Not as a way to spur the imagination, but a perfect place to poop—and Gwendolyn’s frizzy red hair the perfect place to nuzzle. When her family finally found her, they recall that she was maniacally pushing away the comics and the curious rodents screaming, “No G! No G!” And from that day forward Gwendolyn became Wendolyn and has been afraid to say any word with the letter G in it. Therefore, she refers to Gus as “Us” and he rationalizes her unique nickname for him as being symbolic of their close relationship. Long ago, I decided not to try to get Gus to accept his sister’s madness like I have accepted my mother’s, because I realize the British deem mental instability as weakness, while the Italians see it as standard.
I was about to raise my hand to order another round of cosmos and completely enter the world of drunken madness, when Lindsay yanked it and pointed it toward the dance floor.
“See that guy in the black Henley tank top?” Lindsay gasped.
“You mean Fuck Counter?” I announced.
“He’s Fuck Counter?” Flynn asked.
“He was also at the sex party,” Lindsay explained. “And he’s up to five twenty-seven.”
There was a moment of silence as we all realized what an accomplishment that was and what a pleasure 527 continuous penetrations could be. I watched Fuck Counter dancing with some hot boy and allowed myself a moment of pride in knowing that I had helped him on his way to becoming the super top that he obviously was. I noticed a stirring in my jeans and wondered if perhaps I had been too hasty in rejecting Fuck Counter or was I just getting horny again, even though it was only three hours since I had made imaginary love to Aiden? All thoughts of sex, however, were thrust from my head as I spied Sebastian dancing on top of the bar, thrusting his hips wildly, wearing only a stained white jockstrap. He would now have to add go-go boy to the career blank on his tax returns.
“Do you think he does it for the ego trip?” I asked.
“I think he does it for the tips,” Lindsay corrected.
We watched Sebastian gyrate and grind in front of an eager throng of barflies, allowing eager fingers to stick dollar bills in his jockstrap, his socks, and even in the crack of his eager ass. Then we noticed he kept stopping to gyrate in front of one pair of eager fingers that belonged to a man who had to be at least seventy years old. A real-world seventy, not a gay seventy, which would be around fifty-two. These eager fingers belonged to an honest-to-goodness gay senior citizen.
“What the hell is he doing now?” Flynn asked.
“He’s encouraging that poor old thing!” Lindsay cried.
It definitely looked as if Sebastian was encouraging the senior sinner, for he was poised directly in front of him, kneeling on one knee, pushing his crotch oh-so-close to the man’s wrinkled face, and whispering into his most likely hair-filled ear. Lindsay squinted and then opened his eyes in stunned disbelief.
“That’s no poor old thing!” Lindsay declared. “He’s shoving fifty-dollar bills up Sebastian’s ass!”
Suddenly Sebastian jumped off the bar and started sashaying toward us. When he got close enough he waved a fifty-dollar bill under our noses and I caught the faintest whiff of vinegar.
“I’m off to get ramgeezered,” Sebastian announced.
“You’re going to let that old man fuck you?” Lindsay asked.
“Mi amiga, papi need a new Jack Spade bag,” he said. “It’ll be worth it.”
We watched Sebastian walk toward the go-go boy changing room, his perfect ass flexing and unflexing with each stride as if it were waving good-bye to the boys who would have to wait yet another night, or at least another few hours, to have the chance to make an entrance.
“Do you think he has a Granddaddy complex?” I asked.
“No,” Flynn answered. “He’s just a whore.”
“Now every time he slings his bag over his shoulder he’ll be reminded that he slung his legs over the shoulders of some old bag,” Lindsay added. “Even Jack Spade’s not worth a memory like that.”
After a few more drinks we decided it was time to go. Actually I decided it was time I should go. Gus was off with Brady somewhere, Lindsay was dancing near Fuck Counter hoping it might add up to another chance encounter, and Flynn had bumped into an old flame and decided to see if the embers could still burn for one more night. On my way out I had a bump of my own.
“Sorry,” I stuttered.
“That’s okay,” the bumpee responded.
Fighting every urge to speak, I forced myself to remain quiet and just take in this moment. The music was blaring all around me, the lights were flashing above and below, sweaty arms were brushing against me, but I kept silent and stared ahead into one of the most beautiful faces I had ever seen. Full red lips, smooth ivory skin with creases at the ice blue eyes and around the mouth to prove it was real, and a thick mane of blond hair that fell loose and carefree on the forehead. This face looked back at me with what I interpreted as equal wonder and all the insecurities Frank had ignited in me were extinguished. I wasn’t a loser like the last time and the time before and this beautiful man in front of me would prove that. Unfortunately, the beautiful man behind him would unravel my newfound confidence and take from me another chance for happiness with one sentence:
“Come on, Brian, I love this song!”
With those words Brian’s beautiful face was whisked away from me and dragged onto the dance floor as a Cher tune pulsated through the air. I saw him glance back at me and I tried to follow him, but just then the DJ sampled an old Go-Go’s hit and I was nearly trampled to death by a swarm of gay men who just had to get the beat.
My luck had gone from bad to worse. At least Frank had given me his number before rejecting me; Brian didn’t hang around long enough to do the proper thing and create the façade that he wanted a relationship before giving me my rejection notice. Thank God Friday was officially over.
Alas, that meant Saturday had arrived and this Saturday meant having lunch with my mother and her best friend, Audrey, at the Secaucus Diner. Normally it was a fun event during which I would let the ladies tell me all about the wild adventures of the tenants of the Salvatore DeNuccio Towers and allow myself to get caught up in the pandemonium, but this Saturday would be different. It would be the Saturday after losing not one, but two, potential boyfriends. I would have to wear a smile tighter than Priscilla Presley’s.
“Steven, what’s wrong with you?” my mother asked instead of saying hello.
“Hello to you too, Ma,” I replied, ignoring her question. “Hi, Audrey, how are you?”
Audrey Pizzarelli is my mother’s best friend. She is a Sicilian widow like my mother and similar to her in almost every single way except that she dyes her hair jet black, is thirty pounds heavier, wears polyester twill jumpsuits from the ’70s with color-coordinated neckerchiefs, and has been dying for the past twenty years. It’s a self-diagnosis disputed by every doctor in the tri-state area, but one that Audrey clings to as tightly as I cling to the dream that I will someday meet the man of my dreams. Everyone has to cling to something.
“I found a lump,” Audrey declared with undeniable pride.
“It’s a mosquito bite,” my mother corrected.
“Since when do mosquitoes bite in October?” Audrey asked.
“You were down at the swamps again.”
“I was not.”
“Yes, you were! Rosemary saw you.”
“That friggin’ Rosemary! She’s always spying on me!”
“You were on her daughter’s property. Lori Ann lives right next to the swamp.”
“That is no reason to spy on someone.”
“Excuse me, Audrey?”
“Yes,