[A much more rested Milksop here. Faustus still at large…]
Since I have no idea where to begin this story, I think I’ll begin in medias res.
There are three guys, lying on the floor naked, but then again, everyone is, so there you go. The Puerto Rican guy has “I Am Beautiful” tattooed on his arm, and all I can think of is the new Christina Aguilera song. Another guy, Lucky Brand underwear around his ankles (“What can I say? I like the feeling of underwear around my ankles…”) is on the receiving end of what might just prove to be the longest blowjob in the history of the art form. (It went on, not kidding, for almost four hours while I was there. And they were still at it when I left.) The third guy – the minister of said blow job – is an Unbelievably Tall Guy with a skin condition on his legs and a jaw apparently made of rubber. He rests only once that I witness, when his knees start to hurt. (Lucky Underwear applies actual Ben Gay to Unbelievably Tall Guy’s legs when this happens, a gesture I find oddly touching.) I like to think they’re still at it even now, a full 36 hours later. “I Am Beautiful” and Lucky Underwear arm in arm, discussing Jackie Kennedy, and Unbelievably Tall Guy just going down, going down, going down…
Welcome to my first after-hours.
There really isn’t a whole lot of difference between an orgy and an after-hours, although I think after-hours tend to have more drugs. Certainly, everybody I encounter is tweaking. (Appropriately enough, given the “I Am Beautiful” tattoo, the primary highway of choice here seems to be ‘Tina.) To give you an idea of the scope, probably about 30 or 40 guys wander through during the 15 hours (15 hours!) I am there. However, with everyone generally piled on top of one another, the one-bedroom apartment of the host (and drug dealer, I’d venture a guess) does not feel overcrowded.
I arrive at midnight. I have never done anything remotely like this before. I mean, I’ve been stinkin’ drunk on occasions, and I’ve gone to stranger’s apartments looking for sex, and once I even ate a pot brownie. But I’m generally a clean living Sodomite. And this is utterly outside my realm of experience. So much so that writing about it now feels strangely like fiction.
There’s no way I can give this experience any sort of an arc, so I think a more Dada approach is called for. (That’s “Dada” not “Daddy.” Otherwise, we’re talking a completely different kind of after-hours.)
Around 8 in the morning, a Frizzy Blond Southern Boy arrives. He says little by way of introduction, but proceeds to strip down and give himself a “Booty Bump.” This is a complex procedure involving a plastic syringe-like, turkey-baster implement filled with liquid ‘Tina. (I think. Most of this I glean from other people’s conversations. At no point is a pamphlet or glossary distributed. Although, for all his ingenuity, the Drug Dealer/Host could teach one hell of a course at the New School.) The Frizzy Blond Southern Boy inserts this plastic syringe-like, turkey-baster implement into his own ass, and fills himself quite literally to the brim with the liquid T. The turkey-baster, however, once inserted, doesn’t want to be removed. After struggling for several uncomfortable minutes, the Drug Dealer/Host comes to the rescue. An actual round of applause erupts from the onlookers as the Frizzy Blond Southern Boy is unhoisted from his own petard.
There are not one, but two birthday boys in the house. One wants to bottom for me. One wants to top me. Both (at different points) ask me to leave with them. There just might be something to that whole Zodiac thing after all. (I decline to leave with either, incidentally, out of some strange fealty towards the Drug Dealer/Host and his minions who have taken me so generously under their collective wing.)
The shower is in constant use. There is an enema-like hose attachment, for, I suppose, the ill-prepared. Most boys shower quickly upon arrival or before departure. (A kind of decompression chamber, if you will.) One boy arrives at the party, spends slightly over an hour in the shower alone, then leaves. During this extended scrubbing down, men actually resort to peeing in empty Gatorade bottles. (Gatorade abounds. Something about the electrolytes, I gather. Whatever the reason, I stay away from all Gatorade for the remains of the day.)
The phone does not stop ringing. (“I Dream of Jeannie.”) The highest turnover rate is definitely after the bars close (4 in the morning-ish) and post-brunch (1 in the afternoon, I have no idea why). For some reason, I am not on everyone else’s timetable. When I arrive around midnight, there are three guys there, plus two napping in the “No Sex Allowed” bedroom. (Said bedroom is also sans bed.) When I depart, around 3 in the afternoon, I am definitely the only one on my way out the door. In fact, as far as I can see, this party only tends to grow. Very few people leave, but a relatively steady stream arrives and stays and stays and stays. Roaches check in, but they don’t check out.
One boy, napping when I arrive, tries for awhile to fuck me, then abandons that quest for the internet. He is obsessed with internet chat rooms, although he is so high he can barely type or work the computer. (I cannot say why, but he always turns to me for help when he cannot do something extremely technological like, say, open Internet Explorer.) Throughout the course of the evening, the Internet Boy lures 5 or 6 various boys from various chat rooms, only to discard them once they arrive so he can go look for the next one. Fortunately, his taste is consistent, and his reject pile, almost to a man, ends up into and all over each other. When life hands you lemons …
‘Tina is irony in powder form. (“Tina’s such a bitch” I hear more than once.) She makes you soooooooo horny, and hyper-sensitive, but then, nine times out of ten (by my crude reckoning) takes away your ability to have an erection. (It’s like rain on your wedding day…) The three or four boys who can maintain wood are not only popular, but essential. They are oxygen. They are unbelievably busy.
Safe sex is not only absent, but alarmingly so. (Footnote: I make no judgments on this issue. I strongly believe that anyone has the right to put anything in their bodies they see fit, rubberized or not.) Two different times I inquire two different potential suitors about condom-age. Both fellows are eager to comply, but I end up feeling rather like a teacher giving out homework on the day before Christmas vacation.
A Rugged Spaniard (from actual Spain) enters around noon, lured and abandoned by the Internet Boy. He is unspeakably beautiful, and, as he is Spanish, is drawn to me. (I have learned over time that, for a white boy, I got back. And say what you will, this renders me as popular as J-Lo in gay Hispanic circles.) He follows me around for nearly two hours, repeating “I am yours.” Yada, yada, yada … He gets paged by his hospital (he’s a cardiologist, but asks me to not tell any… whoops…) and has to leave. He tells me he wants to see me again. He tells me he wants to fuck me, but he also wants to make love to me. (Actual quote.) He tells me his dream is to have a three-way relationship, and he wants me to be one of his boyfriends. And, as appealing as most of this sounds, it’s all a little much for me (it’s a sex party, after all, and what an impossibly awkward “Meet Cute” story to tell the grandkids…) and I give him a bogus e-mail. (Footnote: There is not a direct cause/effect relationship here. I actually didn’t realize I gave him a bogus e-mail until after he had left. Swear to God. But two minutes after he was out the door, my over-tired, over-accelerated brain processed that the e-mail I had given him was bogus. Don’t ask me why. I don’t know. And I’m not sure what all this portends, but as I also believe that there are no accidents, I’m gonna assume it’s all part of some grand design.)
Last story: Porn plays endlessly on the crappy TV. Everyone is glued to the porn at all times, even when the exact same sex act is being performed in front of the TV. (It’s similar to the sensation of going to a concert, and only being able to watch the large screen projection hanging above the stage.) Nobody can figure out the VCR, and as I’ve already proven my resourcefulness in regards to the internet, every time a tape ends, the room looks to me for help. This makes me feel like Gandalf. When I do decide to finally leave, the Drug Dealer/Host corners me to thank me “for all I did for the party.” He then gives me a price list, in case I ever “need anything.” I suddenly am overwhelmed with the reality that there is a gay agenda, and it’s remarkably similar to a tupperware party. Leaving without buying anything is certainly frowned upon. I slip him $40. (Is this enough? How come there’s a cover charge at the exit door? Is this why nobody leaves?) The Drug Dealer/Host also tells me he can tell I’m a good guy, and asks for my contact info, which he enters into his computer. Being a seasoned liar, I change just enough digits so as to render me, thankfully, out of the loop. I do, however, inexplicably give him my actual cell phone number. Why I always choose to lie when I oughta be truthin’ (and vice-versa) is beyond my comprehension. But every time my cell phone rings, I wonder if it’s someone from the endless after-hours, wanting me to come back over and change the videotape.