Bergdorf Boys

Chapter 3-2

Hidden somewhere was a DJ booth and the source of wild lightning streaks. Neal stood at the entrance to the gold room watching a crack of white leap across the ceiling. Between flashes, in the black, he thought of the desert at night, the hot clean place he dreamed about. Love in a midnight heat, under a slice of moon, his favorite fantasy. There was a lull, as spook-house black surrounded him, traces of sound floated, and he shut his eyes to see the desert, and his secret lover. Trance music beat in time with a new set of flashes. His eyes adjusted and the sultry mirage folded back into the heat of the party. He looked up at the black ceiling. He felt like he’d been in rooms like this all his life. He’d never been to the desert.

In corners sculpted men and boys stood with candles in their palms, lights that were extinguished if a guest pulled them down to a sofa. There was a long flat glass-topped liquor bar against one wall, with a server wearing a hood, and close by, a metal counter controlled by a huge Greek man dressed as a wrestler. He doled out amphetamines and powder. In a blue flash of light, Neal saw a film star tying up a porn star. Near that, a group of three embraced, slithering up a wall. He was aroused and trembling. The scene was dangerous, titillating.

Neal wandered into the next room, a chamber lined with velvet couches. He sat and watched. One nude bald man lifted another identical nude bald man, likely his twin, over his head, then set the beefy ass on his face. Neal squeezed his eyes shut. He felt dizzy and wanted to leave, but hesitated. He leaned back and felt an odd welling up, a tightness in his jaw, a rush of something unfamiliar and irritating. He was angry and wanted to stop everything and go. He had a weird urge to jump up and pound at the bald twins with his bare fists, to strain with all of his dull, hapless might and destroy them.

There was a hand on his thigh. It was soft, delicate, and he liked it there. He kept his eyes shut. I will be fine, he thought. It’s going to be f*****g hot. A rush of sweet-smelling smoke from a sucking cluster in the far corner swept around him. He thought of holding his breath, but realized that was impossible for long, so he pushed his breath out in staccato gasps as if shooing the drug stench away. The hand touched his hip, then went to his shoulder and turned him, guided him, to lie down. There was a skittering of bare feet, a slight moan, and another shot of smoky air. He felt weak, letting the hand guide him onto his stomach. Knees straddled his back. It was quiet. A giggle from afar, then hands on his shoulder blades. The hands were small, but firm. They moved up into his scalp, pushing harder and now adding lips on his ear, nibbling, licking inside. Neal sunk deeper into the sofa, then finally turned over and looked into the eyes of the man above him. The eyes were red slits, and he thought of the quick clip of the devil’s eyes in Roman Polanski’s film, Rosemary’s Baby. Ugly demon eyes screwing a nubile Mia Farrow. The guy looked like he’d been high on crystal meth for days.

“f**k,” Neal said loudly, then rolled away and found his way back out of the room, down the stairs and finally, finally away from the party.