Before leaving for the July 4th weekend, I had to sit through an afternoon luncheon during which a jackass honoree turned a simple thank you into an interminable Castro-like State of the Planet allocution out from which I finally sneaked. I had to race for the train to Sayville, but by the time the ferry docked at the Pines harbor, the tensions of the city had receded. By dusk, when I finished my weekly Killing Fields war against our rampant poison ivy, I was thoroughly relaxed. (I patrol the place with Round-Up and spit “Die, mother****er, die!” with every satisfying spray).
The front gate opened and in strolled Jack Fogg and Sammy and Dan, who had left work early to surprise me. Surprise doesn’t describe the electric-chair jolt I felt. As you may recall – I sure did – I’d plowed Jack Fogg the last time he was out, and I hadn’t seen him since. Now I had a sudden bad-trip rush. So many questions! Did Sammy know? Would Dan find out? Might it happen again? Could Jack Fogg and I talk our partners into a four-way? Did Jack Fogg remember how he moaned? I held the Round-Up in front of my jeans.
I hadn’t seen the point of telling Dan about my new familiarity with Jack’s ass. What good would it do? It would just make him sad. Moreover, it wouldn’t help me get any more of Jack’s ass. And how was I supposed to phrase it? “Hey Dan? We’re out of mayo, your Amex bill came, and oh – I forgot to tell you – I screwed Jack Fogg”?
Let promiscuous partners lie – that’s my motto. So lie I did. But it simply didn’t register with me that we’d all be spending a sweltering Fourth of July together. Dan and I would be shirtless in our shorts all day while Jack Fogg would be showing off his fine pecs in Madras trunks and Sammy would be displaying his prize-winning beefsteak in Speedos. The sweat! The testosterone!
While prepping dinner, I squeezed past Jack between the kitchen island and the sink as Jack was fixing his first Madras. My front met his backside and greeted it as an old friend. “Did you tell him?” I asked in a low voice. “Of course!” he replied. “That was the whole point!”
I shrank. “You mean you were just getting back at Sammy for his Chicken Vindaloo?” (Jack had caught him in bed with a young Indian delivery boy.) Jack turned around and pressed me against the counter with his hairy stomach. “No, hot stuff,” he whispered. “But there’s nothing like a vengeance screw. I always tell Sammy and he always makes me pay for it. Everybody gets something, especially me.”
Yeah, everybody but Dan. What would I do about Dan? I spent the weekend worrying and ended up doing nothing but choosing as le cocktail du weekend a little joke only I understood. Sammy with his Vindaloo, WASPy Jack, and two New York Jews, one of whom had a big, hot secret. How terribly cosmopolitan.
The Cosmopolitan
2 parts Absolut Citron
½ part Triple Sec
1 part cranberry Juice
Splash of lime juice
Pour ingredients into an ice-filled shaker. Shake and pour into a cocktail glass. Perch a thin orange slice on the edge of the glass.
