“The magic’s gone,” the Frenchman said, as if this were truly a tragedy.
“Everyone’s on their phones,” the pink man continued, his face looking more and more like raw meat. “People are posing with the American flag.” This tattered remnant of the old Bianca had been framed and hung on the wall near the bar. I had taken a picture of it on the way in.
“Millennials, man,” Frenchie said.
“Fucking millennials!”
Julia and I exchanged a gimme-a-break look that not even these two obtuse fools could happen to miss.
“I mean, no offense,” the pink man said.
Julia let out a bark of laughter. “We’re not even millennials, you old farts,” she said. “We’re the generation after that.”
“Fuck.”
“What do they even call you?”
“No one knows yet,” I said, standing suddenly. I stuck out my hand, and Julia took it. “Let’s dance.”
We topped off our glasses with vodka and headed into the crowd. My eyes strained against the anonymous, useless bodies gyrating in the dark. Julia followed my gaze.
“You see Benoit?” she asked. “Is he here?”
“I don’t know, my phone lost reception,” I lied.
We started dancing, but it was difficult to concentrate; I kept turning my head this way and that, trying to spot Benoit without looking like I was trying. Every once in a while, I’d contort my body and close my eyes in a way that made it look like I was really getting into it, but as soon as my little performance was finished, I’d snap my eyes open and anxiously scan the crowd, each time expecting to find Benoit watching me, and each time disappointed that he was not.
“Maybe we should look for him at the bar?” Julia said, even though I really hadn’t been obvious about my impatience. I figured she had her own reasons for wanting to meet Benoit, beyond the fact that I’d halfway led her to believe he was my boyfriend. She probably wanted him to take her picture.
I got us two waters at the bar. We noticed that a lot of people were wearing these t-shirts featuring a big wave on it, and Julia said that it was Julio Ronaldo’s design, to support the humanitarian efforts in the Philippines following the recent typhoon.
“He sent them out to a bunch of people. You know, to raise awareness.”
We both laughed as we watched two girls grinding on the dance floor, raising awareness in a West Village bar that charged twenty dollars for a glass of wine.
“Fuck,” I said.
Julia finished her water and wiped a hand over her lips. “At least the design’s cool.”
“Yeah, if you’re into performative wokedom.” This was something I’d seen someone else say on Instagram. Of course, I was really just pissed I hadn’t been sent one.
“Wait,” said Julia, pinching my forearm. “Isn’t that Benoit?”
He’d walked in with a group of people I didn’t recognize. He was wearing aviators, a loose black utility shirt, and a leather cord tied at his neck, and was flanked by a guy in a fedora and a woman with a shaved head.
“Who’s he with?” Julia asked.
“Oh, just some friends of his,” I said vaguely. “He told me he was coming with them, but I’m just so shit at remembering names.”
“That girl’s buzz is fucking rad.”
“Yeah, whatever,” I said, hardly looking at the girl, my eyes fixed on Benoit’s aviators, willing him to look in my direction.
“Oh wait, shit, that’s Karma Black,” Julia continued. “She’s been, like, all over my feed recently. You know she shaved her dreads off in protest of the abortion ban? Or maybe it was because of climate change. Whatever, it looks fucking sick.”
I remained silent.
“Aren’t you going to go say hi?”
“I will,” I said, but I didn’t make a move. We watched as one of the door guys clapped Benoit on the shoulder; they embraced and soon were walking towards the back, where the enclave of booths provided a shred of privacy and space for those who had forked over thousands for the privilege.
“You know, I think you’d look pretty fucking sick with a buzz,” said Julia, running her hands roughly through my hair.
“Ew, yeah right. I’d never.”
Blake strode up, and put her arms around us. She was clearly annoyed that we’d left her but trying to mask it. “What’re you hoes talking about?” she asked with juvenile bravado.
“How Gemma should get a buzz.”
“Oh my god, that’d be maje,” Blake said, turning to look at me appreciatively.
The world tilted slightly. There was a strange clamoring in my head. “Wait, what’d you just say?”
“That you should get a buzz cut.”
I shook my head, and the noise disappeared.
“What?” Julia asked.
I laughed at my own foolishness. “Nothing, sorry, I thought you said Gemma for some reason.”
“Gemma?”
“Who’s Gemma?” asked Blake.
“Nothing,” I said, getting annoyed. “I just thought you said Gemma should buzz her hair. I misheard you.”
“Yeah, but who the fuck’s Gemma?” said Julia, and Blake laughed.
“Ha ha, you guys.”
“Honestly,” said Julia, grinning. “I’ve no idea who you’re talking about.”
“Okay, good one.”
Julia put her hand on my shoulder. “My darling Mick, I think you’ve had too much of the tincture.” She patted me on the head, and I wanted to slap her. It was true, perhaps, that I’d overdone it a little with the tincture, but then why was she deliberately trying to fuck with my head?
“Oh, P.S.!” Blake exclaimed, uncomfortable at the obvious tension between us. “Joe said we can charge shots to the bar.”
Julia’s face lit up comically. She rubbed her hands together like an evil villain. “Three shots of tequila?”
“I thought I was already too fucked?” I asked, my voice edgy.
“A nice shot of tequila will sober you right up,” she said, and like magic she turned around, immediately summoned the bartender, and ordered three shots of tequila, and I decided not to be annoyed anymore, it wasn’t worth it when Jules was in a mood where the only thing that mattered was partying.
“Fuck it,” I said, and when she doled out the shots, we threw them back in unison.
Afterwards, we went to find Benoit. He was in deep conversation with two old guys: not middle-aged like Benoit, but really old, fifty or sixty. One of the dudes had a cotton-white beard and wore a cowboy hat. The other was completely bald, with fashionable clear-rimmed glasses. They wore thoughtful, bemused expressions and sat with chins on hands, bent over and sprawled out, discussing something with the leisure of three powerful men, as if they were seated not in the city’s hottest new bar but in a quiet little sidewalk café and the world carrying on around them was just background for their discussion.
“Hi!” I had to say it really loudly to get their attention. Benoit looked up without even taking his chin off his hand. When he saw me, he leaned back and spread his arms along the back of the booth, a wide grin on his face.
“Ah,” he said, gesturing towards me to the other men at the table, “this is my new peach.” He winked. The men nodded.
“These are my friends,” I said, introducing Julia and Blake, then squeezing into the small remaining space at the end of the banquette. Benoit put his arm around my shoulder but did not move to accommodate me, so that half my butt cheek was hanging off the edge and I had to flex my abs and squat a little to keep myself in place. Benoit looked from me to the man with the cowboy hat.
“Perhaps you two know each other?”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“No,” the man said.
“Ah, well, you should.” Benoit put a hand on Cowboy Hat’s shoulder. “He’s t
he man you gotta blow to get a job in this business.”
Everyone laughed.
Blake and Julia stood there awkwardly, smiling, shifting on their feet—there was nowhere for them to sit. Eventually, I gave them a dismissive nod and they wandered away, Julia with an irritated look on her face. Whatever. I turned my attention towards the men. Benoit poured me a glass of vodka, and I drank it down quickly. They went on talking as if I weren’t there.
“Genius,” one of them said.
“So fresh.”
“It all happened so organically,” Cowboy Hat said.
“She was into it?”
“She was game.”
I nodded along, smiling.
“Good girl.”
“Smart girl.”
“I was inspired by Grace Jones.”
“Genius.”
What were they talking about? I didn’t know. Not then. I was having trouble following words. Things were looking slippery. I’d drunk two more glasses of vodka, forgetting, in my nervousness, about the not-insubstantial amount of drugs I was on. I was so stupid I thought I was still in control, even though the next thing I remember clearly was being helped off the ground.
“You alright there, little lady?” Cowboy Hat asked me. I think it was the first thing he’d said to me the whole night.
“Just dandy,” I said, sliding back in next to Benoit. Their eyes lingered on me only a fraction of a second before they resumed their discussion. I had no idea how much time had passed, but all of a sudden I understood they’d been talking about the CK campaign. I took a swig of my drink, but it was empty and the ice cubes knocked against my teeth and left a slippery, cold feeling on my lips. I smiled, showing my teeth.
“The CK campaign,” I said. “That is so exciting.”
“Is it, my peach?” Benoit put his arm around my shoulders.
“Are you guys all working on it?”
The men exchanged a look, the meaning of which was so obvious to me I didn’t need to press them further.
“Of course,” I said, smiling slyly. “Never mind. I’m sure I’ll know soon.”
They laughed, looking a little embarrassed at their transparency. I excused myself for the bathroom. When I came out—nostrils stinging, heart singing, and only a little bit unsteady on my feet—Benoit was waiting for me, alone, standing at the table where he and the others had been sitting. He was bent over his phone, his face shining corpse-blue in its glow. He was still wearing those fucking aviators.
“Hey,” I said, but he didn’t hear me. I covered his phone with the palm of my hand. “Hey,” I said again. He looked up, but two smaller versions of myself flew up in front of his eyes, reflections in his aviators, and the music was loud and it was suddenly very late. The ground slanted, and I sort of tipped over…
Benoit kissed me hard on the mouth, holding me upright with one arm underneath my armpit, his teeth gnashing against mine.
“Peach,” he said.
I was still leaning into him, finding it difficult to stand on my own, but I knew exactly what I was doing.
“Take me home and fuck me,” I said.
* * *
—
He called an Uber. Or someone called an Uber. I don’t really remember. Benoit and I clambered into the back seat. I was unsteady, and kept pinching the insides of my arms, trying to sober up.
“Shhh,” Benoit said, though I didn’t think I’d been saying anything. “Just lie down here.” He patted his lap, and I lay down.
The next time I opened my eyes, it was with the understanding that we were moving at great speed, probably on a highway, and that Benoit’s hand was beneath my underwear. Gold filtered through the windows. It had rained. I thought the rain looked like stars. Gold water droplets on a shimmering sky, shivering, the city behind them like a blur. Benoit turned my head and pressed my face into his crotch, his zipper biting into my lip. I moaned and tried to push myself up. When he resisted that, I rolled away from him, hitting the back of the driver’s seat and banging my head on the side of the door.
The driver yelled something.
“Don’t let her be sick in my car,” he said, after calming down.
“She’s fine.”
I giggled—or tried to giggle. It gave way to an unpleasant gurgle.
“I’m going to pull over.”
“Don’t pull over,” said another voice. I bolted upright and peered towards the front of the car. The man with the cowboy hat and white beard was riding shotgun. I figured we were giving him a ride home. I didn’t say anything. I thought they’d probably told me something and I’d forgotten.
Benoit helped me back into his lap. He stroked my hair, my cheek.
“Relax, baby, we’re almost home,” he whispered. I shivered.
“Unroll the window,” I said, comforted to hear my voice loud and clear.
The cold false sky disappeared down a shaft, and the stars, too. The outside air, which was warmer than the air inside the car, washed over me. I closed my eyes. Gemma was here, she was right there in the front seat. Gemma, don’t worry, I thought, you’re fine, Gemma. It’s okay, Gemma, I’m here, Gemma.
“She’s fine,” I heard Benoit say again.
“She’s fine,” Cowboy Hat echoed from the front seat.
* * *
—
They had a difficult time getting me out of the car and up the stairs. I kept falling over, and they kept giggling, making jokes about it as if it were surprising.
The men stretched me out on the sumptuous corduroy couch.
“We’ll take pictures some other time,” I mumbled to Benoit.
“Yes, my peach.”
“We’ll do a shoot like last time.”
“Of course.”
“Exactly like last time. But for CK.”
“Yes, peach.”
“I’m a CK girl, don’t you think?”
Benoit giggled.
“I can’t do pictures right now, though. I’m pooped. Just utterly pooped.”
The men laughed. Benoit went into the kitchen to fix more drinks. The couch was soft as a cloud. I felt its pleasant, velvety ridges all along my back and arms, cradling me. I started calculating how much something like this might have cost. I remembered a time when it never would have occurred to me to wonder such a thing. We used to have things like this. My mother made sure of it, decorating our house the way she cared for her hair: every few months she made a little tweak, though the discussion and worrying were constant. But though I had been on intimate terms with Egyptian cotton sheets, custom-made Italian sofas, and antique rugs, I never had any idea of their cost. The price of things only becomes striking when you can no longer afford them. Like I said, ignorance is the most pernicious kind of entitlement. I must have drifted off to such ruminations because the next thing I remember, I was lying on the bed naked, and Cowboy Hat, now hatless, was kneeling on top of me, trying to get his pitiable stiff to work. There is nothing more womanish or pathetic on a man than a soft penis. It invokes both revulsion and a kind of tender pity in me, like when you’re looking at a slimy, squirming, pink-skinned litter of puppies. The man began choking me, I suppose because I’d uttered something of my thoughts to him. I might have called his prick “little lady.” I may have pointed out its resemblance to a mole rat. The man could not take a joke, apparently. I squirmed beneath him, his hands tightening around my windpipe. I slapped him across the face, and then I heard Benoit shouting, and the man was pulled off me. Benoit held the man’s shoulders; they were both panting. I started laughing. Not a little titter either, but wild peals of laughter. The man grew redder in the face.
“You’re fucking crazy!” he screamed, then stalked off.
Benoit shook his head appreciatively. He climbed on top of the bed. “Oh, peach,” he said, lovingly stroking my hair. “I think you’re quite
deranged.” He slapped me lightly across the face, more playful than anything, but for some reason I couldn’t stop laughing. Then, probably in an effort to get me to calm down, he covered my mouth with his. But I just laughed harder, my teeth knocking against his, or maybe I was screaming by then, it was difficult to tell the difference, though at that point I would’ve sworn I wasn’t afraid at all. Quickly, deftly, and not without a little gentleness, Benoit flipped me over so that I was lying on my stomach, my laugh stifled in the pillows. He stroked my hair while my head sank deeper into the pillows. I heard the metallic bark of his zipper as he undid his pants. A wave of revulsion ran through me. On one level, I knew I didn’t want this to happen, even that I was afraid and repulsed. But on another level, I was telling myself that it was okay, it was worth it, no big deal, a few hours of my life, whatever. And it wasn’t even a few hours of my life, it was a few hours of my body’s life, which was separate from me. I’d been training for this, after all; every girl has. Why else do they teach us to hate our bodies, to treat them as expensive machines? Then it’s easy to do whatever you have to do, since you’re not really involved; everything’s happening on the outside, but inside you’re completely untouched.
On the outside, I could feel Benoit’s cock pressing up against my ass. Soon after, pain tore through me and I heard a muffled scream escape my mouth, but it didn’t feel like it was happening to me, but rather to some actress on a TV program. It was all scripted. I knew the lines and, inexorably, found myself playing the role. I heard myself whimper, then moan, and when Benoit told me to turn over, I did, still whimpering, my hands clutched into fists, though now I was only pretending to resist. Pretending, or believing I was pretending, gave me a false sense of security and control and so I leaned into it, and when now-hatless Cowboy Hat came back in, his pneumatic system fully functioning now, I didn’t even flinch. I watched it all on a tiny TV screen at the end of a hallway, and the hallway kept stretching on and on forever until the scene was the size of a postage stamp.
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