Chapter Twenty Six

JULIAN

December 28, 1997

It's been quite a remarkable month. Between work and school this whole year, my journaling time has been sparse. But in this still moment, I must record my thoughts tonight. Just shortly after Thanksgiving, I received a contract for my third book deal. The overwhelming bustle of my life hasn't afforded me much writing time as I've hoped. My first two manuscripts were picked up by our Chief editor at Seven Liberties over the past few years. They were already written, so most of the hard part was already over. But now that I have my first advance, I must work harder to balance new characters with my busy schedule. And of course, Grayson.

This fucking guy. Let me just say, he absolutely stole my breath just over a week ago. It was my birthday, so I figured he'd be up to his usual antics. You know he's never been a slouch in the romance department. But in 1997, I never expected for the grand display to be as well received as it was. Besides a couple of classes, I had the rest of the day off. So, I enjoyed the downtime vegging the entire afternoon. It allowed me to catch up on the last four episodes of ER which we'd taped.

About half-past four, Grayson came sprinting through the door with a bouquet of royal-blue carnations. Most people prefer roses, but I've always been drawn to carnations. With just a little bit of sugar in the water, they last significantly longer compared to other flowers. He leaned over the back of the sofa, planting a generous kiss on my lips.

"I'm surprised you're not dressed yet, meus amor," he said, seeming shocked, snatching the VCR remote from my grip.

"What kind of plans do you have now, Saccharo Ferre?" I asked in between the random shapes our lips formed against one another.

He interrupted the show, causing the tape to eject from the VCR. "I was watching that, you know?"

"Well," he retorted behind a veil of passion. "Now you're mine for the night," he added, tossing the remote amongst the empty sofa cushions. "Clooney can just wait a hot minute," he muttered before reeling me at my neck for the conclusion of our long kiss.

He playfully slapped me on the ass, continuing to shoot orders into my ear. "Now get up and get dressed," he bit back brazenly. "We've got a schedule to keep here."

While I dressed in front of our closet, I thought about what plans he had. The fact it was my birthday occurred to me. And knowing Grayson Welles, nothing is ever half assed with him. So, I retrieved a red oxford, one of his white ties, and a pair of black slacks. After primping for a bit in front of the bathroom mirror, I hauled my Latino ass back into the living room. All the while, Gray caught my gaze as he raised his chin from his watch.

"That took forever and a day," he joked.

I shuffled towards his seated position on the couch, noticing he'd taken the liberty of putting my flowers in a vase with water. My fingers rustled through his thick, black hair as I leaned over his shoulders. I heard a grunt escape his throat after he took in a whiff of my cologne. It isn't anything fancy, just a few spritzes of Old Spice Whitewater. But for some reason, it propels his rocket. He ran his hand up my chest, brushing his head up against my belly.

"You're the one who said we have a schedule to keep, chico loco."

Gray's cola saturated irises penetrated my chest. "You're right, it's just you're so irresistible," he delights with another sniff. "I'm so fuckin' horny right now, Momo."

A few minutes later, we found ourselves sitting in the corner of a chic little Italian bistro on East 65th Street. The flame of a pillar candle decorating our table swayed to the movement of wait staff and patrons as they passed by. Since Gray's back was to the window, I could take in the sight of snowflakes fluttering in a winter wind as they fell to their demise. Grayson seemed to be nervously swirling his Sangiovese in its glass, taking each sip as if he were imprisoned by contemplation.

We caught sight of each other in between a light conversation about the plans I have for my third novel. Grayson held my hand across the table as we fed one another bites of cannoli for dessert. The mascarpone teased my tastebuds, rendering my tongue to yearn for the savory option underneath Gray's zipper.

He took another sip of wine then rested his glass on the table. "You'll have a few days to start writing when we're at the Wilkins family compound for Christmas break in The Hamptons."

We didn't need to discuss my recent plotting struggles. "My book can wait a week," I replied. "I'm most curious about what else you have planned tonight," I added, my lips forming a huge grin. "Does it require less clothes?" I joked. "Because I could go for that."

His mien warmed as his cheeks turned a tinge brighter than my shirt. "Just wait, Momo."

Grayson paid the check shortly after finishing dessert. I held his hand amid the flurries as we sashayed down the block to a parking garage. I almost thought we'd be heading back home for some sexy time, celebrating my birthday in all the right ways. But my thoughts were a bit premature. Instead, he retrieved our ice skates from his trunk.

"Buckle up, baby," he winked. "The night's just getting started."

We changed into our skates upon arriving at Wollman Rink inside Central Park. Ice skating has been a recent addition to our list of recreational interests. And I've become a far better skater since first starting out. We rounded the giant loop a few times before feeling him tug on my arm, pulling me directly towards the center of the rink. I'm sure my face appeared beyond shocked. Since Grayson is always finding new ways to express his love, I placed all my trust in the moment. I might not have had a clue what he was up to, but I quickly deduced it explained his anxiety in the restaurant.

To my surprise, Gray carefully lowered himself to the ice. He took a minute to publicly profess his love in front of God and everyone. Even cried while incredibly heartfelt words fell from his lips, encircling my heart. Gray then paused, scanning our surroundings before he slipped a small black box from the inner pocket of his coat. He raised it at his shoulder level as our eyes locked in on each other. His auburn stare resembled a light java, caffeinating my every desire.

When he opened the box, a silver ring with three bluish gemstones shimmered under the shine of each light beaming down on us. At that moment, I realized he was proposing. Granted, this is 1997 and the United States doesn't legally recognize a formal gay marriage. But civil unions are becoming more popular by the day. I didn't waste a moment longer flashing a nod of approval. It might have been a chilling twenty-three degrees out, but Grayson Carey Welles warmed me to a degree where I could've removed my camel-colored overcoat and thrown it aside.

Grayson removed my left glove, sliding the ring over my finger as I felt the heat of the moment permeate deep into the furrows of my soul. Happy tears practically froze like icicles from each eye as I helped him up from the ice. And the kiss. His lips on mine felt like they were glued to mine for an eternity. The funny thing about time, it always seems to pause when we're experiencing a momentous occasion that we're certain to never forget. Crowds of skaters all around the rink cheered and clapped at us for the milestone we reached. I may have even heard a few whistles as soon as the next song played.

Everyone livened up once Grayson and I rejoined the ranks of skaters circling the large sheet of ice. I held his hand with a momentary glance in his direction every couple of minutes. He appeared relieved, as if I'd actually shoot him down. Another minute passed when I spotted Alex and Miles standing near the entrance gate to the rink, waving as we lapped them for the first time. By our second round, Grayson ushered me off the ice to go greet our brothers. Suffice it to say, he'd meticulously planned their presence as well.

"Take your skates off and hand them over to me," Alex said enthusiastically.

"Okay," I obliged.

I reckoned Grayson still had more up his sleeve. So, I did as I was told.

Miles offered while I passed off my skates to Alex. "Happy Birthday, Julian," he said, planting his hand into the crook of my neck with a grin.

Grayson received a tote bag in exchange for his skates. Once I slipped my feet back into regular shoes, he took my hand, leading me down the sidewalk to Grand Army Plaza. Although the snow eased up just before we began skating, the fluffy white flecks graced our walk to the corner of Central Park and 5th Avenue. Approaching the end of the footpath, I noticed a horse-drawn carriage waiting for our arrival.

A gentleman around the same age as we are, smiled in our direction. "Are you the booking for Welles?"

"That's us," Grayson replied.

The man nodded, tapping his watch. "You're right on time," he responded, pointing towards the step.

Grayson held my hand, pushing me up into the carriage. I nestled into the furthest end while Gray climbed aboard, joining my side. Snow danced from the sky while the Clydesdale started down a specific trail through Central Park. About five minutes into the ride, Grayson reached for the tote bag. He retrieved two champagne flutes, asking me to hold them while diving back in for what I suspected to be the bubbly.

He unraveled the wire before angling it ever so slightly, so the cork would shoot out towards a grassy area of the park. The whole time I held onto hope we wouldn't get busted, because consuming alcohol in Central Park is unlawful. It's bad enough that Miles risked his badge to turn a blind eye. A short but satisfying popping sound emanated from the nozzle—the distinct noise marking any prominent celebration. I held the glasses steady so Gray could fill them.

"Dom Pérignon, meus amor?"

"That's pricey," I said.

Though incredibly dark, the subtle glow from a nearby park light illuminated the blaze in his squinted stare. "I wouldn't mark this occasion any other way, Momo."

He held his glass up in front of us while I did the same.

"To us, our future, and our undying love," he avowed.

I replied with likeness in Latin. "Ad nos futura nostro, et amor noster immortali."

The upturned glass allowed the storm of bubbles to rush down my throat. Its flavor matched that of golden toast and coffee, followed by a creamy vanilla flavor. As soon as I felt a small chill biting my nose, I nuzzled into Gray's right shoulder. Our lips adjoined for an appreciative kiss, his tongue sliding against mine every few seconds.

My hand, occupied by the champagne, raised to his left shoulder. He transferred his glass to the other hand, so it could shimmy around my backside. But once he did, our heads didn't part for several minutes. Our night may have been close to ending, but it was only one curtain call of several.

Now about last night. I'd be remiss if I didn't jot down the details of an interesting experience which I blame Alex fuckin' Wilkins entirely. His intentions were pure, so I must give him an A for effort. He and Miles took Gray and me to a new nightclub in Gramercy Park called, The Lion's Den. This was our first time going, since they opened their doors only a month ago. But this was my first time in anything like it altogether. It's a male strip club for gay men.

Immediately upon entering, the four of us were greeted by a bouncer to check our ID's. It wasn't an unusual request as I'm accustomed to proving my age in a business where alcohol is served. What I found instantly peculiar was the fact they had their very own ATM inside the doors.

"Look, Saccharo Ferre," I said, nudging into Grayson's arm with a pointed finger. "Where have we seen a business with their very own ATM?" I asked. "That's convenient."

He flashed me a mischievous grin which appeared halfway masked by a look of discomfort. "Momo, I think we're about to find out why in just another minute."

While Alex insisted on paying everyone's cover charge, Miles dug his palms into both of our necks. "You poor bastards are in for the surprise of your lifetimes tonight," he affirmed sassily.

"Well boys—" Alex stammers. "Let's go get our freak on."

He and Miles ushered us through a hallway complete with a black curtain at the end. We wedged between its opening when Grayson practically made a U-turn for the entrance. The loud music and flashing laser lights struck like lightning throughout the whole building, piercing his eyes and ears like a pointed needle.

Alex spotted Grayson making a beeline for the black curtain. "Where do you think you're going pal?"

Grayson shouted back at the top of his lungs, covering his ears in the process. "It's too fuckin' loud in here," he shouted.

Miles stood by the end of the walkway ahead of us, while Alex shuffled back towards Grayson. "Come on Gray, tonight's all about celebrating you and Jules," he yelled over the music. "Once I get a few shots in ya, you'll be well oiled to where the lights and music will drown away."

My man shrugged with a tinge of hesitation. "Fine," he bit back. "But tonight's on Arthur Wilkins' dime."

"DEAL!" Alex shouted back, offering a handshake to seal the promise that tonight would be funded entirely by his father, a New York senator.

Alex soothed Grayson as they traipsed back down the walkway lined with the same lights used to line footpaths in a movie theater. His uncomfortable appearance made me feel guilty that I hadn't supported his decision to leave. If I'm being honest, I would've been more comfortable with a bag of jerky and our culos planted firmly in front of George Clooney's irresistible mien. Something of which I still haven't been able to finish catching up on.

After a few minutes, the four of us settled at a round table on a higher platform placed in front of the stage with four shiny poles. Each decorated by an alluring man wearing basically nothing at all. Grayson's inhibitions whisked away to the stratosphere beyond his fifth shot of Wild Turkey. Miles was thoughtful to ask for a liquor sourced from my homeland in the Caribbean, Ron Rico. I'd just finished polishing off my third shot when Alex returned from the restroom.

He and Miles joked about paying for Gray and me to receive a private lap dance. At first, I didn't take Alex seriously. But after Grayson insisted he'd need to get drunker than he already was, Alex officially declared the challenge. Thank God last night was all paid in cash. Because I shudder to think of what spin the media would make of our gay escapade being footed by his father, who's constantly plastered in the news from here to San Diego.

After the cocktail server delivered another round of Wild Turkey, it took no time at all for my man to find him in an elated state. He ignored every reservation chiding him for giving into Alex's naughty mission. By that point, a dancer escorted us to an exclusive area with private booths. One the plus side for my baby, at least the room didn't accost us with a frenzy of lights. And the music was a few decibels quieter as well.

Troy sat us next to each other in a rounded booth with orange velvet upholstery. He appeared much older than me or Gray. Forty tops. I've never been into daddies, because Grayson is my first love. But I'm no stranger to the underwear section at Macy's which drowns in a sea of older, well-endowed men. Judging by their packages pictured on the boxes of course.

In no time, Troy ascended the platform inches away from our inebriated gawking faces, grinding against another pole. His moves were smoother than a hot knife through butter. And the cock between his shapely thighs seemed so rigid and sharp, it might've well been as strong as the jaws of life.

Troy's shapely head glanced down upon us, looking over his shoulder. "Which one of youse guys gets my ass first?" He asked, his sweat dripping from each sweltering brow.

I reached over to Gray's lap, only to discover his inhibitions were sunk further than the Titanic. On the other hand, his dick grew to the size of a fucking flagpole, supplanting that of my own. We've never discussed this type of situation with one another before. Not once have I found a Honcho or Playguy magazine hidden anywhere, and neither would Gray discover any sort of material belonging to me either. Yet in the spirit of celebrating our betrothing milestone, I didn't have any qualms about his excitement. Fuck, we were so embriagado that I'm lucky I remember last night at all.

My intoxication couldn't have been any more obvious when I shouted up at Troy. "He'th more than eagerth to go firtht," I bellowed, jolting Gray by his shoulders.

Grayson's flushed visage nodded. "Come here, Daddy!" He chortled.

A split-second later, Gray found the toned, smooth ass rounder than a peach, up in his grill. Troy swayed his moneymaker from side to side whilst Gray's bottom lip curved inward with a degree of satisfaction. Boy am I glad Alex lubricated my boy like a printing press. I couldn't have asked for anything greater, than to see his discomfort from the overstimulating atmosphere dissipate. In fact, I needed to reach back over, slapping his hand away. Had I allowed him to grope the dancer, we'd have definitely been in trouble.

"Your can lurkth but not touthch, meurs amor," I shot over with a raised eyebrow. "We don'th wannar be blarcklithsted on our firtht visit."

Gray giggled as a prepubescent schoolboy, burrowing his chin in my right shoulder. "Murmo, I lorve you so fruckin' muthh," he slurred, all the while Troy grinding his concealed cock against one of his thighs. "I'm gonnar ernstall a pole in our berdsroom."

In a matter of minutes, Troy switched his sexual focus over to me, maybe slightly sober than Grayson. The squinted eyes as he straddled my knees begged for me to reach up and yank him closer by the skinny gold tie dangling from his neck. In the moment, I realized how hard it may have been for Gray to keep his hands to himself. And fuck me if my Latino cock didn't swell to the girth of a holiday beef log.

"Yourt soooo hott Trrroy!" I shouted, though our chests were less than a foot away from each other.

Troy offered a grin in return. "You're not so bad yourself, kid."

I'm sure more than one song played the whole time Troy bounced and thrashed around my overzealous body. But the concept of time ceases to exist when a person is intoxicated to such a fine degree as we were. A single minute can seem to last a century. Or conversely, it can disappear with a flash of light. What I know for sure, is by the time our brood found ourselves standing out on the smoke deck for fresh air, Grayson's roiled tummy extruded a puddle of yuck all over the cement.

Miles patted Grayson on the back, intermittently rubbing his palm to soothe him. "The dance was that good huh?" He joked with a giddy expression.

"Well," Alex spoke up. "That saves father a few bucks on cleaning charges at least."

Once the four of us finished basking in the bitter December cold, we staggered back into the club towards our table. Bobby Cordova, the club owner, greeted everyone and thanked us for spending the night with him and his accommodating staff. Alex unfurled a wad of cash to pay the tab, quickly sending each of our trashed selves out the door. I sit here clutching a bottle of aspirin with a bottle of 7UP beside me. This is one hangover sure to stick with me into eternity.