Where
Men’s Room at the White Plains Metro-North station (rushed hands, crossing from zipper to zipper at the urinal, and then, quickly, into the stall, a rushed mouth on me until it is suddenly, for the first time with a man, over).
Ron’s dorm, three blocks away from my first apartment in New York, twice.
On the phone, in the dark. Nell away. All those voices, all that want.
Apartment high above downtown, after a long night of drinking and dancing and pot, with a writer who is represented by my boss, and his boyfriend. Blurry bodies and a hasty retreat before they wake. The snow falling for the first time that winter.
Steam room at the gym on 57th Street. Middle-aged men. Scared, serious, wedding rings foggy and dull on their fingers.
Bathroom on a Metro-North train. A beautiful young man, older than I am but no more than twenty-five, who had been sitting across the aisle and who motions for me to follow as he walks to the end of the car. Kissing. Just kissing and kind hands palming my face and temples. It will all be okay, he whispers as he slides the door open and disappears into another car. How did he know I didn’t think it would be?
Love
So, out of order, a memory. It’s my fourth night at 60 Thompson. My fourth night back in the city after checking in and out of Silver Hill and hiding out in the Courtyard Marriott in Norwalk, Connecticut. I have phoned an escort, let’s call him Carlos. Carlos is dark, Brazilian, in his forties, and he’s been here before, once, the night I checked in. He is quiet, muscular, and a few inches taller than I am. He costs $400 an hour. I know he has a day job, he’s going to night school for a business degree of some kind, and that he’s from São Paulo. He’s on his way. Happy was just here, so I have plenty of drugs. My phone rings and I can see the number calling in is Noah’s. He must be back from Berlin. Without thinking, and overcome by the sudden need to hear his voice, I pick up. His tone is gentle, and I end up telling him where I am and that he can come up, for a little while. I have no idea what will happen, but my need to see him overwhelms my fear of being caught and dragged home. Within minutes he’s at the door. I look at him through the peephole but his image is warped and, beyond his clothes, he’s unrecognizable. I stand on the other side of the door for a while and watch him before I turn the lock. When I let him in, I notice that his beard is heavier than I’ve ever seen it and he looks thin. I want to run into his arms, but I feel cautious and hold back. He hesitates, too, and we circle each other warily. I’ve hidden the drugs, my wallet, and my passport in the bathroom under a pile of towels, in case he tries to take them from me. He starts smoking a cigarette and, even in this space, even now, I make a face and say, Really? He ignores me and talks about checking out of the hotel, coming with him, going to rehab. I get angry and tell him I will leave the hotel but not go with him. I’ll disappear somewhere else, and the next time I won’t pick up the phone when he calls. Twenty or so minutes pass and I’m aware of two things: (1) I haven’t taken a hit since just before Noah arrived and I need to, and (2) Carlos will be here at any moment. I tell Noah he has to go and that if he doesn’t, I will. He says he won’t and I begin going through the exaggerated motions of preparing to leave — putting on my shoes, gathering up my jacket — and he tells me to stop. Time is ticking and whatever high I had before has long since passed and I begin to plummet into a jittery funk. I tell Noah he can stay for a few more minutes but that I need to take a hit. He can stay while I do it or he can leave. He says, Fine, take a hit. And so I do. I go to the bathroom, close the door, and pull the pipe and bag from under the towels. I load the hit into the stem before leaving the bathroom, and instead of leaving the drugs behind, I stick them in the front pocket of my jeans. I return to the room, sit on the edge of the bed and ask, You sure you can handle this? He says he can. I face Noah directly as I light up and draw as much smoke as I can into my lungs. When I exhale I catch his eye, and though I see how grim his face appears, I can’t tell what he’s feeling. The high crashing through my system bullies aside his feelings and any normal response I might have to them. I regard him as someone on a departing train would a stranger on a platform. Curious, faintly connected by met gazes, but essentially indifferent. Noah recedes from view and as he does, I tell him about Carlos. I expect him to explode or yell but he stays calm and says, Fine. I’ll stay. If you won’t call him and tell him not to show up, I will stay. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. I hear the words as if from across a vast field or a thick pane of glass and say, because it feels this way, Fine.
Carlos arrives. He looks at Noah, turns to me, and asks, Is he staying? I say, Yes, for a while. They eye each other and Carlos sits down on the bed. I smoke a hit. Noah sits in a chair by the draped window. I smoke another. Noah is silent. Carlos motions for me to come sit on the bed and, with pipe and bag and lighter in hand, I do. I pour another vodka and ask him if he’d like anything. He wants a beer, so I grab one from the minibar, open it, and hand it to him. He takes a long pull and takes off his shirt. He is dark and his skin is flawless, and I watch him remove his watch and begin to unlace his shoes. I pack a hit and by the time I exhale I have nearly forgotten about Noah sitting less than three feet from the bed. Carlos and I kiss. He smells like Old Spice and tobacco, a particular mix of smells I associate with my father. We roll around on the bed, and before long I need another hit and a few big swigs of vodka. I load up my stem again and inhale a large hit and turn around toward Noah as I exhale. I try to read his face and don’t find anger or disgust or pain. What I see, or at least I think I do, is compassion. As I step to the bar to pour another drink, I ask him if he’s had enough and he says, No, I’m fine. I want to go to him, be with him, and for the first time resent Carlos for being here. I drink and smoke more before returning to the bed and by now my body is alive with desire — roaring, indiscriminate, hungry. Carlos and I are soon completely naked, and when he is on top of me, I turn to Noah and motion to him to come over to the bed. He does and lies down next to me. Carlos and I continue to go at it, and at some point I realize that Noah is holding my hand. I turn to him and his eyes are wet. He caresses my hand and arm and says, This is okay, you’re okay, don’t worry, this is okay. His words, his caressing hand, Carlos on top of me, the drugs and vodka roaring through me — shame, pleasure, care, and approval collide and the worst of the worst no longer seems so bad. One of the most horrible things I can imagine — having sex, high on drugs, in front of Noah — has been reduced to something human, a pain that can be soothed, a monstrous act that can be known and forgiven. You’re okay, Noah reassures me with his soft voice and gentle strokes, and for a few long moments, I am.
Carlos eventually leaves and Noah and I sit across from each other in chairs by the window. He tells me not to be ashamed of what happened, that I’m not the only one who has messed up in our relationship, that he has, too. He tells me how but I don’t believe him. He tells me some of the details but I dismiss them, thinking he’s just trying to comfort me.