The door swings open as if with magic and there stands Gatsby in all his glory. His loafers deep in lush carpeting, then one looks up and sees that his hair is prematurely grey and that his eyes are a kind blue. He ushers all in with a kiss on the ear, right on the lobe, even the ones he doesn’t know. One can’t help but feel inappropriately wet when stepping over threshold as if having been caught underneath a mistletoe with him and with the feeling that he sticks the tip of his tongue further into the ear and tastes the wax of the ones that he especially likes as he reaches down across our backs to give us light pats on our bottoms.
Merry we are when we spot the fountain of champagne in the living room. We all like to feel woozy, especially when it’s on the house. All one has to do is to tip ones cup forward into the golden current and hold it there for a few seconds then pull back a full cup. One must be careful for the bubbles will cause it to spill. They’re going mad bringing towels and more towels to dry up the drunken mess.
The band is set up on the roof. Giant fire-breathing lions guard the roof from the pesky mosquitoes of summer. Black veiled widows ready to crash the party and ruin our fun. They are not on the guest list. Money holds them back in an orbit so the guests can dance the night away itch-free. The downstairs neighbor, a handsome widow, rumored to enjoy the occasional romp with a boy which we found out about too late or else we would’ve gone downstairs to smoke instead of waiting and hoping for Gatsby, came upstairs in his flannel pajama bottoms at 1 AM demanding the music cease as his ceiling was starting to peel from the foxtrot.
Watch Gatsby. Watch his hands. They look like two big hairy tarantulas fighting each other, frantic. They’re always pulling at his nostrils. Watch him. Whenever he becomes aware of their mania, he tucks them into his pockets then underneath the weight of his arms but then they find their way out again. One can’t help but feel like they yearn to reach out and touch something.
The boy is back from Paris. He is a mouse-like thing with a tan that looks brand new and dicey brown eyes that don’t rest on anything for too long. They are shiny—it is as if he’s sort of blind. The boy is very quiet; he won’t talk to anyone except Gatsby. He likes to whisper into Gatsby’s ear. He does so in front of the guests. Interrupting Gatsby’s conversation, he taps him on the shoulder and an ear is brought down to him immediately with no explanation to the bewildered guest whose eyes have stretched into the size of two cherry pies in disapproval of such a deliberate gaff and even more in shock of Gatsby’s siding with the boy and letting it pass unnoticed and unnoted. One makes them out to be hot breaths of inaudible childish babble, most likely about the guests, which make goose bumps bloom all up and down Gatsby’s leg.
Up on the roof, they discuss the boy openly over the music. They explain that the boy has sleepy boy syndrome with mouths hidden by cupped hands—then they laugh, “What is he, eleven?” It‘s remarkable how accurate that number might be. The boy’s chest is awfully underdeveloped; the four limbs that make up the boy lack any shadow of hair. Gatsby and the boy seem to be desperately awaiting the growth of that ridiculously faint caterpillar of a mustache that sits on the boy’s top lip.
Many of the guests here would do anything to have about five stolen minutes alone with Gatsby in a claustrophobic bathroom if ever given the chance, if only Gatsby didn’t dig his feet into the carpet and laughingly free himself when they try to drag him into the bathroom by the collar of his t-shirt begging to be his little whore right there in the tub, it’ll only take a second. Norris thinks many would go as far as losing an eye fighting over who would get to sniff the inside of Gatsby’s dirty underwear that has found itself on the floor instead of in the hamper or maybe these boys are the kind of boys who believe that they stand a chance in the ring of passion and will fight for their love and would rather get high off the scent of his crotch in person then off of the inside of his boxers, the real thing is always the prize to aim for. Norris does the kindness of kicking it underneath the bed after debating whether he should sneak them home for himself instead. A man’s crotch can release the most exhilarating of scents.
The boy sits patiently on the carpet below Gatsby; He’s being held by the back of the neck like a lion’s mouth holds its cub. Everyone at the party is walking on eggshells. One guest who had too much to drink made a pass at the boy and mysteriously disappeared. One can tell that the boy is enjoying playing the part of trophy wife; one could tell he is enjoying making the guests feel uncomfortable. There is a gun sitting in Gatsby’s wall safe with only one bullet in it—he announces that that bullet belongs to anyone who offends his boy. They say Gatsby is putting the boy through college and that he comes from a broken home.
Years ago, when Gatsby was a camp counselor in youth, they say he got himself into some trouble. They say that his hands had found themselves down the shorts of a couple of the camp-goers. It is alleged that his name appears in a lawsuit in New York because of it. It isn’t mentioned if they were forced down their shorts or if the boy untied the drawstring for him first. The boys probably started gloating recklessly as we all want to be the first of our friends to lose our innocence when we’re young and perhaps it reached the wrong ears. They like to make Gatsby out as the villain. I think he’s just misunderstood.
Is it so rare that a boy like our Parisian could have a liking for men that are reminiscent of his absentee father and that he doesn’t mind being taken by such a man in an airport bathroom or in a leather bar in Germany where he gives himself to Gatsby in front of hundreds of sweaty Germans that are peeling off their best Oktoberfest garb to get to their foreskins. They question the possibility that when the naked boy smiles up into the video camera that Gatsby is holding over him, could he be anything but genuinely happy to be pleasing a man who tells all his friends at the bar that the boy isn’t out tonight because he’s at home resting because last night, he raped him and now he’s sore. Could it be anything other than love? Any of the jealous spinster faggots here would switch places with the boy in a heartbeat.
One night a young man approached Gatsby suddenly at a bar. We looked on as they exchanged looks and recognized each other yet Gatsby denied ever knowing him. The young man blew up and we rushed to get Gatsby some napkins to dry his face and blot his shirt. He called it a night and went home and left us not sure what to make of it all. He says to me one night, “Don’t people ever get upset because loving you was the best feeling they ever had?”
It is getting late. A few drunken guests linger, overstaying their welcome. A bear of a man is too busy begging anyone and everyone to fuck him up the ass to notice the time. He is determined; he needs a big hairy veiny pacifier to quench his burning desire and won’t leave without one. No one will face such a remarkable task as he is too big of a man to be dominated, no matter how compliant he may be. One wrong step and he’ll crush you. It doesn’t help that he is as giddy as a baby elephant during bath time and as eager as a minx in heat. He should just face it. He forever will be a boulder incapable of being mounted. He has a nice face though and a Western accent, he should try tricking a man into the dark.
The only married couple here is determined to trade partners for the night—just the night. Well, one of them is. At other times, it seems like both of them are willing to switch but then one gets the feeling that the matronly one is just caving to make the man he loves happy, at least he’ll know about it and can possibly be part of the picking before they make the switch. However, it’ll never be the same between them if either is successful.
A popular boy I had heard of is in attendance. After taking the chance to sit next to him on the couch to examine, one walks away disappointed—he isn’t as pretty or as interesting up close. Popularity really is predestinated. The dog sees his chance and runs out, the boy chases after him out into the street barefoot to bring him back. Gatsby loves that damn dog. The boy will do anything for Gatsby.
In between the loud snaps of the carrots, Norris watches as the foreigner is being escorted out after making quite the scene. No one knows what country he is from. He just suddenly appeared in the circle. He is shouting something about it being wrong. “It’s wrong,” he shouts, “It’s just wrong!’”. The other guests tell me that he took notice of the kinds of boys that Gatsby likes to keep in his company and began barking like a German shepherd—they just weren’t able to contain his outburst. A South End party for faggots is not the place for one’s moral compass to kick in.
Gatsby is drunk. The boy is pouting on the couch. He wants the guests out. It is after midnight and the lights are dimmed. More bottles are drained. Norris finishes the carrots and doesn’t know what to do with the empty bowl; he ends up taking it home. Men start to pair off, searching for private nooks for copulation, some don’t care about privacy and take turns on Gatsby’s bed. A projector is set up. Gatsby decides that he wants to play their pornographic home videos for the guests to watch. The boy seems indifferent about it—it’s what Gatsby wants. They’re in love.
