The Higher Education of Matt Griffith
Chapter 18: Bella Bottoms
Saturday, October 21, 1995
Copyright 2024. All characters in this story are fictional and are not meant to represent any living persons.
Note to readers: This chapter has 4 scenes. If you just want the sex, skip to the 4th scene. The entire chapter is a light-hearted, erotic romp through Oklahoma City’s Gayborhood circa 1995.
For new readers: The “Gay Mafia” referenced here is just the fancy name for an imagined secret gay club at Oklahoma Christian University (OC), a real private Christian University, by the way—which puts homophobia front and center of its Christian “love.” This chapter involves Matt’s and Paul’s club fieldtrip to the Gayborhood.
***
Matt had three condoms in his wallet and hoped to spend them all before the end of this field trip to the Gayborhood.
Gusher’s restaurant was the first stop, and already Matt felt like he was in Gay Candyland! Men were everywhere. It was like Howard Johnson’s 28 flavors of ice cream, except with men. Vanilla. Chocolate. Exotic flavors to boot. Matt wanted to sample them all.
He had not been laid for five weeks. Not since his locker room handshake with Todd. Almost getting busted for–and actually losing Idabel’s friendship because of–that recklessness, had spooked Matt. He’d retreated from further handshakes with fellow members of the Gay Mafia. Had instead settled for shaking his own hand—masturbating, if one had to be clinical about it. It had become a daily habit, a pressure release. He was not ashamed of it but did miss the intimacy of human contact.
He looked forward to a guilt-free fucking spree on this field trip. Guilt-free but safe—hence the condoms. Hookups with fellow Gay Mafia members could be bareback, but sex with strangers had to be safe. Just another rule in the 3-ring binder that governed their lives.
Gushers was inside the sprawling Habana Inn, a 170-room, 2-pooled hotel that had been built as a conference center and evolved into Oklahoma’s Gay Mecca. Just as Muslims made hajj to the Kaaba and Catholics received an indulgence for pilgrimaging to St. Peters, Oklahoma’s gays sought temporal peace at the Habana Inn. They dined at Gushers, partied at the Copa and the Finish Line, shopped for souvenirs and sex toys at Jungle Red, and fucked in their guest rooms—all without leaving the premises. The Habana Inn was not the only attraction in the Gayborhood, but it was the crown jewel.
It was 7:30 p.m. The night was young. William, Paul, and Matt sat at a round table in the center of the restaurant. William had specifically reserved this table, which seemed fitting—his liking being the center of attention and all. The rest of the Gay Mafia (sans Kevin, who had been stuck with security detail), sat scattered along the room’s perimeter.
“Stop drooling, Matthew,” William whispered. “Stay in character! That goes for you as well, Paul.”
Matt closed his mouth, tried to quit gawping. He recalled William’s earlier advice: “Nobody will remember how well you danced, but they’ll never forget if you were the girl desperately trying to get her dance card punched.”
The goal was to be desired—to be the droolee, not the drooler. This was the game at which William excelled: performing on life’s stage.
Playing chess–countering Colton’s many maneuvers, did not interest William. He had paid a heavy emotional toll to buy a ceasefire in Colton’s war against OC’s gays. That ceasefire would not expire for seven more months. That was good enough for William.
Matt was not so certain. Colton had stipulated that the moratorium applied only to gays. He was scheming something. He’d waited for Matt to be absent from SGA for an away game, then rammed through a resolution asking the administration to enforce Christian family values among faculty and staff. That was the only hint Matt had: Colton’s target wasn’t a student. Matt worried that Colton was aiming at Debbie.
A waiter approached, greeted William by name, and the two of them caught up on gossip. Someone named Peter had the clap.
William: “That slut! I saw her once having sex behind the dumpster.”
Waiter, laughing: “The way I heard it you were the girl she was fucking.”
More gossip. A guy named Christopher had run off to Dallas with a married guy who was planning to divorce his wife.
William: “That homewrecker!”
Waiter: “Christopher?”
William: “No, dahling. The wife! She’s standing in the way of true love.”
Matt noticed that other diners were watching them, eavesdropping on the conversation, whispering. He wished the waiter would move on.
The waiter’s name was Andrew. William introduced him to Paul and Matt. Explained it was their first visit to the Gayborhood.
Andrew smiled, shook their hands, took a full moment to appraise both newbies. Was not discreet. Matt half expected to be asked to stand beşiktaş escort bayan and turn around slowly.
Harley, who shared one of the perimeter tables with Evan and Jake, stood, and called out to Andrew. “Hey, waiter, we’re hungry over here, too!”
Andrew whirled to face Harley. “Hold your horses!” His voice was loud, commanding. “I’m helping two VIRGINS here!”
Harley sat down.
“I’m not a virgin!” Paul protested. That was true. Paul had now shaken hands with Evan, Jake, and Kevin. He was catching up to Matt.
There was scattered laughter from other tables. Good-humored. Not derisive.
Paul was unfazed.
Matt blushed, stared down at the table. He would have preferred that it not be broadcast that this was his first time here. He would have preferred sitting at a perimeter table.
It was when Matt looked up, in the moment when William’s eyes met his and beamed triumphantly, that Matt understood that the whole scene had been orchestrated by William. Maybe not scripted per se. Matt doubted that the waiter was in on it. Everything else, from the center table, to the drawn-out banter with the waiter, even Harley’s outburst was clearly planned. Why else would Wiliam have insisted that the rest of the Gay Mafia sit at separate tables and not associate with each other? The purpose of the charade was arguably selfless: William wanted to maximize Matt’s and Paul’s introduction to gay society.
Matt just wanted to use those condoms. He’d never worn one before. He wondered how it would feel.
An older guy, fit but graying at the temples, excused himself from his three companions, and stepped to the table where William, Paul, and Matt sat. He slipped two twenty-dollar bills into Andrew’s hand, whispered something in his ear. Matt noticed the older guy wore a Rolex watch and a gaudy, diamond-studded ring.
“Martin!” William gushed at the graying guy. “I thought that was you! What are you doing sitting at the adults table, though? Those other queens are too old for you! And where’s Sylvan?”
Martin chuckled. “Hi William. Sylvan’s in Switzerland again for treatment.”
Martin looked at Paul and Matt. “Let me welcome you two to the Gayborhood. Your first round of drinks is on me. If you happen to be at the Finish Line later, find my table. I’ll buy you another round.” He shook hands with them, then returned to his companions.
“So, what’re you boys drinking?” Andrew asked.
William ordered for them. He was having his usual: straight bourbon, in honor of his icon, Tallulah Bankhead. For Matt, Bourbon and Coke. For Paul, Amaretto Sour.
Andrew flitted away to his other customers.
“Pay attention, dahlings,” William whispered to Matt and Paul. “Martin is a pro at this game. He bought drinks without being asked, and he didn’t force his company on us in return. He’s definitely interested in one or both of you, especially since Sylvan’s away for his annual Botox and injection spree.”
William leaned in, lowered his voice. “Martin and Sylvan, like to spice things up with the occasional boy toy. Play your cards right, and you might be their next. A couple of years ago, they took a guy with them to the Bahamas.”
“Wow!” Paul said. “I’ve never been to a beach.”
“I’ve seen plenty.” William yawned. “Which was lucky for me since I didn’t get much beach time on that trip. One-on-one with Sylvan. One-on-one with Martin. Sandwiched between them. Other combinations a lady shouldn’t divulge.”
Matt was surprised and intrigued. He hadn’t imagined any three-ways for that night’s activities. Now the possibilities seemed endless.
“I doubt we’ll visit the Finish Line tonight,” William said. “A boot-scooting hellscape. Two-stepping to George Strait and Patty Loveless. Pointy-toe cowboy boots everywhere. Just ghastly.”
Their drinks arrived. Both Matt’s and Paul’s drinks had cocktail straws with skewered cherries.
Paul was discombobulated. He started to remove his.
“Leave it,” William said.
“But I don’t like cherries!”
William sighed. “They’re not for you. They’re for the boys who do—like popping cherries, that is.”
Paul still didn’t get it. He pushed his glasses up his nose.
“It signals everyone that we’re virgins here,” Matt said to Paul.
“I’m not a VIRGIN!”
***
If Gushers was an ice cream fantasy, the Copa was Abercrombie & Fitch on steroids. A&F, where the walls were plastered with oversized homoerotic posters. Where hot, sultry guys worked the floor. Where the perfumed air was mind-numbingly intoxicating. Where frantic music crowded out the workaday noise. That was A&F, which could fuel a good wank. Not a real-life hook-up, but a wank for sure.
Now swap go-go dancers on raised platforms in place of the two-dimensional posters. Throw in several large video screens. Substitute 100 writhing, dancing guys (some shirtless, most hot) for the 3-4 floor clerks. Replace the single notes of A&F cologne for a heady swirl of sweat, testosterone, and a istanbul escort witch’s brew of body sprays and perfumes. Pump the music up to at least quadruple the decibels, double it again. Stir in liberal quantities of alcohol–and that was the Copa, which could fuel a real-life hookup or three. Matt did have three condoms after all.
It was 10:00 p.m. and the party had already begun when William led Matt and Paul into the Copa’s pulsing heart. The dance floor was a sunken pit surrounded by tables on three sides, a stage on the fourth. Two go-go dancers gyrating above them. Guys below them grinding to the beat.
Matt had a solid buzz and a partial hard-on—the “I’m-waking-up-and-paying-attention-down-here” kind. He followed William through a maze of tables, his crotch just inches away from seated spectators who sized him up as he passed.
If William was looking for an empty table, he was on a fool’s errand, but Matt wasn’t going to be the one to break that news. He assumed they would end up huddled against the back walls like a hundred other people.
Matt forgot that William was not “other people.” That he had no intention of joining the hoi polloi on the perimeter. That he would not allow his two debutantes to be slighted. They were to be the Belles of the Ball—by God.
William led Matt and Paul to the best table in the room, one that overlooked the dance floor and was close to the stage. One that Evan and Luke were holding for them, having apparently slipped out of Gushers early for the sole purpose of staking a claim. One they readily relinquished.
William motioned for Matt and Paul to sit.
Evan and Luke left to get them fresh drinks from the bar.
“Hi!” A beautiful brunette with Tom Cruise dimples materialized. He could have stepped out of an A&F catalog. His t-shirt cupped his hard, muscled pecs, could not hide the two small nipples pointing south. He leaned over the table, locked eyes with Matt.
“Dance?” he asked. No introduction. No small talk. And the way he said “dance” was ambiguous enough to cover both the musical and the mating kind.
Matt had never done the former and wasn’t keen on making a fool of himself. He was interested in the latter. His dick was ready to try on a prophylactic hat.
“I’ll dance with him if you won’t,” Paul said to Matt.
William patted Dimples’ hand. “Give us a few minutes, dahling, will you? Mama asked me to chaperone my sisters tonight. I forgot to warn them about handsome dark-haired, devils. Dimpled devils. Present company excluded, of course.”
Dimples just smiled. He seemed unaccustomed to rejection, and truth be told his eyes were somewhat glazed.
William shooed the guy away. “Come back in five minutes. You know, little hand on the ten, big hand on the three.”
Dimples melted back into the crowd.
Matt forgot the guy, sought other eye candy.
Then he saw him: a flaxen-haired youth who reminded him of Adam. The guy was dancing in shirtless abandon. The Greek god Pan, patron of flutes, forests, and fucking. That Pan–but with Adam’s fair coloring and elfin figure.
Matt felt a flash of guilt that he was there, and the real Adam was not. Scratch that. He’d done nothing wrong where Adam was concerned. What he felt was sadness—and longing.
What he wanted was to dance with Adam, to spend his three condoms on Adam.
But Adam wasn’t there, and the breadth of their relationship was a few letters back and forth. They were pen pals, free to fuck whomever they wished. And, besides, Matt was on Rumspringa—not a character in some Harlequin romance.
William snapped his fingers. “Pay attention ladies! Let’s review some things. What’s rule number one?”
Matt noticed that one of the large screens was flashing a countdown. 47:26, 47:25, 47:24–BELLA BOTTOMS– 47:21, 47:20, 47:19– BELLA BOTTOMS…
“Drink in moderation. Buzzed is okay. Barfing is not. And don’t accept drinks from strangers. They can pay but not serve.” This from Paul, who had removed his glasses and was cleaning them with the tail of his Hawaiian shirt. Yes, Hawaiian. Layered, unbuttoned over a crew-necked, white t-shirt. William wanted him to lean into the whole Revenge of the Nerds look, be as cocky and outgoing as Booger—without any nose picking.
Paul’s mild Asperger’s dulled his social awareness just enough that it could be perceived as swagger. And the layered shirts smoothed his pineapple-shaped frame.
Evan and Luke returned with fresh drinks, set them on the table, wished Matt and Paul good Fuck, then went to sit with the rest of the Gay Mafia.
Matt sipped his bourbon and Coke, hoping to bump up his buzz without veering into forbidden territory.
William watched Matt drink. “And rule number two, Matthew?”
46:11 on the countdown clock. Who or what was “Bella Bottoms”?
“Do not leave the premises under any circumstances—unless Brad Pitt is driving, in which case we’re to invite you to join us.”
William smiled wistfully. He had a thing for Brad escort bayan rus Pitt. “And number three: Change dance partners frequently. Leave them before they leave you. Come back here if you need to. Better that than being stranded on the dance floor. Never get stranded on the dance floor.”
Forty-five minutes and change remained on the countdown clock when Dimples reappeared. He took Matt’s hand and led him down into the pit.
The pit was crowded. And wildly dynamic. Infinitely more so than any soccer field, which never held more than 22 players, all of whom were rational actors once one understood the purpose of the game. Not so with dancing. It was anything but rational.
Dimples edged into a tight space, whirled, and faced Matt. He leaned in close, put his lips to Matt’s ear. “You’re so fucking hot!” he slurred. Then he started dancing.
Matt smiled at Dimples. Hoped it was a smile and not a goofy grin. He couldn’t be certain. His face felt numb.
Matt’s feet froze to the floor. The best he could manage was a slight side-to-side wobble. Like a Weeble. How did it go? “Weeble’s wobble, but they don’t fall down.” He giggled.
William had assured him dancing would come naturally. It was in the gay DNA, which obviously wasn’t true in Matt’s case. Six generations of Church of Christ inbreeding in Matt’s line had extinguished any genetic markers for rhythm.
William had been right about one thing, though. He’d somehow guessed that Matt, who exuded confidence in most situations, who charged in recklessly where others urged caution—that same Matt would be a wallflower at his Debutante Ball.
How William had guessed it was a mystery. But just as he’d coached Paul to lean into the cocky nerd vibe, he’d told Matt to embrace shyness and uncertainty. To dress like a straight boy—no matchy colors, nothing tight, white socks even—and to let people assume his nervousness pertained to being in a gay space for the first time. Apparently converting straight-ish boys ranked
in gay fantasies. Mormon missionaries knocking on one’s door was
. Number 2 was too freaky to be recounted.
Paul marched into the pit, accompanied by a guy wearing cut-off jeans and combat boots. Spiked hair. A skinny, baby-faced guy trying to look like a tough.
Pineapple Paul, in his Hawaiian shirt and nerdy glasses, owned his piece of the pit. He wasn’t hot enough or a good enough dancer to dominate the whole floor, but he absolutely controlled his 4 square feet of fame, and Mr. Spiky was eating it up, worshipping Paul as Matt had worshipped the flaxen-haired guy who looked like Adam.
Glancing around at the other dancers, Matt realized William had also been right about “costuming” as he called it. (Paul’s Hawaiian shirt, Matt’s white socks.)
Matt had argued that the clothes and the posturing were inauthentic.
William had sneered. “Authentic won’t get you laid, dahling. Authentic would be everyone showing up in the same boring clothes and un-gelled hair they wear the other six days of the week. Guys go to the clubs to escape authentic. They want to meet their fantasy guy. It doesn’t work unless everyone postures as some version of someone’s fantasy.”
“But—” Matt had stuttered.
“It is time you figured out that few places in life are authentic,” William had said. “Church? Those people in the pews are anything but authentic. Wearing their best clothes. Acting like they never take a shit, and even if they did, it certainly wouldn’t stink.”
“But I don’t want to lie,” Matt had persisted. “Am I supposed to say I’m a virgin?”
“Play your cards right and there won’t be much conversation,” William had said. “Stop overthinking things, Matthew.”
The song wound down.
Matt stopped swaying. That stupid countdown flashed overhead, but the numbers were too blurred for him to make out.
A new song amped up. The bass pulsed through the air like a frantic message in Morse Code.
“Molly?” Dimples asked. Had to repeat it louder.
Matt smiled. Or grinned? How did this guy know Molly? It really was a small world!
“Molly! Yes!” Matt enthused. “She’s my SGA buddy!”
Dimples frowned.
Only then did Matt notice that Dimples had been offering him a small pill. Shit! William had coached him and Paul that “Molly” was a euphemism for ecstasy. They were to avoid any drugs for now.
Dimples tongued the pill, swallowed it. Pulled off his t-shirt and tucked it into the back of his jeans, where it hung like a sexy tail. His perfect pecs seemed almost molded. Matt wanted to flick one of the guy’s nipples, test its authenticity.
Dimples grasped Matt’s hips. Guided him into the beat. Pulled Matt closer until they were staring into each other’s eyes like lovers.
“Lift your arms into the air!” Dimples shouted. “Now close your eyes and feel the beat! Trust me! I’ll keep hold of you!”
Matt did as instructed. Closed his eyes and surrendered himself to the rhythm. He felt safe in Dimples’ strong hands.
Matt didn’t open his eyes again until the song ended, at which time he noticed that Evan and Luke were dancing nearby. They were such a cute couple: the tall, Gallic Evan, the willowy Luke. Matt smiled at the memory of Evan’s deliciously curved dick, envied Luke for getting to sample it regularly.