Naked Men

by Alicia Giménez-Bartlett

  That evening, the two of us headed to El Diamante. The teacher was a little down, but I was exuberant. Getting pissed off is like exercising for me, and that bitch gave me a pretty good workout. Plus it was the last night of the year, and the year that’s ending is always worse that the one that comes after, or at least that’s what we believe. I did a line of coke for some inspiration, and when it was time for the teacher’s number, I kept a sharp eye out to see how he did. I’m starting to understand his technique: he goes out on stage looking as if he’s embarrassed to be there, reluctantly takes off his clothes, and moves his body as little as possible, super serious the whole time. He doesn’t smile even once. So the ladies—you know how they are—start wanting more and more, and they get curious to know who this guy is, the one who doesn’t seem to give a shit, and they feel bad for him, seeing how shy he is. And what with their curiosity, their wanting to bone him, and their maternal instinct, the guy’s a raging success. Then I perform and really get them hot. I’ve got my own technique. With me, it’s like I’m saying, “What the hell are you girls looking at? You want me, don’t you? Well, let’s be clear, I’m way out of your league. Go screw your paunchy husband or that boyfriend of yours who can’t get it up. I’m out of reach.” Unlike Javier, I really shake my ass—I’m not embarrassed, I know right where I am: on the highest level of the podium, gold medal, top ten.

  After the show, right before midnight, they pass out the bags of grapes and the sparkling white wine, which are included in tonight’s ticket price. The place is packed. Awesome, the boss will have to pay us a bonus. We performers all go up on stage, where they’ve set up a plank with a paper tablecloth to look like a long table. The tolling of bells sounds over the loudspeakers, and we eat our grapes. We’re fully clothed, of course. At the end, everybody shouts and jumps in the air and says Happy New Year and all that crap. As soon as we can, we sneak out through the rear door to avoid the audience’s holding us up. Five of us are going out to celebrate at El Paraca.

  When we got to the bar, there were already a bunch of people who’d welcomed the new year there, and the place was red-hot: loud voices, music, sparkling wine, mojitos, rum and cokes . . . the whole shebang. We had a table reserved for us, like VIPs. They gave us a platter with a variety of these amazing mini empanadas. Then a fully loaded salmon sandwich: hardboiled egg, tomatoes, shrimp, mayonnaise, pickles . . . so much better than turkey and all that other bullshit people usually eat on New Year’s. And endless glasses of sparkling wine, all you could drink, the highest-quality brut nature. Some chicks who were there alone tried to hook up with us, but we weren’t there to fool around, so we just deliberately led them on, partying hard. The teacher wasn’t joining in on the festivities. He didn’t like screwing with the chicks—he gets all earnest, the bastard. But I wasn’t about to let him ruin my night. The owner of the place knows me and asked if we’d do a little impromptu striptease to get the staff fired up. Maybe it would have been good, but we said no. We were tired, plus we charge good money for baring our asses—we don’t do it for free. And it was lucky I turned him down, because when I turned toward Javier I saw he’d gone pale. Just the thought of stripping there had him totally freaked out. To be honest, I don’t know if he’s ready for what I’m going to tell him; he seems a little wet behind the ears.

  We took off at six in the morning. We were totally wasted. I’d done everything: acid, cola-free coke . . . I could have kept going a while longer, but six in the morning was a good time turn in. I took the teacher’s arm—the only thing he was on was alcohol—and we headed home.

  Once I’d closed the door, I offered Javier one last drink, but he couldn’t handle any more and went to make himself a pot of coffee. While he drank that and I downed another whiskey, I got right into it:

  “Listen, teach, where do you think I get the money for this lifestyle?”

  The guy was startled. He put on a poker face.

  “I have no idea, Iván, but that’s your business.”

  “Shit, man, I know it’s my business. But I think you’ve never asked where I get the cash because you’ve been making assumptions.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Well, maybe you think I’m a con artist or a drug dealer or something.”

  “It hadn’t occurred to me.”

  His mouth is tight as he says it. He’s a good guy, so he’s a terrible liar.

  “I’m not into drugs, man. I just take them to have a good time, and no hard stuff. I already told you what drugs did to my parents; I have no intention of going there.”

  “I totally get it.”

  “I totally get it,” the dude says. He has no fucking idea where I’m going with this, so he’s starting to freak out. This is actually starting to be fun. What if I tell him I’m a contract killer? Shit, I might do it just to see the look on his face.

  “Look, Javier, I’ve been thinking a lot about your economic situation, and I think you could solve all your problems if you did what I do.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “I’m a male escort for rich broads. That’s it—the whole truth.”

  If he lets his mouth hang open much longer he’s going to dislocate his jaw.

  “A gigolo?” he asks, astonished.

  I laugh heartily.

  “No, man, no! That’s old-school, obsolete. Gigolos are history. Things don’t work like that these days. A lot of the women aren’t old—more of them all the time. They’re executives with big-deal jobs, or they’re lonely divorcees who don’t want to get involved in any more love affairs, or they’re chicks who are just looking to get laid, no strings attached. Stuff like that. So they want good companions. Sometimes it’s just somebody to go with them to parties and galas, because they like people to see them with a handsome guy. Other times it’s to have a little fun and then screw, and some of them just want to screw without the fun, period. Do you get me?”

  “Are you talking about prostitution?”

  “Hell, man, prostitution! Hooking is for hookers, and hookers are broads. This is totally different. And you earn a buttload of money and it’s all discreet, easy—‘classy,’ as they say. Look at me: cool apartment, nice car, designer clothing . . . It’s a sweet deal! I think you’ve got a future in it, too: you’re polite, well educated, and it’s obvious chicks like you. I see it when you’re on stage—they get all hot and bothered. It’s your attitude, the way you seem to be saying the show isn’t your thing and you’re doing them all a goddamn favor. Chicks really dig that.”

  “Are you saying I should get involved in that too?”

  “Well, yeah, man, shit! I’m talking to you, right? Or are you made of better stuff than me?”

  Careful, Javierito, don’t even think about trying to suggest you’re superior and I’m just a lowlife prostitute who eats pussy for loose change. Careful, you could start off the happy new year out in the street with your suitcase—I’m a patient guy, but there are some things I won’t put up with.

  “No, Iván, Jesus, don’t get me wrong! It’s just that I’m . . . I don’t know how to say it . . . surprised! It’s unexpected, you know.”

  “Of course it’s unexpected, but you probably could have figured I wasn’t earning all my money shaking my ass at the club. You know what that pays. I only stay there because it’s a great place for making contacts. Mariano often acts as an intermediary, he lets you know . . . ”

  “Is it an organization?”

  “No, it’s not an agency, though there are those too. But I don’t like them. It’s just contacts, word of mouth . . . plus the chicks who come direct after the show.”

  “Damn!”

  Actually, he probably would have been less shocked if I’d told him I was a contract killer. Not to mention if I’d told him I was a drug dealer—that would have seemed practically normal.

  “Nobody gets a commission, see. Whatever
you charge goes straight into your pocket. And of course the ladies pay for dinners, drinks, hotels . . . Most of the time you go screw in a hotel. These ladies put a premium on discretion, as you can imagine. You’re polite and know how to socialize, so I bet a lot of them would hire you to go with them to galas and dinner parties. Especially once the word gets out that you’re a teacher and you read books, that you’re cultured. Once they found out you can carry on a conversation and discuss sophisticated topics, things would really take off. Man, I think you’d be a huge success for sure. You’d earn a nice wad. You’d leave me behind in a flash. I’m not trying to convince you here, but the truth is you’d be able to rent a nice apartment in a cool neighborhood, not a shithole in the boonies. And other things too, of course, but mainly the apartment, since you’ve seen what the housing situation is like. Think about it, Javier, don’t be stupid and worry about whether it’s immoral—and definitely don’t worry what people will think. You know what the deal is with that? People like to talk, they go on and on about what a person should or shouldn’t do, but at the end of the day you’re the one who has to live with it. And maybe you decide to do what’s wonderful and awesome but then you go through shit, and you’re the one living your life, Javier—nobody’s living it for you.”

  “Right.”

  I go through that whole speech and the dude lowers his head, stares at the floor, and the only thing he comes up with to say is “Right.” Great! What’s that supposed to mean? I should save my breath because it’s not his thing? I think he hasn’t quite digested it yet—it’s too much for his system. It’s a pretty hairy subject. If I were that Raskolnikov dude and told him I wanted to off the old lady, he’d have said awesome; he’d have gone after her with the ax himself. But this is different . . . Sin! Sin! Prostitution, gigolo . . . Even if priests don’t even use those words anymore. Well, man, I’ve tossed you the rope. You’re going to have to decide whether to grab it or not. You’ll figure it out.

  “I’ll think about it, Iván. I’ll think about it.”

  * * *

  My first thought was to call Sandra to tell her about it. An immediate but completely irrational impulse. But I was so surprised, I needed to tell somebody. Iván, a prostitute! I started laughing. In all the speculation I’d done about his supplementary occupations, that possibility had never occurred to me. And yet it was related to our activities in the club, to the demimonde we frequented. It was so obvious. Most likely all of my colleagues at El Diamante were doing the same thing, working as escorts. Who’d have guessed it—Iván was so manly, so textbook macho! Servicing women. Amazing.

  According to Iván, really high-end male escorts. But what did “high-end” mean to him? No way of knowing for sure. In any event, he went out with women who had the money and the balls to hire him. After I stopped laughing, the questions I hadn’t dared ask him echoed in my head: did he meet up with the same woman more than once? Did he fake loving gestures during the encounters? Did he really go at it when he was having sex? Did he do ménages à trois, orgies? How much did he charge—were they fixed prices, flexible; did it depend on what he did with the women, how much time he spent with them? I was dying of curiosity about the salacious subject, but it hadn’t even occurred to me to ask as he was confessing. He could have interpreted it as me clarifying details before accepting his offer. Why did Iván think I might become a prostitute? He knows I still feel really uncomfortable about stripping even though I’ve been performing at the club for a while. So he offers me something that’s a huge step beyond that? He’s a strange guy—maybe he thinks it’s more shameful to bare all in public than to go to a private appointment. And is it, actually? I don’t think so. There’s a theatrical aspect to performing at the club, a little like playing a part in a musical or a variety show. But there’s no excuse for going to bed with a strange woman and charging for it.

  The word “excuse” made me flinch a little when I thought it. Who was I trying to fool? Let’s be serious, I said to myself, stripping was total shit, nothing like a variety show or avant-garde theater. I was earnestly playing the fool—and not exactly a Shakespearean fool or a children’s clown. No, I was just putting my body on display in a crude, vulgar spectacle utterly devoid of artistic merit. And what had led me to that point? Not so much the need to earn money as the pressing internal need to stop being unemployed. I’d wanted to get out of the house and work with other people, belong to an active group, shed my worry about becoming a social parasite. If I accepted Iván’s new proposition now, all those understandable, even laudable motives would disappear and only one would remain: earning money. That’s the crux of it: who engages in prostitution if not for money? That’s the way it’s been since the beginning of time. And is it not an acceptable reason? Ultimately, that whole business about being part of society through stripping was still bullshit, something I could have avoided if it was so important to me to maintain my dignity. No, my dignity was long gone—and now I really did need money, urgently. If I had money I’d be able to rent a decent apartment, smaller and simpler than Iván’s—my needs aren’t so grand—but at least a place where I’d have my own space to read, to be alone, to find a bit of peace. Iván’s obviously going to kick me out any day now. From his perspective, in telling me this, he’s offered me the opportunity to earn enough to be comfortable. What excuse could I give to continue staying with him now? If I tell him I don’t feel capable of sleeping with a woman for money, he’ll go back to his initial reaction: “Are you made of better stuff than me?” And maybe that question is actually pretty rational—am I, in fact, better than him? If it’s true that those women hire you just to spend time with them . . . but I don’t believe it. There’s got to be something else that comes after. Nobody pays for someone just to go to a party. Though women are pretty weird that way. I remember Sandra hated going places alone. What would she think if she found out I was working as a male escort? She’d say she saw it coming, that the path I’d started down led inevitably to such behavior, to a progressively degenerate state. But now I’m thinking about things I swore I wouldn’t think about. Sandra’s gone and she isn’t coming back. The stuff I’m made of is really pedestrian stuff, certainly no better than anybody else’s.

  * * *

  I’m totally flipping out. Yesterday I went out with Irene again because she asked. Went out with the guys, I mean. Not Rodolfo and Uriel. Sometimes you have to switch it up. Rodolfo and I have been seeing each other for too long, and that always turns sour eventually. I don’t know, these guys tend to start taking a lot of liberties. Rodolfo got pretty tedious the last few times. He started bugging me: “Let’s go to another restaurant—I don’t like this one,” “You shouldn’t wear red—it doesn’t look good on you,” “Don’t drink so much—you’ll get sleepy later” . . . A real pain. They need to realize they’re at your service, period. Things always go well at the beginning, but then they start getting really overbearing, as if sleeping with you gave them certain rights. Don’t they realize what the arrangement is? No, they end up believing the whole charade: phone calls, dinners, they go with you to different places, you call them “sweetie,” you give them a tie or a pair of sunglasses one day . . . and they end up believing it! How is that even possible? “Come on, boys,” you feel like saying, “haven’t you noticed who’s been picking up the check at these places? And that I’m also paying for your company?” Unbelievable! Actually, I’m afraid this is a problem with men in general. Husbands, too, forget the original setup and start butting into your affairs. They demand, object, request, are a complete pain in the ass, and show their worst face. They need to cool it! It’s awful. They act like marriage isn’t just a sort of contract you sign where each party has to respect the terms established. Chill, boys, you’re you and I’m me. But things don’t work that way—men take sex so seriously, as if sleeping together wiped out everything else. And if we were talking about a husband here, he’d get a pass! But I’m buying this kid off the shelf
. . . I need air, man, let me breathe! If red doesn’t look good on me, I’ll wear blue instead, but only when I feel like it, understood?

  I ditched Rodolfo in the middle of a busy avenue, taking advantage of a red light. I didn’t even park or pull up to the curb. I told him, “Get out right now!” And he did, though he insisted on getting his bag out of the trunk of my BMW. We were coming back from spending a weekend at the house of some friends of mine. Sixteen people in total. One of those weekends out on a farm where everybody does his own thing during the day and the group comes together for dinner. At first he was fine, normal, as you’d expect, but then he started really screwing things up. He had to stick his oar into every conversation, even took them over. Please! He just kept babbling! He started talking about the witch doctors back in his country, their spells to ward off evil and whatever other nonsense. People listened politely, but after a while he got on people’s nerves and everybody started mocking him and looking at me funny. He didn’t even notice, probably because he’d been drinking. I called him into the kitchen at one point and told him to keep his mouth shut because he was making me look like a fool. Nothing out of order. And the moron goes and tells me he’s not a puppet and he can say whatever the hell he wants. Hilarious—not a puppet! I didn’t respond, of course, because the last thing I wanted was to cause a scene, but I’d already made a decision. On Sunday evening, as we were on our way back, I tell him, “Rodolfo, once we’re in the city, you’re going to get out of the car and we’re never going to see each other again.” He’s proud—all these South Americans are very proud and very sexist—so he says, “OK. But if I get out, we really will never see each other again. You’ll see.” Unbelievable! He thought I was hung up on him! Sometimes I really don’t understand what people are thinking. They don’t get it, they don’t see what’s right in front of their noses, not even their proper place. I’m paying you, right? So lose this not-a-puppet business, and definitely lose the soap opera threats: “You’ll never see me again.” That’s modern life. Things ended with some badly injured dignity—I had to yell at him to get out of the car because he was pretending he didn’t understand.