Gulliver Takes Five Read Online Free PDF

about to crash. Turns out I’m wrong. A pack of cute, screechy gays, most quite a few years younger than I am, strut in at the same time. The doorman sighs, shakes his head, and points us to the elevator; he’s probably seen many more like us this evening and doesn’t need to ask where we’re headed.
    For the entire twenty-floor elevator ride up to the penthouse, the boys giggle and spank each other, swigging out of flasks they’re hiding in their pockets and checking their asses in the elevator’s reflective walls.
    “Do you think Marvin’s going to be there? I hope so. He says he’s taking me to the Tonys—the dress rehearsal AND the live show!”
    Just my luck. More actors.
    “Nuh-uh, queen. He told ME I’m his date!” says his jealous friend, arms crossed petulantly.
    “Shut up, BOTH you bitches. He’s got a whole fucking ROW. We’re all his dates!”
    “Whatever. Let’s just make this quick. That eWrecksion party is going on downtown, and I’m not missing it for a fucking seat at the Tonys. I don’t care if it’s right between Audra and Cheyenne!”
    The boys crack up and toast their evening plans with their flasks. Not a one tries to speak to me—probably a good idea for all.
    The elevator door opens directly onto a massive duplex penthouse. The entire back wall of the residence is glass. New York City looks so squat and ugly compared to what’s here on our side. A jazz quartet is deep in a set in the far corner, just beyond a bar and buffet. The saxophonist wipes sweat from his forehead and takes his solo. Too bad no one else even notices; he’s actually really good.
    It doesn’t take me more than two bars of the sax man’s solo to realize I’ve found my way to a sugar soiree. Twelve old (and very rich-looking) dudes are flanked by five times as many pretty (and no doubt pretty poor) boys that look more like me than I care to admit. The old men guffaw, regaling their twinky charges with stale stories, the listeners nodding as they try to figure out how to hold a brandy snifter correctly.
    Christian is here?
    Really?
    That conniving tramp! Makes sense, though. I don’t care how good you are as a DJ, nightlife gigs don’t pay all that much, my friend Todd has told me this much for certain. Yet Christian was always falling over backward to buy me gifts, take me out to dinner, drag me to a show at Roseland or Highline Ballroom featuring some DJ I’ve never heard of that he idolizes. If I pulled out my wallet, he’d look at me like I offended him before taking out his own card. I work retail, plus the occasional bartending gig, so no—I can’t always afford a nice dinner out or a concert on my own. But I never expected Christian to pay my way. Certainly never asked him to. If money was a problem, I’d have been just as happy curled up on my couch, watching whatever he wanted on Netflix. Instead, it seemshe’s been sticking his dick in passageways older than the Holland Tunnel in some kind of effort to impress me with his mountain of riches! Every gift he ever gave me, every dinner out, is in question. I’ve been living on dirty, disgusting daddy money!
    The thought of him letting one of these skeezes crawl his wrinkled fingers all over him just so he can pick up the check when we go out turns my stomach. Tonight is jam-packed full of revelations about the guy I thought I knew reasonably well. Who IS Christian Robert? A Broadway star–fucker? A daddy hunter? Was I really so blind this past month? Is it that easy to pull the wool over my eyes? I need to find him just so I can stop this tsunami of disturbing discoveries. I can’t even imagine what other twisted skeletons he’s got blowing each other in his closet.
    I enter the penthouse, doing my best to keep my distance from the oldest of the guests, and come upon the centerpiece of the party: a stainless-steel table that is functioning as a social magnet, pulling everyone in its orbit closer and closer. And with good reason: its surface