Matt blushed, stared down at the table. He would have preferred that it not be broadcast that this was his first time here. He would have preferred sitting at a perimeter table.
An older guy, fit but graying at the temples, excused himself from his companions, and stepped to the table where William, Paul, and Matt sat. He slipped two twenty-dollar bills into Andrew’s hand, whispered something in his ear. Matt noticed the older guy wore a Rolex watch and a gaudy, diamond-studded ring.
“Martin!” William gushed at the graying guy. “I thought that was you!What are you doing sitting at the adults’ table? Those other queens are too old for you! And where’s Sylvan?”
Martin chuckled. “Hi William. Sylvan’s in Switzerland again for treatment.”
Martin looked at Paul and Matt. “Let me welcome you two to the Gayborhood. Your first round of drinks is on me. If you happen to be at the Finish Line later, find my table. I’ll buy you another round.” He shook their hands, then returned to his companions.
“So, what’re you boys drinking?” Andrew asked.
William ordered for them. He was having his usual: straight bourbon, Tallulah Bankhead style. For Matt, Bourbon and Coke. For Paul, Amaretto Sour.
Andrew flitted away to his other customers.
“Pay attention, dahlings,” William whispered. “Martin is a pro at this game. He bought drinks without being asked, and he didn’t force his company on us in return. He’s definitely interested in one, or both, of you, especially since Sylvan’s away for his annual Botox and injection spree.”
William leaned in, spoke conspiratorially. “Martin and Sylvan like to spice things up with the occasional boy toy. Play your cards right, and you might be their next. Last year they took a guy with them to the Bahamas.”
“Wow!” Paul said. “I’ve never been to a beach.”
“I’ve seen plenty.” William yawned. “Which was lucky for me since I didn’t get much beach time on that trip. One-on-one with Sylvan. One-on-one with Martin. Sandwiched between them. Other combinations a lady shouldn’t divulge.”
Matt was surprised and intrigued. He hadn’t imagined any three-ways for that night’s activities. Now the possibilities seemed endless.
“I doubt we’ll visit the Finish Line tonight,” William said. “A boot-scooting hellscape. Two-stepping to George Strait and Patty Loveless. Pointy-toe cowboy boots everywhere. Just ghastly.”
Their drinks arrived. Both Matt’s and Paul’s drinks had cocktail straws with skewered cherries.
Paul was discombobulated. He started to remove his.
“Leave it,” William said.
“But I don’t like cherries!”
William sighed. “They’re not for you. They’re for the boys who do—like popping cherries, that is.”
Paul still didn’t get it. He pushed his glasses up his nose.
“It signals everyone that we’re virgins here,” Matt said to Paul.
“I’m not a VIRGIN!”
If Gushers was an ice cream fantasy, the Copa was Abercrombie & Fitch on steroids. A&F, where the walls were plastered with oversized homoerotic posters. Where hot, sultry guys worked the floor. Where the perfumed air was mind-numbingly intoxicating. Where frantic music crowded out the workaday noise. That was A&F, which could fuel a good wank. Not a real-life hook-up, but a wank for sure.
Now swap go-go dancers on raised platforms in place of the two-dimensional posters. Throw in several large video screens. Substitute 100 writhing, dancing guys (some shirtless, most hot) for the 3-4 floor clerks. Replace the single notes of A&F cologne for a heady swirl of sweat, testosterone, and a witch’s brew of cigarette smoke, body sprays and perfumes. Pump the music up to at least quadruple the decibels, double it again. Stir in liberal quantities of alcohol—and that was the Copa, which could fuel a real-life hookup or three. Matt did have three condoms after all.
It was 10:00 p.m. and the party had already begun when William led Matt and Paul into the Copa’s pulsing heart.
The dance floor was a sunken pit surrounded by tables on three sides, a stage on the fourth. Two go-go dancers gyrated above them. Guys below them grooved to the beat.
Matt had a solid buzz. He followed William through a maze of tables, his crotch just inches away from seated spectators who sized him up as he passed.
If William was looking for an empty table, he was on a fool’s errand, but Matt wasn’t going to be the one to break that news. He assumed they would end up huddled against the back walls like a hundred other people.
He forgot that William was not “other people.” That William had no intention of joining the hoi polloi on the perimeter. That he would not allow his two debutantes to be slighted. They were to be the Belles of the Ball—by God.
William led them to the best table in the room, one that overlooked the dance floor and was close to the stage. One that Evan and Luke were holding for them, having apparently slipped out of Gushers early for the sole purpose of staking a claim. One they readily relinquished.
