Wednesday, August 24, 2011


Okay, so as you know, I published a novel called Gulliver Travels.

Do you know that, to meet the demand of Gully's fans, I also just began a short story series called Gulliver's Travelers? It's true!

The first one, Brayden's Sweet Revenge is available RIGHT NOW as an eBook. The second story, Marty's Big Break, will be on sale September 1st.

And then comes the 3rd one, Chase's Neverending Night. The star of this tale is none other than Chase Winterman, Gully's 3rd-time's-a-charm lover from the original novel. He's a go-go boy with a lot going on. Here's a sample of the story, which is due out October 1st!

<3 JL

Raffy has discovered a fiver in my ass crack. Don’t ask me what he was doing back there… something about reenacting how the guy he hooked up with last night was eating his ass.

“Gurl, what you been eatin’!?” he asks, yanking the bill out of the back of my tiny orange shorts. He waves it around in the air, gives it a good sniff, and crinkles his nose. “Yuck! You should probably leave THIS as the tip.” Then he thrusts into me a few times while howling my name aloud, rattling my teeth with the force.

Our waiter watches this display silently and then whispers, “You like more coffee, sir?” Our booth of ten explodes in laughter as he refills our cups and rushes back to the kitchen.

I take the bill out of Raffy’s hand and add it to the stack in my wallet. This means that I made $409 tonight, which might be the most I’ve ever made in a single night. Celebration was called for, which is why I’ve actually ordered food this week instead of sitting pretty and mooching off the other guys.

Raffy (Boss Spice), David (Easy Spice), Jake (Fruity Spice), Luis (Spicy Spice), Franky (Cocky Spice), Nick (L.I. Spice), AJ (Joisey Spice), Conrad (Stud Spice), Matt (Flyin’ Spice), and myself are the second coming of the Breakfast Club, except we’re all gorgeous, gay, exhausted, and have FAR better hair. And while we’re often in trouble, that’s not why we’re here tonight. Every Saturday at around 3:30 in the morning, we put our clothes back on and leave the FreakOut Friday party at Splash, giggling, flirting, and skipping around the corner to the Hollywood Diner – our weekly haunt. The club stays open for another hour or so, with the last party people still dancing themselves into puddles of sweat. But we have our paychecks and wads of tips in hand and we’re starving.

There’s nothing particularly glamorous about our tried and true breakfast stop, despite its deceptive name. Its title actually comes from a painting that stretches around the walls of the diner – a not-necessarily-beautiful depiction of those famous rolling Hollywood hills. But it’s open all night long, it’s right next to the club, and the waiters could care less about how loud we get and how obnoxiously we behave. The staff doesn’t even bat an eye when Jake lies on the table and shoves AJ’s face between his legs, or when Raffy mimes rimming his toasted whole wheat bagel with butter, or when other late night Splash party people run into the diner screaming one of our names, glitter and sweat flying everywhere. It’s home. We hold court in a large booth in the back corner, often surrounded by others from the party, talking about nothing but this party, past parties, and future parties. Added bonus: the blindingly bright overhead lights do no one’s complexion any favors, which is just what you need to make sure the guy you met in the blinking darkness of the club is worth taking back home.

“Did you guys get a visit from Lord Palpatine tonight?” Nick asks, eyes rolling as he sucks up his vanilla milkshake.

“Hell yeah, girl. He tipped me a twenty,” Luis says, shaking a french fry covered in gravy. “He also asked me to marry him. But only after he quells the rebel Jedi revolution.”

The peanut gallery howls with laughter, minus this particular peanut. It would be so disingenuous to join in considering that there’s that hundred still tucked away in my wallet. “He’s harmless,” I say. “And he’s basically bankrolled this breakfast, queens.”

“Better than harmless, didn’t you hear he gave me a twenty?” Luis says. “But man does he have a set of skeezy eyes! If he wasn’t tipping, I’d have Todd call security.”

Maybe you should try speaking to him, I think. But I’ll leave this potentially toxic topic alone. Many a morning-night has turned into an awkward affair because I went to bat defending the older gentlemen who are the sole reason we leave the club with more than a few dollars to our name. These arguments usually end in laughter and a group conclusion that I’m a Daddy Fucker, getting extra cash from the gentry on the side. Whatever. We all need this money, otherwise we wouldn’t be here. Go-go boys fall somewhere between janitors and post office workers on the Respect Spectrum. Surely each of my fellow Spice Boys has gotten plenty of shit about what we do. I’m not about to turn around and disrespect somebody else who is equally undeserving of such scorn. Unlike my scantily-clad brethren, I’m actually related by blood to plenty of people who HAVE earned the kinds of low blows my boys are so liberally lobbing at Bruce. I will store up all my shit-talking venom for those who actually deserve it, thank you kindly.

The sun is making its grand return to Manhattan, spilling warm early pink-orange light onto 6th avenue. The drunken clusters of boys in torn tank tops and tight jeans have transformed into duos of old women walking their dogs, paper cups of coffee clutched in their free hands and the Saturday morning paper under their arms. I’m just about ready to go down for the count.

My plans for the day are as follows: go home. Shower. Jack off to the memory of Todd kissing me. Sleep. From there, we’ll see. If I have to work again tonight, I should probably preserve what little strength I’m able. It won’t be pleasant, but I can pull it off. The change of scenery will be nice — new faces to stare at, new lights and projections, new music and drag queens. If I’m lucky, all of this change will give me the energy it takes to dance without falling asleep on my feet like a horse and plummeting into the crowd below.

“Chase. Snap out of it, sister!”

It’s Rafael, slapping me in the face with a fry.

“Yeah?” I blink a few times and stare down at my uneaten BLT. I take a bite, but I’m not really hungry. Plus, AJ’s burger melt looks a hundred times better. I’ll have to order it next time.

“Girl, wake up. Eat up. Pay up. We’re going to the beach.”

“I hope you all have a lovely time,” I yawn, taking another bite. “I’ll be sure to dream of sandy ass cracks in your honor.”

“Riiiiiight,” Nick says. “You’re coming, Chase. And you don’t have a say in the matter!”

“Aw, wifey’s putting her foot down,” Franky pouts, earning an angry glare from Nick.

Okay. So Nick and I slept together a few times. Or maybe a few more than a few times. Usually when we’re both drunk, which allows us to pretend it didn’t happen. Well, it allows ME to pretend it didn’t happen. This, of course, leaves Nick as the braggart who obviously clued in all the other boys. I don’t really dignify their jibes with an answer either way. He’s not that good, to be honest. He’s one of those pretty boys – short, with a butt that’s way too big for his body (in a good way). His Long Island accent, complete with “dawgs” and “cawfee,” can be cute sometimes. But he knows he’s gorgeous and likes to lie back and let you do all the work. The time he puts in at the gym and the will power it takes to eat nothing but fresh fruit and salads sans dressing counts as his invested effort. He enjoys your mouth, hands, and dick, and you enjoy the fact that it’s your mouth, hands, and dick that he’s enjoying. That’s it. Much like how he hardly works during his shift, he barely musters any effort between the sheets. I only keep doing it because he relentlessly hounds me into letting him crash at my place and I sympathize with his reluctance to get back on a train bound for Long Island at 5 in the morning. What Princess wants, Princess gets.

Including, I guess, my presence at the beach.

“What beach?” I sigh, knowing this war is already lost.

“My parents have a special pass to this private beach by our house on Long Island!” Nick says. “We won’t have to deal with the crowds of GTL meatheads. Just us. The sun. So you’re coming!”

“I don’t know. I’m running on empty, bitches.”

“Come on, Friendly,” Nick says, rubbing my exposed thigh. “I owe you for all those nights you let me crash at your place.”

“Yeah, and crash on his cock,” AJ adds.

“Shut up!” Nick howls, flinging a sugar packet at AJ, who catches it in his teeth and spits it back at him.

“But I gotta work tonight!” I say, catching the sugar packet to end the battle.

“You do?” asks Matt, AKA Flyin’ Spice, the tight package aerialist-in-training who uses his tips to pay for trapeze and silks lessons out in Queens, taught by some choreographer from Cirque du Soleil. “Since when do you work on Saturdays?”

“Just tonight,” I tear open the sugar packet, pouring it into my already-cold coffee. “I’m doing that eWrecksion party.”

“No way!” Conrad says. “DiTempto put you on that?”

“Yup!” I try not to sound like I’m bragging, though I’m sure I am, slightly. “I think tonight’s the night he’s going to ask me to marry him.”

“Right,” Nick says, clearly jealous. “And he won’t be at all distracted by the live sex show when he’s down on one knee, ring in hand. How romantic!”

“I’ll bet Friendly will be down on BOTH knees, not Todd!” Raffy roars.

“Shut up,” I say, feeling a flush at my face. “What’s this about a live sex show? If I’m going to be doing all that, I think I’ll have to raise my fee!”

“Not you, Friendly. You know, actual professionals, unlike your amateur ass?” says Conrad. “Ugh. Give me five minutes alone with Rowell and Joey, I would never need to have sex again!”

Uh oh. The plot thickens. Rowell and Joey? That can only mean one thing.

“From New York Screwniversity?” I ask, feigning as much innocence as a go-go boy possibly can.

“Oh, ho! So someone’s a fan!”

I shrug demurely. “I just go there to read the articles,” I say. “So... some of those boys will be there?”

“Not boys. Gods,” Conrad corrects me. “And not some. ALL.”

Wow. The fact that the boys from New York Screwniversity will be at the party makes tonight infinitely more interesting. I’m not really a fan of gay pornography, preferring the detailed and intimate scenes my own brain can conjure rather than the forced, usually chemistry-free stuff you can find online. But I know of the infamous Screwniversity via personal experience. I’ve been inside it — and it, in a way, has been inside of me.

Full disclosure: I met the thirteen “dormmates” and even had drinks in their living room. And on one drunken, hazy, strangely magical night last month, I got fucked by one of them. His name was Marty Brayden. And while he may not be the star of the site, he is certainly the most noticeable: a tight, toned twink with an eyebrow ring, chinstrap, and spiky bright blue hair.

If Marty was telling the truth, we fucked in front of thousands that night. Despite some slight stage fright, I performed spectacularly. I guess when you dance in front of thousands of gay men in person, it’s not the biggest deal when those thousands are invisible and stuffed inside of a video camera silently monitoring your exploits. It was amazing. Some of the best sex I’ve ever had — which makes sense, since Marty’s no doubt had a lot of practice. I’ve found myself thinking back to that night during my last few hookups with Nick, but that only makes Nick’s shortcomings in the sack stand out all the more. Most one night stands I’ve had end up being just that — a hot time, and that’s it. Most of the guys I never think about again. But for some reason, I can’t forget my time with Marty. And I’m severely jonesing for a repeat.

Is that primarily because I can’t have it?


I left Marty my number and got nothing in return. Not a call. Not a text. Not a Facebook add. It stung even more when I checked only to find that our scene was the top viewed on the entire website. Marty didn’t even think to shoot me a text to clue me in on our collective victory? Ouch.

While I didn’t watch gay porn before that night, I do find myself watching it now. A lot. I blew a full night’s worth of tips to get a monthly membership. Now I spend my few free nights watching Marty get fucked by his dorm mates in every which way, including some epic three-way they advertised the hell out of. And when I jack off, I’m picturing myself as whoever he’s getting it on with. I spend hours clicking through the archives, getting to know the mystery boy I never really got to draw a bead on when we shot our scene. And with each clip, I find myself becoming more and more preoccupied with him. My favorite videos are his interviews (weekly testimonials with the dorm mates go up every Tuesday at two o’ clock). The more time I spend listening to him, the more I feel like I’m dating him in reverse. Getting to know him little by little, piece by piece.

But does he even remember me? I guess there’s no reason to seek sex with someone like me when you have twelve potential partners every night just waiting to give it to you. I tried sending a few emails to the website, but the webmaster clearly had no interest in relaying my requests. And why would he? It’s not like I have extra cash to blow on a pricey private video chat. Especially considering that if Marty wanted to see me again, he could easily have texted me. Why waste any more time or money only to get blown off again?

Tonight, I’ll waste neither. When I see Marty Brayden, I’ll go right up to him. I’ll be direct. I’ll tell him I want to come home with him again and repeat our last performance. Outdo it. He’ll say yes because, well, our video is still hovering near the top of the most viewed list. Refusing to do another scene featuring Chase Bliss? That’s just bad for business.

Now I’ve had a month to get buffer, thanks to my membership at the NYU gym. I’ve had plenty of days out on Chelsea Piers with the other go-go boys, baking my skin to a deep brown that makes me look almost Hispanic. There’s no chance I’m not going home with Marty again tonight — and this time I’ll make sure I get HIS number.

“So, you coming to the beach, bitch?” Raf asks as he and the other boys gather their gym bags and split the bill. “We’re leaving!”

“Yes, he’s coming!” Nick says, grabbing my hand and pulling me up from the table. “Right?”

What the hell. My dorm doesn’t have AC. I’d probably spend the next few hours baking to death. I’m sure there will be opportunities to sneak a wink in here or there on the train ride out, or on the beach. Plus I haven’t pulled an all-nighter since my first year at NYU. Could be fun to be reckless, right? I could stand to go a shade or two darker. Might help my chances at landing Marty tonight.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

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