Kissing in Manhattan

by David Schickler

  “Yes.”

  “What’s the coolest place you’ve ever been?”

  “New Zealand.”

  “What’s the best sport in the world?”

  “Soccer.”

  “Wrong,” said Hannah. “Hockey. Who’s the most beautiful woman on the planet?”

  Leonard thought of actresses he adored, a cheerleader he’d once lusted after, the mother of his boyhood pal, Johnny Wuggs. He wondered if Alison Shippers could ever be in a film, even as a supporting role. A toll-booth attendant, maybe, thought Leonard. A crossing guard.

  “Time’s up,” said Hannah.

  “Wonder Woman?” said Leonard.

  Hannah laughed. Under the table she touched her foot to Leonard’s calf.

  “Me, silly,” she said.

  Leonard blushed. His hand flitted over his birthmark.

  Hannah drained her pint. She leaned forward. “Don’t I look like a naughty librarian, Lenny?” Hannah kept her voice low. “Like a woman who’s smart but who loves men to fuck her?”

  Leonard couldn’t believe what he was hearing. But he didn’t dare speak, afraid to break whatever psychedelic ride he was on.

  Under the table, Hannah put her hand on Leonard’s knee. “Who’s the most beautiful woman on the planet?”

  Leonard remembered his tongue, the serpent that lived in his mouth.

  “You are,” he hissed.

  Hannah squeezed Leonard’s knee. “And wouldn’t you love to take me back to my apartment and fuck me?”

  Leonard’s loins ignited. “God, yes.”

  “Come on,” said the paralegal. She pulled the bewitched Leonard Bunce to his feet.

  Hannah’s apartment was on the sixth floor of the Preemption apartment building. The building itself was a tower of darkness and intrigue on West Eighty-second and Riverside Drive. It had a luxurious, hand-operated elevator, and the hallways were lighted by wall-mounted oil lamps. Hannah’s apartment was similarly ornate. Hannah’s father, Gerhard Glorybrook, used his olfactory riches to fund big-game hunting expeditions across the world, and he often bequeathed to his daughter the spoils of his recreations. As a result two giant beasts, caught in the thralls of taxidermy, loomed in the main chamber of Hannah’s apartment. Suspended by wires from the ceiling was an enormous bird of prey, while a full-grown black panther crouched, ready to pounce, beside a daybed.

  “Wow,” said Leonard Bunce.

  Hannah turned on no lamps, but lighted four tall candles, one in each corner of the room. She stood beside the panther, stroking its head.

  Leonard peered nervously at the candles. He figured he was in for some Tantric sex, perhaps with a voodoo theme. He pointed up at the bird, whose wingspan was six feet.

  “Condor?” he guessed.

  “That’s a harpy eagle.” Hannah wasn’t smoking now. “My father killed it in the Amazon.”

  “Wow.”

  “Its cousin is the monkey-eating forest eagle of the Philippines.”

  “Ah,” said Leonard.

  “Remove your clothing.” Hannah unzipped her shift.

  Leonard’s groin hardened. “What?”

  Hannah’s shift fell to her ankles. “We’re going to fuck in the elevator.”

  Leonard’s mouth went dry. Standing before him, in a black brassiere and skimpy black underwear, was the goddess he’d worshiped for six months. I’ll fell her, Leonard thought, I’ll take her as my prey. He stripped to his shorts.

  Hannah crossed her arms, jutted her chin at Leonard’s boxers. “Those go too.”

  Leonard hesitated because of his erection. Come on, he told himself. You’re a predator. With a deep breath Leonard shucked off his shorts. He was naked.

  “Good,” said Hannah, “let’s go.” She led him to the apartment door, stood holding it open.

  Leonard touched the back of Hannah’s arm, stared at her midriff. He breathed her in.

  “You first.” Hannah patted Leonard’s ass, ushered him toward the hall. “Chop-chop.”

  What the hell, thought Leonard. He leapt out into the hall, landed on all fours. He grinned back at Hannah and roared like a beast.

  “Come on, baby,” he growled.

  Hannah shut the door in Leonard’s face. Leonard heard the bolt shoot home. His face fell.

  “Hey,” he said. He was still on all fours. He still had an erection. “Hannah?”

  “Yes?” said the door.

  “Come out here.”

  “Nope.”

  Leonard looked to his left and his right. There were twenty doors on the hallway, and five lighted oil lamps.

  “Hannah?”

  The door remained closed. “Yes?”

  “I thought we were going to . . . make love in the elevator?”

  “Actually, I said we were going to fuck in the elevator.”

  “Right.” Leonard grinned, waited. After a while he stopped grinning.

  “Hannah?”

  “Yes?”

  “Aren’t we going to fuck in the elevator?”

  “Ha.”

  Leonard moved close to the door. He pressed his palms and his ear to it, like a safecracker. “Hannah? I’m naked out here.”

  No answer came. Leonard heard a dragging noise. He jiggled the door handle, but it was locked. There was a thin sliver of light at the door’s base, and when he leveled his eye to it, Leonard thought he could see Hannah’s feet.

  “I’ve pulled my black panther over to the door,” explained Hannah. “He’s facing you. I’ve removed all my clothes, and I’ve mounted the panther like he’s a horse.”

  It’s a joke, thought Leonard. It’s foreplay.

  “My pubic hair has nestled in with the hair on the panther’s back. It feels good.”

  “Hannah,” began Leonard. “Is this a joke?”

  “Imagine how sexy I look, Lenny, straddling this stiff, stuffed panther, with my perfect tits hanging naked where any man could grab them.”

  “Let me in,” pleaded Leonard.

  “I’m not pale either,” chatted Hannah. “If you were guessing I’d be pale under my bra and underwear, guess again, buster. I’ve got a totally even tan. I sunbathe naked on the roof.”

  “Hannah.” Despite his nakedness Leonard tried to sound suave. “This is foreplay, right?”

  “Nope. It’s candid conversation.”

  Leonard pounded with his fist. “Open this freaking door.”

  “Lenny? Lenny.” Hannah’s tone was even, reasonable. “Unless you want to walk home naked across Central Park, you’ll collect your wits and listen.”

  Leonard stood up, paced back and forth in front of Hannah’s door, his penis dangling between his legs. He glared at the door. As soon as Hannah opened it, even a crack, he would burst in and mount her.

  “Lenny? Have you collected your wits?”

  “You whore,” hissed Leonard.

  Hannah tisked her tongue loudly. “Sounds like you need a moment. In the meantime I’ll rock myself back and forth on my panther, letting his stiffened back muscles thrill my naked loins.”

  Leonard kept pacing. He looked up and down the hall for a carpet he might wrap himself in, but there was none. He checked his watch, the one accessory left on his person. It was nearly midnight. Leonard had a meeting at eight-thirty the next morning with a wealthy, important client, Joanna Krickmire. Mrs. Krickmire, the CEO of Krickmire Stocks, was divorcing her husband of twenty-one years and expecting to pay him not a single penny. She’d asked Spuck and Hardison to retain for her their man with the blood-colored birthmark, because she expected the trial to be nasty and brutish, and she wanted appropriate representation.

  “Mmm.” Hannah’s voice had a sexy timbre. “Mmm. Ohh.”

  Leonard pondered the paths across Central Park. On a warm summer night every one of them would be filled with lovers and brigands.

  “Yes,” whimpered Hannah. “God, yes.”

  Leonard stopped at the door, put his ear to it. He heard a sliding, scratching sound, like claws on linoleum.<
br />
  “Hannah? Are you really getting yourself—”

  “Mmm,” moaned Hannah. “Not now, Lenny, I’m busy.”

  Leonard heard more scratching. He pictured Hannah’s thighs pressed against the panther. He knocked on the door.

  “Hannah,” he whispered. “Hannah, let me in. Let me . . . do that to you. Please.”

  The scratching stopped. “Have you collected your wits?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you still engorged? You know, erect?”

  Leonard blushed.

  “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Lenny. It happens when a man hears a woman in the throes of passion.”

  “I’d rather see than hear you,” whispered Leonard. “Let me in.”

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because, under the current circumstances, you’ll converse with me candidly. It’s cruel but necessary.”

  “I can converse with you candidly inside.”

  “Lenny.” Hannah’s voice was a tease. “Considering the humiliation I’m putting you through, if I opened this door and you saw me naked, would you converse with me or fuck me?”

  Leonard stared at the oil lamps down the hall, considered snuffing them out. “I might try to . . . consummate our evening.”

  Hannah giggled. “Uh-huh.”

  Leonard scowled. His groin throbbed. “I’d fuck you. Hard.”

  Leonard heard the sound of two hands clapping.

  “Bravo,” laughed Hannah. “By the way, you’re probably thinking of snuffing the lamps to cloak your nakedness. My stern warning is this: Don’t snuff the lamps. If you do, my doorman, Sender, will appear. You don’t want that.”

  Leonard scowled again, but sat still, his back against Hannah’s door, his arms crossed on his knees. He’d heard the rumors about the Preemption’s doorman.

  “Also,” said Hannah, “don’t try to summon the elevator. It’s closed between midnight and one.”

  “What do you want?” said Leonard.

  “You mean, what are my demands. When a person takes another person hostage, she’s expected to have demands.”

  “I’m not your hostage. I could get up and walk out anytime.”

  Hannah laughed again. “Lenny, Lenny, Lenny.”

  Leonard closed his eyes. He wasn’t strong enough to fight muggers. He could smell Hannah’s perfume from under the door.

  “Fine,” he muttered. “I’m your hostage.”

  Inside the apartment Hannah really was naked, straddling the black panther. She really was deriving pleasure from the animal between her legs. But what thrilled her even more, what had both her groin and her mind tingling, was the animal she had trapped outside.

  “I want to relay some information,” she told him. “I want to ask some questions.”

  Leonard’s erection had faded. Now he had to go to the bathroom.

  “First of all, I’d like you to know an interesting fact. My father, Gerhard Glorybrook, killed both of these animals, the harpy and the panther, on big-game hunting trips.”

  “Fascinating,” sighed Leonard.

  “Not really. The fascinating part is this. In both cases he wasn’t hunting that particular animal when he killed it. He was lion-hunting in Africa when he killed the panther, and he was crocodile-hunting in the Amazon when he bagged the harpy.”

  It occurred to Leonard that perhaps Hannah was building a riddle for him, and that if he solved it, he could have her. “Am I supposed to ask why your father changed prey?”

  Hannah clapped her hands again. “Good deduction, Lenny.”

  Leonard’s ass was sore, but his groin was once again hopeful.

  “The thing is, Lenny, my father, Gerhard Glorybrook, didn’t change prey at all. He was in the process of tracking the lions and the crocs when the panther and the harpy, respectively, attacked him. What do you think of that?”

  Leonard searched for insight. “So he killed the panther and the harpy in self-defense?”

  “Exactly,” shouted Hannah.

  Leonard jumped to his feet. “Is that significant? Is that the moral of the story?”

  “Yes,” cried Hannah.

  Leonard smiled, breathless. “So will you open the door?”

  “Hell, no.” Hannah cleared her throat. “We’re just starting to converse.”

  Leonard cursed under his breath. He dropped himself back to the floor.

  “Lenny?”

  Leonard didn’t answer. He considered urinating on Hannah’s door.

  “Lenny? Hello? Is there a naked lawyer in the house?”

  “What,” said Leonard evenly.

  “I’d like to pose a question.”

  Leonard heard the panther move closer to the door.

  “Me and my nakedness are only two feet away now, Lenny.”

  “I have to go to the bathroom,” said Leonard.

  “Well, hold it, buster. Here’s my question. Do you know what line of business my father’s in?”

  Leonard stared at the lamps on the walls. He wondered if, rather than snuffing the lamps, he could spread their oil down the hall and start an inferno. Naked husbands and wives would teem out of their apartments and Leonard wouldn’t be alone.

  “Would you care to hazard a guess?”

  Leonard sighed. “He’s a butcher. He sells panther meat.”

  Hannah laughed. “Sarcasm. Breezy sarcasm. I knew Alison must have a reason for letting you fuck her.”

  Leonard caught his breath.

  “Oh, yes, Lenny. I know about your little romps. I also know that Ms. Shippers is in love with you, and that you could care less about her.”

  The door one apartment down from Hannah’s opened. A man wearing blue jeans stepped out.

  “Yah,” squeaked Leonard. He cupped one hand over his groin, the other over his birthmark. His face pulsed.

  The man yawned, looked up and down the hall. When he noticed Leonard, he laughed.

  “Not again.” The man shook his head.

  Leonard stayed on the ground, but renewed his pounding on the door. “Hannah, for God’s sake, let me in. There’s a guy out here.”

  “Uncle Walter?” called Hannah.

  The man winked at Leonard. “Hi, honey,” he yelled.

  “Lenny, it’s my uncle Walter,” explained Hannah. “He lives next door.”

  “Jesus Christ,” said Leonard.

  “Later,” yawned Walter. He hitched his jeans, went back inside, shut his door.

  Leonard closed his eyes. “Hannah, please let me in. I’m sorry if I did something to make you dislike me, but please let me in. I’ll get my clothes and leave.”

  “Walter’s a hot-dog salesman,” said Hannah. “He got me this place for wicked cheap.”

  Leonard kept his eyes closed. He understood now that he wasn’t going to be shown mercy. He wondered if Hannah treated all men this way, or if she fixed her wrath only on scar-faced ogres. Watching the red pepper sparks behind his eyes, Leonard tried to ignore the womanly scent coming to him from under the door.

  “Hannah, what’d your uncle mean by ‘Not again’?”

  “Let’s get back to my father. I’ll give you three guesses as to what he does for a living. If you guess right, you can come in and fuck me.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “I mean it. Cross my tits and hope to die.”

  Leonard’s blood sang. “Really?”

  “Sure. You’ll never get it, though.”

  Leonard crossed his legs like a guru, thought hard.

  “He’s a lawyer,” guessed Leonard.

  “God, no. My father’s no pussy.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Hannah coughed. “It’s chilly in here from my air-conditioning. My nipples are firming up. Can you imagine how firm they’re getting, Lenny?”

  From Walter Glorybrook’s apartment came a female giggle. Leonard glared around, his thoughts of arson returning.

  “Anyway,” said Hannah, “where was I?”

  Leonard folded
his arms. “Lawyers were pussies.”

  “Well, you’re a pussy, anyway.”

  “Is that right.”

  “You’re supposed to be all dauntless in court, but you spy on me like a schoolboy.”

  “I do not.”

  Hannah snorted. “I feel your eyes, Lenny. Following me, ripping off my outfits.”

  Leonard scowled. In the movies men did the impossible. They battered down locked doors with their shoulders.

  “You’re a pussy, Lenny. You don’t have the balls to talk to me, so you’re humping poor Alison.”

  Leonard thought of Alison’s toenails, which she’d painted to please him. He winced.

  “Maybe Alison’s enjoying it.”

  “Why don’t you ever talk to me? Do you think I’m a dumb blonde?”

  “No.”

  “I got a fourteen fifty on the SATs. Seven fifty on the verbal.”

  Leonard sighed. In the morning, with any luck, he’d be helping Joanna Krickmire maneuver her husband into roughly the same position that he was in now.

  “Congrats,” said Leonard.

  “My theory is, you’re insecure about your scar.”

  Leonard’s shoulders stiffened. “It’s not a scar. It’s a birthmark.”

  “You look like Frankenstein’s monster,” said Hannah, “and you feel lousy about it.”

  Leonard was shocked. What with political correctness he hadn’t received a direct insult about his birthmark since high school.

  “Ms. Glorybrook,” he began, “I take bitter offense to—”

  “Oh, shut up. Why not cash in on your freakhood? You know, play the misunderstood monster. Women love that shit. Let’s try it out, Lenny.”

  Leonard thought of Hannah’s tits, her hips, her knees gripping the panther. He adjusted himself so his penis wasn’t touching the floor.

  “Let’s try what out?”

  “We’re in a bar. I’m the hottest chick in the place. You’ve just walked up to me. I’ll begin.” Hannah made a startled sound. “Ooooh, what happened to your face?” Her voice was laced with drama now, extra girlish.

  Leonard’s hand flew to his temple. “I have a birthmark.”

  “No.” Hannah sounded furious. “Clever, Lenny. If you want to score a woman, you have to talk clever. You have to say just the right things. And quit covering your forehead.”

  Leonard turned his head, stared at the door. Hannah’s scent was strong in his nostrils. He told himself that it was nothing magic. But she’d somehow known—she’d sensed—what he was doing.