by Zack
The flight got in on time at three-thirty. As a U.S. Citizen, Gil zipped through immigration inside of five minutes, but it benefited him nothing. He still had to wait for the other three, who spent a dreary hour’s wait in line to get through. The sun was setting as the four emerged out of the terminal to the cab line.
Rod and Damien had rooms booked at the Waldorf, but Mike had opted for more independence by taking up Aiden’s offer of staying with his New York contact, a guy called Dan, who published the city’s main gay-circuit bar magazine. “It’ll sort of be on-the-couch accommodation, but Dan will give you an apartment key and pretty much leave you to your own devices,” Aiden had said. And, as Gil pointed out, they were getting expenses for a hotel, so that would be a good saving in their pockets.
As Damien waved the two boys into the first cab, Mike handed Rod details of their address and Dan’s phone number in case the need might arise. Their driver saw Mike in his rear-view mirror wave a pack of cigarettes in query. In answer, the man raised a hand with one smoking away between his fingers. Gil shook his head at the offer, and Mike lit up gratefully. They set off into the early dusk along Van Wyck Expressway. It was dark by the time the cab pulled up at 8th Avenue and West 55th Street. Dan’s apartment block sat right on the corner so they had no trouble locating it. The large, old-fashioned lobby looked like it could do with some renovation, but Dan’s home on the tenth floor was stylish, if simply furnished.
A slightly overweight guy well into his fifties, Dan turned out to be a bluff but welcoming host and, more importantly, he proved Aiden wrong with a medium-sized bed crammed into his small guest room. He pulled some sheets and blankets out for later, then suggested after freshening up they go around the corner for a steak sandwich. Once their orders had been taken, Dan turned to Gil and quizzed him in an accent he thought of as quintessentially New York. “Now, I know that Mike is British, but you’re from… let me guess… farther west. California?”
“Los Angeles.”
Dan nodded with satisfaction. “Now tell an inquisitive old queen, what’s a boy from L.A. doing in London?”
Over the gigantic “New York Aged” sandwiches, Mike and Gil filled Dan in on how they met in Rome and got together. Gradually, the conversation moved onto the movie they had shot for Paradise and the reasons for the visit to New York. As the publisher of the bar magazine, Dan was well informed. “Oh yes, I caught yours at Subway—that’s the club Dietrich runs, which you’re visiting Saturday to grab some footage of their big Steam Night. I think you’ll like it. It’s very big, larger than Paradise. Dietrich says they’re busing in a load of disco bunnies from Fire Island. They get in free because they are young and beautiful, and they’ll be one of the attractions for the clientele.”
By the time they had finished the meal, both Mike and Gil felt fatigued by the effects of jet lag. They all returned to Dan’s place, he to get ready for some late night work, the boys to fall asleep in each other’s arms in spite of the unfamiliar roaring background of the Big Apple’s all-night streets and the regular siren shrieks of fire trucks and police cars.
Despite his late night, Dan was an early riser, who breakfasted on two large vodkas with orange juice. He recommended the diner across 8th Avenue for Gil and Mike. Gil sighed with satisfaction when he started to eat. “Ah, the bacon’s good. That’s one thing I have to say about England, you Brits don’t know how to cook it.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
Gil thought for a second, half a rasher poised on the end of his fork. “It’s like, uncooked.”
“No it’s not! It’s just that we prefer back bacon more than streaky, and it goes like concrete if you over fry it.”
“You don’t like this?”
“I like it fine. Nice, thin, and crispy. I like my back bacon as well.”
“And they don’t turn the eggs over…”
Afterward they took a taxi to meet Rod at the hotel to discuss the technical side of next day’s shoot at Subway. “Damien will be down in a minute,” he told them, as they stood around in the lobby by the elevator bank. “Then we’ll go over to the club, meet the boss, and take a look around while it’s empty.”
Gil was interested to see that Subway advertised itself with a version of the London Underground symbol above twin doors leading into a large triangular-shaped lobby area. The ticket booths were all shuttered. A man in his thirties came through a doorway at the corner and introduced himself as Dietrich. After some pleasantries and praise for the Roman night and the movie of it, he led his guests through the doors and down a flight of stairs.
“Locker rooms to the right on this level,” he said. And then they descended a second flight to emerge through a wide opening onto an amazing sight. They stood on a wide gallery that ran to the left and right around three sides of the massive area below. Mike gave a low whistle as he took in the complex lighting gantry which stretched away into the distance only a few feet above their heads. Gil nudged him surreptitiously and jerked his head at Damien, who stared stonily at the mass of lighting arrays.
In the distance a zigzag of stages lined the far wall of the disco floor. “There’s a bar down there behind the jerk-off stage,” Dietrich said. “A quiet bar on this level over there to the left through those doors, and a third one beneath us serving the backroom area.”
Mike looked at Gil, and raised his eyebrows.
Rod peered down, his forehead wrinkled in his customary technician’s frown “How crowded will it be tomorrow? I’m just thinking of getting about.”
“Probably not as bad as Paradise, from what I saw. We get almost three thousand in here for a big night, but the place is so huge it never feels uncomfortably full.”
Damien Foot amused Gil. The Paradise manager was trying hard not to seem impressed behind a politely dismissive countenance.
Dietrich walked them around the gallery and through the quiet bar to a suite of offices. “You can use that room on the left as a base. The equipment rental guys delivered the gear for you yesterday, and it’s in there.”
Rod and Mike quickly checked out the delivery and were happy to see the requested Arri BL, with four magazines. “You won’t have to do much reloading, by the looks, Gil.”
“Get some time to watch the jerk-off show,” Mike quipped.
“If you fellas turn up about nine-thirty, you’ll have plenty of time. The doors open then, but things won’t get going properly for another hour. Ignore the line outside. It’ll be big. Just walk up to the door and show these passes to the security guys out there.” He snorted. “Their real task is to let only beautiful people in.”
That evening, Gil and Mike joined Dan for dinner. He had organized a meeting with the owner of a string of New York gay movie theaters. “If you don’t find him an interesting companion, you might enjoy the entourage of boys he always has along—usually very beautiful Puerto Ricans. And if any of them should take an interest in either of you two, don’t worry. Randall is very accommodating. In fact, I think he likes to dispense his kids as largesse.”
The fashionable restaurant was somewhere in the Upper West Side, although exactly where, Gil had no idea. The unfamiliarity of Manhattan’s canyon-deep street grid made it seem as though they were going around the same block over and over. He never even took note of the establishment’s name, in spite of it being engraved on the menu.
The theater mogul came into the restaurant some ten minutes after Dan, Gil, and Mike had settled at their reserved table. Mike’ was a split-second behind Gil in raising his brows as they eyed up the bevy of boys who swaggered along behind. Randall swept up to Dan, who stood to give him a perfunctory hug. Behind professorial glasses, Randall was a moderately attractive man in his fifties. Gil thought he had probably been a heart-breaker in his youth. Dan introduced them and Randall gave them a swift appraisal before seating himself. That left thr
ee places and he waved at the Puerto Ricans.
“Armando, Estevan, and Marcos. Sit!” He turned to one of the older boys standing behind him. “Alfredo, take the others off to… somewhere… a McDonald’s, or something.” He reached into his expensively tailored suit jacket and produced a stack of bills, which he handed over. The one called Alfredo took the money, nodded curtly, and shepherded the other four boys off toward the entrance.
Gil watched them depart, wondering how old some of them were. The three now shuffling on their chairs didn’t look much over eighteen: two dark-haired, one with an auburn tinge, straight hair flopping forward onto their foreheads and overlong at the neck. They were strikingly good-looking and decidedly quiet. Visibly uneasy, too, at being in an establishment that clearly didn’t normally serve even well-dressed street boys. As Dan and Randall engaged in general politenesses over cocktails, the Puerto Ricans exchanged only a few remarks, accompanied by the odd snigger, which Gil couldn’t overhear and which was Spanish anyway.
Under the cover of their orders being decided on and taken, Mike, who sat to Gil’s left—and had been nudging Gil’s thigh under the tablecloth—leaned closer to say, “The taller one is interested in you, mate.”
Gil pursed his lips. He had been looking and caught a few furtive glances in his direction. “Yeah, and the one next to him is into you, buddy. Give him some of that British accent. That’ll get him going.”
Mike slid his right hand secretively over to tweak Gil’s thigh and take the opportunity of fondling the bulge in his dress pants. “Not hard yet?”
“Fuck off!” Gil smiled at his friend.
All around the table they opted for the lobster. Mike, Gil knew, because he felt he could after Dan and Randall recommended it, and Gil because he had no better idea. Now he was back in the land of dollars he recognized the price on the menu as the proverbial king’s ransom. The cost of this meal would keep Mike’n’me for two months.
The ice gradually thawed over the meal’s course and Armando began answering the simple questions Gil put to him, while Mike engaged Marcos, who seemed happy to open up to him. Gently, their conversation evolved and began to take on more obviously erotic overtones. Gil wasn’t fooled, though. In the eyes of both boys he detected looks and expressions that reminded him of the Italian hustlers in Rome. Money was the real subject of discussion, even though no one mentioned it.
The boys began to brag about this, that, and the other. Gil realized that underlying the brashness the boasting was compensation for what they perceived as their low status in the eyes of others. It made them more attractive in his view, though he thought it could quickly become tiresome.
Randall kept up a stream of talk with Dan, occasionally breaking away to address Gil and Mike, but otherwise, as Dan had said, he seemed unconcerned at his property making bright eyes at the Californian and the Englishman opposite. Auburn-haired Estevan kept to himself, rarely joining in, unless at some obscure jokey reference.
The lobster was excellent, but Gil didn’t wasn’t very hungry and he picked at it, feeling that the meal seemed to go on forever. So it came as a relief when Dan and Randall agreed to avoid coffee and dessert, called for the check, and shared the appalling cost.
Gil felt the effects of jet-lag and quietly hoped for a return to Dan’s apartment and bed, but he went with the roll when Dan suggested some late-night shopping. The Puerto Rican boys perked up no end at the prospect. So the next stop was a short walk of one block to a sports store, where Armando, Marcos, and Estevan rapidly disappeared among the footwear and gaudy hanging garments, happily pulling items off the rails and parading in front of mirrors, holding up first this T-shirt, then that pair of floppy knee-length pants.
A little later, the other Puerto Rican boys joined them. Randall and the store manager were clearly known to each other, and they chatted idly with Dan as the bevy collected things they desperately wanted Randall to buy for them. As this tortuous process ground on Armando and Marcos drew Gil and Mike deeper into the store. They had a plan.
“Will you take us to the baths tomorrow?” Armando kicked off, making wide brown eyes at Gil from under a thick fringe of hair.
“Please…” Marcos appealed to Mike. “I really love your very sexy accent.”
Gil looked helplessly at Mike.
“One each,” Mike said from the corner of his mouth.
Gil snuffled in amusement. “Yeah, but where are these baths?”
Armando flicked hair from his eyes. “We’ll show you. We can meet outside Dan’s place. I know where it is. About eight o’clock?”
“Can’t do,” Mike replied instantly. “We’ve a date at Subway to make a movie there tomorrow evening.”
“No problemo,” Marcos jumped in eagerly. “We can go in the afternoon. Sometimes it’s better in the afternoon. You take what you need with you for later and change after… after we’ve been in the baths, then you take a taxi to the club. All nice and clean,” he finished rather sheepishly, looking down at the tiled floor.
Mike inclined his head, raising an eyebrow at Gil.
“One each, I guess.”
CHAPTER TEN
Bath Time
When Gil and Mike came through the lobby entrance of Dan’s apartment block, Armando and Marcos were waiting on the wide sidewalk outside, both dressed in sharp butt-hugging chinos and loose check shirts of a sober color. Their longish hair, as black as Mike’s, shone in the weak sunlight as though burnished, and the trailing neck tails caught in the breeze blowing up 8th Avenue. After the previous evening, the two boys acted with reticence. Their greetings were muted, a little shy even. Mike and Gil were both dressed all in denim, ready for the later evening.
Armando hailed a cab, spoke directions rapidly in Spanish through the dropped window. He opened the door and hopped in beside the driver. Marcos, Mike, and Gil piled in the back. As the cab made a right onto 56th Street and then another to head south on 7th Avenue, Gil covertly watched with amusement—and a pang of jealousy, he had to admit—as Marcos snuggled up to Mike, his white teeth revealed in an open smile.
Twenty minutes later, the cab made a left into East 2nd Street and pulled to the curb just short of 1st Avenue. The driver flicked his meter and looked around as Gil pulled out two bills. “Thanks, keep the change.”
Armando led the way across the intersection and down to the Club Baths. A short flight of stairs led up to the lobby. “You have baths in England?” Marcos asked Mike.
It surprised Gil to see his that usually well in-charge friend looked nervous. Makes two.
“Not that I know of. I’ve read something once about Manhattan’s baths, but…” He scratched the back of his head—definitely a very nervous gesture—“This will be a first for me.”
Armando took control. He took some money off Mike and paid the guy behind the desk all their membership fees. “If we also want cabins, we can get them later,” he threw over his shoulder to Marcos.
Cabins? Gil caught Mike’s baffled look. For once, his lover was the stranger in a strange land, but really Gil was in no better position to know what to expect of this jaunt. He had no clue about Californian gay life, let alone New York’s.
“Give the man all your billfolds, loose money, watches, anything valuable,” Armando commanded. He collected the items. “They can all go in one safe box,” he told the desk man as he handed them over.
A neat, clipped and stringily lean young guy dressed in tight white pants and T-shirt came through a set of doors. “Hiya,” he greeted them in a bright high voice. “My name’s Troy, and anything you need, I’m your man. Follow me, guys.””
“Have a nice day,” the man behind the desk called out.
“Thanks.”
Troy escorted them through into the baths. He led them to the locker room, and took fresh white towels
from a large pile in a cage. He handed them out, then collected four locker keys from a rack and inserted them into units farther down the long line. “There you go fellas.”
The lighting was comfortably low, but still bright enough to reveal everything. Gil hovered, uncertain of himself. He wasn’t used to undressing in front of strangers, and he sensed Mike was feeling the same way.
“Have you visited us before?” Troy asked.
Before Gil could open his mouth, and as Mike shook his head, Armando cut in cheerfully. “Sure, man. We know the ropes.”
“Okay, that’s fine. I’ll leave you guys to get on with it.” He said the last with a conspiratorial smirk aimed at Gil and Mike.
With unself-conscious ease, Marcos opened his locker and quickly peeled out of his clothes. Armando inserted himself between the friends and opened Gil’s locker for him, then opened his own and followed Marcos in removing first his shirt, then his chinos. Gil had a brief opportunity to admire the smooth olive skin and the naturally lithe, youthful body; a glimpse of a long, dark cut cock before Armando wrapped the towel around his waist and tucked in the end. His dick formed a clear outline under the towel.
Gil gulped a breath tinged with excitement at what might lie ahead. He popped the buttons on his denim shirt and 501s and peeled himself out of the garments. He piled both into the locker before stooping to remove his sneakers and socks. Armando playfully hooked a finger under the waistband of Gil’s briefs where they gapped at the base of his spine and the start of the cleft, and let the elastic snap back.
“Ouch!” He gave a short laugh and pulled them down, keeping his back to the Puerto Rican. Glancing sideways, he saw Mike was already wrapping his towel around himself, while Marcos bumped hips with him. Gil placed the briefs in the locker and pulled his own towel around his slim waist before facing Armando. Black hair, strong eyebrows, gleaming brown eyes, and teeth supernaturally white in his dark face. He beamed at Gil happily.
