Please write me back!
Your friend,
Mustang
Saturday, October 21, 1995
Matt had three condoms in his wallet and hoped to spend them all before the end of this field trip to the Gayborhood. Maybe then he could stop thinking about Adam.
Gusher’s restaurant was the first stop, and already Matt felt like he was in Gay Candyland! Men were everywhere. It was like Howard Johnson’s 28 flavors of ice cream, except with men. Vanilla. Chocolate. Exotic flavors to boot. He wanted to sample them all.
He’d not been laid for five weeks. Not since his locker room handshake with Todd. Almost getting busted for—and actually losing Idabel’s friendship because of—that recklessness, had spooked him. He’d retreated from further handshakes with fellow members of the GM.
Had instead settled for shaking his own hand—masturbating, if one had to be clinical about it. It had become a daily habit, a pressure release. He was not ashamed of it but did miss the intimacy of human contact.
He looked forward to a guilt-free fucking spree on this field trip. Guilt-free but safe—hence the condoms. Hookups with fellow GM members could be bareback, but sex with strangers had to be safe. Just another rule in the 3-ring binder that governed their lives.
Gushers was inside the sprawling Habana Inn, a 170-room, 2-pooled hotel that had been built as a conference center and evolved into Oklahoma’s Gay Mecca. Just as Muslims made hajj to the Kaaba and Catholics received an indulgence for pilgrimaging to St. Peters, Oklahoma’s gays sought temporal peace at the Habana Inn. They dined at Gushers, partied at the Copa and the Finish Line, shopped for souvenirs and sex toys at Jungle Red, and fucked in their guest rooms—all without leaving the premises. The Habana Inn was not the only attraction in the Gayborhood, but it was the crown jewel.
It was 7:30 p.m. The night was young. William, Paul, and Matt sat at a table in the center of the restaurant. The rest of the GM (sans Kevin, who had been stuck with security detail), sat scattered along the room’s perimeter.
“Stop drooling, Matthew,” William whispered. “Stay in character! That goes for you as well, Paul.”
Matt closed his mouth, tried to quit gawping. He recalled William’s earlieradvice: “Nobody will remember how well you danced, but they’ll never forget if you were the girl desperately trying to get her dance card punched.”
The goal was to be desired—to be the droolee, not the drooler. This was the game at which William excelled: performing on life’s stage.
Playing chess—countering Colton’s many maneuvers, did not interest him. He had paid a heavy emotional toll to buy a temporary ceasefire in Colton’s war against MCU’s gays. That was good enough for him.
A waiter approached, greeted William by name, and the two of them caught up on gossip. Someone named Peter had the clap.
William: “That slut! I saw her once having sex behind the dumpster.”
Waiter, laughing: “The way I heard it, you were the girl she was fucking.”
More gossip. A guy named Christopher had run off to Dallas with a married guy who was planning to divorce his wife.
William: “That homewrecker!”
Waiter: “Christopher?”
William: “No, dahling. The wife! She’s standing in the way of true love.”
Matt noticed that other diners were watching them, eavesdropping on the conversation, whispering. He wished the waiter would move on.
The waiter’s name was Andrew. William introduced him to Paul and Matt. Explained it was their first visit to the Gayborhood.
Andrew smiled, shook their hands, took a minute to appraise both newbies. Was not discreet about it. Matt half expected to be asked to stand and turn around slowly.
Harley, who shared one of the perimeter tables with Evan and Jake, stood, and called out to Andrew. “Hey, waiter, we’re hungry over here, too!”
Andrew whirled to face Harley. “Hold your horses!” His voice was loud, commanding. “I’m helping two VIRGINS here!”
Harley sat down.
“I’m not a virgin!” Paul protested. That was true. Paul had now shaken hands with Evan, Jake, and Kevin. He was tied with Matt.
There was scattered laughter from other tables. Good-humored. Not derisive.
