It was just before dawn on an early spring morning.
Outside, the cobblestone streets of SoHo glistened beneath the streetlamps after an overnight rain.
As I lit a cigarette, two cabs drove passed me on the corner of Broome and Broadway. I was still in my outfit from the previous night, only I looked as though I had slept in it.
My black sport coat was stained from the red candlewax that spilled on me in a strange girl’s apartment. My white button-down shirt was untucked and my collar was spread over the lapel of my blazer.
My French-cuffs were folded over the outside of my jacket sleeves, and my jeans looked as though they were crumpled and tossed in a corner—which they were.
My undershirt was stained from a girl’s makeup and the smell from her perfume had drenched my clothing. Admittedly, I was wrong. There was a girl sleeping in her bed on the other side of the East River, and as far she knew, I was out with my friends.
I tried to rationalize what I had done by excusing the right and wrongs with a chance at free sex. I excused my behavior for an experience, which of course, never worked out as I planned it to.
I saw my night as a sexual conquest. I saw the strange girl who claimed to have two piercings in her vagina as a first, and since she explained her girlfriend might be interested as well, the greed to my lust was not be denied by clear thoughts such as, “It’s cheating.”
I viewed sex as food to satisfy the symptoms of a missing ingredient. I saw it as ego-building, and justified. I saw my sexual victories as proof that I was wanted.
I felt desirable, regardless to who desired me. It meant that I was good, and I wrapped myself in that moment, and fed into role that someone could love me—even if it was only temporary.
Meanwhile, there was a girl sleeping in a town on the other side of the East River. And she did love me. She thought I was good….
She found me desirable, but because I did not see myself this way, I needed more votes than one.
And no different from the crash of a drug, after the physical trade was finished, the moment was over.
I was left with nothing else but the hard facts of the evening. I spent too much money on a girl whose story was less true than mine.
The strange girl had no piercings in her vagina. Her roommate was not her girlfriend, and in the end, I spent the late hours of night with a girl that was as insecure as me.
She had pictures of her ex-boyfriend spread out around her apartment. There was a small mirror with a flaky white residue and a razor blade on the countertop in the tiny bathroom. There were several empty wine bottles tossed around her small kitchen; there was clothing on the floor, and the bed was unmade. The silken bed sheet was pulled off the upper left-hand corner of the mattress and the pillows had an indentation as if someone was just laying on them.
Nevertheless, I had a job to do….
To accomplish the task, I had to listen to the dribbling lies of my temporary girl, and pretend to be interested. She rambled on about her life and frequently referenced her boyfriend.
Each time she did, I asked, “I thought you said you broke up?”
“So, Then he’s not your boyfriend?”
She answered, “Not anymore,” and then she began to cry.
I wondered f there was an easier way to get laid. I wished for an easier way to gratify myself and thought, “I should just go home.”
But in my need for validation, and in my quest for sexual victory, I listened as if the conversation was important. I tried to lead her with sexual suggestions, but I failed.
The girl lit candles throughout her bedroom. “Are you going to sleep here,” she asked.
“I don’t think so,” I told her. “My car is parked on the street.”
“You should go down and park it in a lot and then come back up.”
“After,” I said.
“After what,” she asked.
I pushed myself forward, and as she leaned back with my arms around her, we knocked over one of the candlestick holders. She retrieved the candle and then re-lit the wick.
“You got wax on your shirt,” pointed the strange girl.
I noticed a series of small scars in her arm. They were not typical scars of say, someone that fell or was cut by accident. The scars were small and well placed, as if they were sliced into her skin on purpose.
Perhaps my eyes caught her attention because she moved her arm away to hide this from me.Perhaps if it was another time or place, I might have handled this differently. Maybe I would have been more compassionate. Maybe I would have listened to her ramble until the sun came up.
But this was not another time and we were not in another place. It was after 3:00AM and I did not go back to her apartment for a therapy session.
I leaned in once more and she asked, “I thought you wanted to talk?”
“We are talking,” I suggested.
“Now we’re kissing,” she responded.
“Yeah, well kissing is good too.”
I slipped the girl from her clothes and removed myself from mine. She was pretty but she talked too much. Her attempts to turn me on by talking sounded as if she was acting.
She kept asking, “Do you like that?”
All I kept thinking was, “I would like it more if you shut up!”
Eventually, we connected and finished our game of give and take by choosing the doggy style position. I watched myself disappear into the rear of her body, and all the while, I kept wishing she would JUST STOP TALKING!
When we finished, I laid down for a few minutes.
She asked, “Are you falling asleep?”
“I can’t. I have to move my car.”
“And then you’ll come back up,” she asked.
I think she knew I wasn’t coming back