by Steve Bloom
“You?” I wince.
“Yup,” she sighs, taking one of the beers and sipping it. “Just poor little moi.”
Then, glancing over Shelby’s shoulder, I spy Cassie Trask, wearing a cute little designer ensemble, being hotly pursued from the women’s room by a bunch of tough, tattooed City chicks, all loudly giving her shit. Shelby’s clearly not here alone. Shelby’s a lying piece of shit—just like me. Somehow it only adds to her allure.
“BROOKS! YO, BROOKSIE!!” It’s The Murf, glassy-eyed, shirt torn, nose bleeding. He waves happily across the tumult to me. I pretend I don’t see him.
“Want to cut out?” I suggest.
“HELLLPPPP!!” squawks Cassie, getting bounced around and hassled by the City chicks. She must have said something really offensive to piss them off in the bathroom. Knowing Cassie even as little as I do, there are so many inappropriate things she could have said. Actually, she didn’t need to say anything. It’s easy to detest Cassie just on sight.
“Absolutely!” Shelby says, willingly abandoning her best friend to a dire fate.
We escape by taxi. I eagerly clamber in after her.
“Where to?” the cabbie grunts. I’m at a loss. Where does one take a girl who has done and seen everything?
“Seven ninety-nine Park Avenue,” Shelby says.
As we pull away, The Murf sprints out into the middle of the busy street, shouting in pantomime after us. I conveniently ignore him.
Yeah, I know. It stinks, a monumental double cross on my part. Like most guys, there’s an Unspoken Code between The Murf and me that all fraternal obligations are null and void if the prospect of hooking up with a hottie appears on the radar. No, taking off’s not my crime. Taking off without warning or word is. But I’m guilty of something much bigger than that. It’s not just that I’m afraid The Murf would blow my cover and ruin my chances with Shelby, meager as they are. There’s an even deeper sin which I have committed, if just in my mind. The terrible fact is that, for the first time ever, I’m ashamed of The Murf, ashamed of who he is, what he represents. Most of all, I’m ashamed of myself. Being with Shelby does that to me.
And Shelby is all that matters.
---
I have a confession to make. In all my visitations to the City, I have never taken a single cab. And, as we arrive at our unknown destination, I am harshly reminded why. Fifteen bucks to go sixty measly blocks. Forty cents a block. The subway would have been almost as quick and cost a tenth. Just saying.
Shelby hops out, leaving me to settle accounts. It’s not deliberate. It just that since money’s not a consideration for her, she assumes it’s not for the rest of the world. With anyone else, it would be obnoxious. But I’m charmed and gladly fork over, extravagantly adding a 3 percent tip.
We’re on the Upper East Side, a region into which I’ve never before ventured because I’ve never before had the slightest reason to. One of the many things that gives me a rush about the City is how each part of it has its own mojo going. Wall Street. Soho. Times Square. The names alone are iconic. Tribeca. The Flatiron District. The Bowery. So diverse, so equally unaffordable. The whole damn City is. Tens of thousands to rent a place the size of a broom closet, multiple millions to buy even the teensiest square footage. Even so, there are areas that are more stratospheric than others. Well, the Upper East Side’s pretty much on the very tippy-top of the fiscal totem pole. Private townhouses, luxury high rises, super high-end stores. Trends may come and go and other neighborhoods may ebb and flow, but the Upper East Side’s exclusivity reigns supreme. I mean, the Upper East Side looks down on the Upper West Side, which is saying something since you practically have to run a small country or major hedge fund to own an apartment on the Upper West Side. The Upper East Side prides itself on looking down on everybody. Not just in New York. On the entire planet.
“You live here?” I gasp.
I trail reverently after Shelby to the locked entrance of one stately palace. She presses a gold-plated button beside a gold-plated door.
“It’s not much,” she says.
“Oh no, just Park Avenue,” I observe dryly. Even within the Upper East Side there’s a pecking order. Park’s the shit.
Through the glass, an elderly doorman, kindly and portly like the grandfather you always wished you had, bustles up to the door and unlatches it.
“Evening, Miss Shelby,” he says, tipping the brim of his hat.
“Hey, Hugh, how’s it hanging?” Shelby says, breezing past him into the small plush lobby. There’s a single elevator at the end of it, which magically slides open for her. I scoot inside just as it whooshes shut behind me.
“Just a little pied-à-terre for when Mommy and Daddy are too tired to make it back to Green Meadow . . . ,” Shelby explains. The elevator slides open, revealing not a corridor of doors to separate deluxe apartments, but the middle of somebody’s living room.
Yes, a living room. The Pace pied-à-terre takes up the entire floor of the building. Okay, it’s not a huge building. But still.
“Make yourself at home,” Shelby says. “I have to pee.”
The place is the usual amazing. More priceless art. More antiques. More Taste, more Class. Floor-to-ceiling windows on all sides. High above the rabble, I stare out in awe at the dark expanse of Central Park, framed by the magnificent, glittering skyline. My eyes shine. For I have seen the light. This, my friends, is What Life Is All About.
“Someday,” I promise myself.
“Did you say something?” Shelby says, reemerging.
“Uh, I was just saying that second places are essential to maintaining one’s sanity . . .”
Using a universal remote, Shelby dims the lights, activates the fireplace, and turns on some romantic sounds. “Sex Me (Part 1)” by R. Kelly. An excellent—and encouraging—choice. I just hope there’s a Part 2. “Oh, you have one?”
Me and my big mouth. Do I have a second place? Why the hell did I have to imply I had one? Now I have to have one. Where the hell do I have one?
“Just a little shack in the Hamptons,” I stammer. “We barely use it, but it’s comforting to know it’s there.”
Kicking off her heels, Shelby pads to a well-stocked bar and looks through an array of imposing bottles. “East, West, or South?
Does it matter? How can there be so many increments within increments of status? I mean, how do they keep track of it all? What difference does it make? They’re all goddamn richer than fuck. But it does. I look at her blankly.
“East, West, or South Hampton?” she repeats, pouring us each big crystal snifters with dollops of thick golden liquid. Cognac. The label’s in French. I make mental note of it.
“Uh, Midhampton. It’s kind of in the center.”
Shelby’s brow furrows. She’s never heard of it—because it doesn’t friggin’ exist. I grimace but brazen it through. Swaying to the throbbing, insistent music, she hands me a snifter, gently swirling hers by the stem. I take the bowl-sized glass with a teaspoon of wildly expensive alcohol in it. I’ve never held a snifter before and, when I swirl mine too, I almost douse myself. We’re both swirling like crazy as we raise snifters.
“To new acquaintances,” she toasts.
We clink. She drains her glass in one sultry gulp. I swig mine down too. Instantly, a river of hot molten lava courses through my already thoroughly buzzed body, scorching my insides, settling in my already short-circuiting nether regions. My eyes water. My head goes all fuzzy, my vision in and out of focus. So this is good cognac. I must have it. Another new necessity to add to the list I’m starting.
Shelby curls up on the couch, patting the space beside her for me to sit. I gladly obey. We are bathed in the glow of artificial flames. I turn to her. She turns to me. Our lips are mere inches apart and getting closer. Aroused and intoxicated, I fight to control my animal instincts, to resist the overwhelming urge to just jump her bones.
“How’s Celia Lieberman?” Shelby says, taking me way, way off guard.
; Celia Lieberman’s the last person I’m thinking about. I mean, Celia Lieberman’s not even a blip on the monitor. Then I detect a predatory gleam in Shelby’s eyes, and it’s not entirely transfixing like everything else about her. I pull back a little as I realize that my terrific looks and sparkling personality aside, Celia Lieberman’s a substantial, if not primary reason, for Shelby’s astounding interest in me. Ah yes, of course, nothing beats the thrill of causing someone else’s heartbreak simply because you can. And this sudden realization throws me into a brief philosophical quandary. Is it wrong to cheat on Celia Lieberman even though I’m not actually going out with her? Technically that’s not two-timing, is it? But the fact that Shelby thinks it is somehow makes it not so cool to me.
“You know Celia Lieberman,” I answer noncommittally. “Never a dull moment.”
“So things are good between you two?” she inquires, hovering.
“Oh yeah,” I say, looking away. “Just today we were strolling beneath the elms at Columbia and I was remarking to her . . .”
I can’t believe what I’m saying. There are no elms at Columbia. Why am I saying this? I’m never going to see Celia Lieberman again. I’m drinking fine French cognac alone with the most beautiful and beguiling female in the world in her parents’ posh Park Avenue pad with a gazillion-dollar view, and I’m blowing it. This cannot be.
“Remarking to her about the, uh, all-time greats who were once late to class on the very concrete on which we were treading . . .”
Shelby nuzzles a fragrant cheek against mine. She’s making it very, very difficult for me to remain theoretically faithful. I trail off. She nibbles my ear. For love of God, I’m only flesh and blood. My resolve’s cracking, about to shatter into bits.
“Lou Kerouac,” I croak, “Jack Gehrig . . .”
“Well, come September, I’ll be serving a four-year sentence there,” Shelby says, kissing me. Her lip gloss tastes like citrus with hints of chocolate. I am too stunned to respond. I stare at her, aghast.
“You . . . you got into Columbia?”
Shelby looks at me, mystified. I’m not just giving in according to plan. I’m a puzzle and a challenge, even though what I really am is envious and jealous.
“Early Decision.” She gets up from the couch and pours us both another snifter. “Not that I ever had any choice. My dad went to Columbia, and his dad and his dad. My brother, my sister. And now me.”
Oh, poor baby. A fucking legacy. I might have known. It’s not enough that mommy and daddy can fund a chair or endow a library. The acceptance rate at Columbia is triple for legacies than it is for the great unwashed mob like me. Like she doesn’t have enough going for her.
“Even so, it was a little iffy,” Shelby muses. “Whoever invented extended time, I salute him.”
“Extended time?”
“For learning disabilities. Mine’s anxiety. A shrink writes a note and then you get as much time as you need to take the SATs and nobody knows.”
“They can do that?” I marvel. I had no inkling that such a thing was even possible. “And no one actually knows?”
“Half the kids I know at Green Meadow get it,” she says, holding out a snifter.
Extended Time. I’m floored, reeling at the enormity of it. I’ve heard of rigging the system, but nothing nearly as nefarious as this.
“Don’t they have it at your school?” She gives me a curious look. “Oh, that’s right, you’re homeschooled.”
Extended Time. This is beyond the bounds of my paranoia. Talk about your shadowy conspiracies. The last people who need extended time get it. And for what? Anxiety! I’ve got tons of anxiety, I ooze anxiety, I define anxiety, and nobody’s extending me a single nanosecond of extra anything. When I think of what my scores would be with Extended Time, when I think of what I had to go through to raise them. Work Hard and Play By The Rules, we’re taught. Only Rule Number One is that the rules don’t apply to the people in charge because they make up the stinking rules. What a sick joke. What a complete outrage!
But I don’t say that.
“I got Deferred,” I do say, bitterly guzzling my cognac.
“Really? At Columbia?” she says. “Hey, maybe we’ll be classmates.”
Somehow I doubt it. Shelby settles beside me on the couch. Leaning in, she tries again, kissing me with extra emphasis. I’m unresponsive, still digesting the criminality of Extended Time. When she finishes, I pipe:
“My dad went to Harvard.”
I wince. I sound like such a loser. Why am I so insecure? Why do I feel I have to justify myself to her? Actually I’ve got tons of reasons, enough to keep that shrink of hers scribbling on a little pad for decades. Try because I’m a phony and a fraud, just for starters.
“He’s a writer,” I mention for no particular reason.
Shelby could care less if he was Buddha. Exasperated, she belts down the rest of her snifter.
“Celia Lieberman’s not the only one who can put out,” she declares with grim determination and shoves me backwards on the couch. As I flop limply on the cushions, she reaches down, unbuckles my belt, and unzips me, one, two, three, all business. And . . . and I don’t know how else to put this, I mean, what can I say—she shoves her hand down my pants.
It’s as if I’ve been hit by a bolt of lightning. I writhe, shudder, and stiffen in her sure grip. Thankfully this is no hallucination. And resistance is futile. Not that I’m resisting in the slightest way. At this point I’m a hundred and one percent with the program.
I pull her to me and suddenly we’re rolling back and forth making out with serious tongue action. Her manicured fist is going great guns. She’s got me where she wants me. Where I’ve longed to be. Totally at her mercy. I’m on fire, all chemical reaction, engorged sensation. Shelby breaks away, slick with our mixed slobber, smiling in victory.
“That’s more like it.”
“Yes,” I pant like a dog, begging, “more like it.”
Shelby slowly lowers between my legs from sight. Everything about me—eyes, tongue, upper and lower appendages—is lolling in anticipation. That heavenly choir is singing hallelujah. Her lips, my you-know-what. Oh, everlasting joy!
Then lights shine, blindingly bright. Not metaphorical lights, but real actual artificial ones.
“Shelby?” says Shelby’s mom, squinting in the entryway. “What are you doing here?”
Startled, Shelby scrambles up and over the couch for cover. I leap to my feet. Seeing me—or rather, it—Shelby’s mom drops her shopping bags in stupefaction.
“Oh, dear.”
I look down, gulp, immediately turn around, quickly tuck in and re-zip myself and then whip around again. I’ve got a monster—and I mean monster—pup tent sticking out from the front of my trousers. I never knew I could be that monstrous. In another place and time, I’d be rather impressed with myself. In this one, however, I snatch a fancy pastel throw pillow, shielding my massive protrusion, and grab my jacket and frantically mince to the open door.
“Nice seeing you again, Mrs. Pace!” Shelby’s mom skitters from my path. I wave back to Shelby without looking. “Well, be seeing you, Shelby!”
Shelby peeps up from behind the couch. “Say hi to Celia for me!”
---
Epididymal Hypertension. Or what’s known in the male gender as Blue Balls. Basically, boys and girls, when a guy gets really turned on—which I definitely am—the blood flows to his, well, stuff. He gets a, well, you know—which I most emphatically have—and his, well, things swell up to 50 percent beyond normal size—which mine unfortunately have. The nut sack loses oxygen and assumes a slight bluish tinge, hence the name. I haven’t had a chance to look, but I assume mine’s deep purple. If there is no release, so to speak—which in my case there hasn’t been—these overinflated balloons become supersensitive and super painful. Now here’s the bone of contention, so to speak. Many women, in fact, claim Blue Balls are a shameless fabrication designed to elicit pity sex. A masculine myth.
Well
, lemme tell you, it’s no fucking myth. And Shelby’s citrus-glossed mouth you-know-where was no fabrication, even if it was just for a fraction of a second. Not only do I have a throbbing hard-on the length and girth of a telephone pole, which I’m unsuccessfully trying to camouflage with the pastel throw pillow I’m still clutching, but sharp excruciating spasms rack my shell-shocked body with each delicate step. I’m traveling at a snail’s pace down the bustling street, sweating in the cold, groaning, breathing heavily. Fortunately for me, I’m in the City, where I’m well within the realm of what’s considered normal behavior.
You know that pervert that’s always on the subway late at night making demented faces and disgusting sounds as he fondles his junk? Well, that would be me. Gripping a hand strap with one arm, clamping the tasseled throw pillow over my aching groin with the other, I dangle, moaning with every vibration of the speeding car. The other passengers give me wide, wary berth. I don’t blame them.
The forty-three-minute train ride back to Pritchard is a dull haze, but somehow I make it. Leaning on the railing, I slowly limp down the stairs, pillow still strategically positioned since there’s no letup in the wood department. Blasting home in the Beast, the pain arrives in huge waves now and I swear I almost pass out twice. I’m a corked-up pressure cooker. I curse the heavens, pounding the wheel in sexual frustration, my intense physical anguish compounded by even greater mental torment. It’s so unfair. My blow job lasted all of a second. How much can one man take?
I burst through the door into the apartment, tossing aside the throw pillow, unbuttoning my trousers, hobbling straight to the kitchen. Flinging open the freezer, I yank out the tray to the ice maker and empty the entire contents down the front of my boxers.
“Awwwwwwwww!!!” I grunt like a Neanderthal.
I gyrate and swivel my pelvis, adjusting the ice that packs my underwear. The effect’s immediate and soothing, the intense coldness numbing my overexcited, under-stimulated gonads. Well, what do you know? It really works. Cubes dripping down my pants legs, I whine, I whimper.