Gulliver Takes Five Read online

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2012 Justin Luke Zirilli

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by AmazonEncore

  P.O. Box 400818

  Las Vegas, NV 89140

  ISBN-13: 9781612184234

  ISBN-10: 1612184235

  In memory of my father

  Have fun laughing obnoxiously and dancing in Heaven

  CONTENTS

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  BRAYDEN’S ROUGH REVENGE

  MARTY’S BIG BREAK

  CHASE’S NEVER-ENDING NIGHT

  SERVANDO AND ROWAN’S RANDOM REUNION

  TODD’S MAJOR MELTDOWN

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Have you ever asked yourself the question, where was HE last night? I know I have, quite often. Whether you’ve wondered where a friend was during a wicked-crazy party, or where your boyfriend was when he was supposed to be at home sleeping, or where YOU’VE been when you’ve awakened the morning after, still in your clothing, on the floor of your apartment.

  Well, turns out readers ask that question too! In my first novel, Gulliver Takes Manhattan, I introduced a gay twenty-something Angeleno named Gulliver who left home to escape an asshole ex-boyfriend, moving to New York City to live with his best friend, Todd, in the up-and-coming gayborhood of Hell’s Kitchen. There, he quickly became friends with Todd’s core crew: Rowan, Servando, Shane, and Brayden. Due to a couple of bad decisions (including secretly dating Brayden’s ex-boyfriend, Marty, and engaging in some extramarital adventures with a seemingly random guy named Chase on Fire Island), Gulliver found himself homeless, jobless, and caught in a struggle to stay in the city. Desperate and driven, Gulliver ultimately chose to work in porn, and became an adult film celebrity in the process.

  In the original novel, there comes a pivotal, dramatic, and surrealistic scene where Gulliver does something he probably would never have imagined he was capable of. I won’t ruin it for you if you haven’t read it yet. In that scene, all of Gulliver’s exes, friends, and confidantes are strangely (mostly) absent. Where are they? How are they not at this major event? Everyone wanted to know. And, luckily, so did I.

  This novel will show you that each of those other characters had VERY good reasons for his absence. I penned the collection of five first-person accounts you are holding in order to answer this question: Where were Brayden, Marty, Chase, Todd, Servando, and Rowan on the night when Gulliver took the stage at the “Gay Party of the Century,” otherwise known as eWrecksion?

  Why did I call it Gulliver Takes Five? Two reasons, really. One, we have five tales within these pages. And two, Gulliver gets to take a blessed break from talking your ears off about his drama. (Don’t worry, he’ll be back in the third book.)

  Writing this so soon after my original novel was an exciting adventure. I got to jump into each of my characters’ heads and write five tales that all occur on the exact same day, a day that occurred during the timeline of Gulliver Takes Manhattan. Just think of this as my written version of the Oscar-winning film Crash, except with a lot more sex and bitch slaps. Hopefully you’re in the mood for something of that nature.

  Okay, you’ve heard enough from me. I’m going to shut up and let my gay boys do the talking. Have fun.

  —Justin Luke

  Christian isn’t up yet. He’s breathing deep, sprawled in a position that looks like a marathon runner midstride, about to sprint through the wall and out to the street below. And if the past four Saturdays are any forecast for today, he’ll be down for the count for another hour. Loverboy didn’t get home from spinning his weekly gig at Splash until 5 this morning. That means I have plenty of time to make this absolutely perfect.

  So that’s what it’s going to be.

  There’s a “Happy Anniversary!” card hidden under a stack of Next magazines in the kitchen. There are four more drafts in the garbage, buried under Chinese take-out containers, just in case Christian decides to dig through the trash for some reason. Those first four didn’t get my feelings right—either too sappy or too presumptuous or too formal or too blasé—but the fifth time’s the charm. I really hope he likes it.

  I also got him that plug he’s been drooling over since he first fell in love with it at Sam Ash. I have no idea what it does or how it does it, but he said it’ll make his sound even brighter, cleaner, crisper. If you ask me, none of these adjectives should be applied to music, but what do I know about being a DJ? For the one hundred bucks it set me back, it better be one hell of a fucking plug. Please, please let it be right.

  The apartment is silent, my guy’s slow, rhythmic breathing the only sound. Roommate Shane never came home last night (witness my jaw NOT dropping), which means Christian and I have the apartment to ourselves, to celebrate however we see fit. Will this include naked breakfast making? Stay tuned. It very well might.

  Shit. Christian’s phone is unplugged. It’s sitting on his crumpled pants at the foot of the bed. When he gets up, it’ll be dead. That’s going to piss him off. Then our morning is already off to the completely wrong start. We’ll just consider a fully charged phone his OTHER anniversary present.

  I pick up the phone, sort of accidentally waking it up with a clumsy thumb. A notification pops up on the lit screen.

  I shouldn’t.

  I must.

  I can’t.

  I might...

  He’s dead asleep, right? We’ve been seeing each other for a month now. A month to the day since our first, oh-so-promising encounter. Someday we might share bank accounts, credit cards—and phone bills. What could he have to hide? Plus, I’m sure he has password protection. Who doesn’t these days? So what’s one quick peek? I swipe the thing into action, only to find that not only does he not have password protection, he also has a text message waiting for him.

  I’m staring at the name Grant Majors, the Broadway gay we met through my good friend Todd DiTempto the same night we met each other out on Fire Island (Todd made ALL the introductions that night, per usual). We’ve hung out with Grant a couple times, since he only lives a few blocks away, once to grab drinks and once to watch a DVD—plus he always has the hookup for free tickets to see his show.

  Should I? No. But why not? I’m scrolling down.

  It’s a photo: Grant’s ripped abs—and then some. His rock-hard dick takes up a large portion of the screen. “Good Morning Starshine!” says the caption underneath. I’m instantly pissed, and slightly aroused. I zoom in.

  “What are you doing?”

  Shit. My guilty hands lose their grip on the phone, sending it clacking and careening to the floor and under my bed.

  “What?”

  Christian sits up in bed, his hairy torso and chest puffing up and out of my bunched-up sheets. “What were you just DOING?”

  “I...I was going to charge your phone. You forgot to plug it in.”

  “You weren’t plugging it in. You were looking through it. I saw you!” He’s reaching for his shirt, putting it on. “And now you’re LYING about it? Son of a bitch. How crazy are you?”

  Shit. The C-word. The dreaded C-bomb. When a guy drops it, I know everything around me is about to explode and collapse, leaving me with only a charred ruin to remember it by.

  “How crazy am I? I’m not the one getting morning-wood sexts from our mutual friend!”

  “What? W
ho?” He looks genuinely confused.

  “Grant fucking Majors!”

  This was not at all on my itinerary for this morning.

  “Were you going through ALL the texts on my phone?” He drops to the floor and scrambles under the bed to rescue the lost phone, moments ago so harmless with its almost-drained battery, now a lightning rod electrifying both of us into fits of fury. “I don’t care if I’m getting underwear photos from every twink in New York State. You don’t go through someone’s phone!”

  “Why is Grant Majors sending you his cock? Why is his cock on your phone?” I rush to him, pulling him up from the floor, our faces colliding.

  “Why are YOU on my phone?” He pushes me away, looks down at the screen. At the incriminating cock shot. “This is the first I’ve ever seen of it. Digitally or otherwise. I have NO idea why he sent it!”

  “Do you even know what day it is? Did you have to pick TODAY?” My voice is getting higher and higher, toward the breaking point. I know what’s coming next.

  “I didn’t pick anything! He sent it to me! What are you talking about?”

  I know I’m going to cry.

  “I’m talking about...” I begin. Then have to stop. These first words are barely a whisper; that’s all I can muster. Because there’s a sob in me looking for any excuse to break free.

  “Our anniversary.”

  I had intended it to be a joke. Well, half a joke, at least. Who gets someone an anniversary card after one month of dating? And not even full-on, seriously committed dating, because we’ve never really discussed where we are or where we’re headed. We’ve been spending more nights together than apart, enough for me to know Christian wouldn’t have TIME to be dating anyone else, regardless of whether or not he had the desire. So, naturally, I’d just assumed things would keep going in this direction...And yeah, maybe an anniversary card would get that conversation rolling.

  But a quick meet and greet with Grant Majors’s dick? THAT Christian might make time for.

  Now it’s no joke. Before I can stop myself, I’m marching into the kitchen and digging under that pile of Next magazines, returning to the bedroom, and flinging the sealed canary-yellow envelope at him. “Happy FUCKING anniversary, asshole!”

  “Anniversary?” He reaches down to pick up the card carefully, like there’s some delicate, valuable clue inside that will demystify the confusion between us. I’m simultaneously reaching up to the shelves in my closet, behind a stack of folded towels, and unearthing the plug he so dearly desires. Brighter, cleaner, crisper? My ass. I hurl it at him.

  “Yes! We’ve been together for a month!”

  He looks down at the card, and the plug, and I’m not sure he understands how either of them fit into what I’m saying yet, but then he looks back up and says, “You mean we MET a month ago...”

  “And started dating. God, do you have to downplay everything?”

  “Well, yeah, we’ve been seeing each other, but...anniversary? One month after meeting me? And you think that entitles you to go through my phone like we’re MARRIED? Sorry, but that is fucking crazy.”

  There it is again. C-bomb. Kapow! My hands are around his throat, with a more violent effect than I’d like. Oh, I’ll show you crazy, I want to say, but fortunately have the presence of mind not to.

  “People told me about your reputation. Going ape-shit on guys for no reason.”

  “I have reasons,” I growl. “And just who, exactly, are these anonymous sources?”

  “Doesn’t matter. The point is, I guess neither of us knows each other like we thought. If you can’t even trust me...” Christian hesitates, choosing his words carefully. “I don’t think we’re...um...on the same page. And we should end this, before somebody gets hurt.”

  My face crumbles. My hands release. “END this? No. I’m sorry...”

  But he’s putting on his pants, shoving his phone in his pocket. “Too many sorries, Brayden! I can’t be with someone who will go through my phone before just ASKING me if I’m sleeping with somebody! I don’t care who did what to you in the past, okay? That has nothing to do with me!”

  “It has everything to do with you!” I shout at him, chasing him out of my bedroom to the living room, grabbing whatever isn’t nailed to the wall to chuck at his head. “How do you think it starts? With someone’s cock on your phone! If I’d started checking phones the first ten times it happened, I would have saved myself a lot of fucking trouble!”

  “Yeah. I’m so glad you saved US that trouble.”

  “Before you go, just tell me why his fucking cock is on your phone.”

  “I don’t fucking know! Okay, Brayden? Jesus! Why don’t you ask HIM?”

  I can barely hear the door slam because I am screeching, tearing my throat apart, throwing books from the living room bookshelf in the direction of the door. I do this for five minutes, until there are no more books to throw. Until I realize that he’s actually gone.

  I am heaving, crying, when the door opens—it’s Shane, still dressed up from last night, a little more wrinkled than when I last saw him. He looks down at the pile of books at his feet, then back up at me.

  “Anniversary surprise didn’t go as planned, huh?”

  I can’t help but laugh as Shane stares at me: in Christian’s rush to get out of here, the asshole left his fucking phone charger. I am calming down, I am breathing easier, I am letting acceptance wash over me, all those other stages (bargaining and anger and whatever else) be damned. It was only one month, he is only one boy, I can handle this. I can overcome my pain and sadness and fury, because I have done it before. I’ve survived. I can cope like a mature, rational adult and not spin myself into that Tasmanian devil cyclone of destruction I’ve perfected like it’s an art. I have learned from past mistakes, grown wiser, become a stronger, more stable man. Shane is here, my best friend. I will tell him what happened and he’ll suggest we get a cocktail or two and then we’ll laugh it off through our tingly midafternoon buzz.

  Yes. That’s exactly what I need right now.

  For some reason, my body disagrees with this plan. Instead, I am still screaming, crying, flinging even more things at the door as Shane backs up cautiously in the direction of his room.

  “I’ll let you chill out, boo. Don’t worry about the books, I’ll clean them up.”

  He slips into his room and gently closes the door.

  I grab the charger as Christian’s final few words bounce around in my skull: I don’t fucking know! Okay, Brayden? Jesus! Why don’t you ask HIM?

  I fling it at the door with one last scream.

  FUCKING BITCH!

  Hit the buzzer.

  Wait.

  Punch the buzzer.

  Wait.

  Kick the buzzer.

  This FUCKING buzzer!

  Buzz. Buzz. BUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ ZZZZZ.

  Police sirens wail in the distance like a sick baby crying into a megaphone. I want to punch the sirens. Shut them the fuck up. The buzzing and blaring in my head is goddamn noise enough. My life is all the emergency I can handle right now.

  The rain has drenched my hair, which I just bleached this fucking morning an hour after Christian split. The color is Ultra Ivory. Like a ghost flying out of my brain.

  Well, it WAS flying out of my brain. Now it’s dead, stringy, and pasted down on my itchy, wet forehead.

  Answer answer answer!

  No.

  Buzzer buzzer buzzer!

  STELLA! STELLA!

  In my pockets are four of those little bottles of vodka they sell for five bucks a pop at any liquor store. All empty. On my phone is a text from Shane. “Hope you’re feeling better? I’m worried, boo. Where did you go this morning? Answer my texts! Oh...Looks like maybe you were right about C and GM. Just saw them walking up 9th together toward his place. What a dick!”

  Now I, too, am outside Grant’s apartment, with two plans: one to execute if Christian is still in the apartment, and one if he isn’t. I would’ve gotten here
quicker, except I was drinking with some of my girlfriends downtown, pounding back shots to cleanse Christian out of my system.

  Needless to say, it didn’t work. But the travel time back to Hell’s Kitchen gave me all the minutes I needed to scheme. It’s now almost 11 p.m. and the only thing NOT working in my favor is that Grant is NOT answering his fucking door.

  The shit-eating, backstabbing, STD-infected ho bag!

  A click, a beep, a voice. Oh, right—I have a purpose here, don’t I?

  “Chill out!” Grant screams over the static. “I was in the shower! Who is it?”

  What a great greeting. The cunt. What took you so long, you theater fag? Fucking my man? Did you have to wipe all his cum off your face before hitting the speaker button, in case I might hear it drip? Is he in the shower too, wiping your jizz out of his hole?

  “It’s Brayden,” I say into the buzzer, straining so my voice is heard over the fucking police sirens now zooming by, smiling hard to make my voice sound friendlier so it’s not obvious that I’m about to bust inside and set the fucking apartment on fire.

  “Brayden? Oh. Brayden. I’m kinda busy. Have to run in a few. I’ll catch you another time, okay?”

  No. You’ll catch me right the fuck now. “Is Christian there?”

  He’s silent. For a bit too long. Because I caught him. Would Christian try climbing out the window? No, Grant lives on the fourth floor. I check the fire escape anyway. Nothing but the corpse of a Christmas tree that’s eight months dead. The rain is pelting me now. My hair is in my face, itching like crazy. I want to yank it out. Instead, I shake my head, slick it back. It flops back onto my forehead. I am going to start screaming again. My shirt is sticking to my arms, itching too. I HATE getting wet. I must have been a fucking cat in a past life.

  “Uh. No. Should he be? Brayden, I really don’t have the time to do this right now.”

  Bullshit. Liar. Let me the fuck inside. I’ll check every fucking closet. Under your bed. In the bathroom. Behind every door. I’ll sniff him out like a fucking hunting dog.

  “No, I guess not! But can I come in?”