The Forty-Dollar Lay
"What now?" I say. Behind me the cab pulls away from the curb. I tuck the cell phone between my shoulder and ear and push through the glass doors into the lobby. The cool air on my damp forehead is a blessing. My shirt sticks to my back. It's two a.m.
Deep voice. "Hand the phone to the doorman."
The doorman's leaning back in his chair. A bank of video screens on his desk wash his face in dim, blue light.
"I'm here to see J_ T_," I say. "He's on the phone." I offer the doorman the phone but he waves me on.
"Go ahead. Elevator C," he says, pointing. "Sir."
"I'm coming up," I say into the phone, and press "End."
The lobby is ten times the size of my apartment. Sparsely decorated: a small glass table, a fake tree. My footsteps echo off the marble walls. I pass through odd-angled corridors till I find Elevator C, tucked in the shadows at the end of the hall. The doors slide open. I step inside, my reflection thin and muted in the brass panels.
I splurged on the cab, $20 from the Upper West Side, not wanting to wait in the thick air underground for the late night train. We'd met online, spoken on the phone twice, made tentative plans that we'd cancelled. He had a nice voice, told me he was an introvert, liked "masculine guys." Now, Friday, after a few horny hours online, I'd accepted his offer
Several floors above Broadway, the silent hall. He's quick to open the door: t-shirt and shorts. A good ten pounds heavier than his pics, but that's to be expected, taken into account on late-night trips like these. Behind him the dim stretch of apartment, windows facing what, 25th St? Lights from the surrounding buildings like fixed constellations.
Break the ice. "Hey," I say, leaning in for a kiss.
"Hey," he says, taking the kiss. I pull back. He says, by way of foreplay, "You got a pimple on your nose."
"That would be a mole," I say, stepping past him into the kitchen. There's a center island. I lean against it, facing him. He follows, forms a fist, and taps it against my chest. Like he's kicking the tires on a used car. Satisfied, he leans forward and kisses me again. We go like that for a minute and then: his crotch pistons back and forth against my leg a few times, four or five quick movements. It seems involuntary, a reflex, like a labrador humping your knee. It's two in the morning so I try to ignore it.
We break for a moment. He goes to the fridge, pours two glasses of water. I down mine quickly, my damp shirt turning cold. He doesn't notice my empty glass. "Bedroom?" he asks.
I'm already here I think, and nod. "Nice place." This I say out loud, following him through the living room. Dark shapes hang from the walls. Masks maybe, long thin shadows, the rough curve of wood.
He shows me family photos, framed, sitting on his dresser. I pick them up one at a time, feigning greater enthusiasm, angling them to catch the light from his computer screen, the only light in the room. He poses with his sister, his parents. Blue water behind them. I hold one longer than the others. He stares, wide-eyed, at the camera, smile fixed, his arm around some aunt. He looks like he's got a screw loose. My head and my dick argue quietly.
We're on the bed for awhile, shedding clothes in too-regular intervals, one article at a time, shirt for shirt, shorts for shorts. The humping continues, increasing in intensity. It still seems separate somehow, from him, from me. Not animal passion. Mechanical stutter. Later when he asks if we can fuck I lie and say, "Maybe next time."
"I understand," he says, laying back. "I'm a little worn out anyway. I had a guy up here earlier." He turns on his side, facing me. "But you're more my type," he says. His hand brushes against my cheek, startling me with its grace.
I exhale when he closes the door behind me. It's after three. In the quiet hum of the elevator I think of the two of us, each alone, sleeping halfway through tomorrow. I try to think of something else then, and watch the numbers light up overhead.
I hold my breath in the silent lobby. When I pass the doorman I say, "Good night." But this time he says nothing, just looks at me, regarding me without expression. I could do without this New York quirk, I think, the doorman on either side of a trick.
Cabs everywhere, but I walk through the blood-warm night towards Eighth Avenue, slow, past brownstones and gated stoops. I raise my hand at the corner.
"Can I take the West Side highway?" the cab driver asks, his English careful, each word measuring out the same small breath.
"I don't care," I say, leaning back into the seat. "I'm kind of new here."
"Where are you from?" he asks.
"Minneapolis."
"Ah!" He looks over his shoulder. "Here you walk everywhere. There you run!" He laughs and I nod, though I don't understand.
"How long in New York?" he asks.
"Almost a year." By now, I think, I should know the right way home.
I crack the window, grateful for the still-throbbing city: people everywhere, spilling out of nightclubs; young couples, sleek, leaning against one another on the sidewalks; girls in tight skirts and heels tottering across Tenth Avenue, slowing traffic, giggling at each other. Garbage bags piled on the sidewalks. Music from the bodegas, the smell of carnations, gutters, and peaches. I'm glad not to be alone with my thoughts, my drowsy frustrations. There will be time tomorrow to regret this, sex held apart, separate from my days, hidden beneath the cover of cab rides and night. The wind feels good against my face. He turns onto the highway and we rush head-long over the dark pavement.
11:16 PM | link
Saturday, July 30, 2005
The man I'll marry will have seen every episode of "The Office," and loved the end of the Christmas special. And will, of course, defend my honor in drunken barfights.
Just wanted to make that clear.
12:57 AM | link
Friday, July 29, 2005
One day I'll grow up and be a beautiful girl
Pounded espresso, proofing content for the lit mag, then caught the 1 train to Times Square. Met Kelly at Town Hall for the Antony and the Johnsons concert, where I prodded Norman into buying a $3.50 bottle of water, met a guy who did Susan Sontag's funeral make-up, stared at tranny cleavage and cute boys in full-sleeve tattoos, spotted John Doe from X smoking a cig on the sidewalk, and tried to play it cool as Debbie Harry passed within a few inches of me. She looked at me a second longer than necessary; either she totally wanted me or she wanted our seats, which were, admittedly, better than hers.
When the lights came back up Kelly leaned over. "What did you think?" he said.
"I'm not ready to talk about it," I replied, rather dramatically. I slipped back into the 42nd Street mob under pulsing, spinning, brilliant lights, cutting through tourists crowded around sidewalk vendors selling fake tattoos and bad prints of Mariah, Audrey, and Scarface. I caught, from the corner of my eye, a man following my twisting path, his quick pace matching mine till I hit a stoplight and he came up beside me, a portly man stuffed in a dress shirt, clutching a Broadway program.
"We're the only ones walking fast," he said. We stood two feet into the intersection, heads turned east towards the headlights streaming by. "New York..." he said, pulling at his collar, "used to be fast."
12:07 PM | link
