okay English. Because of my dyslexia, I was always stuck in the most basic classes. Annoying, right? But I’d gotten used to it.
Just then, Diego glanced at me with those hauntingly dark eyes. The corners of his full, kissable lips curved up into a smile as the apples of his cheeks popped.
Dang! Good God, I wanted to drop my pants and sit on his face. He looked like a good kisser. With lips like that, he had to be.
“Uhhh-ohhh. The Latinos are staring at our sweet virgin again,” Vive murmured. “They got lust in their eyes.”
“Shut. Up. Viveca!” Mortified, I elbowed her, causing Hedda to bark.
Her furbaby was the only dog I could ever be around without having a panic attack. When I was a little, I got nearly eaten alive by a pack of Rottweilers. The boys in school had sicced them on me because I’d tried to kiss one of them who I thought had liked me. A boy. Not a dog. Gross!
Diagnosed by the doctors with Cynophobia, they’d suggested exposure therapy. No, thank you! I could barely say that word, spell it or be in the same room with a furry animal. Except for Hedda. She was different. Nearly human.
The longer Diego’s eyes rested on mine, my feelings for him intensified. I wanted to run over to him, rip his red button-down shirt off (which encased his pectoral muscles so perfectly, with capped sleeves highlighting his biceps) and say, “I’m gonna fuuuck you!”
But I didn’t.
Hell to t
he no. I was wicked nervous. There were too many people around us.
A glow, feeling like hot Hawaiian lava in my veins, ran through my 6’2”, 30” waist, 36” inseam of a body, along with thoughts of Diego shoving his thick tongue down my throat.
Had I subconsciously picked him over Miguel? I guess so…
Did I have much of a choice? Probably not.
Diego Oalo was two or so inches taller than me. He had muscles. And I don’t mean just ripped-up-ness. No. From the neck down, his 6’4” body resembled that WWE wrestler Stone Cold Steve Austin. He had to weigh at least two hundred and twenty-plus pounds of pure alpha machismo. His face, on the other hand, was Latin and romantic. From the neck up, he could pass for Enrique Iglesias’ twin.
So frickin’ sexy.
The mere sight of him made my dick lurch toward my bellybutton. I adjusted myself.
His bestie and roommate was Miguel Santana, a cocky artist who hailed from Mexico. He never made eye contact with me, ignored me in class, and was kind of a dick to me and Thor. But fuckable all the same. Totally! Some gay guys were just like that. You know, unfriendly to their fellow homosexuals because we’re ‘out’ and enjoy being ourselves. Not some straight-acting, masculine-obsessed, ‘I’m not gay but still suck dick’ wannabe. I don’t know why I found Miguel attractive, but I did. He was less intimidating than Diego. His face had those cute dimples on it like that actor Mario Lopez on Saved by the Bell.
Oh. God. I wanted to be naked between them like a piece of pork (the other white meat) stuffed in a taco shell. They were both exotic and beautiful. Surely we didn’t have men like them back in Fairfield.
Birdie sang: Free from all the addictions. No more drama, mama!
The music pumped through the room. Ontz Ontz Ontz! People danced.
“Fuckidy fuck fuckin' fuck,” Vive griped, trying to drown the words out. “I fuckin’ hate this song.”
Ughhh…I know what you’re thinking…
How mortifying it must be to have a potty-mouthed friend such as Vive Farnworth on my arm. Nevertheless, I loved her. Always have. Always will. And if I liked women in that way, she’d most certainly be my girlfriend. But I didn’t. Like any good Episcopalian, I’d tried a few times to take one for the team. Kitty just wasn’t for me.
“Drink up!” Taddy bossed as we each finally took a flute from a passing server wearing fancy white gloves who’d told us the cocktails were on the house.
Love that.
We all chugged.
“Tastes bitter,” I said after taking a shallow sip.
“Nothing tastes better than f-r-e-e,” Taddy stated, reminding me we were both on a budget. She barely had enough money for that semester’s tuition. Her modeling assignments were starting to pay more. But since emancipating from her parents, she’d had to start over, and that meant with nothing in the bank.
My respect for her mission to become self-made was certainly there. Unlike my besties, I’m not a socialite. My parents aren’t famous like Lex’s. I wasn’t born into wealth like Vive. I didn’t come from aristocracy like Taddy.
And although I’m gay and out, I haven’t had anal sex with a guy…yet. Not like my friend Thor (who you’ll meet later). He’s already onto double-digits. Come to think of it, I’m the only one left in our group who hasn’t done the nasty.
“Why does everyone keep staring at us?” Vive asked, eyeing people up and down defensively, clutching on to Hedda as we remained in the VIP area.
“Could it be because you just threatened to cunt-punt half the room?” Lex sneered, smoothing her pink stretchy dress over her sucked-in tummy as she stepped closer, behind Taddy. She hated to draw attention to herself. “Never mind the fact that you’re carrying that dog around like it’s a Cabbage Patch doll. And I don’t even know what cunt-punt means, but it sounds disgusting.”
“What. The. Flip. Ever.” Vive rolled her heavily mascaraed eyes. “And what have I told you about calling my Hedda a dog? She’s much more than that and you know it!”
Once we’d been released from juvie, we’d all pitched in and got Vive the dog. She had such a big hole in her heart after having to give her baby for adoption. Vive loved Hedda and had become all she lived for. They were inseparable.
“No fights tonight, okay, ladies?” Taddy said, trying to keep the peace. Lex and Vive were always going at it. “Cheers!” She raised her glass.
We clanged them together and replied, “Salut.”
I took a much bigger gulp. I’d only had a white wine spritzer one time before this. The night we’d got released from juvie, Vive’s parents had hosted a ‘welcome home’ party for us but that was different. It was private. We were on the Farnworth estate.
Tonight, though…well…it felt odd to drink alcohol openly in public as such. Technically speaking, we were breaking the law. (Officer Ford would have a shit-fit, NYPD style.) However, it was only wine. Not like we were doing shots of Absinthe or snorting cocaine. Although, the more I downed my drink, the more my fingers became numb, and I started to feel a hallucinogenic episode coming on. Like an acid flashback from our days at Avon Porter.
I must be what they call a lightweight.
Regardless, I kept sipping. Everyone else drank, too. I didn’t want to stand out as an oddball and not drink. Call me a follower, I don’t care. Having fun at the club was my main goal; that and being desired by Diego.
The thrill of Diego, someone new, the promise of so much hot sex between us if we were to hook-up… I wanted to be wanted by him, to be craved. Like how Lex has to have her can of Yoo-hoo and get that chocolate fix in the middle of the afternoon. That feeling. That need. I wanted to be that for him. So instead of calling me a follower, just call me Mr. Yoo-hoo.
But was I man enough for him?
To most, I’m a few years older than a child, but not quite old enough to be a man. Being an insider in this clique makes it hard to explain us, to truly understand us. For classmates like Diego and Miguel who are on the outside looking in, they’ll never understand. They just won’t. I know that. I’ve always known that. Ever since we made a pact at Avon Porter to be each other’s ‘family’ I’d realized we were different.
Words often used to describe us in the tabloids over the years have been ‘spoiled’, ‘troubled’, ‘abandoned’, and ‘outcasts’.
The term I believe in my heart-of-hearts which summed us up the most—the one The Manhattanite Times had used in an article right after our trial when we went to juvie a few years back for an accidental murder, —which totally wasn’t our fault—was ‘bonded like blood relatives’. See, my besties had been protecting me that night. They’d saved my life. We would do anything for each other.
Anything!
Think ‘brat pack’ only cuter. Way cuter. That’s us. We’re the Manhattanites. But it was easy to see why I just wanted to fit in, for once in my life. So I drank.
“Holy hell! Does it feel warm in here or what?” I asked my besties who were practicing their stand-pose-suck-your-cheeks-in stance for the onlookers in the room. Everyone always stared at them. After all, they were the tabloid girls.
“Take your shirt off.” Taddy pushed her chest out with pride. She had on only her bra. And not just any bra, but a Madonna-inspired bedazzled thingy that was appropriate for Glamorama.
Hugh Heffner had sent it to her as a gift, for agreeing to do Playboy Magazine in a few weeks. That gig would hopefully pay for the rest of her years at our school. That and a nice steak dinner.
“Have your tah-tahs gotten bigger?” I asked, gaping at her.
They appeared swollen. I couldn’t help but stare at them. I wasn’t a tit man, clearly. Nevertheless, I could see how some men would be.
Perky as two diamond drops rising up from her chest, Taddy’s cleavage was stunning. They went along well with her narrow face, sharp jawline, long legs and arms that would serve her well if she were ever to take up women’s college basketball.
“A little…” Taddy glanced down at her cleavage an
d said, “I haven’t gotten my period in a while, but they sure are swelling up as if I’m about to.”
“Hahaha.” Lex, who stood to shed a few pounds but was learning to love her curves, chuckled at the suggestion and tried to change the subject. “I can’t believe they’re playing my mother’s music here. I never am able to escape it.”
Lex’s mother, Birdie Easton, was the 90’s heavy metal pop star. Her latest single had gone platinum. The lyrics were about her life after rehab.
“Spare me,” Vive griped and pointed a manicured finger at Lex. “I hear your mother everywhere I flippin’ go. Yesterday at the dressing room at Blooming-freakin’-dales they played this damn “No More Drama, Mama” song. It totally ruined my mood to shop. Never mind the hypocrisy of her lyrics. I should sue that Birdie Easton for mental stress and trauma to my nervous system.”
Dressed in a baby powder-pink, ballerina-style tutu and lace-up stilettos, there was always a theme with Vive’s get-up. That night, it was either prima ballerina or a prima donna. I couldn’t tell which.
Nursing her drink a second longer, she then added for dramatic effect, “I can’t stand your mother’s voice, let alone her.”
She despised Birdie. I couldn’t blame her.
A few months before, the girls had gotten themselves arrested for arson. Birdie had told the cops it was all their doing. It wasn’t. Granted, the woman had been totally trashed at the time and had no concept of reality, but the girls were totally innocent. The charges were later dropped.
And that was how Lex had met her hawt as hell lover, Ford Gotti. He’d been the one who’d arrested them. That was the silver lining to that week’s fiasco.
Just then, I took Taddy’s suggestion and pulled my dark blue polo shirt up over the back of my neck, exposing my chest, then took another sip of the bitter white wine spritzer. Quickly, I glanced around to see if Diego and Miguel had noticed that I was showing some skin.
They did.
I made a mental note to write the moment down in my gratitude journal later when I got back to the dorms. Elated, I did a happy dance in my head but tried to remain calm. So I also did what my besties were doing: stand-pose-suck-your-cheeks-in stance for the onlookers in the room.