Gulliver Takes Five Read Online Free PDF Page B

is covered by a mountain of whiter-than-white cocaine. While the food sits uneaten near the jazz band, boys and men approach the table at their leisure, scrape off a generous line or bump, and snort it to Brainsville. Well, why not? I shovel up a few, sending them into the soup of shots and martinis already circulating inside me.
    Now we’re cooking.
    My eyes move more quickly, empowered by my super-snort. I survey every face in the room looking for Christian and, unfortunately, come up empty-handed. The bassist is now taking overthe quartet’s rendition of “How High the Moon.” The moon’s got nothing on how high I’M feeling right now.
    Christian has to be here. Two of Broadway Bottom’s buddies confirmed it! But if he is, he’s definitely not in this room.
    As the cocaine continues to work its wonders, everyone around me starts to grate on my nerves. Every bad joke immediately followed by insincere laughter, every old hand placed on every youthful thigh. Shady bitches—the young and ancient alike. I order a martini and offer the attentive cocktail server a tip. Judging by the shock on his face as he hands me back my five dollars, I’ve just committed a grievous faux pas. I swig the martini and promptly return to the coke pile to inhale another couple Andrew Jacksons’ worth of the stuff.
    Boys and men enter and exit the room. Still no Christian. I leave in search of a bathroom to relieve myself and splash water on my face. Things are rocking back and forth; I decide no more martinis for now. More coke? Sure.
    Back in the salon, I spot Christian by the bar. My palms break into a sweat. Finally! Wait. No, it’s just another swoopy-haired gay, a sight about as unique as a losing lottery ticket. The Christian twin leans on a wall next to the coke table, laughing with a geezer who could be his fucking grandfather. They look ready to strip each other naked—though I think that sort of activity would be frowned upon out here in front of everyone.
    The bedroom.
    Fuck. Of course!
    There must be one or two (or possibly ten) May-December couplings doing their business in private rooms somewhere. And if Christian isn’t in this living room milling or meandering...
    “Well, hello there.”
    A hand is on my shoulder. It belongs to a man who looks almost identical to Anthony Hopkins, except he’s dressed to the nines, tens, and elevens. He wears a perfectly pressed, fantastically tailored suit. His hair is slicked back, luminous. Slimy, even. He holds an almost-empty martini glass, an olive on a toothpick doing pirouettes inside. He looks like he’s about to introduce an upcoming segment on
Masterpiece Theatre
.
    “Hey, pops. How’s it hanging?”
    I am looking for bedrooms. He is making his move very boldly, stroking my neck like he’s about to offer an old-fashioned lather and shave. Just. Smile. Deep breaths. Keep it civil.
    “You’re a very attractive fellow,” the crypt keeper says. “Do many men tell you that?” (He sounds like Anthony Hopkins too, thanks to the Brit accent.) I know I shouldn’t let him waste his time on me, especially considering how little of it might remain.
    I smile off into the distance. “One too many, actually.”
    “Oh! He’s got wit too! My name is Ronald.”
    So not only does he get the clue, he’s decided to let it pass right on by him. Entitled prick. This is what happens when you get used to waving a checkbook in front of people to get what you want.
    “Brayden.”
    I can’t go searching this place with Daddy Warfucks following me around like there are insider trading tips hidden up my ass. But if I bash my martini glass over his head and call him an ugly old fuck, it’ll only cause a scene. Then my wonderful surprise for Christian is ruined!
    “Not one for eye contact, I gather?”
    Where the fuck is Christian?
    My eyes oblige and meet Ronald’s. They have to. Because a guy my age wouldn’t be in this penthouse unless he’s into guys who’ll be wearing Depends in