Sex in the City - New York

by Maxim Jakubowski

  Going out wasn’t such fun any more. Lynn and I stayed home, hanging out in each other’s apartments. We smoked grass we got from Lynn’s mother, Virginia. Virginia had been a head since the thirties, when she was a regular at the Cotton Club in Harlem.

  We re-evaluated our lives; I brought a typewriter so I could type up the poems I wrote in my spiral notebook and send them off to literary magazines. At her mother’s urging, Lynn signed up for a course in jewellery design at FIT.

  We only went out once in a great while. At the end of a hot summer day when the city was sweating like a dog, we decided to tie one on. We went into Manhattan, to Pierre’s on Mercer Street; one of our favourite places. The bartender, Picky Dicky, used to work at Remington’s with me. They called him Picky Dicky because he never laid the same woman twice. Another pal of mine from my job was Dan, the Quaalude man. Now he worked as sous-chef at Pierre’s. On a slow night he might send out a plate of fried calamari for us.

  Pierre’s was packed; half of Soho seeking comfort there. Cigarette smoke was as thick in the air as phony promises.

  There were a couple of seats at the end of the bar. We elbowed our way to them.

  ‘You two could break a man’s back,’ said Picky Dicky as he set our Margaritas in front of us. After a few rejuvenating sips, Lynn and I started to talk about this woman in the news who just gave birth to a baby she conceived in a petri dish.

  ‘Believe me,’ Lynn said, ‘now all sorts of new employment opportunities will open up. Women with good eggs will start to sell them.’

  ‘How do they get the eggs out?’ I wanted to know.

  ‘When doctors want to make money, they can figure out how to do anything,’ Lynn answered. ‘Soon there will be ads in the newspapers, Egg Donors Wanted.’

  ‘That will never happen,’ I told her. I took another sip of my drink and then I looked up and saw them, two big, beefy men making a beeline through the crowd, straight for us. They were wearing gaudy Hawaiian shirts. The big tropical flowers looked like a flashback from a bad acid trip. Around their necks they were wearing identical silver peace symbols on long leather cords. I knew they were cops, right away.

  ‘Police,’ I said to Lynn, nodding my head in their direction

  ‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘Reagan’s Raiders. We’ll tell them we’re actresses or models, and then they’ll think we’re working girls. We can make a score, I want new shoes.’

  ‘Have you gone crazy?’ I asked her. ‘Those days are long past and you know I don’t believe in sleeping with the enemy. No way.’

  ‘I don’t either. Trust me.’

  They were already behind us. One of them was breathing down the back of my neck. A fat hand, clutching a hundred dollar bill, pushed between us, nearly knocking over my glass.

  ‘We’d like to buy you lovely ladies a drink,’ a slow, southern voice said.

  ‘That’s why you tried to knock this one over,’ I answered. I turned and looked at the man behind me. He was blond, buck-toothed and grinning. His smile was so wet; I could see the spit shining on his teeth.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘But we saw you as soon as we stepped in this place. You are the prettiest girls here. We’re strangers in town and …’

  His friend chimed in: ‘We’re looking for company, and we want the best. So, how about that drink?’ This guy had an ugly pug nose and a long jaw. With his red hair and freckles, he looked like Howdy Doody.

  ‘Join us, please, come on,’ he said. ‘We don’t bite, we’re nice guys. You two sure are good-looking. You must be actresses or models. What are your names?’

  Lynn batted her inch-long eyelashes at him. ‘You are so very smart to guess we are actresses. We would just love to have a drink with you,’ she cooed.

  ‘I’m Dorothy,’ she continued, ‘Dorothy Parker, and this is my friend, Emily. Emily Dickinson.’ I glared at her. She well knew I was no fan of the spinster poet of Amherst.

  ‘I’m Charlie Smith,’ drawled the blond.

  ‘I’m Mike White,’ said the red-head. ‘Me and my buddy here are up from Georgia.’

  ‘So, what do you do?’ I asked Mike. He had pushed in between Lynn and me and was now standing at my side trying to look down my cleavage. I put a hand over my chest.

  ‘Me and Charlie are gun salesmen,’ he replied quickly. ‘We’re here for the NRA convention at the Javits Centre.’

  ‘How charming,’ I said. ‘I just love guns.’

  Lynn cut in: ‘There is nothing like a man with a big gun to turn me on. Do you have any samples to show us?’

  ‘Very cute, Dorothy,’ I commented. Lynn ignored me as she beamed up at Charlie.

  Two Margaritas later, Mike White had his arm around the back of my chair. Every time he tried to move it closer around my shoulders, I shrugged it off. I had told him I was putting myself through acting school as a baby sitter. ‘Maybe you could take care of me,’ was the best he could come back with. I nodded enigmatically.

  Lynn, however, had told Charlie Smith that between her roles on the Broadway stage she worked in the phone sex business. He had given her a twenty to demonstrate her technique. Now, she was rubbing her little knee against the outside of his leg. Her hand was on the top of his thigh; her fingers going slowly round and round. There was a lump in his pants at the crotch. It looked like a beer can.

  Despite the din, I could hear her whisper, ‘Oh, daddy, daddy, you’re so, so strong and big. I’ve never felt a gun as big as yours. I know just what I want to do to you’

  His face was flushed; his mouth was open like the mouth of a fish on the hook. He was so gross, so ugly. But Lynn spoke to him tenderly. She had her hand over his crotch too now. She was rubbing up and down. ‘Please, please, you have an enormous piece, longer than an AK-47. Will you rub it across my boobies? Please, please,’ she implored him. ‘And then will you put it right between them so I can take it between my lips and suck it. I want to suck you. I want to suck your big gun.’ She leaned over and took his ear lobe into her mouth; her sharp little tongue danced in and out of his ear. Charlie was breathing heavy. His pelvis was moving back and forward, he was rocking on the barstool as if he was about to topple over.

  Mike suddenly stopped gazing adoringly at my profile. He put a hand over to steady Charlie’s chair. ‘You need to cool right down there, partner, cool down now,’ he said in a stern voice. Charlie moved away from Lynn. He picked up his drink and drained it. Mike reached behind me and patted Charlie on the shoulder.

  After a few moments, Mike spoke. ‘Dorothy here sure seems to know her business. It would be nice if we could all relax and get to know each other better. Would you ladies like to come back to our hotel? There is a little problem, though. Charlie and me are feeling mighty tired. We had such a long day. Maybe you know where we could get a pick-me-up, a little something to give us some more energy?’

  ‘How about a cup of espresso?’ I cut in. ‘Maybe make it a double?’

  Lynn kicked me hard in the shin with the tip of her pointy shoe.

  ‘What do you mean exactly?’ she asked.

  ‘Well’ he said, pausing as if trying to find the right words. ‘Maybe you could introduce us to someone who could find a certain pretty white lady to pep us up. Sometimes she goes by the name of Coco, Coco Chanel.’ These narcs were so dumb. They were living five years in the past. All they needed to do was to go up to Bryant Park and for ten dollars they could buy enough crack to blow them to Christmas.

  Lynn smiled up at him, fluttered her eyelashes some more.

  ‘Oh, now I understand,’ she said. ‘I know just what you mean. I do have a friend who might be able to help you.’

  ‘Can you take us to see your friend?’ they asked simultaneously.

  ‘Oh, no, no,’ said Lynn. ‘He’s a very private person, a recluse, really. He lives like a monk. He hates to meet new people, but he knows me for years. You see, I we
nt to Junior high school with him; we were in the same home economics class. That’s the reason we are still friends. Maybe I could go visit him. I can take a taxi over there right now and see if he will help you out,’ she said.

  ‘How much do you think it will cost?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘Hmmm,’ she said. ‘Well, really I don’t know, but at the very least two hundred dollars, and also I’ll need twenty for the cab.’ Quicker than you could say blow me Charlie took a wallet out of his back pocket and peeled off two hundreds and a twenty. Lynn took the money from his hand and tucked it into her heart-shaped red Mary Quant purse.

  ‘Now you two, take good care of Emily while I’m gone,’ she said. ‘Don’t let her drink too much.’ She turned and made her way through the crowd.

  ‘Your friend is a great sport,’ Charlie Smith said. ‘We need fresh drinks all around. Could you handle another, Emily?’

  ‘I think so,’ I mumbled.

  When our drinks arrived I took a big gulp of mine. I didn’t like the situation. These whacko goons might kidnap me if Lynn didn’t come back soon.

  ‘Well,’ I said, forcing myself to smile coquettishly, I probably looked like Joan Rivers. ‘Who do you two big boys sell guns for?’

  ‘Smith and Wesson,’ said Mike.

  ‘Colt 45,’ said Charlie.

  ‘You work for competing companies?’ I pretended surprise, ‘But, you’re such good friends.’

  ‘We go way back,’ Mike said. ‘Our mothers were girls scouts together.’ As if to demonstrate their solidarity, they put their meaty arms on the back of my chair, hugging me tightly, between them.

  I felt like throwing up, but managed to push the bile back into my belly by downing the rest of my cocktail. They immediately ordered me another. By the time Lynn finally appeared I was demonstrating how I could dance the twist sitting down.

  ‘Sorry it took so long,’ she said. ‘The taxi got stuck in traffic.’

  ‘That’s OK. Did you find your friend?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘Mission successful,’ said Lynn with a fetching smile, and she leaned over and slipped something inside the front pocket of his jeans.

  He put his hand over the pocket right away, his fingers stroking it as if to measure what was inside. ‘You got me excited when you put your hand in my pocket, Dorothy.’ he said to Lynn.

  ‘You should be excited,’ was her reply. ‘There is a pretty white lady inside your pants.’

  ‘Wow-eee, you are something else! You deserve another cocktail. How about it?’ he asked.

  ‘I would just love one. I need to cool down I got so hot running around and I bet Emily would like another one too, and then we can go to your hotel and really get to know each other in more intimate surroundings. But, first, I need to go to the little girls room and freshen up. How about you Emily? Your nose is very shiny.’

  I was feeling so dizzy from all that twisting that I didn’t want to get off my seat. I was afraid I would fall on my face. ‘It is not,’ I said.

  ‘But your nose is very, very shiny,’ repeated Lynn. She reached over, grabbed my arm and yanked me off the stool.

  ‘Hurry back,’ Charlie called after us. When we got to the ladies room door, Lynn suddenly stooped low.

  ‘Quick, bend down, bend down like me,’ she hissed, ‘in case they’re watching.’

  I squatted down too. She pushed me a few steps sharply to the right and we burst through the swinging kitchen doors.

  We entered a scene of frenetic activity. Men in white hats were stirring big pots on a giant stove, turning meat on a three-tiered grill, arranging food on plates. Dan was standing at a big butcher-block table directly in front of us holding a long knife over a fat, pink fish.

  ‘This is not a good time for a visit,’ he said, frowning.

  ‘All we need is to make a quick getaway. Is the back door open?’ Lynn asked him.

  ‘OK, go ahead,’ he said, motioning with the knife towards the door at the back of the room.

  ‘What did you do?’ he asked as we ran past him. ‘Goose Norman Mailer?’ The pugnacious writer frequently drank at Pierre’s.

  The door opened onto a narrow alley that led out onto Sixth Avenue. I could barely stand and I was barefoot. I had left my favourite silver sling-backs under the bar.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Lynn.

  ‘Yes,’ I answered. I leaned against a mailbox to steady myself, ‘but I lost my shoes.’

  Lynn went out into the street and flagged down a taxi.

  As our cab sped across the Brooklyn Bridge, I asked Lynn, ‘What did you give them?’

  ‘I went to the deli on Thompson Street,’ she answered. ‘Got powdered sugar and some Baggies and made a neat little package.’ She opened her handbag, pulled out a hundred dollar bill and gave it to me.

  ‘Want to go shoe shopping at Bendel’s tomorrow?’ she asked.

  ‘Sure,’ I said.

  The tequila bottle was nearly empty and I staggered off to bed. I had to get some sleep. I didn’t want to look like a gorgon at Lynn’s funeral.

  When I woke up, the sticky July heat was flooding through the open window. It was already eleven o’clock. I had fallen asleep still wearing my red suede pumps.

  I got up and tottered into the bathroom to pee. In the mirror over the sink, I did look like a gorgon; a grotesque witch, my face all puffy and swollen. Maybe I could fix it with make-up, maybe not.

  My head was pounding as I went back into the kitchen and mixed myself an Alka-Seltzer, adding the last of the tequila for hangover relief. Then I went over to my closet to choose between my dresses; the shoes I was going to wear already on my feet.

  About the Story

  To me, New York is a boner as big as the Empire State building. That’s why I live here. I’m hooked on the city, despite the changes, even despite the gash across the belly of lower Manhattan that will not heal. The milk in the coffee in the Court Street Dunkin’ Donuts a few blocks from my apartment still tastes so sweet it might as well be the apple that the serpent offered Eve.

  I grew up on Legion Street in the Brownville section of East New York. That’s Brooklyn to those of you who were not raised here. I ran away from home when I was eighteen. I did some travelling, but I missed the city, the energy, the fast action, the burning life of New York. I moved back and found a four-storey walk-up apartment on the Brooklyn Waterfront. I still live there, forty years in the same neighbourhood.

  I could never have imagined how completely my magical waterfront street would morph into condo central. There are five restaurants on my block now; they all serve alcohol. When I moved here there was only Gino McCann’s, the longshoreman’s bar. It opened at four a.m. and closed at four p.m. A shot and a beer cost a dollar. That time and place are lost now as is the old steamy, seamy Forty-Second Street I loved so much, and the dark days of the eighties I describe in Obit For Lynn. It was in part my desire to bring back, to re-create a vanished time in the history of my city that inspired me to write this story.

  Even more than that, the woman who was the inspiration for Lynn died seven years ago.

  I miss her and wanted to call her up, to be with her again. I hope I have done her justice.

  Two Natures

  by Shanna Germain

  I was sure that the fucker had dumped me on the train to the City. We were supposed to be celebrating our six and one-half month anniversary, and he dumped me before we even got to the Big Apple.

  Oh, he didn’t say as much. Too cowardly to come right out and say it to my face. No, he just let me put my head in his lap while the train rocked and rattled beneath us, one of his hands tangled in my long hair. I’d just gotten my hair highlighted for him, and gotten a perm; this was in the nineties, you know, when everyone got permed, especially a blonde, hippie country girl who wanted, more than anything, to look like the kind of girl an olive-skin
ned Italian city boy would look twice at.

  The Italian city boy was named Santo, which means Saint, but damned if his parents probably didn’t regret giving him a name like that. It’s like naming a child Beautiful-Smart. You’re just asking for your child to grow up with buck teeth and a pimple face and the kind of ass that shouldn’t ever be seen in sweat pants.

  But maybe they didn’t know. I’d only met his family once, on Thanksgiving, when his little brother had met me at the door and shook my hand all formal and said, ‘pleased ta meetcha,’ like an Italian robot and his mother had called me a ‘Christmas-tree angel,’ only not where I could hear. She told it to Santo after I was asleep and Santo told me.

  The whole time I’d been there, they talked about Santo like he was the most perfect thing ever. Even though I knew they knew he wasn’t. He’d been arrested twice for stealing, once while he was still in high school. When he was nineteen, he had to go to rehab for something he never would tell me about. The boy had a knife-scar on his chest, a long slice right above his left nipple that was so raised you could see the outline of it through the tight T-shirts he wore to show off his pecs.

  The boy did have a good chest, I’d give him that. And an ass. Like Elvis, young Elvis, when he had some pop back there, but before his belly joined in on the game. I was thinking about his ass while I had my head on my lap on the train. Actually, I was thinking about his ass, and then I was thinking about his cock, because it was rubbing against my cheek beneath his jeans with every rumble of the train and I was helping it along; moving my head up and down like it was just an accident, a little wiggle from me caused by the movement of the train, and he was getting harder and harder against my face.

  The boy had a good cock, too. Better than his chest, maybe even better than his ass. Not that I’d seen a lot of cocks then, four or five. His was the kind of cock that just looked ... clean. Not like disease-free or shower clean. But clean and lean, like gorgeous-cut stone. I’d say marble, but his cock was darker than that, darker olive than the rest of him. Curving upward a little, and curving up a lot when he was really turned on, like if it could bend any more, it would touch his flat stomach, paint the dark hairs above his belly button with pre-come. And a perfect little head, round and smooth, the kind that could hypnotize a girl, running her tongue over it for hours on end.