Bergdorf Boys

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The men in the porno were daring Neal to give up. Every grunt, every smack on the ass, every Romanian groan of pleasure told him to run. He’d been at the Palamos party ten minutes—hiding under a mink blanket in the Jade bedroom. It had started well enough. He’d made it into the mansion confident and ready to mingle. Then, moving from the searing summer heat into the frigid, air conditioned entry hall, he saw the masses of gigantic white teeth, lithe bodies, runway couture outfits, champagne flutes and chattering, fiercely-sharpened tongues, and he felt like a hick Missouri fraud. Suddenly the cute, anchor-detail knit top he’d maxed out his Bergdorf Goodman credit card for seemed very, very last season. He was getting ready to turn heel when he spotted the boy.

A servant likely, wearing a sheer skin-tight white bikini. Barely seventeen, Neal guessed, he was lounging with his ass propped on the edge of a long marble table, one leg draped casually over the tip, his inner thigh open, soft and hairless. The boy was flexing his leg muscles and spreading his thighs ever so slightly. The curved hem of his silken bikini pressed into that crease between the top of his leg and the edge of his crotch. The boy was laughing, turning to smile, as a waiter offered Neal pink-shaded liquor and socialite Trudy Pratte swooped at him. He’d fled to the Jade room.

Upstairs, under the mink blanket, Neal practiced deep breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The Romanian porn actors groaned from the flat screen television, taunting. s*x and alcohol, a perfect pairing since puberty, had finally turned on him. Two months out of rehab, the skin-crawling rawness of being sober had kicked his animal urges into chaotic overdrive. If he wasn’t doing yoga, or shopping at Bergdorf Goodman, he was in constant, teen-like hard-on mode. Unfortunately, he couldn’t put two flirty words together without a cocktail to lubricate his tongue. The mere sight of a pretty servant boy spun him into a panic. He wanted to leave the party, but he couldn’t cop out on his good friend Rovvie. Rovvie had worked like a fiend to get Neal the gig as editor at Pop Magazine, the city’s premier gay weekly, which his lover Andreas Palamos owned. It was the editor’s job to attend fetes like this, and Neal desperately needed the work. The rent was backed up, the credit card bills overdue, Con Edison had sent a turn off notice, and he refused to call his family again for help. Breathing in, breathing out. He felt like he might hyperventilate. Through the shut bedroom door he heard muted voices from downstairs. He imagined the door bursting open, the voices flying at him, attacking. He hated feeling so nervous, so often, with nothing but s*x as a possible relief.

Peeking out from under the fur, he eyed his reflection in an elaborate, gold leaf mirror. He turned thirty-one that summer. He wondered if his eyes were sinking in and if he should start tweezing his brows to create a lifting effect. From the mirror’s distance, he thought he looked like a child swallowed up by a soft, hairy beast. Strands of his expertly dyed caramel blonde hair sprayed out from the top of the fur, and his compact body curled underneath. It was hot, and his breath—caught in the confines of the cave—reeked of licorice candy and espresso. The Romanian porno was playing f**k-beat music. Neal casually groped himself. The wave of voices from downstairs was getting louder, thornier. He heard the cackle of socialite Trudy Pratte, then a deep, distant scream. One of the porn stars was pitching a climax. He wondered if guests were reading his preview column in Pop. Copies of the magazine were scattered about the rooms. He cradled a copy under the mink, reading his tiny teaser again.

Bergdorf Boy here, promising you the sexiest summer on record. Steam heat, men to meet, brassy baskets. Beginning next week, BB will twirl you through it all with a secret peek at hook ups, hang outs, “celeb backroom spottings” and the question on every boy’s twittering lips—where is the best pinga in the city, the hottest fashion and the best spot to nab a rich hubby? Until next week. BB.

He snapped the magazine shut. The truth was he had no idea what he was going to write about on a weekly basis. The very idea overwhelmed him. Neal started to rip off the mink just as the bedroom door swung open then shut softly. He lay very still. He heard laughter, two men. He recognized one of the voices—a bar owner and big Pop advertiser. Perfect. Editor discovered under blanket, slobbering in fear. Neal shut his eyes. Breathing in, breathing out. If they left the overhead lights off they may not notice him.

“Did you see Trudy Pratte? That ancient sapphire necklace is ridiculous,” the first voice said, high-pitched, slurred.

“Shut up. I like her,” said the other, steady and mean.

“She came alone. She was supposed to be with Paul, but he disappeared or something,” the first said, then belched.

“Hurry up,” said the darker voice. “You mean Paul the broker, or Paul the meth addict?”

“Addict Paul,” the first shouted from the bathroom, splashing water, then flushing. “I heard he’s dead, I think. Was it him? Or maybe he just left town. He’s so fake anyway. And sort of fat in the face. ”

Neal flinched under the fur. He’d met Paul that spring at a twelve-step meeting, both men barely out of rehab. Paul, a socialite playboy with a hard-core crystal meth addiction, had drifted away after a few meetings. Neal had stayed. He missed Paul. There was a sound from the two men, like a kiss, then a slap on an ass. He pushed at the mink, trying to wedge a hole so he could see. The darker one stood at the door to the bathroom, his hands slung over his head, showing off a tiny tuft of hair on his belly. Neal could see past him into the bathroom where the other man stood at the sink, his pants pushed past his ass as he played with his tank top. Neal glimpsed that curve, that spot where the hem of the man’s tight lime green bikini underwear met the supple curve of his plump ass cheek. It was the curves between thigh and crotch, leg and ass, that drove Neal nuts. He was aroused, mesmerized, and the man’s underwear were, Neal decided, at least two sizes too small. He pressed at the mink a tad more to see. It fluttered. The tall dark one noticed and moved toward the bed.

“Hey?” the man said.

Neal laid still, eyes shut tight. He’d play drunk. They’d likely tiptoe out. He could hear them whispering, then a laugh. Someone was gently pulling the blanket off him.

“s**t, he’s hard,” the dark one said.

From the television, the porn actors were grunting. Neal felt one edge of the bed sink, then the other. They must be sitting on either side of him. In his blackness, Neal sensed someone leaning toward him. He smelled scotch. His c**k throbbed. There was a snicker and he felt the gentlest touch just below his waist, then the door swung open and a light switched on. Neal sat up feigning sleep, realizing he may have already made an absolute fool of himself half an hour into the party of the summer, at the home of his new boss.

The two men stole away, passing Albert Poke, who posed in the doorway. Over sixty, overweight and famous as the owner of a vintage Rolls Royce, Albert waved a diamond-clad pinkie in the air toward Neal as greeting. As he entered the room he rolled side to side, big hips swiveling, showing off a gold silk shirt open to the navel, bell-bottom sweat pants, and several thousand dollars worth of jewelry. Neal had met Albert at a party. The rumor was that a few years ago Albert had some sort of stroke, tightening some sort of screw in his brain that made him speak in run-on sentences. His thoughts were spiked with nonsense and wisdom. Albert approached, wheezing softly and choosing each word with care, as if he were stringing together a strand of scattered pearls.

“This is…not truly…a Jade room and you know dear one, the Greeks had no room for error, or…was it truth as my dear friend Sylvia promised as she flew the coop, yes, like a bird on a wire you might say, which of course,” Albert said, collapsing on the edge of the bed, shutting his eyes to concentrate. “Jade is… a faux Asiatic resemblance to what used to be, in our universal minds, that is. I’m quoting, someone who shan’t be quoted.”

Albert shook a fat finger glistening with rings that looked as if they would ricochet off into Neal’s face at any moment.

“And you, little one, choosing boys over your editorial duties, tsk tsk,” Albert said. “Trudy, that wicked one, insists Andreas threw this party to fluff up his flailing little Pop magazine. Shouldn’t you be hawking the wares?”

Neal had been editor of Pop for two weeks. Rovvie had told Albert, Andreas and anyone else who would listen all about Neal’s extensive writing talents. He hadn’t told them how he and Neal had met: nude and tangled up in a sweaty group scene at the West Side Club bathhouse. Albert was back at the door, one hand on his hip, the other hand poised in the air as if he were holding an invisible tray.

“Are you coming?” Albert said. “I am afraid, oh no, not fear that’s too grand a word, but then what are we all so desperately in fear of, when it’s only air and water. Touché!”

“I’ll catch up,” Neal said.

Albert twisted his girth in an elaborate, slow motion turn and swirled his hand upward in three circles as he made his exit. Neal sat on the bed, taking a long look at himself in the gold mirror across the room. He was lean and fit, had a bit of an early summer tan, and his eyes were bright, sober. He wore white skinny jeans and his form-fitting anchor-emblazoned knit blue pullover from Bergdorf Goodman. The shirt had cost him a month’s rent. He shut his eyes, guessing what the smart, confident new editor of Pop Magazine might say to those fabulous people downstairs. The socialites, the club kids, the filthy rich businessmen like his father. And what would he say to that boy, the servant boy in the white Speedo with the elegant curves. He would say something witty, something substantial, something men say.

Neal fell back again on the bed, then felt a breeze on his cheek, as the bedroom door creaked. He stood up quickly. There was no one, just a glistening speck reflecting up from the soft, cream carpet. He bent and picked up a shimmering diamond ring. Albert’s. He’d need to find him and return it. He stared into the ostentatious ring’s center which cut up into multiple glassy triangles of light and fire. The thing would probably pay for a full season beach house rental on Fire Island. He pocketed it and stepped into the hallway, moving under a series of small chandeliers which also glinted and twisted light. He stepped past large oil paintings depicting subtly erotic all male fox hunting parties, servant boys stooping at the heels of leather booted, tight-pant wearing gentry. At the head of the stairway, a sweeping curve of marble and wrought iron curled down into the mansion’s grand entry hall below. Neal paused, listening to a swell of voices, the clatter of serving trays and a throbbing dance beat. Through it all, he thought he heard his name called. The dance music increased in volume and he turned back to see Rovvie darting up the rear servant’s staircase to the third floor. He was barefoot, wearing a skimpy floral kimono. Listening to the ragged cackle of Trudy Pratte, Neal turned and followed Rovvie’s path. It somehow looked safer.