Sometimes — often, strangely, in church, when she imagined she was supposed to be feeling her best — she would get deep pinpricks in her stomach that all was not right with the world, and that her usual daily belief that people were good and everything was as it should be was, well, a sham. She would think about how her father and brother held sway over the household, how she’d heard the words bitch and puta from them and other men, including her uncles and cousins, since she was a little girl, before she even knew what the words meant. She’d think about all the love children in the family and the neighborhood, about men who got off with impunity, and she’d think about the beat-down, sullen workaday indignance of her grandmother and her mother and so many older women she knew, and how those women seemed to take it out on one another in the form of backstabbing and gossip, and she would suddenly not feel so great, or that the real answers were not to be found here, in church, listening to this old, light-skinned Dominican priest drone on about rejecting the glamour of Satan. And she would seriously wonder if there wasn’t perhaps some other life out there for her that promised more than a dental-hygienist certificate. Then, to herself, barely perceptibly, she would sigh and dismiss her own thoughts.
But her head wasn’t in that melancholy place tonight. She was just having fun — and oh my God, she felt amazing! Plus, these men were hot. Here was one coming up to her right now. The DJ had just changed the song. Baby, you make my love come down, the whole room shouted along with the singer. Oh, you make my love come down. And suddenly this guy, this big-assed, hairy-chested moreno with chains dripping over a mesh purple tank top, was bumping up against her.
“Hey, baby,” he mouthed over the music. He held up poppers to his nose, inhaled, then held the tube up to her nose. She’d been watching guys inhale them on the dance floor all night and she wondered what they did, so now she allowed herself a demure sniff. Suddenly, she was feeling deliciously woozy and clinging to the guy’s neck while he stroked her breasts and buttocks. Her knees buckled in her leggings. She was going to go out of her mind if she didn’t have sex soon, she thought. She hadn’t had sex since — well, two years ago, that sort of bad incident at that party. That hadn’t been what she was looking for. Even the first time, at fifteen, with Ricky Malandrino, it hadn’t been what she was expecting, either — it had hurt, and it was over before it even began. It hadn’t seemed very romantic. And then Ricky not so much as even talking to her in the street after. That didn’t feel too great.
But this moment — wow. They were sort of swaying and grinding, and she was holding on to his neck for dear life, feeling like her whole body below was giving out under his big hands. Then, as she felt the breathless, scary swoon of the poppers fade away, he pulled back. He put a hand under her chin and smiled at her and kissed her gently on the lips. “You’re beautiful,” he told her.
“Shut up!” She laughed good-naturedly. “You’re just high.”
He lost his smile, got stern. “No, baby, you are,” he said. “You gotta believe that.” He kissed her once more, then slipped away, leaving her there, barely moving amid the dancers. Tavi, who’d witnessed the whole thing, sidled back over to her.
“Puta,” he said, then cackled. She shoved him, pleased with herself.
They kept on dancing — hours, it seemed. At different times, other men came over to them, danced with them, did the bump-and-grind with Tavi — he came to this Paradise Garage club a lot and he knew a lot of guys here — and even sometimes with her. Ooh, now the DJ was playing “Heartbeat”—ooh, she loved this song, that slow beat, heartbeat, you make me feel so weak—that’s how she felt! Weak from dancing and elation. She had her head up looking into the lighting system, her arms up over her head. She felt sexy!
“Girl, this song is turning you out,” Tavi shouted at her over the beat.
She shoved him. “You’re so disgusting!”
Some guys came over and danced with them. Kisses and gropes went all around. One of the guys, Issy noted, was very darkly handsome, a Boricua probably, with a somewhat serious, non-effeminate air about him. He looked a bit nerdy in his large, square-framed glasses, which he repeatedly took off to wipe steam from the lenses. There he was, dancing along with the rest of the guys in his tight T-shirt and designer jeans and Nikes, a bit of gold around his neck, but he seemed a little uptight.
Tavi introduced everyone over the music; she and the handsome nerdy guy — who was how old? not quite thirty yet — met eyes. He gave her a kind smile, not that kind of “Heeeeey, girl!” greeting she got from most of the queens here.
He took a few steps toward her, kissed her cheek. “I’m Hector,” he said over the music.
“I’m Ysabel,” she shouted back. “Issy.”
“How do you know Tavi?” he asked.
“We grew up together in Corona,” she shouted. “Since we were little kids.”
Hector nodded his understanding. “He’s crazy,” he said.
Issy laughed. “I know!” she screamed. “He’s crazy, it’s true! But I love him!”
“I do, too.”
“How do you know him?” she asked.
“First from out in the clubs, but now we volunteer together at GMHC, too, on the phones.”
She knitted her brow in puzzlement. “What’s that?” she asked.
“Gay Men’s Health Crisis,” Hector said. “It’s an AIDS organization.”
“Oh.” She frowned. Then a horrible thought struck her. She glanced over at Tavi. “Is he okay?” she asked Hector.
“Oh, I think so. As far as I know, I mean. The test for it isn’t out yet. We’re just trying to provide direct services because the Health Department isn’t doing anything. Which I should know, because I work for them.”
Issy nodded gravely. She hoped Tavi was okay. Otherwise, she hadn’t caught much of what Hector had said. He seemed so serious for a guy on the dance floor! He’d even fully stopped dancing for a moment.
“It’s a terrible thing,” she offered.
He nodded in turn. “Yep. You gotta be careful, protect yourself.”
Tavi came over. “What you bitches talking about?” he shrieked.
Issy shoved him lightly. “Tavs, you didn’t tell me you do volunteer work for AIDS!”
Tavi looked briefly freaked out, like he hadn’t wanted Hector to tell her, then he cackled and threw his arm around Hector. “Yeah, we’re like fucking Florence Nightingale and Mother Teresa up in there! I’m like Lily Tomlin with her receptionist-headset thing going.” He did his Ernestine imitation, with an overbite, stretching out his face. He hip-checked Hector. “This one’s always recruiting queens for the cause.”
Hector shrugged. “If we don’t do it, nobody else will,” he said. So serious! Issy thought again. Yet very handsome. Could he loosen up and have fun? She took his hand, made him spin her. “Come on, papi, no more heavy talk, you gotta shake it more!”