Downward Dog

by Edward Vilga

  The evening begins steadily enough, with Hutch ringing me at 11:30 p.m. as he’s nearing my hood in a cab. I head downstairs to meet him, jump in, and we’re off to an unmarked, newly opened Lower East Side bar he hears is hot. Revved up, this night is about volume and speed. When out carousing, it’s one drink, max, per watering hole. The goal is to cover maximum territory, having maximum fun along the way.

  Unfortunately, we’re off to a rough start, as hot spot #1—Fountains, apparently, is its name—is so unmarked, we totally can’t find it. It’s lucky this is our first joint of the night. If this were four hours later, I’ve no doubt we’d be stumbling into various random lobbies, convinced we were inches away from the fun but merely irritating anyone sane enough to be in bed before 4 a.m.

  After ten minutes and several pissed-off phone calls to the banker colleague who tipped him off to this place, Hutch finally uncovers the locale. The place is starting to fill up, but again, that’s a minor accomplishment, given that it’s smaller than my apartment. Despite the decent crowd, I think the whole place is a big mistake. The central fountain takes up way too much space, and with bad lighting, is really just annoying. Although I respect someone going the distance with a theme, I think the minor fountains they’ve got are uninteresting and too small. Lots of miscalculations of size and effect here, and if I had to bet, I’d put my money on this place having three weeks of novelty success and then vanishing.

  Nonetheless, the crowd tonight is pretty hip, the mood is cavalier, and the dynamic is like bedding the right sort of beautiful woman: they’ve made a virtue of being just hard to get enough to whet the appetite without frustrating the libido with a night of blue balls.

  The crowds at joints two, three, and four are far less successful. I do get the number of a very cute gallery assistant who’s embraced the cliché that if you put your hair in a ponytail and wear thick black glasses, no one will notice that you’re a hot blonde sexpot underneath it all.

  We travel to Jadis, a wine bar I like on Rivington that’s less of a pickup scene but has some good bottles going. Hutch has to wish a colleague happy birthday, so we grab a drink at the bar—where Hutch spots a gorgeous dancer/actress/model type who seems to have combined the best of all races in her appearance, including a wild, Pam Grier mane. Afro Chick is falling out of a snazzy jumpsuit—like her hair, retro ‘70s—revealing a sensational body. Like many women who go to great lengths to bare their assets in public, she’s resentful that anyone has noticed the goods she’s put so blatantly on display. Afro Chick interjects at one point, to nothing in particular Hutch is saying: “I have a boyfriend, you know.”

  “Is that so? Well, when you’re ready for a man-friend, you can give me a call.” Hutch delivers the corny line with rakish bravado, and she actually laughs.

  “Besides I’m not the boyfriend type and,” he continues, “a girl like you is all wrong for me, anyway.”

  “Oh really?” she counters with indignation that pretends to be mock but has more than a tinge of curious irritation toward his preemptive rejection of her.

  “Yeah. I never do well with actress types. Too self-involved.”

  “Unlike yourself? And by the way, I’m a lawyer.”

  At least she’s not letting him get away with shit.

  “Touché—although frankly, lawyer or not, I’m more concerned that I couldn’t keep someone like you in the style they want. Maybe if I’d been banking back in the ‘80s, but they only pay so much in Mergers and Acquisitions these days. Yeah—I’m all wrong for you.” He’s noticed her purse now. “You need one of those senior banking cats if you’re gonna shop at Louis Vuitton all day. I could introduce you to some if you want.”

  “This?” She leans in and whispers, “Big secret: Chinatown knockoff. Completely fake.”

  “At least the rest of you isn’t,” he comments, glancing at her breasts but quickly resuming respectful eye contact. “I like that.”

  He clicks glasses with her, I’m not sure why, exactly, but it’s conspiratorial. He’s somehow turned her fake designer goods into a compliment about not having had a boob job.

  Soon, I’m almost at the end of my scotch, and so is Hutch. He knows he’s got to wrap this up and keep things moving. “Would you like to kiss me?” he asks.

  She rolls her eyes, but she’s leaning into him. “You’re a shy one.”

  He shrugs it off, and once again, twists it around. “Well, it just seemed you were looking at me like you wanted to, that’s all.”

  “Oh, was I?” she counters.

  Hutch pulls out his Mont Blanc pen and a business card. “Let’s debate it ad nauseam …” Afro eyes him for a few seconds, her irritation now totally mock, and then writes her digits and name on his card, handing it back to him.

  Hutch smiles and slips on his coat. He looks at her for one moment, then gently caresses the side of her face with one hand. She does not resist.

  He tilts her head slightly upward and then gives her a sweet, simple kiss, but one that is full of just enough implication as to leave her wanting more. And then we’re off …

  It’s toward the end of the night, and I’ve lost count of how many stops we’ve made and how many drinks we’ve had—four? five? six? Could we have been to seven places? By now, the evening has taken on a very sweet, hazy quality. We stop outside a Turkish kabob place on Houston and Avenue A, grabbing some Mideastern meats for our empty stomachs. It’s 1:30 in the morning. Hutch downs his $3 falafel with as much relish as he would a $37 steak at Raoul’s.

  “Okay, Dog. One more joint and we call it a night.”

  We return to Fountain, where we began the night. Now it’s positively bursting at the seams and has somehow, in the last four hours, become the place to be on a cold April night in New York City. In fact, there’s even a small line out front with a velvet rope.

  Note: this is always going to be a pain in the ass for two dudes. Beautiful women have the advantage here completely. You can’t even bribe your way in, as most doormen would rather slug you than deign to accept a hundred bucks to let some loser into their venue.

  We’re in luck though, as I actually know Tony, the massive doorman. All I’ve ever done for Tony was listen to his wife and girlfriend troubles over scotches one aimless night when I ran into him at some dive bar. The dude was hurting, though, and now—as though I were Androcles—he greets me like a brother, slaps me on the back, and ushers me and Hutch past the velvet rope.

  As I’m thanking Tony, however, who should I see but Nathaniel (aka “Pimples”) and his Dweeb Banker Posse, no doubt condemned to wait for all eternity. I guess word of a cool club spreads through even the nerdiest banking circles. Pimples starts waving frantically and pathetically in my direction.

  What the hell, I think. Maybe it’s kindness or my attempt to earn some good karma points, but probably it’s to let my ex-Sweatshop Taskmaster know that in this world, I have more clout than he does. I want Pimples to know that in this zip code, I’m king and he’s begging by the gate. (I only wish that Paloma were here to see my rise from Lowly Graphic Pauper to Prince of the Night Realms.)

  I whisper to Tony that I “sort of know” that guy over there. Tony wants to help and asks Nathaniel how many are in his party. When Pimples says “six,” I realize it’s out of my hands. There’s no way that a Dweeb Sextet is getting in here tonight. Maybe one of them had a shot, but six—no way any self-respecting nightspot is going to let in a gang of losers, no matter what their business cards say. I shrug at Pimples to say, “I tried,” and entering with ease, I’m both amused and saddened to see Pimples’s look of profound despair mixed with sincere, mystified admiration.

  It’s all behind me when, from across the packed room, I spot my target, hovering innocently around the bar. Well, not that innocently. Her dress is backless—a racy and rather daring choice, given the twenty-degree New York weather—and her body is totally hot. She’s in profile to me, her hair slithering around her face when she l
aughs with her two, only slightly less hot friends.

  I point her out to Hutch, who seconds my opinion and follows me as my wingman. We approach. As they turn, I’m floored to see that my focus is, in fact, Very Slinky Brunette from Epitome. Maybe it’s the last four or five drinks, and maybe it’s the backless dress, or maybe it’s the magic of 4 a.m. and mood lighting, but she looks even better than she does post-yoga. In fact, she looks amazing.

  “Hi,” she smiles, equally surprised and seemingly very happy to see me. Slinky introduces me to her friends as her yoga teacher, and I fold Hutch into the mix. Hutch casts his rakish charm over all of them, but I can tell that my boy wants Slinky’s blonde friend. With the intros made, and having meshed our way so easily and completely into the group, there’s no need to even officially release him from his wingman duties. It’s now every man for himself.

  Slinky is a class act, but it’s very apparent that the lady’s into me. Everything in her body language telegraphs just how much she wants me to have my way with her. I lean back, and she follows. I say something that’s barely amusing and she laughs sweetly. I stroll my hand along the curve at the small of her exposed back, and she doesn’t move away. Rather, she pulls in closer, inviting more touch.

  She smells totally great, too. I haven’t really noticed her scent before—there are so many strange herbal and therapeutic and just plain sweaty smells at Epitome—but whatever she’s wearing is going straight to my seven-drinks-to-the-wind brain.

  When she touches my hand, lightly brushing the tiny, almost invisible hairs and the edges right where my wrists begin, I feel a shiver up my spine. I want her too, and badly. And yet even when I am absolutely sure that if I invited her back to my place, she’d come without hesitation, I’m somehow not issuing the invitation. Yet another sexual/spiritual conflict for which sadly, there is no twenty-four-hour helpline.

  Even Hutch notices my sorry state. He interrupts himself as he’s making his moves on the blonde and pulls me aside, which lets the ladies regroup and confer.

  “Dog, what the hell is wrong with you?” he asks.

  “What do you mean?” I say.

  “You did not just meet this girl. This is not a night where you only number close and get her digits. You guys were at the ‘get-a-room’ stage ten minutes ago. Why are you still fuckin’ here?”

  And the answer is … I don’t know. Has my mantra of “Don’t fuck this up” by not hitting on my students actually taken effect? Has common sense really permeated my brain so deeply that when a hot, available woman totally wants me, I’ve conditioned myself not to respond to my loins? Question one: Can this be true? Question two: Is this a good thing or even more screwed up than my usual mindless cavorting?

  Hutch is waiting for an answer, and he is not one to wait for anything.

  “Shit, Dude, I just don’t know. She’s totally hot, but—”

  “But what?”

  “She’s my student, man. I teach her.”

  “Look at her, Dude. Believe me, I wouldn’t mind teaching her myself.”

  “I’m serious. You’re the one who told me not to fuck up my yoga career.”

  This gives Hutch a rare moment of pause. He scrunches his face up a bit, as he gives this heavy matter his deepest, seven-scotches-into-the-morning thought. “Listen, Dog, I could go either way on this one.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, she’s not a private student, right? So there’s no major financial loss to you once it’s over, right? At most, she’s worth $3 a week. A measly $150 a year, even with perfect attendance. You make that in one lesson with a private student. On the other hand, do you think she’ll screw things up for you at Epitome after you dump her?”

  “Hard to say. I really doubt it, though.”

  “Well, Dog, it’s a tough call. She’s so hot that I wouldn’t fault you, but it is a calculated risk since Brooke got you that gig. In and of herself, her direct economic impact is marginal, but she could have a majorly negative trickle-down effect for your bread-and-butter gigs.”

  “Thanks for reducing my ethical dilemma about getting laid tonight to a pure cost-benefit analysis.”

  Hutch laughs. “Dog, I gotta play to my strengths.”

  I return to Slinky. She smiles at me eagerly and then looks up at me with innocent doe-eyes. And that does it. This is suddenly way too intimate and personal.

  “I should really be going,” I manage reluctantly. She looks devastated.

  I can’t help it. She’s looking at me with that Phoebe vulnerability, that look of lust perhaps, but with so much admiration in it—admiration for a spirituality and a depth that I frankly do not in any way possess—that I can feel my resolve evaporating.

  And then I feel like shit because I see I’ve made her feel like shit. I don’t know what to say either. She couldn’t be hotter or sweeter. In fact, that’s the problem. Like Andrew does, I now feel that it’s almost high-minded of me, compassionate even, to carry out the one-night stand in order to spare her feelings. But just as I’m about to completely cave, Hutch, as always, comes to my rescue.

  Appearing with our coats, he turns to Slinky and whispers something. She seems concerned and then relieved. She rushes up to me, impulsively throws her arms around me, and kisses my cheek.

  “You take care,” she says.

  “You, too,” I reply as Hutch practically drags me out of the club.

  Once we hit the fresh air, I exclaim, “Dude, what the fuck did you tell her?”

  “That your mom or your sister, I don’t know, someone and I’m pretty sure it was female, was in a hit-and-run accident two weeks ago. That Mom or Sis has a fifty/fifty chance of recovery. That I had insisted you go out tonight, you know, forcing you to rejoin the living.”

  “What? Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

  “Look, Dog, at least this puts her on hold. She clearly knows you’re not gay, and that’s good, but you can’t reject someone that hot without some kickass excuse.”

  “But a dying mother—”

  “Or sister—I honestly can’t remember.”

  “This is pretty messed up, even for you.”

  “What’s the big deal? She seemed like she was about to cry when you were going to ditch her. Now she feels good about herself and sorry for you and your tragically unlucky relatives. She doesn’t feel rejected. If anything, she wants you more.”

  “True, but—”

  “There are no buts. The odds that she’s ever going to meet your family and take a head count are pretty much nil. You’re in the clear. And if you want her in two weeks, it’s up to you if Mom or Sis recovers or not. Either way, she’ll jump you like nobody’s business.”

  “I guess.”

  “Trust me. Problem solved. Everybody’s happier, thanks to your potentially dying mother.”

  “Or sister.”

  “Yeah, I should probably have been a little more focused there. Well, when she asks, you can just wing it.”

  “I suppose. Well, then, thanks, I guess. I mean it.” And I do. Slinky’s rejection was about to break my no-student-seduction resolve—I’ve justified that the Cleavage Twins are somehow an exception—until he stepped in.

  “Look, Dog, that’s what a wingman is for.” Hutch grabs me with a brotherly hug and lets loose one more howl of the night. I join him, and for a few seconds I do feel better, until he grabs a ready cab and speeds off. Then I’m back home for the sleep of the frustrated. But fuck it—imaginary-accident-victim relative or not, for once in my life, I may have actually Done the Right Thing. Rather than feeling virtuous and glad hearted, though, I am only now learning that Doing the Right Thing feels, well, lonely.

  Chapter 20

  Next morning, Janek calls me. Since it’s Saturday, I’m surprised. We really haven’t expanded our relationship beyond our yoga lessons or group drinks. Maybe he’s canceling our Monday appointment? I wonder.

  “I have big news,” Janek announces.
“Synnove and I are getting married.”

  “Wow! Congratulations.” I’m not a total idiot. I know that’s what you’re supposed to say. But, still, my most authentic response is “Marriage? Are you out of your motherfucking Slovakian mind?”

  “Yeah, man. It’s awesome. So, listen, we’re inviting some friends over to celebrate. Are you free? Like, around 10 tonight?”

  “Absolutely. I’m there.” For a party at Janek’s swank pad—cohosted by a model whose friends are, no doubt, all models as well—I can get past my knee-jerk anti-commitment prejudices.

  “Awesome. Just about to call Hutch, too, of course. Great to have you both there to celebrate.”

  Up until this moment, I’ve been totally envious of Janek’s whole lifestyle—I could even deal with the live-in girlfriend (she is a supermodel, after all)—but a live-in girlfriend is not a wife. Granted, it’s not a life commitment, a life commitment being something that pretty much cancels out Rule #1: Always Be On The Prowl. (Unless, of course, you are Andrew, who plays entirely by his own set of rules.) Nonetheless, given my track record it feels wiser to remain single than risk hurting someone that badly again.

  For a few seconds, part of me wonders if I had anything to do with this sudden advancement of their relationship. After a huge breakthrough of heart-opening Wheels, the next thing I know, he’s proposing marriage. For better or worse, could there be a little yoga magic influencing his sudden romantic leap of faith? Is my prize student suddenly attracted to dropping back into an even deeper kind of oblivion, namely marriage? I shudder to think so, even as I awake from my nap to shower and shave for the supermodel bounty that Janek has so generously lain before me and Hutch.

  I arrive before Hutch and the party is rocking, but in a super-sophisticated way. Janek’s hired excellent last-minute caterers, and within seconds of arriving, attractive waitstaff take my coat, bring me a glass of champagne, and offer me really good appetizers. I survey the scene, extremely pleased with the crowd.