Wearing Black to the White Party

by David Stukas

  Wearing Black to the White Party

  DAVID STUKAS

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  1 - All First-Class Passengers Receive Complimentary Warm Nuts

  2 - If a Tree Falls in the Forest . . .

  3 - Waiting for the Other Sandal to Drop

  4 - Third Time’s a Charm

  5 - That’s the Great Thing About Wearing Red—It Doesn’t Show Blood!

  6 - I’d Add a Little Chlorine to that Pool Water if I Were You

  7 - A Not-So-Dynamic Duo

  8 - I Shot Him with My Love Gun

  9 - Let the Games Begin!

  10 - Think Pink

  11 - Now Begone, Before Someone Drops a Convention Center on You!

  12 - A Call to Arms

  13 - Mission Implausible

  14 - Happy Trails to You

  15 - A View to a Kill

  16 - Dial M for Moy-der

  Epilogue - I Love a Man in Uniform

  Copyright Page

  To Libby,

  Who didn’t sue me when she fell on my pool decking.

  Don’t worry, Libby, the dizzines

  will eventually go away.

  Acknowledgments

  My thanks to John, my terrific and patient editor, who takes the insane stories I write and publishes them with nary a change. I am also eternally grateful to Bo Hewlitt, who told me the all-too-true story about seeing an enormous dildo lying on Mesquite Avenue in Palm Springs—which I shamelessly purloined for this book because it was too good to pass up. Finally, I would like to express my gratitude to Ray Lake, who gave me the adage about cigar-smoking rabbits when I desperately needed something insane.

  No rabbits, dildos or settees were harmed in the making of this book.

  1

  All First-Class Passengers Receive Complimentary Warm Nuts

  Everyone has a nightmare so terrifying that the mere thought of it sends chills running through the blood. A nightmare so hideous, it reaches into the furthest crevices of your mind and scars your very psyche. For some people, it’s female bodybuilders (that hair, those outfits, those shoes). For others, it’s visiting a place like Oklahoma City with less than five stiff drinks in you.

  My worst nightmare involves me sitting on a plane high over the mountains of Colorado. I’m sitting in seat 12A, knowing that the luggage sitting in the belly of the plane is filled with ten pairs of red tank tops, four pairs of indecently brief red spandex shorts, and one pair of red leather shorts and a red leather chest harness—yes, I’m going to the Palm Springs Red Party.

  By now you’re assuming that I’ve made a mistake and meant to say the Palm Springs White Party. No, I mean the Red Party, but the explanation requires more time that I have here.

  Anyhow. If the scenario of me in red spandex isn’t scary enough (don’t worry, readers; I won’t get the chance to wear spandex shorts anywhere in this book), there will be far more frightening things to come. By the time my story is done, there will be two people dead, one injured, one terribly bungled burglary, and I will have been accosted by the emperor to the empress dowager of the Most Imperial and Hierarchical Order of Almost-Vestal Virgins.

  But let’s begin at the beginning. I am on the aforementioned airplane. Michael is sitting next to me in seat 12B—first class. I would not be sitting in first class with Michael if it weren’t for him paying my way. Don’t get me wrong. I am no gigolo—no one would pay good money to sleep with me. It usually works the other way around.

  “So let me get this thing about the Red Party and the White Party straight,” I started, trying to get a better understanding of the dynamics of the White Party and its effect on my life, but I was rudely interrupted by Michael covering his ears with his hands.

  “Robert, please don’t use that word in front of me! You know how that word upsets me.”

  “I’m sorry that I uttered the dreaded hetero-word. But I would be a little more open-minded about straights. After all, they did bring you into this world.”

  Michael put down his copy of Details magazine and looked at me with “oh, please” eyes. “I have a sneaking suspicion that my mother is gay.”

  “Michael, your mother may be a homicidal maniac who attended Heinrich Himmler’s Bavarian Charm School, but one thing she is not is gay. Why would you ever think that?”

  “Because she’s completely insecure, hates everybody, uses money to buy favors, and spews attitude like a stuck-up volcano.”

  “Not all gays are like that!” I reminded him.

  “All the ones I know are!”

  “Well, look at the people you associate with. They act like they were raised by wolves.”

  “It’s just that my friends have high standards, and other people don’t always measure up to those standards. What looks like snobbery, arrogance, and pretentiousness to you is just their way of being picky.”

  “Snobbery, arrogance, and pretension. So these are the pluses for being gay, huh? No wonder we’re having so much trouble in our recruiting department.”

  “Robert, there are tons of reasons why being gay is superior to going strai—you know. We have sex without guilt, great clothes, we start all the trends, and we don’t have to get stuck with some bawling babies to raise to adulthood. That’s why we’re called gay. That’s why heteros hate us—we have fun and they don’t. You know, I was thinking about this the other day: if one out of every ten people are gay—a number that I find far too low—then, it means that God has to make nine straight people before he gets it right and comes out with one of us.”

  “Why don’t you write a letter to Pat Buchanan and tell him your theory—I’m sure he’d love to hear it,” I responded. “Can we get back to my original question? The one about the Red Party?” I pleaded.

  “I told you before. Of all the circuit parties held around the country each year, the White Party in Palm Springs is the biggie. There is the White Party in Miami, but it’s different than the Palm Springs version. The guy we’re staying with is Rex Gifford, and he’s starting another party that’s happening at the same time as the White Party.”

  “So,” I ventured, “he can suck off all the success of the White one, right?”

  “Don’t you dare say something like that in front of Rex! The Red Party is going to have synergy with the White Party.”

  “Michael, in my Dictionary of the Brutally Honest, that means Rex’s party is like a tick, hungrily sucking dollars off a very fat deer.”

  “From what Rex has told me, the Red Party is going to make the White Party look like a family barbecue in Paramus. The tickets are going for five hundred bucks. That’s higher than the VIP tickets for the White Party!”

  I was aghast. “Five hundred dollars to get into a fucking party!”

  “Not just a party, but the party!” Michael corrected me.

  “I don’t care if Cary Grant were there giving blow jobs. Five hundred dollars for a party?”

  “Why do you say five hundred dollars like it’s a lot of money, Robert?”

  “Because it is a lot of money.”

  “Not for me, it isn’t,” Michael added.

  “Yes, but not everyone is the heir apparent to a herpes ointment fortune.”

  “Yeah, but at least I spend the money I have. You, Robert, you squeeze those pennies so hard, I can hear Lincoln screaming.”

  “Michael, since when is being responsible with money a crime? I work hard for my paycheck, and I like to spend it wisely and still have some left in
the bank when all is said and done.”

  “But don’t you see my point, Robert? There are thousands of gay men who make a lot less than you do, and they manage to go out and have a good time.”

  “I have a good time, too, Michael!” I said. “I just don’t like dodging bill collectors and standing in line to pay the overdue electric bill because Con Edison is about to turn the lights off.”

  “You worry too much, Robert. I pay my bills late all the time, and I’ve only had my electric turned off once or twice. So what? I’m out there having too much fun to think about stupid stuff like paying bills and obsessively checking the burners on the stove to see if I turned off the gas, like you do.”

  “Yes, and I’ve never had my apartment go up in smoke like yours did.”

  “It was just the kitchen,” Michael said defensively. “Anyway, I blamed it on the contractor who installed the Viking stove in my kitchen, and his insurance company paid for the repairs.”

  “Even though you left the burner on after making Jiffy Pop when you had a little too much to drink,” I reminded Michael.

  “So what? Insurance companies are awash in premiums. It’s only fair that the common man gets a little bit back now and then.”

  “You are hardly common, Michael.”

  “You can say that again. Anyway, to get back to what we were talking about, there’s nothing wrong with Rex taking someone else’s idea, changing it, and making it even better.”

  “Yes, Madonna’s been doing that her entire career.”

  “How dare you blaspheme the sacred name of Madonna!” Michael stated bluntly. “If that guy over in seat 7D heard what you just said, he’d come over and scratch your eyes out.”

  “How do you know he’s gay, Michael?”

  “Maybe it has something to do with the fact that he took one of the glazed carrots from his lunch and gave it head.”

  “You’re joking!” I said.

  “I’m telling you, Robert, he gave that carrot a blow job while looking right at me!”

  “I don’t know if that’s such a good indication. They were baby carrots, after all.”

  “I don’t care how big he is. It’s all about me. I have needs, Robert.”

  Michael wasn’t kidding. Being the heir apparent to a herpes ointment fortune gave Michael plenty of free time—time that he spent on two things: pampering his body, and sex.

  “For crying out loud, Michael, we’ve only been on the plane for three hours and you’re horny already! What do you do on transatlantic flights?”

  “I have sex several times. Or I use my Jellyfish.”

  “Your Jellyfish?”

  “You jack off in it. Works like a charm,” he said, lifting his carry-on bag onto his lap and producing a hot-pink gelatin sleeve eight inches long. “You should get one of these, Robert!” he stated, brandishing it around for everyone in first class to see, the tube jiggling as though it were alive. “I do wish they’d make it in another color than hot pink.”

  “Michael, please put that thing away!”

  “Why? It’s not illegal. Women carry vibrators, so why can’t men have Jellyfish with them? I only use it when I can’t get the real thing—which it looks like I’ve got with the guy in seven D. I’ll be right back. Here, you take this while I go freshen up,” he said as he unfastened his seat belt and stood up in the aisle, tossing the quivering instrument into my lap.

  I stared at the pink worm in horror. So did the woman sitting in 12C. I picked up Michael’s Love Tunnel with a napkin and shoved it back into his bag. I then reached for the moistened towelette on my folding tray and scrubbed my hands with it until they were red.

  Michael, after stretching lazily and making sure he had the attention of Mr. 7D, walked slowly up the aisle and threw him a cruise and nodded his head in the direction of the bathrooms. Michael entered one of the bathrooms and closed the door. Seconds later, Mr. 7D got up from his seat and walked toward the front of the cabin. He stood outside the bathroom where Michael was holed up. About a minute later, the door opened slightly and Mr. 7D slipped inside. I watched in amazement, half expecting the lavatory door to be blown off its hinges. Nothing. The incredible thing is, no one noticed a thing. Or at least, they pretended not to notice a thing. Michael would never have gotten away with this in tourist class.

  About five minutes later, Michael emerged. If it weren’t for the smile on his face, there was no indication of what had just happened as the captain announced that we were about to begin our descent into Phoenix. Mr. 7D then appeared, sporting the same smile as Michael.

  Michael sat down beside me and sighed with complete satisfaction.

  “Michael, you better fasten your seat belt—the plane’s getting ready to land.”

  “I think my wheels have already touched down,” he stated for the record.

  After we landed, we changed planes and had a short and sex-free flight to Palm Springs. We gathered our bags and walked to the curb outside the terminal, where someone from Rex’s house was supposed to pick us up.

  I had never been to the desert before, but I was struck by its awesome beauty. From the mountains that towered over the city to the palms that stretched their tops toward the sky, this desert was anything but a barren wasteland.

  “Michael, look at the size of those mountains!” I exclaimed.

  “I’m too busy looking at the size of the biceps on that cop over there,” Michael replied. “Holy moley! I’m going to go over and ask Mr. Biceps for directions.”

  And he did. Michael was the master of seduction. His plan to ask for directions was brilliant. The cop, in order to help Michael, had to lift his arm and point in various directions, putting his bulging arm within licking distance of Michael’s tongue. Michael didn’t take a taste, but he certainly did stare.

  “Are you Michael Stark and Robert?” a voice from a Mercedes SUV asked.

  “I’m Robert Wilsop. Michael’s over there.” I pointed. “Are you our ride to Rex’s house?”

  “I am. I’ll pop the back hatch and you can throw your bags in. I just can’t get out of the car,” our driver said.

  “Michael!” I called. “Our ride is here!” I said as I shoved my bags into the back of the car and came around to a side door, opened it, and got in the car.

  “My name’s Vince,” Vince said, extending a hand for me to shake . . . which was attached to an arm, which was attached to a nude man.

  “Hi, I’m ... Robert. Oh, I guess I just told you that,” I said, laughing nervously. I began to wonder if I was in the right car, but then again, who would rightly belong in a car driven by a nude man? The answer came to me instantly: Michael Stark. Yes, I was in the right car.

  I heard Michael throw his bags into the back of the car, then watched as he got into the front seat with Vince.

  Vince and Michael introduced themselves.

  “Nice piercings, Vince!” Michael complimented. “Did you see these, Robert?” he said, grabbing Vince’s private parts and showing them to me like he was a salesman displaying a collection of watches at a counter in Macy’s.

  I was in Rome, so I had to do what the Romans do. I leaned forward, trying to appear appreciative of the dozen rings that formed a row all the way up Vince’s scrotum, and the three that sat in the end of his you-know-what.

  “Very nice,” I reported. “I’ll bet you’ve busted some teeth in your time with those,” I offered.

  “Tell me about it,” Michael chimed in. “I was giving this guy a blow job one time and it was like chewing on a length of chain! I chipped the crown in this tooth,” Michael said as he pried his mouth open to show us his beleaguered tooth.

  This vacation was off to a running start. It was like going on a roller coaster ride blindfolded—you never knew what was going to happen, but when something did, it was sure to be scary.

  Vince put the car into drive, and we sped out of the airport, heading toward the very mountain that towered over the town. The car turned down several streets, leaving the desert
landscape behind and entering a neighborhood of winding roads and vegetation so lush, you thought you were in a tropical jungle. It was not what I expected to find right in the middle of the desert.

  “This is the movie colony area of Palm Springs. A lot of the old Hollywood stars had houses here. Now it’s mostly gays,” Vince said.

  Vince pulled into a driveway that was blocked by a tall and imposing gate. He pushed a button on a remote control unit that was clipped to the car’s visor, and the gate swung open, revealing a lush and shaded compound of Spanish colonial buildings. I was going to like this. Now I knew why it was worth putting up with vacationing with Michael: he never stayed in dumps.

  The car pulled to a stop, and we all got out.

  Vince grabbed two bags and led us toward what must be guest houses, the metal in his frankfurter jangling like a janitor’s set of keys. “The weather here is perfect. That’s why I never wear clothes—unless I have to. I’m very spiritual, and I believe that the body is a beautiful thing and shouldn’t be hidden.”

  I begged to differ with Vince. It’s not that I expected every nudist to have a perfect body. God knows, somewhere along the line, the gay community trampled on the commendable 1960s idea that everyone is beautiful as is, and swallowed the ideas of Hollywood and Madison Avenue that model perfection is not only desirable but attainable. Now, it seems, you’re summed up by how you look and not who you are. An honest, warm, sensitive, and caring person is tossed aside because he doesn’t have a thirty-two-inch waist and rock-hard pectorals. Ironically, the same gay men who toss others aside because they don’t measure up to strict physical standards are the ones who cry to their therapists that the only men they meet are shallow and unable to commit beyond a sexual encounter. Duh! Anyway, I agreed with Vince that the body is indeed beautiful, but I had to defer to my eyes and recognize that Vince had a very ugly penis. I mean ugly. I won’t go into detail, but trust me, it was ugly.

  “You’re here, Robert . . . and Michael, you’re in that one right next door.”