Sunlight pours through my bedroom window, piercing my cashmere sleeping mask. Yawning like a lion, I reach up to close the Venetian blinds, but jolts of pain zigzag through my brain, pinning me to the bed in agony. Resigned to my blinding defeat, I toss the mask aside and lick my chapped lips. My tongue is brittle leather; my throat, an abandoned, dried well. My Hydro Flask is nestled safely atop my desk across the room, but it may as well be perched in the Himalayas. No worries, I’ll just lay here and die, thanks.
Gently rubbing my scruffy cheeks, I watch my digital clock blink from 09:42 to 09:43. Almost 10:00, so that was four…no, five hours of sleep? Not bad for how hard I was rolling last night.
Suddenly, a body stirs under the covers, and I freeze in terror. Praying to Britney that he’s cute, I slowly shift my gaze to the sprawled-out mess beside me.
“Good morning,” purrs a doe-eyed twink. My face droops with disgust as I soak in his shocking blue hair and his smudged guy-liner. His arms are twigs; I’d wager a fresh bottle of poppers the only lifting he does is from his McDonald’s takeout bag to his lip-ringed mouth. Crooked, yellow fangs barely contain his rancid dragon-breath, while stray coke and dried snot cake his upper lip. Fuck! How hard was I rolling last night?! He smiles sweetly and bats his fake eyelashes at me, awaiting my reply.
“Hey, good morning,” I manage.
“Last night was so wonderful,” he coos, attempting to cuddle against my pecs.
“Yeah, it was great,” I feign, scooting my pillow beneath his head and sliding out of bed. The sudden altitude change sends an aching aftershock through my skull, throwing me off balance.
“Whoa, are you OK?” Last Night’s Mistake asks as I steady myself against my night stand.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I lie, pinching the bridge of my nose to dissipate my headache. Even with my eyes shut, I feel Last Night’s Mistake beholding the majesty of my uncut, eight-inch cock. I let him stare.
“What are your plans for the day?” he asks, a dreamy lilt betraying his recent deflowering.
“I’m busy,” I say while retrieving my Versace briefs and Diesel jeans from the floor. Last Night’s Mistake’s “POWER BTTM” tank top is underneath my pants, and I toss it to him, repulsed. “Get dressed,” I bark.
“Oh…I thought we could, you know…” he trails off, but I’m not paying attention. My cock contained, I’ve retrieved my phone—which I miraculously managed to plug in last night—and I’m scrolling through missed notifications, including one from my best friend, Stefan, half an hour ago:
Jules, brunch at Sunny Side Up Café, 11 a.m. sharp. No tricks allowed.
I’d sell what’s left of my soul for a mimosa, so brunch sounds divine. Plus, Stefan still owes me a ride in his new, midlife-crisis convertible; maybe he’ll take me for a spin afterwards. I text back:
Hey Daddy, kicking one out now. See you soon!
Is Last Night’s Mistake still here?!
“Thought we would what?” I sneer as I pocket my phone and step into my walk-in closet to retrieve a neatly-folded Ben Sherman t-shirt. “Spend the morning in bed together? Sip coffee and feed each other scones like we’re in some fucking Disney movie?”
I cross back towards my desk to spritz some David Beckham cologne on while Last Night’s Mistake pulls my blanket tightly around his undefined body to keep his heart from shattering.
“And then what? I’d hold your hand and steal a kiss while we watch the sunset, right before I tell you, ‘I love you’? Get a fucking grip, kid. You were just a lay. And not a very memorable one,” I say as I don my “DOM DADDY” cap to hide my unwashed licorice locks. I throw on an Argentinian leather jacket to complete the look, while Last Night’s Mistake says nothing. I’m not quite a Beyoncé this morning, but a quick glance in the full-length mirror opposite my bed confirms I’m at least a Kelly Rowland. Suddenly my phone buzzes with a text from James:
Hey man, what are you doing today? My ass needs breeding.
I respond: Brunch at 11, so come over ASAP. Kicking Last Night’s Mistake out, now.
Last Night’s Mistake needs to vacate the premises, immediately.
“What’s your name again?” I ask.
“Jonathan,” he answers, insulted.
“Listen, Johnny Boy,” I say, walking towards him and placing a hand on his clammy shoulder in a fatherly fashion, “last night—what I can remember of it—was fun. But let’s get a few things straight: I’m not your boyfriend, I’m not going to call you or see you ever again, and most importantly, my 10 a.m. fuck buddy is almost here, so you need to go.”
“Fuck you!” he spits as he clambers out of bed. I brace my chiseled abs and hard chest for a blow that never comes; instead, he collects his PUMP jockstrap and Lee Jeans from the floor, brushes past me, pockets a fistful of crumpled dollar bills from my desk, and slinks out of my apartment amidst a flurry of expletives, like the backwater trash he is.
Finally relieved of babysitting duties, I retrieve my Hydro Flask and take rejuvenating swigs whilst pulling two 5-HTP pills, an Excedrin, my daily PrEP, and a Viagra from my Hello Kitty drug box. As I choke the last pill down, my phone vibrates again.
James: Lol, was hoping you’d say that since I’m in your area. Coming up now.
An hour later, I stumble out of an Uber and into Sunny Side Up Café. The restaurant is packed with hungry, hungover squads of gays, ready to recap last night’s antics over mountains of pancakes and sticky swamps of maple syrup. Ray Bans shield my eyes from the sunlight pouring into the café, but the Excedrin fails to dull the restaurant’s raucous din. I snake my way past crowded tables to find my friends, accidentally brushing my crotch against the ass of a cute, Bailamos-era Enrique Iglesias waiter in the process.
In the very back, against floor-to-ceiling windows and kitty-corner to the bathroom, a slightly overweight, balding mess of a man stands up and salutes me. His faded mint green Old Navy shorts practically burst at the seam, while sweat stains already encircle the armpits of his wrinkled Zumiez t-shirt. His disheveled look is capped by receding strands of ginger, Leprechaun hair. “HAIL CAESAR!” he bellows, drawing stares from curious onlookers. Even with my sunglasses on, my eye roll is audible.
“Aaron, I don’t have enough serotonin for your pathetic, recycled jokes,” I say, pretending to sucker punch him in his protruding gut in lieu of returning his hug.
“Oooh, bitch! She’s in a mood this morning,” he says, taking his seat. Removing my sunglasses, I grab the chair beside Aaron and nod towards Stefan and Sebastian sitting across from us.
“Late as usual, Julius,” snips Stefan as I discard my leather jacket and reach for the drink menu. “I said 11 a.m. sharp, and it’s…” He stops to pull a gold pocket watch from his jacket, unclasping it with dramatic flair.
“Ooh, is that a Breitling?” asks Sebastian, awed.
“…11:18,” Stefan continues, ignoring Sebastian’s inquiry.
“Are you going to dock my allowance, Daddy?” I sneer.
“I’ll spank you, instead,” he replies, with a knowing wink. “Nice hat, by the way, but you’re not fooling anyone.”
“I’d let you borrow it, but it’d be such a shame if you covered up all that grey!” I shoot back, blowing him a kiss.
“Get a room, you two!” Aaron says, tossing a Splenda packet at my chest.
Before I can retaliate, a waitress in her late thirties slides into view to pour coffee for the elderly breeders next to us. Her pancaked foundation and crow’s feet conceal her former beauty, but when the sun strikes her face right as she brushes aside a stray strand of blonde hair, she shines like a forgotten TRL star.
“Hey, Mandy Moore,” I say, grabbing her attention. “Can I get an English breakfast tea, no cream, one honey packet to the side, with a wooden stir stick? Oh, and four mimosas with a shot of vodka in each.”
“None for me, I dosed earlier,” says Stefan.
“Fine, three mimosas with a shot of vodka in each.”
Despite being on the right side of thirty, I pass her my ID to speed the process along. She narrows her eyes at my devilish grin, but dutifully reaches forward.
“We’ve already ordered a pitcher of mimosas,” Sebastian informs me as Mandy Moore returns my ID and scurries off.
“So?” I challenge.
Sebastian’s brow furrows as he searches for a sufficient answer. God bless, Sebastian. He’s Grindr perfection with his chiseled rower’s body, perfectly coiffed blonde hair, and smooth, perma-tanned California skin, but he’s dumber than a Kardashian. He assumed Alexander McQueen was a local drag queen, and that Paris is Burning was about World War II. And he’s never seen Mean Girls OR Clueless! As. Fucking. If. Bitch! Stefan’s confided to me that we only keep Sebastian around as eye candy. That’s fine: I wouldn’t mind sinking my eggroll between his toasted buns…
“So just sit there and look pretty, Seb,” Stefan answers.
“Fuck off,” Sebastian replies under his breath, though his downcast gaze belies his surrender.
“Did you ladies already order food?” I ask, trying to change the subject.
“Smoked salmon scramble, no potatoes,” replies Stefan.
“Steak and pepper omelet,” says Sebastian.
“Banana chocolate chip pancakes, with a trip to the condiment bar for maple syrup, whip cream, and a side of glazed strawberries,” says Aaron. Stefan guffaws.
“What? It’s my cheat day!”
“Every day is cheat day for you,” I say, flicking the Splenda packet back at him.
A different waitress—younger but uglier than Mandy Moore—brings our first pitcher of mimosas.
“I’d like to order the fried chicken and waffles,” I tell her.
“Sir, we don’t serve fried chicken and waffles here.”
“You serve waffles, right?”
“And I know you serve a fried chicken sandwich for lunch, because I had it last week.”
The waitress purses her lips in frustration but says nothing.
“So surely you can fry up a couple of chicken breasts and slap them on top of some waffles for me, right?”
“Sir, we really aren’t supposed…”
“Listen, I have a crushing headache, my dick is dirty, I have ZERO product in my hair, my stomach is growling, and all I want is some MOTHERFUCKING FRIED CHICKEN AND WAFFLES. I know you can do it, please make it happen,” I growl, dismissing her with a pithy wave of my hand.
Once she storms off, I add, “I hate it when the help starts mouthing off. I’m pretty, she’s not, so what the fuck is her problem?”
“You know she’s going to spit in your food, Jules,” warns Sebastian.
“Don’t be so daft, Seb. I was rolling last night, so it’s not like I intend to eat today. I just want to get off on the smell.”
“How many did you take?” asks Aaron.
“Just one, but it knocked me on my ass.”
“Blue Dolphin?” asks Stefan.
“No, orange Game Boy, new batch,” I reply. Stefan looks impressed but won’t admit as much.
“Orange Julius,” teases Aaron.
“I feel like shit right now, though,” I admit. “Aaron, did you bring anything?”
“Sorry, I’m all out until next weekend.”
“Wow. You’re even more useless than usual,” I say.
“Hey, fuck you, Jules. You still owe me from last weekend, anyway.”
“No, fuck you, Aaron,” I spit. “The only reason we even allow a fat, balding, thirty-five-year old loser like you to hang out with us is because of your high-grade Colombia shit, OK? You have one job, and if you can’t make it snow, you’re just a useless ho.”
“Children!” Stefan warns. Aaron and I glare at each other like bitter playground rivals maintaining forced silence in the principal’s presence.
“Here, this should cover Jules’ outstanding balance from last week,” Stefan says, thumbing through a fat stack of bills in his leather wallet until he finds a crisp $100 note. Aaron pockets it silently.
“And as for you,” he says, fixing me with a stern gaze. “Are you on your period? Why are you being such an asshole today?”
“Sorry, it’s been a morning.”
“I might have something to take the edge off…but you need to dial it down, sweetheart.”
Intrigued and properly chastised, I issue a half-assed apology to Aaron, who mumbles his acceptance.
“Good boy,” Stefan says, reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket to retrieve a tiny sealed plastic bag that he discreetly slides my way.
Shielding it in my palm, I study the contents carefully. “Why is it pink?” I ask.
“It’s strawberry flavored.”
“I thought strawberry coke was a myth.”
“It is. And Seb is a total top, and you’re a slutty bottom, and…”
“OK, OK, OK,” I say, suppressing an eye roll. “I trust you. Seb, come with me,” I say, picking up my mimosa and polishing it off in one giant swig whilst pocketing the baggie. “We’ll be back in a flash!”
Flickering lights illuminate dull halos above the wall of urinals in the Sunny Side Up bathroom. A slow trickle of men relieve their bladders while we wait for the only stall. Sebastian nervously paces the grimy, checkered-tiled floor. “I don’t know about this…” he starts.
“Quit being a faggot,” I hiss.
When a morbidly obese man thunders out of the stall, I grab Sebastian by the waist and drag us inside. Sebastian gags from the stench while I lock the door and retrieve the baggie from my pocket.
“Stop choking on imaginary dick and hand me the shovel,” I say. Sebastian passes his Lexis key, allowing me to scoop out a miniature pink mountain of fine-powdered snow. Balancing it under my right nostril, I inhale sharply, alighting my nasal passages into fiery autobahns until a familiar steady drip creeps down my throat.
Holy shit, it really does taste like strawberry!
After snorting another generous peak up my left nostril, I surge with invincibility. I’m Samantha Jones times Nene Leaks, to the power of Miranda Priestley!!!! Resisting the urge to punch through the bathroom partition, I pass the baggie and key to Sebastian, who cautiously emulates my inhalations. My vision shimmers while I watch his guard drop. His pupils dilate, his shoulders droop, and he flashes his first Colgate grin of the morning.
“Whoa, that’s some good shit,” he says, leaning against the wall and placing his sweaty palm on my shoulder to steady himself. His hand radiates warmth, and his smile dances with goofy mischief. We lock eyes a second too long.
“Want to get weird?” I ask, confidently looping my finger through his belt buckle.
“Jules, you’re a top. And so am I,” he stutters.
“You want to be the top? Fine,” I say, placing my cap atop his head like a crown, “now you’re the top.”
The stall’s stench is temporarily displaced by the buzzing electricity pulsating between us. We’re close enough to kiss, and I lick my lips hungrily as his panicked eyes beg for mercy. Noticing my wicked smile, he tries to protest, but before the first mimosa-tinged word can tumble from his mouth, I’ve spun him around and pinned him to the bathroom wall with my muscular frame. Locking his head in place with my left hand allows me to roughly nibble his earlobes, while my right hand fishes out my rock-hard erection.
“You want me to stop, just say so,” I dare him. Upon offering no further resistance, I unbutton and slide his jeans down to reveal his perfectly sculpted, jockstrap-framed bubble butt. Crouching into a squat, I examine the tiny blonde hairs that speckle his beautiful mounds like miniature wheat fields, though it’s his hidden valley I aim to plough. Finding his pink rosebud, I swirl my tongue in furious circles to make him moan in ecstasy.
“You taste fresh, like you knew this would happen,” I mock. Without waiting for his response, I rise and line my cock against his trembling hole.
“Go slow, I haven’t bottomed in a while,” he lies.
“Don’t worry, Seb, I’ll go nice and slow,” I lie back.
A burst of angry knocks neutralizes my advance.
“Hey, only one person allowed in the stall at a time!” booms the righteous voice of a Sunday saint.
Fuck! A tsunami of testosterone and cocaine bathes my brain in blinding rage, as I quickly stuff my erection back into my pants and retrieve the fallen baggie. Sebastian’s still pressed to the wall, panting like a shipwreck survivor, but a slap to his ass awakens his urgency. He fumbles with his jeans while I use my iPhone camera to flick stray pink crumbs from my nostrils. Just before the next volley of knocks, Sebastian and I emerge from the stall, innocent until proven guilty.
“You guys can’t…”
“We were just…”
My words entangle with Enrique’s, as recognition and desire drain the anger from both our faces. Staring into his hungry, almond eyes, we compress a lifetime of coke-fueled fuck-fests together into a single second. He licks his lips while I rub my crotch.
“Jules, let’s go!”
Sebastian’s grabbed my arm to retreat. I mouth, “te quiero” to my fading Latin lover as I’m dragged—all but kicking and screaming—back to brunch.
“Everything satisfactory?” Stefan asks we slide back into our seat.
“Yeah, everything’s peachy, but a waiter nearly busted us. We’re lucky we didn’t get caught!” answers Sebastian.
“Almost lucky,” I say, tossing a wink Stefan’s way as I retrieve my hat from Sebastian’s head.
I pass the half-empty bag back to Stefan and reach for one of the vodka mimosas that arrived while we were getting our noses powdered. The first sip tastes like battery acid; the second, like cough syrup. Who ordered these, anyway? I wonder as my stomach lurches after the third sip.
I’m saved from further assault and bittery when Mandy Moore arrives with our food. As she places each plate down in front of us, one at a time, she recites our dishes:
“Banana chocolate chip pancakes for you. Smoke salmon scramble, no potatoes for you. Steak and pepper omelet for you. And that means you must have the…chicken and waffles?”
“Yes. And my tea, which still hasn’t arrived…”
Mandy Moore apologizes and dashes off before my rant about the rapid decline of customer service can take flight. Stefan, wearied by my continued threats of outburst, unfolds his napkin and bows his head slightly, as if to say grace.
“Bon appétit, bitches!” he says.
Stefan and Sebastian dig into their meals like ravenous wolves, while Aaron waddles to the condiment bar to soak his pancakes in confectionary regret. I dig my fork into my pile of dry, brittle waffles, and they snap like crunched bone. Bored, I tip the saucer of syrup over and watch a glacial-paced flood transform my untouched chicken into crispy islands of golden-brown. Afterwards, I swirl the butter pat into the syrupy lake while Sebastian looks on in disgust.
“Aren’t you hungry?” he asks.
“We just did a huge hit of cocaine!” I reply. “And besides, Aaron’s eating for me today.”
Right on cue, Aaron returns, rich with spoils; his pancakes aren’t even visible under the mountain of sugared blueberries, whip cream, maple syrup, chocolate sprinkles, and maraschino cherries he’s toppled onto his plate.
“Holy shit! Did you leave any survivors?” I ask.
“Fuck off, Jules! Just because you’re too cracked out to eat…” Aaron replies, before inhaling a shamefully large first bite. He doesn’t chew so much as swallow his food whole like a snake. Sectioning off his next portion, he adds, “Plus, I’m starting a juice cleanse tomorrow, to get ready for White Party.”
“A juice cleanse?!”
“Yeah, to flush out all the toxins.”
“You pop Molly, snort cocaine, and take multiple loads up your ass from randos every weekend, and you’re worried about toxins?”
“Let him enjoy his cheat day,” Stefan says, as Aaron smiles smugly.
“Why were you late today, Jules?” Sebastian asks, trying to change the subject.
“Yeah, tell us, Jules! Was it Silas?” Aaron chimes in.
My eyes narrow as I reflexively cross my arms. “You know I haven’t fucked Silas since he gave me chlamydia last year.”
“Was it Isaac, then?”
“No, he G-ed out at home and didn’t even make it out last night.”
“Well, then tell us, Jules! Don’t keep us in suspense.”
“It was some new kid I picked up at the 2 a.m. sidewalk sale. You guys wouldn’t know him. Jeremy? Jackson?.…no, wait, Jonathan.”
“Score?” Stefan asks.
My audible sigh enraptures the table, their forks dangling in midair as they await my fall from grace. The library is officially open, and I’ve invited these motherfuckers inside!
“He was a six,” I murmur, generously adding two points to Last Night’s Mistake’s score. “But he was a stage-four clinger, so I’m dropping him to a five.”
“A five?!” Aaron exclaims. “Aren’t you always saying it’s only ‘7-Ups’ with you?”
“Yeah, well, Molly told me he was a seven. And anyway, my 10 a.m. was a solid eight.”
“Who was it?” asks Sebastian.
“Oh, I love James! He’s such a sweet guy! And he’s such a great cuddle buddy,” Sebastian gushes.
“Yeah, and he’s great at taking raw cock up his ass, too,” I add with a smirk, causing Sebastian to blush.
“Five and eight only averages out to a six and a half, Jules,” Stefan cautions.
Weary of my so-called friends’ withering commentary on what was obviously a momentary lapse of judgment, I crane my neck in the opposite direction, back toward the restaurant’s entrance. Enrique is near the register without his apron, clocking out for the day. The straps of his backpack squeeze his biceps like rope twine, arousing a dark fantasy within me. He catches my eye and smiles; when I nod towards the door, his face lights up like a puppy.
“Fuck all of you,” I say, standing from the table to put my jacket on. “I’m off to boost my average.”
“What? With who?” Sebastian asks.
“With ‘Rhythm Divine’ over there,” I say, nodding towards Enrique.
“But we’re in the middle of brunch!” Sebastian protests.
“Let her go. At least this one’s actually cute,” Stefan resigns, raising my empty champagne glass at me in a mock toast.
“He’s super cute! I’m going to eat him like a plate of nachos!” I say as I turn to make my escape. I crash into Mandy Moore with my first step, knocking her and the porcelain teapot and teacup she was carrying to the ground.
“Fuck! Haven’t we spilled enough tea at brunch today?” I spit while making sure my Argentinian leather jacket is free from spills.
“Are you OK?” Sebastian asks Mandy Moore.
“I don’t have time for this. Daddy, will you take care of this for me? Me love you long time.”
Stefan sighs and digs out ten $100 bills while I step over Mandy Moore.
“See you bitches at Sunday Funday, later!” I yell.