Naked Men

by Alicia Giménez-Bartlett

  “Well, shit, that’s because they were dumbasses. Give me an example.”

  “Well, Freud, for one.”

  “Well, that Freud dude must have been a damn moron, because that business about being stuck with your parents is pretty obvious. Those intellectual types are lame, man. Like fucking Raskolnikov: just because he kills a disgusting old lady who totally deserved it, he spends a thousand pages being gnawed at by his conscience.”

  The teacher laughed like a little kid, so I kept spewing bullshit a while because I like seeing him happy, which he never is. Then we split the money from that bitch who’d made me want to kill her and went home to sleep.

  * * *

  It’s an office building with a façade of steel and glass. I look for the company’s name on some metal plaques in the lobby. Seventh floor. Once I’m in the elevator, I have a hard time getting it to work. I stare helplessly at the buttons for the floors. A guard yells from behind a counter, “Pull on the security lever!” I take a minute to figure it out, but I finally get it. I go up alone, fortunately. I’m wearing khaki pants, a white shirt, and a warm jacket. I guess I’m dressed all right, though I don’t imagine it matters much, since a records retention specialist isn’t a public-facing job.

  There’s a girl at the reception desk. I tell her my name and that I have an appointment for a job interview. She starts hunting around in the computer. Then she smiles. “Mr. Guzmán will see you personally.”

  That must mean that with the other applicants, if there are any, Mr. Guzmán doesn’t see them personally. Good for Irene. Everything’s off to a good start.

  The receptionist accompanies me down the hall. To one side are cubicles with smoked glass walls that don’t go up to the ceiling. I hear the clatter of typing, a phone conversation . . . These are the offices where the employees work. We go into a little room with some rows of seats. They each have a little platform where you can put your papers. I remember having sat in something similar back when I was in high school.

  The girl hands me a stack of papers. “You’ll need to fill out these questionnaires. When you finish, press this button. Can I offer you anything to drink—water, coffee . . . ?”

  “No, thank you. I’m good.”

  She leaves me alone, and I start examining the papers. It’s a large stack. The first ones are pretty standard: name, birthday, address . . . Then there are questions about my professional life: education, experience . . . Then they move on to my personal life: spouse, children, hobbies . . . The third one gets a little more complicated: they ask if I belong to an athletic club or NGO, if I have a pet, if I’m a member of the Civil Defense or a city volunteer. I don’t really understand how any of these things help indicate whether a candidate is ideal for the job. But the worst is yet to come. The final section of the questionnaires is totally crazy. There are a ton of ridiculous questions you have to answer at length. For example: “Which is more valuable, a snail or a rock? Explain.” “Where do you prefer to swim, in a river or in the ocean? Explain.” I work my way down the list, uncertain whether my responses are the right ones. Iván’s right—you’re never able to choose. If I could, I’d take off and leave this stupid questionnaire unfinished. But I stay.

  By the time I check my watch, I’ve been answering that nonsense for more than an hour and a half. Maybe how long you take filling it out counts too. Bad if you’re really slow, too much hesitation when answering. Or the opposite—if you’re really fast, you demonstrate you’re not a careful thinker. My head hurts, and I’m anxious. I press the button and, endless minutes later, another girl appears. She introduces herself as Mr. Guzmán’s secretary. She asks me to come with her and leaves me in another small room with armchairs and magazines. I have to wait there till the boss can see me. She offers me something to drink again, and this time I ask for coffee, which she brings immediately.

  Mr. Guzmán is about the same age as me and looks like a numbskull. He’s wearing a silky, light-gray suit with no tie and has three or four days of stubble. Suddenly I get the feeling I’ve seen him at the club, watching the show from the front tables. He flashes a quick, professional smile. I calm down—it’s extremely unlikely that this man has been to the club, just me being neurotic. What would a handsome modern guy, an executive and boss, say if he knew the applicant sitting before him is a stripper at a club and sleeps with strange women for money? I try to banish that question from my head.

  The interview begins. Guzmán comments on a number of my answers from the questionnaire. He asks several questions about my experience as a literature teacher. He’s not as dumb as he seems, and we hit it off. He explains in detail what the job entails and asks why I want it. I tell him I’ve been unemployed for several months and, though I’m not in dire economic straits, I’m looking to go back to work. I stress how important work is to me, tell him I need to be part of the social fabric. I insist that changing professions and no longer being a teacher might even be good for me. It’ll open new possibilities, do away with the dull routines that developed during my pedagogical period. He nods, as if my presentation had convinced him. He tells me what I’d earn, which isn’t much but isn’t too bad either.

  It’s been half an hour, and we’re done. He stands up energetically, and I follow suit. He shakes my hand, a firm squeeze, firmer than when I arrived.

  “Now we’ll be taking a look at your application as a committee. We’ll let you know in a few days.”

  He hasn’t mentioned Irene. I want to make sure he knows who I am, so I tell him she says hello.

  “Yes, Irene, of course, a great businesswoman. Such a shame she had to sell her company.”

  “Times are hard,” I say stupidly.

  “They’re terrible!” he says, and moves off.

  I’m back in the hands of the secretary, who escorts me to the reception desk.

  When I step outside, pleasant sunlight warms my face. I feel like sitting on the terrace of a bar and having a beer. I walk until I’m a good distance away and choose a place at random. It’s quiet. The beer is good. I think back on the interview and decide that not only did it not go badly, but in fact it went quite well. As for the job, I could do it with my eyes closed, and I think I’d even grow to enjoy it. I feel contented; in the end, things will fall back into place, and this strange period of my life will be just that: a strange period. I call Irene.

  “Hi! I finished the interview not long ago.”

  “How was it?”

  “Honestly, I’m pretty happy. It went really well. Your friend and I hit it off.”

  “He’s a very nice man.”

  “What do you say we have dinner together and I’ll tell you all about it?”

  “Oh, no, I can’t! Today I’m very busy all day! I’ll call you tomorrow or the day after and we can have dinner then.”

  I hang up, surprised and a little annoyed. Very busy? Why does she have so much going on when she isn’t working at the company anymore? She must mean she has to go to the hair salon or the gym, but she could postpone those things and meet up with me to talk about the interview for a little while. Doesn’t she realize how important this is for me? Well, it’s not worth getting angry about it—she’ll respond in her own time.

  I’m still eager to talk about what happened, so I call Iván, who’s my only friend at this point. He immediately agrees to have lunch. We meet at a German restaurant near his place.

  “What kinds of things were on the questionnaire?”

  “At first, the usual: education, experience, age . . . Then they started asking these bullshit questions.”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Like, for example, which is more valuable, a rock or a snail?”

  “You’re shitting me!”

  “I’m totally not.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said a snail is worth more because it’s a living cre
ature.”

  “Shit, I wouldn’t have known what to answer!”

  “It seemed like that was the way to go, show you’re a person with humanity.”

  “Well, I don’t know what to tell you—maybe they’ll think you’re a total moron. What if the rock’s a diamond? Don’t tell me that if you had to choose between a diamond and a snail, you’d go with the goddamn snail, no matter how alive it is.”

  “Man, if you look at it like that . . . But in these kinds of interviews they want you to say what’s politically correct. Companies these days are all ecological and into social justice.”

  “You’re kidding! Seems to me companies are just looking to make a killing and the hell with the rest of it.”

  “Well, sure, but you can’t say that.”

  “I guess. I’m sure if I did one of those interviews, the cops would be waiting to scoop me up and dump me in jail when I came out.”

  I laugh hard, laugh for real. Iván’s a phenomenon. I’m going to miss him when we’re not working together anymore. It’s the only good thing I’m going to miss. I toss him a compliment:

  “No way, you’d could do any job better than anybody if you put your mind to it. You’ve got higher than average intelligence.”

  “Damn, teach, nobody’s ever told me anything like that before! What are you after—trying to get me to pay for your meal?”

  He’s blushing and proud. Poor Iván! I guess people really haven’t said many nice things about him in his life. I’ll try to keep seeing him from time to time, find a moment for him.

  “And how much are you going to be making, Javier, did they tell you?”

  “Enough.”

  “Oh, well, that’s great!”

  If he doesn’t want to tell me, it’s because he’s not going to be earning shit. I hope he’s done his calculations carefully. The teacher’s lifestyle probably costs more than some paltry little salary, so the girl might have to cover the rest. If I were him, I’d keep working at the club a while to see how things went. But if I tell him that, he’ll tell me to fuck off, so I’d better just keep my trap shut and we’ll see.

  “A toast, Iván?”

  “Absolutely!”

  We toast, raising the German restaurant’s steins. They’re old and very colorful. They look pretty clinking together in the air. The custom of toasting is also lovely.

  The telephone startles me awake. It’s eleven o’clock. I didn’t hear my alarm, which must have gone off at ten. On Mondays I’m always really tired after the weekend at the club, and yesterday I was particularly tired, who knows why.

  “Hi, it’s Irene. Don’t you recognize my voice?”

  “Sorry, I’m still in bed, a little groggy.”

  “I’m sorry. Maybe it’s not a big deal, but I wanted to tell you right away. A little while ago I called my friend to ask him about your job interview, and he told me you made a great impression.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. I don’t know how much that matters—you’ll have to wait till the company makes its final decision—but I thought you’d like to know you were a hit in the interview.”

  “That’s wonderful!”

  “Would you like to get together to celebrate?”

  “Of course!”

  “Shall we go out to eat somewhere?”

  “Come by my place. I’ll make something nice and buy a bottle of sparkling wine.”

  “I’ll be there around two.”

  She’s coming to eat here. A celebration. It can’t rain all the time—occasionally the sun finally comes out. The sun shines for everybody, and for me too. If I let myself get carried away with what I’m feeling, I’d leap up and pump my fist in the air. Everything’s going to be OK. Fate doesn’t always move in a straight line; instead, it meanders, does somersaults, retreats into its shell like a snail. But in the end it unexpectedly starts moving forward again.

  I take a long shower. I get dressed. I go out and get a cup of coffee with a couple of little sponge cakes. I go shopping at a high-end supermarket with a nice deli. I take my time selecting smoked salmon, Jabugo ham, Gorgonzola cheese, cherry tomatoes, a bottle of champagne, and French cookies. A gourmand’s grocery haul.

  Back home, I make the bed, sweep the living room, clean the bathroom . . . and then make the salad. I make sure the kitchen is tidy. If I had to leave this apartment, I’d miss it. I’ve grown quite fond of it. It’s best not to get ahead of myself, though. One step at a time. I’ve held out so long, it would be stupid to grow impatient now.

  Irene arrives right on time. She looks beautiful. Have I really never noticed how gorgeous this woman is? She’s wearing a dress with little flowers on it and a white collar that gives her a childlike air. I open the door, and she hurls herself into my arms. I’m not dreaming—she’s hugging me tight. She’s maybe happier than I’ve ever seen her. The situation seems so new that it makes me feel a little shy, as if I’d just met her.

  She moves around the living room, smiles, looks at the table I’ve prepared. She seems to approve. She comes over to me and kisses me on the mouth. We tangle in a long, deep kiss that ends in panting and sexual hunger. I pull away from her a little and look into her eyes: “Before or after we eat?”

  “Before and after.”

  I laugh and take her in my arms, carry her to the bedroom. It feels as if the sour air that was smothering our relationship has suddenly dissipated. I inhale the new breeze.

  We intertwine on the bed—intensity, pleasure, happy ending. The strange, brusque, elusive, difficult, cynical, sad woman has disappeared. Maybe, I like to think, she’s seen a future with me and it doesn’t seem so bad.

  We eat, talk, drink. I long to discuss the changes that will take place in our lives if they give me the job, but I’m still afraid when I’m with her, afraid of her panther swipe that can so easily destroy you. There will be time to make plans.

  When we finish eating, we’re tipsy, indolent. We go back to bed and make love again. Afterward we fall asleep. When I wake up, it’s dark out. I get up and make some tea. As I’m drinking it in the living room, she appears, still naked.

  “I want to talk to you,” she says, and I feel all the alarms in my brain going off at once.

  “Go on, I’m listening.”

  “I feel like you’re never going to be my escort again.”

  “I’m happy you said that, because it’s true. That’s over—I’m not going to be anybody’s escort anymore.”

  “I’ll never pay you again.”

  “Never.”

  “I’ve never told you this, but you’ve helped me discover an aspect of sex I never experienced before.”

  I’m so moved, I’m unable to answer. I place my hand on her cheek, caress it.

  “But there’s something I want to ask from you, Javier, something specific.”

  She’s silent, looks at me steadily. She’s serious now. Finally she says, loud and clear, “I want to have a threesome with you and Iván.”

  I’m flabbergasted. I giggle foolishly. She continues, her tone unchanged. “I’ve always had that fantasy: what would it be like with two men at the same time? Just once would be enough. If I feel uncomfortable or overwhelmed by the situation, I’ll put up my hand and we’ll stop.”

  It’s going to take me a minute to figure out how to react, what I should say in response. I’m so startled, I can’t get my thoughts in order. Take it easy, I’ve got to tread cautiously; now that everything’s all set up, it would be a disaster to make it fall apart. Let’s see. At its core, her request indicates trust and complicity. It’s a way of bidding farewell to the past. The dark period is being left behind, but before the light begins, I have to make an offering: a threesome. The threesome is a goodbye, a fireworks display. The future will begin very soon. The evolution of my relationship with Irene has been hard, slow, painful, bu
t it’s reached its culmination.

  Seeing that I’m not answering immediately, she says, “You won’t be jealous, right?”

  I tell her no, we’ll have the threesome, and in fact I’ll suggest it to Iván myself.

  * * *

  And this—how am I supposed to take this? At first I’m totally freaked out thinking she’s told him about our wild sex. But no, as the teacher explains the situation, it’s clear he knows nothing about it. Whew!

  So this threesome business is for real? I don’t get it.

  “Things are going to change between us. It seems like the job is going to come through, so . . . we’ll have a different kind of relationship.”

  “Are you going to live together?”

  “That might happen in the next phase. First, a change of social and professional contacts. After that we can change our habits.”

  “And between phases, a nice ménage à trois.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “Don’t be mad, teach! It’s just that this all seems really weird.”

  “It’s her way of saying goodbye to the world of male escorts.”

  “A fling.”

  “A fling too. An endpoint.”

  “You’re going to be her boyfriend now.”

  “I don’t know what I’m going to be: her partner, her boyfriend, her significant other . . . the label doesn’t matter.”

  “But she won’t be paying you.”

  “No.”

  “What about me? Will she pay me when we do the threesome?”

  “If she doesn’t, I will.”

  “That’s not funny either. Look, I’m willing to do whatever favor you need, but not for Irene. I hope that doesn’t piss you off.”

  “I’ll tell her to pay you. There won’t be a problem.”

  Shit, I just don’t get it! Fine, the chick wants a wild night, but why do I have to be the third party? They should pick somebody else! The bitch is just looking to drive a wedge between Javier and me. First she sleeps with me, and now this. And it’s brutal, a real shitstorm. If I get really turned on, that’s a problem because he’s there. But it’s worse if I don’t. To be honest, I’d rather take a pass on the whole business, but now that things are in motion, I’ll do what I can, pocket the cash, and jet. I don’t give a crap what happens afterward—those two can figure their weird shit out. The only thing that’s a bummer is when the next stage begins and they go off and live together, I won’t see the teacher as often. We won’t work together anymore, and we definitely won’t go out as a threesome. I can’t hang out with this chick—I might end up losing my temper and smacking the crap out of her. That’s life, man: fucking weird.