Gully's First Bite
In an excerpt from his debut novel, Guliver Travels, new AntiTwink.com columnist Justin Luke Zirilli introduces us to Gully: gorgeous, gay and twenty-something, fresh off the bus from L.A. and taking his first bite out of the Big Apple...
Shoving! Pushy! There’s not enough room on this floor. I’m wearing half my drink as a gorgeous black man with dreads pulled back in a ponytail shoulders his way past me, grabbing my ass and apologizing as he does so. I down the rest of my whatever-it-is to avoid the problem. A dumb move, because Todd is there with another to replace it. I shrug and dump half of it on my shirt, which is apparently hilarious to the crew.
And then we are dancing. To the shitty new Christina Aguilera single. To Black Eyed Peas and Kylie and David Guetta and Adam Lambert. I am moving and the club is spinning. Rowan and Servando have me surrounded, Rowan behind and Servando in front. My eyes are open then closed, my mouth smiling then singing. Then Rowan’s mouth is on my neck and I’m kissing Servando, our vodka breath and cacophony of colognes fighting back the smell of sweat enveloping us. The bass is hard and I’m sweating. My shirt is, once again, off. A hand is between my legs. My dick grows to meet it. Rowan? Servando?
Doesn’t matter, because now we are all three making out.
It’s the first time I’ve ever kissed more than one person at the exact same time. My booze-ridden brain is wondering how the hell it’s possible that three mouths can meet without noses broken as a result. They lock together perfectly. But how? It’s like I just discovered a cool new app on my iPhone that’s been there the whole time.
I’m so hard. I’m so drunk. Either Rowan or Servando has a tongue ring; it clicks delicately on my teeth every once in a while. I lick at it for the temporary metallic chill it provides. It’s like we’re flipping in the air, the lights around us flashing, the bass throbbing, our hands rubbing, grabbing, caressing. I look beyond our locked mouths and see Todd, who’s dancing up on someone I don’t recognize. We meet eyes and he laughs, nods, and flashes me a thumbs up, mouthing: “Get it.” Beyond him I see faces. Hundreds. Then thousands. Now millions. Not clearly — no. They are blurs of eyes and jawbones and messy hair cascading over tanned foreheads, all bathed in shifting colored lights — now raspberry, now blue raspberry, now pink flamingo, now cherry red. And they are watching. I’d be watching too, if I weren’t already a part of this peculiar makeout session. Is this a rare and hot occurrence at Posh, or a standard display?
I don’t know. I don’t care. Rowan or Servando’s hand is down the back of my jeans, caressing my ass cheek. Servando or Rowan’s hand is down the front, jerking me off.
I blink and now we’re in a cab. SUV, not a car. The TV tells us about Lion King and tapas and the triplex which still hasn’t sold. Brayden yells at the screen to shut the fuck up and kicks it, somehow turning it off. He is my hero and I kiss him thank you. He pokes his tongue out and I let him in my mouth to explore. Servando or Rowan is still jerking me off under my jeans. The windows are open and I am gulping the chilly New York air as it invades the cab.
The road turns bumpy and for a second I feel my many drinks and bite of burger come up as my body hovers off the seat. But a quick swallow takes care of that.
When we tumble out of the cab I scream, “Bye-bye, LA!” and triumphantly fling my iPhone onto the seat, slam the door, and watch it speed away. On it is a text message from Graham calling me a fucking piece of shit; he hopes I get AIDS in New York and die falling in front of a subway. There’s pain in me somewhere, but the booze cuts through it, separating us.
Todd takes off after the cab and stops it just before it disappears. He grabs my phone, tips the driver again for his troubles, and pockets it as he jogs back up to us. “I’ll just hold on to this for ya, Gully.”
“Whatever,” I shrug, flashing my Mastercard to the bouncer of a club in Chelsea called Purgatory. He takes a long hard look at me, fishes my ID out of my wallet, and hands me back my credit card, rolling his eyes but allowing me access to the bar.
Purgatory is dark at first, and then, past the coat check, flashing lights of red, blue, green. A bar runs the full length of the right side of the dance floor and, at the back, a DJ (DJ Mikey Make-Out, Todd clues me in) is spinning Ke$ha. I’m dancing and drinking. Drinking and dancing. Strangers come and go, ask me where I’m from, if I know how cute I am, if I think they’re cute.
I nod. I kiss. I let them touch me and buy me drinks, only sometimes in that order. The new Britney plays. Then some old, old Spice Girls. Then still more Ke$ha. Different songs, but the bass is one continuous pattern of vivacious vibrations. Yes. Yes. Yes. New divas. New songs. New York. A new me. And the kissing.
At one point I turn around and everyone is gone. I’m alone. I imagine the club vacant; I have no idea where I am or how to get home. My waking nightmare is opening my eyes and finding myself face-down in an alley somewhere in a pool of my own vomit and/or blood, crying because I don’t know how I got there or why my ass is sore.
And then I blink and Servando and Rowan are back and we’re kissing again. The same tongues with the same tongue ring and it’s just as fun as before. I can make out with them for hours. Days. All week. I’ll look for jobs while we make out. I’ll show up for my first day in a new jacket and tie, making out with them as I emerge from the elevator. I’ll cash my first paycheck with both of their tongues down my throat.
Todd appears out of nowhere, emerging from the crowd like a gay nightlife Moses, parting the Pink Sea. He’s accompanied by an attractive guy with short black hair and a tight shirt that reveals slight hints of musculature.
“Gully!” he yells, interrupting my makeout session. “This is my boss, Mikey Dolan. He created GuyTime. We run four parties a week in the city, plus a ton of events in every other city too.”
“Hi!” My arms wrap around him and I give him a kiss on his cheek.
“And who’s this sexy boy?” Mikey asks, patting me on the back like we’re best friends while handing me a drink ticket with the other.
“My buddy Gulliver from LA,” Todd says, holding me up as I almost pitch forward, reaching for the ticket. “Just arrived tonight.”
“Your roomie is a nightlife superstar,” Mikey tells me before turning to Todd, who’s already in full blush. “And Gulliver’s a cutie, mind if I take a picture?”
Servando, Rowan, and I, all shirtless and sweaty, oblige, stepping back carefully and smiling as sexily as we can in our drunken state. The flash is blinding, white everywhere. Mikey snaps a second one for good luck, and for this one, a cute blonde boy joins us. I am too dizzy to actually nail down any of his features. We are all blurs in a world of blurs. He introduces himself as Chad or Chase or Dave. Maybe I give him my name, or maybe I just mouth it assuming my voice will follow the movement of my lips. He declares or asks me something, his beautiful lips flapping, but his voice is no match for the glorious bass.
Mikey’s camera flashes fade away. The walls and floors of Purgatory crumble and become the near-barren walls of my bedroom; the floor spins and becomes the ceiling above my queen-sized bed. How’d I get here? Rowan is here, too. His legs are open and my head is between them. Servando is also here, behind me and inside me, his hands anchoring me to the mattress. I wonder where that guy went — or is he here with us?
Everything is spinning. Flipping. Cartwheeling. If Servando lets go we’ll all fall because somehow the bed is upside down, hanging from the ceiling. We are Cirque du Soleil and the boys from Therapy are back to cheer us on. This fresh meat bottom from La La Land with the nice legs and trimmed chest hair. Welcome, they’re shouting. Take it off, they cheer.
Servando kisses my back. Rowan scoops me up by the chin and sticks his tongue down my throat. I moan. The bed is flipping, flipping, flipping. On the wall I am watched by Mortar Boarded Todd and Me, next to Mortar Boarded Me and Todd. I’m on my back. I’m on my side. Servando is in front of me. Behind me. Rowan’s on both sides. They are under me and I am under them. They are inside me and I am inside of them.
We’re laughing, we’re wrestling, we’re flinging condom after condom on the floor. And then we’re sleeping. And then we’re at it again. And then I’m in the bathroom. Hello, bite of turkey burger! Been awhile. How ya been? Servando is standing above me, pulling me up from the bathroom floor. And then we are asleep again. Much like how our mouths fit so well together, our bodies are intertwined in a way that allows us all to comfortably fit on the bed just so.
Outside there is honking and screeching, screaming and laughing. We’re dead to the world, and New York is still so fucking alive.
Get more Guliver Travels at grabgully.com.
