He pushed the door open and walked into what looked like a large living room. A glow-in-the-dark mural depicting muscular Greek bathers covered the entirety of one of the walls. Fake stone fountains of young cherubs pissing water dotted the space. Strobe lights flashed overhead. In front of a makeshift DJ booth, behind which an oiled man sporting a ginormous set of ram horns was swaying, a small crowd of naked men danced. The whole place felt cheap; they’d striven for Grecian fantasy and ended up with Greek restaurant.
Quentin wandered around the periphery of the room, where black curtains partitioned off smaller, private areas. He peered through the gap between one and saw a pile of men, five, maybe six, fucking each other. It reminded him of the inside of a beehive, all that swarming activity. Peering into the next area, he locked eyes with a thick-necked man fiercely pumping at a hooded figure beneath him on all fours. He held Quentin’s gaze for a long, ferocious moment before rolling his eyes back into his head.
Quentin was just wondering if he should leave—he didn’t feel nearly uninhibited enough to join the dance floor, let alone one of the private areas—when he saw a tall boy moving with great speed and deliberateness toward him. He was smiling in a way that seemed to suggest he had been expecting Quentin.
“Zdravstvuyte,” he said, putting a hand lightly on Quentin’s shoulder.
Quentin stared back at him mutely. He was very striking, with a freshly shaved head that gave his skull a vulnerable, newborn look. His face was full of contradictions; pale, sensitive eyes set above a crooked boxer’s nose, feminine bow lips and a strong, square chin. Quentin let his gaze drift down his sinuous torso to his long straight cock, nestled in a bed of dark hair.
“Are you the one who put the note in my locker?” Quentin asked, feeling ridiculous.
“Note?” The boy’s smile faded into confusion. “I’m sorry, no. It’s just that I was certain you were Russian.”
“No,” said Quentin. Then, sensing that he was disappointing him, he added. “Polish. I’m Polish originally.”
“Ah!” The boy’s face lit back up. “That is why then.”
“Why did you think I was Russian?”
The boy flicked his eyes lightly up and down Quentin.
“Your eyebrows,” he said and laughed.
It was a glinting, surprising sound, like water springing suddenly from a tap that appears dry. Quentin’s eyebrows were, in fact, often commented upon. Velvety and dark, with long, thick eyelashes to match, they were one of the few benefits he could think of from being Eastern European.
“I’m sorry I’m not Russian,” Quentin said, desperately thinking of something to say.
“Polish is better,” the boy said and shrugged. “You have less problems.”
He grabbed Quentin’s hand in his and shook it. His hand was both soft and rough, like a cat’s tongue. Quentin could feel his own cock stir at the touch of him.
“I’m Alex,” the boy said.
“Quentin. Can I get you a drink?” he asked.
“Yes,” the boy said, still smiling. “And I get you one also. I hear they’re free.”
Alex guided Quentin to the bar, which was a piece of plywood on two crates, behind which another impossibly buff man, this one wearing antlers, was serving drinks in little plastic cups.
“It’s a dry bar, boys,” he yelled across the table. “You want a soda?”
Quentin and Alex looked at each other.
“I know somewhere very cool we can go if you like,” Alex said. “Just across the bridge.”
Back outside it was like being exiled from Eden; both were suddenly aware of their nudity. They reclaimed their clothes from the bald man, who took their bracelets with the same blank inscrutability as before, and dressed quickly in the hallway. Quentin watched Alex out of the corner of his eye. His clothes were very simple, a white T-shirt, loose jeans, sneakers, and a faded denim jacket. They seemed almost deliberately chosen to reveal as little as possible about the wearer. Once fully clothed, they both stared at each other, as if for the first time.
Alex laughed. “You are dressed for a different party.”
The bar Alex took him to on the Lower East Side had no sign and was at the bottom of a cracked, unlit stairwell that no longer looked in use.
“Careful,” Alex said, turning to offer his hand.
Inside, the space was small and cavelike, diffuse red light pooling on the sticky mahogany bar top and smudged mirror behind. Arranged on the shelves above the glowing liquor bottles was a collection of samovars. Squat round tables and spindly wooden chairs faced a slightly elevated stage. Men sat slumped around the tables, and Quentin had the sensation that they never left, were as permanent to the place as the chairs and the samovars. Alex greeted the elderly bartender and chatted easily in Russian while he poured three tumblers of vodka.