Naked Men

by Alicia Giménez-Bartlett

  “I’ll take care of that. Is the Palace all right?”

  “Yes, great.”

  I attempt to sound confident—I can’t stand being a rookie. Uriel goes off and makes a phone call.

  “Any problems?” I ask, trying to demonstrate that I’m in control here.

  “No, it’s all good.”

  We grab a taxi and head to the Palace. Realizing that I’ve been irritated by his constant chitchat, he stays quiet. I watch him surreptitiously out of the corner of my eye. He looks calm as he stares out the window. He doesn’t seem excited or nervous. He watches the passersby on the street, his expression utterly incurious. I try to imagine what’s going through his head. Does he know this is my first time doing this? I imagine he does—there’s probably something in my manner that gives me away.

  We enter the hotel, and before we reach reception he tells me, “Wait here if you like; I’ll get the room.” It’s scandalously obvious that he’s a male prostitute and I’m his customer. Though the age difference isn’t that large, we don’t have any luggage, and we’re dressed in different styles, which doesn’t tend to happen with couples. Luckily, he’s taken the initiative here, because I would have been petrified at having to face the concierge. I’m not sure whether he’s arranging the room because that’s the way it’s usually done or because he’s decided I have no idea what I’m doing.

  I pace awkwardly around the lobby and stand staring at a horrible painting as if I found it immensely interesting. Out of the corner of my eye, I note that they’re giving him the room without asking for his ID or making him sign anything. He must be a regular guest. Smiling, he comes over and takes my elbow, leads me toward the elevator. The receptionist doesn’t even glance at us.

  We go up to the seventh floor. He leads, and I follow. He knows exactly where our room is. How many times have they given him the same one; how many women has he brought here before? I don’t find the thought depressing—I feel only a twinge of disgust. My primary emotion is still curiosity. I’m tempted to ask him to tell me how they behave, the women who come here with him: Do they pretend to be in love, or are they cold and demanding? Do they act like they’re starring in a porn film?

  He closes the door and looks at me with a smile I’m not sure how to interpret: reassuring, mischievous? He examines the thermostat. I take off my coat and toss it on a chair. I plaster on a neutral expression that doesn’t communicate anything.

  “Want a drink?” he asks.

  I shrug. He goes to the minibar and pulls out two little bottles of whiskey. He pours the contents into two glasses. He hands me one and leaves his unsampled on the nightstand. He sheds the blazer and loosens his tie. From there, what is clearly a very well-rehearsed performance unfolds. He comes over, places his hand on my neck, and starts to massage it. It feels like being stabbed with a needle, and I quickly step back.

  “I’d rather you not touch me, please.”

  He pouts and says wheedlingly, as if I were a child, “Come on, beautiful, relax. You’re so pretty, just gorgeous.”

  “I am relaxed. I just want you to get undressed.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then nothing. I want to look.”

  He thinks he’s in control of the situation again and smiles. Slowly, he takes off his clothes. When he’s down to his boxers, he jokingly hums a bit of striptease music. Finally his black boxers drop to the floor. I see his erect penis. It’s huge, or at least it seems huge to me. Beneath it is a very large, dark sac covered thickly with hair. I’m fascinated, hypnotized, stupefied. Absurdly, the thought flashes through my mind that I’ve never seen a man naked before. A childhood memory comes surging back. One day I sneaked into the bathroom while my father was peeing. I tiptoed up behind him, wanting to see what he was holding in his hands. I looked and saw just another bit of flesh, a stream of urine issuing from it. He covered my eyes and made me leave. When he saw me afterward, he didn’t scold me; he acted like nothing had happened. Yes, I have seen naked men. I saw my husband for many years, but I didn’t really look at him. It never occurred to me that I’d enjoy seeing a man’s naked body so much. I could look at Uriel for hours: his unblemished skin, the curve of his shoulders, his sharply defined leg muscles, his belly button, his pubic hair.

  Abruptly he interrupts my pleasure and moves toward me, smiling. He swaggers like a cowboy in an old movie. I’ve been so rapt, staring at his body, that he’s started to feel confident, magnificent. I jolt out of my trance when he touches me, caressing my chin. “Baby,” he says. His hand provokes an intense feeling of disgust in me, a physical revulsion bordering on nausea. His calling me “baby” almost makes me laugh, but I’m outraged: where does this lowlife, this scum, this total piece of shit get off, daring to touch me?

  “Please don’t touch me.”

  “What’s that about?” he asks, surprised but not angry.

  “Like I said, I just wanted to look at you.”

  “And you don’t like what you see.”

  “No, actually, you have a beautiful body, but I just got divorced and I’m not in the mood yet.”

  “Are you sure? We’ll go easy with everything, you’ll see. You’ll get undressed, we’ll lie in bed and talk a while, drink our whiskey. We’ll take it slow, no rush.”

  He strokes my face again as he outlines this plan. Not wanting to offend him, I grit my teeth through the new wave of distaste that sweeps over me. For the same reason, I don’t reassure him that I’ll pay him even if he chooses to leave now.

  “Maybe another time, not tonight. I’m not feeling inspired today, that’s all.”

  “All right, whatever you want. Should I get dressed and go?”

  “That would be best. I’ll stay—I might sleep here.”

  He gets dressed pretty quickly. He’s annoyed, though he’s attempting to hide it. I try to smile to placate him. He’s pretty high-maintenance! I wonder if men have these sorts of problems with the hookers they hire.

  “See you around, beautiful. Ciao. The room’s all taken care of, OK?”

  He barely looks at me as he leaves. Once I’m alone, I sigh, take off my shoes, sip my whiskey. The experience hasn’t been very pleasant, but it’s been worth it for a number of reasons. First, I know now that I’m bold enough to do it. Second, I’ve gotten to see his young, strong, gorgeous body. Next time I’ll have to let the guy know from the beginning: no sex, just looking.

  I lie down on the bed and relax. The whiskey is delicious.

  Two days later Genoveva calls me. She tells me she’s sent me an e-mail with what I owe for our night with the boys. The e-mail lists an account number where I can deposit the amount.

  “That number includes everything, all right, darling? Drinks, dinner, hotel, fee . . . If you want, I can itemize it.”

  “That’s not necessary, Genoveva. Jesus.”

  “Did you have any trouble with Uriel, sweetie?”

  “No, why?”

  “He was a little worried about you.”

  “About me? He shouldn’t be.”

  “OK, he must have gotten the wrong impression. Are you up for getting a bite to eat tonight?”

  There’s something fishy going on, and I want to know what happened. Maybe Irene stopped the guy cold. I would believe it—these pampered daddy’s-girl types can freak out if anything is the least bit off. Maybe she had second thoughts at the last minute. Rodolfo doesn’t know exactly what happened, but he knows things didn’t go well. Maybe at the last minute this ninny started thinking, “Me, with a male prostitute? What would my father say?”

  “Yes, I’d love to go out tonight for a bit. I’ll finish up at the office around eight. Does that work for you?”

  Genoveva’s dying to know, and I can tell her whatever I feel like, fiction or truth. Trouble is, my truth sounds pretty weird. How do I admit I couldn’t stand having the guy touch me? Even wo
rse, how do I explain that all I wanted was for him to take off his clothes, that I just really liked seeing him naked? She’ll think I’m a pervert. I’m starting to think that myself.

  We meet up at a café full of gaggles of elderly women all talking over one another: children, grandchildren, health problems. I’m amused to think that we’ll be talking about quite a different subject. Genoveva doesn’t waste a moment. She starts right in:

  “Look, Irene, I know something happened with Uriel. Please tell me—I feel terribly responsible. Did he do something wrong? Was he inappropriate?”

  “No, not at all. He’s a nice guy. It was just . . . well, all I wanted was to see him naked. I mean, just look at him, that’s it. I guess he got frustrated.”

  Genoveva cracks up. Her laugh always sounds fake. I find it jarring—I never force laughter. I don’t laugh all that much, actually; there aren’t too many things I find funny.

  “Well, listen, honey, if that was what you wanted, you did the right thing.”

  “Is Uriel offended?”

  “No, but Rodolfo called to say he was surprised you were so cold with him. You know how guys are, darling. You always have to reassure them that they’re the best and you never knew what making love really was before you met them.”

  “But these guys get paid.”

  “Makes no difference. Every game has its rules.”

  “Well, those rules don’t work for me, Genoveva. I’m paying for everything, down to the water they drink when they’re with me. Why do I have to pay them compliments too?”

  “Ease up a little, sweetie! This isn’t a company with salaried employees. You’re paying these guys to act out a bit of theater, but in order for it to be believable, you have to play your part too.”

  “I don’t get it, Genoveva. Sorry, but it just doesn’t make sense to me.”

  “So I see.”

  Of course you don’t get it, Irenita. The girl must be frigid. I bet you anything she’s never gotten laid properly. She’s textbook, right out of a psychology manual: a little girl clinging to her father’s pant leg, and just going through the motions with her husband. Until the husband got fed up and skipped out on her. He would have taken off earlier if it hadn’t been for her father’s money. The girl’s a disaster. I’ve shown her the patience of Job, but from now on she can figure out her own entertainment. She’s too complicated for me.

  “Are these guys set up like an agency?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Just curious.”

  “It’s not as straightforward as that, with a phone number and a web page and all. You have a contact, you start getting involved in that sort of thing, the word gets out, you let yourself be seen in certain places . . . Rodolfo and I met at that rooftop bar I took you to. He came up to me and . . . ”

  “Were you wearing a particular kind of shirt or something?”

  “Jesus Christ, honey! You’re squarer than a Rubik’s cube! The key with this sort of thing is in your attitude, your frame of mind, the way you look at things.”

  “It’s all too complicated for me.”

  “It’s all about subtleties, Irene.”

  She doesn’t get it, and she never will. These forty-somethings nowadays are just awful. The women of my generation know what’s good for us, and the younger girls go after what they want, but the forty-somethings . . . I’m almost glad to be older. Life experience gives you confidence.

  “I’m no good at subtleties, Genoveva. Oh well!”

  * * *

  Things are going pretty well at the club. I’m figuring it out. I’m less and less embarrassed about the dancing. Iván says the women in the audience like me because, even though I’ve gotten better, it’s obvious I’m not a professional. What a ridiculous concept! Are there licensed strippers, PhDs? Is there a union or a collective bargaining agreement? I guess he’s referring to the fact that I’m not part of the nocturnal world, I don’t hang out in the city’s underbelly. Even so, I doubt that’s apparent at first glance—or maybe it is. Just look at some of my colleagues: sculpted muscles, skintight clothing, wild haircuts, tattoos, ear and nose rings . . . They’re members of a specific tribe, and you can tell. I hope working as a stripper doesn’t mark your face with some particular expression, as sometimes happens with aging homosexuals after a life of excess. I’d hate to be a Dorian Gray rerun. I must be turning into a chump—or a fascist, which is much worse. Where do I get off dividing people into good and bad, vulgar and refined, scruffy and elegant? I’ve always considered that way of thinking to be pure ideological garbage, but I was outside the danger zone at the time, whereas now it’s clear I’m fully ensconced in it.

  I don’t tell Iván about these musings. He’d berate me, or simply fail to understand. He’s given me the best advice possible for the circumstances: “This is temporary. Take it one day at a time; live in the present moment. Nothing’s forever.” It’s the universal suggestion, repeated by psychiatrists, teachers, witches, fortune-tellers, philosophers, and wise men in general. But how’s a person supposed to pull that off? It seems impossible not to think of your identity as being diamond-hard, built to last. But all of that’s just worries for the wart, mental masturbation, as Iván says. Anyway, my day-to-day life has a clear weak spot: Sandra.

  My girlfriend is upset, lashes out for no reason, views me with contempt, even hatred at times. She takes digs at me and has gotten super passive-aggressive, something I never could have imagined—she was always so straightforward and easygoing. And all of that makes me feel guilty, as if my job were a vice I’m reveling in, something I’m doing purely for pleasure. Sometimes I even wonder if she’s right, if I’ve merrily ditched my teaching career because I’ve always had a proclivity for porn. I’m going to make myself crazy! She has no empathy for me. She makes no effort to understand how I’m feeling. I wouldn’t have been so surprised if she’d reacted some other way: jealous that I’m getting naked in front of other women, complaining that I’m not spending Friday and Saturday nights with her . . . What I can’t bear is her moral condemnation, her fear of what people might say. So long to those liberal-minded ideas she used to have. Her prejudices are tied around her neck like the heavy rock attached to a person who’s planning to jump into a river to commit suicide.

  We’ve stayed home for lunch today. She took the afternoon off of work because she wants us to talk. I can guess what the topic will be. Christmas is coming, and she’s going to insist we have dinner at her parents’ house on Christmas Eve. I can’t stand the holidays, or her family either. Her father always asks me, in a pitying tone, how my work is going. In his eyes, being a teacher is a kind of failure. He’s in charge of warehouse logistics for a large company. He earns a good wad. Sandra’s mother is a fabric cutter in an industrial clothing factory. She makes bank too. They’ve both kept their jobs despite the crisis. I think their wages are lower now, but during the boom they were living it up: apartment, cars, beach condo . . . Like everybody else in this country, they don’t value education, just money. Eating at their house on Sundays already made me feel bad back when I was a teacher—what’s it going to be like now that I’m in my new role as a pelvis-thruster in a strip joint? Not that Sandra’s told them the truth. She even roped me in as an accomplice: “Best not to say anything, Javier. Why upset them?” Fine, if they don’t want to know what I do, they might as well not even see me. I’m sure the future has better times in store where we’ll be able to be a model family again.

  Sandra arrives at two-thirty. I’ve gotten some Chinese takeout. I set the table. We sit down and serve ourselves spring rolls and rice. Bland small talk. As usual, she’s on edge, and I sense a relentless harangue looming. I was right on the money: Christmas dinner.

  “No, Sandra, I’m not going this year. You know this is a crazy time for me. I’d rather stay home. Make some excuse.”

  “Another one? You haven’t bee
n to my parents’ house in months. I don’t know what excuse to invent at this point.”

  “Well, then tell them the truth.”

  “The truth—like that’s so easy. Why don’t you pick up the phone and tell them yourself?”

  “They’re your parents, not mine.”

  “Of course, you don’t have parents, so you haven’t had to worry about it. Maybe if your parents were alive you wouldn’t have agreed to work at that club, so you wouldn’t have to tell them about it.”

  “What exactly are you chastising me for, not having parents?”

  It devolves into utter absurdity. This is the kind of argument I despise most—they’re useless and therefore dangerous. The core source of the contention no longer matters, and we’re seeking only to wound, to harm, to cause pain.

  “I’m chastising you because our life was going well and now it’s shit.”

  “It’s not like I quit my teaching job. I was fired, if you recall.”

  “Right, and since you were dying of starvation and sleeping on the streets, you had to become a stripper.”

  “I wanted a job and I have a job. When things are going better, I can go back to doing my thing.”

  “Your thing! Have you ever wondered why you lost that job? Well, I’ll tell you: because it was a shitty job, one nobody wanted, substitute for the substitute for the substitute. Total crap! Did you ever sit for exams so you could snag a full-time position, look for a job where you had real responsibility? No way: an easy job, books, a tiny paycheck, a ton of free time . . . and that’s enough! There’s a name for that approach, Javier: lack of ambition.”

  “You never used to care that I’m not ambitious.”

  “You’re right, I didn’t! I accepted you as you were, and that’s why I don’t understand why you found it so unbearable to be unemployed, your revulsion at being supported by a woman. All of a sudden you get ambition, and it’s to dance in a club?”

  “You’d rather I sat home bringing in my sad unemployment check?”