Time for a piss. My bladder is ready to explode. I walk through a few guests and gently push my way to the bathroom next to Tony’s bedroom. The area is dimly lit. My view shifts to the right, into Tony’s private room, and I see two queers, both shirtless, making out on his bed. I place them in their early twenties. As they suck face, pants are being unbuttoned, and their sloppy act of lovemaking begins.
After squeezing past a straight, power couple—the blond female is in a navy skirt, white blouse, and pearls, and her gentleman friend is dressed in a dark brown suit—arguing over the woman’s knowledge of stocks and bonds and financial whatnots, I eventually come to the closed bathroom door. I tap twice, don’t hear a response, and enter at my own risk.
Ginger takes a temporary residence in
