Bergdorf Boys

Chapter 4-1

Chapter 4

Neal sat naked in a dark booth, on a hard, thin mattress. Things were moving briskly at the Westside Club bathhouse. There was a French song about boys f*****g. He sucked in his breath, puffed out his chest, and studied the curve of his belly. It was tight. A month without white flour had paid off. He pushed his shoulders back, crossed his feet. A part-time job as a sculpture’s model last year had given him the strength to hold this pose for at least ten minutes. Ten minutes at the baths equated to about five men passing his booth. On average, he scored a match after three men. He held the pose, guessing at shadows as they approached. A lean silhouette was promising, then fizzled to an ancient Asian. Two men, A-list, scurried past, not glancing at him. He felt a tingling sensation rush up his back, like an end of summer chill. It was crucial to hook up in the first half hour. The adrenalin rush that came with getting naked, lubing up and showing off only lasted about that long.

After thirty minutes, things began to slip. The overhead trance music began to beat a rhythm that became irritating, and the line of men began to repeat themselves—those Neal rejected looked more desperate, and those who rejected him looked sexier and further out of reach. If nothing happened soon, he would have to fight the creeping exhaustion and try not to see the ugly walls of this clapboard booth, the cracks in the concrete floor, the lost and drugged-up looks of loony desperation in the men’s faces. He spread his legs, and lowered his standards. An olive skinned man who had been circling was back, and Neal waved him in. The guy had a gut, but wide shoulders and a large c**k which bobbed like an anxious eel. Neal reached out to touch him. As the man turned to shut the cabin door, Neal’s hand sank into folds of coarse ‘gut’ skin. He shuddered and mouthed ‘sorry man’, an end of session standard. He wasn’t that desperate yet. A high-energy song called “Crush” came on and Neal watched the man sulk away, then he stepped out into the hall to wander.

The bathhouse was a rat’s maze of narrow, drafty hallways weaving in a big square pattern. In the center of the square was a flight of stairs leading to the basement, and smaller cubicles. On the main floor, doors to booths were in one of three positions: shut completely (a f**k match accomplished); slightly ajar, a nude man waving you in or looking away in disgust; or a wide open door. The wide open door occasionally featured a hot and nasty group scene, but most often, it was an older fat man fingering himself, or a submissive lying face down, eyes squeezed shut, ass in the air.

Safe s*x placards lined the hallways, and monitors wandered about making sure nothing insane happened in plain sight. At the club’s entrance every patron got a towel, lube, a condom. Every thirty minutes a hyped-up young desk clerk took over the overhead speaker, shutting down the trance music, and rattling through the club rules, including no public s*x and no drug use. In the short time he’d been working for Andreas, Neal had learned from Rovvie about two hushed up drug overdoses at the bathhouse. Palamos was owner of this and several other clubs throughout the city. He had a ton of political connections, Rovvie said.

In a booth at the end of the hall, Neal saw white, ghostly teeth. A tongue darted out, snake-like. The teeth crashed up and down, and the face contorted. It was Skelly, an actor/writer friend of Neal’s known for his dead-on impression of a chattering skeleton head. Skelly had written and performed a one-man show based on the concept at an experimental theatre downtown. Neal stopped at the booth and air kissed.

“You do that skeleton thing so well,” said Neal. “Sorry I missed your last show.”

“Don’t block the door,” said Skelly.

A sculpted Italian guy was stomping their way. Neal stepped back and Skelly tried to look alluring. The man darted back down the hall. Skelly was a riot on stage, but out of shape and with a comb-over hairdo.

“f**k him,” said Skelly.

“Have you heard anything about Paul?” Neal said. “I heard he might be dead.”

Skelly screamed. A lean red head coming their way turned heel and fled.

“What is wrong with you?” Neal said. “I overheard it at the Palamos party. It’s probably not true.”

At the bathhouse, the rules were simple: hot silence, hard looks, fondle your crotch, look disinterested. Never scream.

“I won’t be brought down. Get away from my booth you dark cloud,” Skelly said.

Neal laughed and walked on. He knew that deep down Skelly hated him. The two had competed for a freelance writing job years ago and Neal had nabbed it. Skelly never forgot it. As he turned down the hall, heading east in the maze, Neal looked back to glimpse Skelly’s chomping white teeth, his claim to fame. Skelly would be there all night, finally getting off alone in the group shower room. Neal turned a corner. He felt a little tired, so he leaned against a shut door at the end of the hall, in a dark spot. There was a ceiling fan cranking above, circulating air heavy with sweat, s*x and a whiff of amyl nitrate. The breeze felt nice there, with his eyes shut. He drifted for a moment in the breeze, in the dark, and thought again of his parent’s attic fan in the hall, how strange and comforting that breeze was, circulating the far off voices from neighboring yards. That was summer too, Neal thought, like this is summer now. He had always loved summer. He opened his eyes to see a big furry man looking at him with kindness, which was irritating, so he moved on. A few feet up, a cabin door was ajar. A pert looking man was lying on his cot wearing only black dress socks and stylish horn-rimmed glasses. The man had draped a T-shirt over the mounted wall light, to dim the room, and he was reading a book, a slim volume with a pistol on the cover that Neal guessed was an Agatha Christie page-turner. Neal paused to take in the tableau, fascinated and a little shocked, imagining the man would drive away any potential s*x suitors with that silly book. As if reading Neal’s thoughts, the be-speckled man snapped his eyes away from the page and gave him a long probing look. The man held his steely glare and Neal moved away.

Neal passed a half-open cabin door. An ass in the air. He kept going, then paused and stepped back. It was easy to study the passives before they glanced over their shoulders. From behind, the guy looked perfect. Long lean back, smooth legs, a mess of sweaty black hair falling to his shoulders. What made Neal stop, though, was the ass: a perfect curve up from the nape of the lower back, rising high, higher than any normal ass, almost leaping up, then crashing back down the other side, down to the hairless legs.

Beautiful, Neal thought and with that, the ass rose slightly off the mattress and hovered. He stepped into the booth, feeling that rush of exhilaration, forgetting himself. He felt powerful, a little angry. The ass pressed itself up strong and high. Neal touched it gently. He waited. He slapped it. The mane of black hair swayed. Neal grabbed it, grabbed the ass hard and held it, then he took both hands and held it harder, kneaded into it with his fists, pressed fiercely. Then Neal crawled on top, finally lost, sinking, breathless with a rush of relief, shutting his eyes and glimpsing a long endless stretch of midnight-pitch desert and that fading, illusive lover. He grabbed onto the silken black mane of hair and let go.