by Adam Dunn
Then there are the Staff Girls.
The Staff Girls of Le Yef are legendary, handpicked for their beauty and charm by the even more legendary LA, one of Le Yef’s promoters. I’ve never met her, but LA’s hazy background and fastidiousness for effectively creating the twenty-first-century courtesan have raised her to near-mythic status. She appeared on the scene right after 9/11, making a name for herself first around the Meatpacking District spots (how she managed to operate right at the police cordon I have no idea), moving slowly south and east, tapping into the bulging credit lines of the recovering financial sector. I’ve heard a story about how her first backer was somebody who made money in soy milk, but went broke when food prices started to spike a few years ago. I’m not sure exactly how she connected with Reza, but they worked a couple of early speaks together after the ’10 crash. Whatever business they may have done then, they’re completely separate entities now, and you don’t bring her name up in front of Reza if you know what’s good for you. There’s no love lost between them, but since he supplies markets she doesn’t deal with, they can at least coexist, albeit uneasily. LA’s a promoter, a party planner par excellence. She’s assembled a terrific system of cutouts between herself and her vendors (including the landlords she bribes for locations and the cops, firemen, and electricians she pays off), and she’s never been linked to drugs (she’s supposed to be some sort of fitness freak). Or, as is the common misconception, prostitution. Both markets readily served by Reza, courtesy of a payroll full of obliging cabbies and a small management team of savvy operators such as Yours Truly. LA’s girls are decidedly not hookers. Nor are they entertainment in the conventional sense. They don’t sing or dance (we’ve evolved beyond the need for talent). They’re the quintessential fashion accessory. They’re paid to make a party look good. LA turned the recognition of a simple fact (a party full of beautiful young women is a party you’d want to go to and stay at) into a sizzling business. She’s made all the glossies (gushing sycophantic praise, lots of cheap hemline-level photos) and the papers and news Web sites (hand-wringing, moans about corruption, vice, spreading disease and drug use, moneymaking in an age of moral decline, yadda yadda). No one likes to see a woman getting ahead (especially unemployed men), let alone one who’s thriving as well as she is at a time like this.
And of course there’s the crowd. They Are Legion. There’s the old-timers (thirties and up, the money behind the club) and there’s my Target Market. Here’s Cameron and Kyle, Dylan and Ryan, Tucker and Tyndall, Forrest and Savannah, with all of their consorts (all flavors), every one of them gawking and fawning over N. She’s surrounded, but she keeps her composure admirably amid the idle flattery and inane chipmunk chatter. (The trick now is to drift just far enough to be out of earshot so I can do business, but not out of arm’s reach. There’s no way I’m letting a prize like N be on her own in Le Yef; too many predators, waiting for their chance. I should know, I’m one of them.) I let the girls and gayboys squawk and flap and whinny about her, while I get their boyfriends lined up. It’s more practical to send them in groups, and they usually go in threes (legally, a cabbie has to let a fourth in the front seat, but five’s against the law, and you don’t want that), after surreptitiously giving me a cumulative stack of hundreds. These go into a dedicated jacket pocket (never, ever fuck with the money, not just my rule but Reza’s). There must be a full moon tonight, they’re lining up like lemmings. I ask Tyndall to bring us a couple of Chris’s specials, a delicious concoction of fresh lime juice, ginger beer, and—if Chris knows you—a magnanimous pour of Old Plantation, shaken to a froth and served on shaved ice; being with N is putting me in an island mood. She comes back with the drinks at just about the time N pulls me close and says:
—Are you really just a photographer?
—Yes, he is, Tyndall says right on cue (obviously hoping for some freebies). The youngest one ever to shoot the cover of Malathion.
—And now Roundup, too, I say, carefully holding my enormous cocktail aloft for a communal toast. Whistles, catcalls, and applause follow as I intertwine my drink around N’s and we sip from each other’s glasses, gazing into each other’s eyes, before breaking into laughter. (This is where I live. It’s not always bad.)
N’s playing with my fingers and brushing deliciously against me when she feels the lump of cash in my jacket pocket.
—That bulge is a little north of the one I’m supposed to be interested in, isn’t it? she inquires with a small wry smile.
(Oh, fuck me poorly.)
—Tell me, when you were growing up, did you always do what you were told? I say. (I know this sounds contrived and pretentious, but believe me, I’ve thought this situation through dozens of permutations and this is one way that puts the ball in her court but still leaves both of us an out while saving face. Of course, she could call the cops as soon as she clears the door, but somehow I don’t peg her for that type.)
—Never, she responds immediately.
Crisis Avoided.
Commence Phase Two.
I pull her close and kiss her, drinking in the sweetness of her tongue, our teeth touching. I’m completely lost in the moment (though not so lost I can’t sense the flashbulbs popping around us), when a baritone voice I don’t recognize says:
—Hello, suckers.
Turning toward the voice, I am confronted by my Recent Past. It’s the blonde from the Broome Street Bar, Our Lady of the Abdominals. Tonight she’s in a skin-tight silk crepe tank top that shows off the topography of her arms and shoulders, which display all the contours of a dedicated gym rat. There’s no doubt about it, I am face to face with the one and only LA. It’s only because I didn’t recognize her from countless photos that night in the bar that I dared to hit on her. She never goes anywhere without some primordial specimen of XY-chromosomal overload. Currently, she’s flanked by a creature that is human only in name, impossibly wide, skin more leather than flesh, eyes spaced too far apart and too orange in hue, a jaw built for pulverizing bone.
—Well? LA drawls in an unmistakably L.A. accent. Aren’t you going to introduce us?
I gather my wits together just enough to make the introductions. N asks how I know LA, confusion (and something else, something unknown) in her eyes.
—We met downtown, LA says. She turns her head a fraction and whispers something inaudible to her saurian consort, who silently melts away through the readily yielding crowd. I babble something appropriately vague about the night in question and quickly throw a few compliments over the verbal mess. But LA’s not listening. In fact, she’s not looking at me at all. She’s got her eyes fixed coolly on N, who does not shirk her gaze.
I was doing so well with N, but LA’s throwing me off my game. I try to get back on track with:
—Business is clearly booming.
—Indeed it is, she says sideways to me, without taking her eyes off N. You should tell your boss he should learn how to share. There’s plenty for everyone.
It’s like vertigo, realizing the situation has suddenly been taken completely out of your control. LA’s just talked Business out loud, in public, in front of a total stranger, and with me in the lens. She didn’t mention Reza’s name, but she did mention my boss. If N’s a cop, or if anybody’s running surveillance in the room, or somebody’s making movies nearby with their phone … It’s true what they say: nothing kills an erection like paranoia.
—We should have lunch, LA says to N.
—Glad to, N replies in a voice that is so much goddamn steadier than mine I want to spit. Instead I laugh too loudly and start suggesting options.
—Not you, LA says with an icy finality I feel in the base of my spine. I’ll call you, you bring her there, you can pick her up afterward if you like. This isn’t about you, she says, turning to look at me for the first time with a triumphant smile. I swear she can hear my cock shriveling.
And with a final look (it’s not sexual, it’s closer to desire for something you’d want to buy, to own) she’s
gone, melting into a crowd of gushing toadies, two massive black-suited brachiosaurids materializing just off either one of her sculpted shoulders.
—What was that about? I ask N, who’s not quite shaken, but is visibly stirred by what’s just transpired. You know who she is, right? Have you two met before? Was she coming on to you?
—Yes. No. No. N has gone cold; the woman who was ready to mount me five minutes ago has completely disappeared. Bring her back. Please bring her back. This version of N has tough hide, a hard shell, and spines. This woman doesn’t want me. She chews a thumbnail, then, with a wave of her hand and a jerk of her head, she seems to shrug off the coldness. The glow returns to her skin; she takes a long pull of her drink.
—What just happened?
—Not sure. What’d she mean about your boss?
—Not sure.
I want to pursue this further, but my phone’s leaping around in my pocket like a paco-crazed squirrel. There’s a photo on the screen of an empty nest. Fuck! I need to resupply. While N most likely has an inkling about my extracurricular activities, there’s no need to broadcast it for her and anyone else she may ever meet in life. On the other hand, there’s no way I’m leaving her here alone, not with all my competitors lurking about and with a possibly predatory LA thrown into the mix as well. Although I’m not really sure what LA’s game is—N is gorgeous, but if LA bats for that team, she’s got an army of Staff Girls to choose from. What else could she be after? Something on me? Something on Reza?
Crunch Time. I send a text message to the number I’ve been given of the cabbie working Product at this location for tonight. This will appear on a phone given to the cabbie earlier by Reza or one of his minions and won’t show up on the GPS meter installed in every taxicab by order of the TLC. I take N’s hand and tell her we need to be going. It’s not fair to her, and it’s by far the shortest night I’ve ever spent at Le Yef, but it’s also by far been the most eventful one, and N can’t possibly claim to be bored, given the night’s erratic course thus far. I’m apologizing to the bartenders for cutting out so early, Chris and V can’t take their eyes off N, though Song-hee appears to be on autopilot—I hope she’s not using again—when Kyle returns, clearly feeling no pain. Dylan’s with him, but judging from his anxious sobriety, he hasn’t taken a cab ride yet.
—Surly fucking African, Kyle says with a smile, oblivious to the impact of his words on Chris. Can’t you at least get drivers that speak English?
I try to shift the group away from Chris, who at maybe six-two and two hundred pounds would tie both these nimrods in a knot. Renny’s Rule Number Six is, Befriend Bartenders Everywhere, they are your infantry.
—Renny, are you out? Dylan says with concern, too anxious to stay in the closet. I’ve got this super-hot wrestler down from Bowdoin for the weekend, and—
—No worries, lads, I say breezily, stepping between them and N. Thirty minutes tops. I’ll call when it’s ready. Ante up.
Below waist level, out of common eyesight, hundreds fill my hands.
If this doesn’t scare N off, nothing will. But whatever went down between her and LA seems to be carrying her now, regardless of Business.
—How ’bout a change of scene? I say to her softly, taking both of her hands in mine, kissing their smooth backs.
She doesn’t speak, doesn’t even smile. But she looks me fully in the face and nods, once.
Exeunt.
Thankfully we don’t attract nearly as much attention leaving as we did arriving, though we do have to share the elevator down this time with one of my clients, who at least has enough discretion to maul his girlfriend instead of talking to me. I wouldn’t mind doing some of that myself, but N’s still experiencing some residual effects from her first trip to Le Yef. Getting her back in the mood will take some work. But, as they say, This Is What I Do.
Out through the loading dock, down the alley to Twenty-fourth Street, under the skywalk, to where Cipriani used to be. But it’s out of sight, and there’s the Dodge Angus, right where it should be. A quick glance down the block registers Arun’s Hereford (he’s working Flesh at this location tonight), and, sure enough, there’s Luigi climbing in. Didn’t notice him upstairs, he must’ve been there for a while getting his load on. Arun will drive him to whichever location Reza’s arranged to be his brothel tonight, and maybe make an extra few bucks on the side slinging him some smoke, which is suicidal in my book, but Arun doesn’t think Reza really minds. Why would he? His operation’s bringing in more money than any of us can know, since we’re each working different parts with no way to tally up total volume. You’ve got to hand it to Reza, he could teach the MBA program at the Stern School of Business all by himself. My cabbie does in fact have a surly, jaded expression, and judging from the name on his hack license (Ngala), he is most likely African. N stiffens up a bit at the less-than-pristine interior, the driver’s sullen glare in the rearview. Me, I’m nonplussed by the separate seating, but the driver straightens up a bit when he sees me. We’ve never met, but Reza’s probably told him about my hair. I give him my address and tell him Vite! When in doubt, Reza says, you can always go French with Africans. A most well-traveled executive, Reza.
We’re rocketing up Tenth Avenue before I reestablish physical contact with N, and this time, there’s no mistaking our intentions. She’s not shy about it, either. Flipping up the armrests between our seats, she straddles me, one hand gripping the passenger strap, the other locked on my cock in a Wimbledon-worthy forehand grip. I’m trying to push her dress up above her waist, flailing for balance in the swerving cab, gasping for air while she bastes my molars with her dextrous tongue. (My god, this girl.) I’m starting to worry that I should’ve put on a condom back at Le Yef, not that I had the chance, when the Angus lurches to a stop and Ngala-whatever-the-fuck raps on the partition with his knuckles. We’re at my building already, he got us home so fast I lost track of the time. That’s how it is with the best cabbies, though, granted, I had quite some distraction. N’s arranging herself and returning the driver’s unfriendly expression with one of her own as I fork over the money. Here’s the next hurdle: making the re-up on the sly without tipping off N. I tell the driver to circle the block—no one remembers cabs that leave, only cabs that linger—and guide N inside. I want so badly to touch her; there’s heat radiating from her lower body that’s liquefying my insides while turning my cock to pulsing veined granite. I give her an absurdly chaste kiss and tell her I’ll be back in five minutes, she asks where the bathroom is, I show her, and when I hear the door close, I bolt through to my bedroom and pull the rest of the stash from its lair. I run awkwardly, painfully back out to the front of the building (ever try running flat-out with a raging hard-on?) just as Ngala’s completing his lap around the block. I jump in and tell him to make a loop around Morningside Park. Five minutes and fifteen bucks later, the stash is replenished. I give Ngala a twenty and bid him adieu, which earns me a scowl. Well, I can’t help it if he doesn’t like his job. No one’s forcing him to do this.
When I’ve double-locked the door behind me and followed the soft glow of candlelight into my bedroom, I find N with her back to me, facing the wall, studying my Mall Series, wearing nothing but a sterling silver belly chain that nests just above the inverted tulip bulb of her impossibly perfect ass.
—Where were these taken? she asks in a near-whisper.
—Central Park, the Mall, next to Sheep Meadow, I whisper back. My throat’s constricted and my hands are shaking slightly, but the rest of me is throbbing.
—They’re beautiful, she says over her shoulder, not quite looking back at me.
—No. You are, I say, coming up behind her.
Let there be no underwhelming descriptions of the ineffable glory, the mystical transmutation that occurs when two likeminded lovers, of equal prowess and appetites (unhindered by age or familiarity) collide. Her body is an instrument that is mine to learn how to play, to spend eternity seeking to master. We are outside of time, N and I,
as we each seek out every minute unit of pleasure to be wrung from the other. Up against my display wall, spread-eagled across couch and coffee table, on rug and bedspread and bath mat and chair back. I cannot get enough of her. Each part of her becomes a lightning rod for further sensation, each crevice a new receptor quest. I can only keep track with condoms. On our third, when I am (very deeply, very slowly) thrusting into her from behind, she drops her head, her thick hair falls away from her neck and dark block lettering forming the words AETAS ANIMA across her cervical vertebrae reveals itself to me (I live for moments like this!).
Finally sated, languid, tangled up in linens and limbs, sharing a Davidoff, my semen drying in her hair, I’m telling her about the garden behind Donna Karan’s flagship store, and which positions (ostensibly for photography, at least at first) would be ideal for the heavy stone chairs by the fountain, when she says:
—Renny, how many women have you fucked this month?
If sudden, the question is not entirely unexpected, and, having faced it before, I’m ready with a counter.
—I don’t view relationship development conventionally. People meet, they interact, they come together and drift apart, that’s the nature of the universe we inhabit, and our social patterns naturally reflect that. It’s when you start imposing conventions on that movement, or worse yet, legislating them, that the trouble starts. I think that people need to collide, to bounce off each other a few times, in order to determine if they’re really a good fit for combining. If not, it’s best they Keep Moving. Because otherwise you get stuck in a vicious cycle of expectation and disappointment, and everybody ends up getting hurt. Throw kids and property into the mix and you’ve got our seventy-five-percent national divorce rate. I think at our age, it’s best to earn some practical experience about what kind of person would make for that ideal combination, if there really is such a thing. But learning that takes a lot of trying, a lot of mistakes, a lot of movement. And I think it’s best to Keep Moving.