A Lonely Girl is a Dangerous Thing

by Jessie Tu

  ‘New York is the place to be,’ he says, pouring another shot. ‘Not LA.’

  We tap our plastic cups together and toast to the city. We talk for a while about bad real estate decisions, and how warm it is in Sydney. He tells me his place is a few blocks away and he looks at me for a response.

  Out on the street, he puts an arm around my waist and sticks his tongue inside my mouth. I can taste the alcohol in his saliva, distinguish it from my own. He prods his tongue awkwardly into the crevices of my mouth.

  He calls an Uber and continues plunging his urgency into my mouth. The ride takes all of one minute.

  His apartment is a fourth-floor walk-up. Inside, it is clean, spacious, bare. A velvet couch. Khon masks hang above a television set.

  In his room, the bed fills most of the floor space. On his bedside table is a single book, Elizabeth Gilbert’s Big Magic. I’m suspicious of people who read self-help books.

  ‘It’s a gift from my mom,’ he says.

  ‘Sure it is.’

  There’s a framed picture of him and his father in the woods. He looks about fourteen. They’re looking at the camera, eyes squinting into the sun, arms laced around each other’s backs, posing in front of a row of giant oak trees.

  ‘So American,’ I say.

  He doesn’t appear offended.

  I don’t know how the sex begins. It is like we are late for something and have to do it fast. We slide into bed and push our mouths together, clothes coming off. He climbs on top of me, shifting his legs awkwardly over mine. I can feel his hardness graze my thighs. He pants into my face like a dog.

  ‘Do you have a condom?’

  He peels himself off me, reaching underneath the bed, hands rummaging inside a box. He pulls out a condom, opens it, puts it on.

  Then he climbs on top of me again and jams his cock inside me, elbows locked on either side of my ribs, staring into my eyes as if challenging me to look away. I am being fucked by a motor.

  He keeps his elbows locked, torso pressing down against my navel. He angles his chest away from my breasts and maintains a good ruler-length distance for the entire time.

  I don’t like that he can look at my face and grunt. I look away and pretend to enjoy it. It feels like I am outside my body, like being locked out of a room.

  When he comes, I almost laugh at the intensity of his expression, the explosion of ecstasy so excessive that I think he must have rehearsed it. ‘Fuck. Fuck. Oh, FUUUUUCK.’

  At dawn, I begin the silent dance of reapplying last night’s tobacco-reeking clothes; skirt and shirt, stained underwear.

  The boy stirs and asks for my number. I tell him I’ll call him.

  ‘Do you want my number?’ he asks.

  ‘I’ll just get it from Joel.’

  He smiles.

  I strap on my heels and walk over to where his head rests on a blue pillow.

  ‘See you later,’ I whisper, kissing his temple.

  How tender and easy this is. I am so good at this kind of love.

  47

  I order an Uber as I walk out of the apartment, wallet clasped between my fingers. In the car, I scroll through the contacts list on my phone. I don’t have Joel’s number. When I get back to the apartment, I take a quick shower. I play a few old tunes on my violin, simple melodies from my student days. Mozart. Bach. Haydn. Good. Easy. Predictable melodies. A commercial composer once told me that the most popular melodies go down in pitch. When I asked him why, he said, ‘Gravity.’

  Down, down, down we all fall. We want things resolved. Down, down, down. Like things that plummet, the release of tension. Maybe this is my descent. Maybe I have more in common with Mark than I realise. I’ve always thought my aloneness was some irreparable failure. Maybe it was not a failure to acquire friends, lovers, company, companionship. I had all that. I have some still. But then I see a couple holding each other on the street and I’m reminded of what I’ve failed to accomplish as a woman.

  I practise the Brahms backwards, the third movement first, first movement last. The second movement is always the least technically challenging but the most emotionally taxing. My wrists feel bruised, tight, but I keep playing. I push through the pain.

  Midway through my practice, I go into the kitchen and I run my hands under warm water to soften them. The water stings my dry skin, as though I’m putting my hands under a stream of warm acid. I turn off the tap and dry my hands with a towel. My fingertips are deep red, the top layer of skin is peeling off, blistering.

  At 3 pm on Sunday, I find Tuba walking into the Kaufman Music Center alone, pulling off his beanie. I call out to him through the shuffling crowd. He moves swiftly towards the coat check counter; unbuckling his coat and separating his Beats around his neck. When he emerges from the line, phone in hand, I step in front of him, eyes wild with delight.

  ‘I didn’t know you’d be here.’

  He moves his mouth, a lazy, mandatory smile. ‘Oh, hey.’

  ‘You’ve vanished so soon after every rehearsal and concert this week. Everything okay?’

  He moves towards the opening of the Merkin Concert Hall and I trail behind, eager to catch what he has to say. Instead, at the entrance, the usher checks our tickets and so it’s another two or three minutes before we’re seated in the audience stalls and he can’t ignore my question.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ I ask again.

  ‘Yeah. I’m just tired.’

  ‘Well, this concert’s not exactly going to wake you up.’

  We’re here for the Philharmonic’s ensemble, a matinee of Ravel’s Piano Trio and Brahms’ Piano Quintet in C minor. The pieces are searing, despairing, slow. Between movements, I stare up at the square panels of timber hovering above our heads like large pieces of Arnott’s Nice biscuits. Revolving square plates on rotation. Tuba is quiet. He is not interested in talking.

  Afterwards we take the number 2 down to The Grey Dog near our apartments.

  We sit at a table by the window, catching filtered conversations from NYU students. Young crowd. Beautiful girls with small faces and huge scarfs wrapped around their necks. They have straight brown hair, half covered by knitted beanies. Beautiful boys who are tall and polite. Part-time dog owners. Parents who own houses in the Hamptons.

  ‘We might spot James Franco,’ I say. ‘I’ve heard he comes here.’

  Tuba eyes me while we sip bad coffee.

  ‘Who’d you meet at Joel’s party?’ he asks.

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘I know Joel’s friends. They’re all assholes.’

  ‘Is that why you bailed on me?’

  ‘I didn’t bail on you.’

  ‘You didn’t come.’

  ‘I didn’t want to.’

  ‘You bailed on me.’

  He looks away, posture tensing, resetting his jaw.

  ‘I can’t believe you slept with Alex Wilson.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Alex WILSON!’

  ‘I don’t know the names of the men I sleep with. Stop yelling at me.’

  ‘I’m not yelling!’ He taps the side of his coffee cup, looking at me with anticipation, like there’s a question I’m meant to answer. I lift my shoulders, lips stilled; language clammed in some involuntary state of paralysis.

  He grabs his coffee and stands.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  There should be a name for that feeling when a question you ask goes unanswered. He walks off towards the door and when he reaches the door, he pushes it open and walks through it and I’m still sitting there, hands shaking, wondering what the word for this feeling is.

  48

  The week leading up to the inauguration, a group of musicians plan a trip down to DC for the women’s march. I text Tuba and ask if he wants to come. He does not respond. I redistribute my efforts to someone else; someone who is not interested in playing games. I spend time with App-man. I respond to emails from Val, Mike and Jacob, Banks. My mother, too. She tells me she live-streamed Stephe
n Hough’s performance of Beethoven’s Emperor on the Saturday night just past, and I said, ‘That’s nice, did you enjoy it?’ She said she didn’t like his physical gestures but he contemplated the emotional acuity of the piece well.

  Val tells me the Museum of Contemporary Art has offered her an exhibition, a huge deal for someone so early in her career. She doesn’t like living alone. She writes in short sentences. Clipped speech. Like she can’t decide what she wants to share. I write a few words of encouragement, support, congratulations. Generic lines that I wouldn’t be able to say out loud, if I were standing in front of her. At times like these, I think that on paper—or, rather, digitally—I can be a more expressive and caring human being. I think, I can be a better version of Jena through the internet. Huzzah!

  Katie and Anne get me details about where to meet for the bus ride down to DC. On the morning of the march, I decide not to go. I want to make a good impression. Show Maestro that I choose my music above everything else.

  I find Tuba at his locker in the green room before the evening’s concert. He turns as if he doesn’t see me, greets somebody else across the room.

  At the end of the night, the orchestra receives a standing ovation that extends past our usual performance time. I look back and try to catch his eye from where I am sitting but several heads are in the way. I wait for him backstage. I wait ten, fifteen minutes.

  Finally, he emerges at the same time as Maestro, who is clutching his folder of sheet music and his baton to his chest. ‘Jena, can I have a word, please?’

  I look over at Tuba, who is pulling a jacket out of his locker.

  ‘Okay, sure.’

  In the corner, Maestro asks me how I’d feel about staying in the Philharmonic.

  I’m cautious, not quite sure what he’s offering; if he’s offering anything. There must be a more formal process than this to be considered for a permanent position.

  ‘I guess I’d be happy,’ I say.

  I rush over to Tuba, who is scrolling through his phone on the couch as though he is waiting for someone.

  ‘Hi.’

  He looks up. ‘What?’

  ‘Are you waiting for me?’

  ‘I’m waiting for Oboe.’

  He stands, puts his phone into his jacket pocket. Keeps his hands inside them.

  ‘Listen, I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t mean to act like such an asshole.’ He drops his gaze. ‘Alex Wilson was my best friend back in college. We were sort of into the same things.’

  ‘You knew Joel?’

  He sits back on the couch and shakes his head.

  ‘No, I didn’t know Joel. I guess Alex has a lot of friends.’

  ‘You didn’t say anything when Joel mentioned his name.’

  ‘I didn’t see the point in that.’

  ‘That’s not fair.’

  He runs a hand through his hair. ‘Sorry. What I mean is, that’s not something you need to know. I mean, Alex and I were once—’

  He lifts his gaze. ‘Sorry. I just don’t want to talk about it. Anyway, I’m not angry with you. I mean, I was, but I’m not now. I heard that Alex had slept with someone, an Australian, and of course I knew it was you. It’s a pretty small group. Large city, sure, but the clans talk. Alex and I—it didn’t end well. I didn’t want to tell you because, well, I don’t know. It was late in the evening.’

  ‘What’s this got to do with me?’

  ‘Nothing. Well, everything. Of all the people at that party, you had to sleep with him.’ He sighs.

  ‘What do you want me to say?’

  He drops his gaze to the floor. ‘Look, I’d better go.’

  When he walks away, the side of his case brushes the sleeve of my coat. My heart lurches forward. There is so much I want to say. I want to tell him how dull the last week has been without him. How I yearned for his company like thirst yearns for water. I don’t know whether I want his company because I enjoy it, or just because I am lonely. My barometer for such things has been off for so long.

  49

  I message App-man, and he comes over. I tell him about Mark and his girlfriend, and about the end of my friendship with Olivia. I tell him about the tall boy, whose name is as plain as his sexual temperament, and I tell him about the sex I have back home in Sydney, the time, frequency, consistency, shape. I don’t tell him about Tuba or Beethoven or Mozart or Maestro. He does not occupy that world.

  App-man is not possessive, nor jealous, not even when I tell him how other men treat me in bed.

  We share our fantasies. I tell him I’d like to be raped, though by someone I trust.

  ‘Would you like me to rape you?’ he asks.

  ‘Well, no. Because you’re not capable of that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Rape is sex without consent. You always have my consent.’

  ‘Even when you’re asleep?’

  I nod slowly.

  ‘No, thanks,’ he says.

  ‘Is it because you’re black?’

  ‘No. I just don’t want to.’

  App-man looks like a Greek god, Zeus, Hercules. Because he is black, I don’t tell him he has the perfect proportions of a Greek statue. He might be offended.

  I don’t want to hurt him. There is no point.

  I convince him to stay over. He says that since the election he’s been wary about catching the subway, careful not to ride too late or too early.

  In the morning, his mouth skates down my breasts to my cunt while I’m sprawled across the bed. When he has grown tired of my vagina, he flips me over and spreads my arse apart, slamming his mouth against the opening of my arsehole. An avalanche of ecstasy washes over me. I have never been rimmed like this. He adjusts, sometimes slow, tender. I can feel the tip of his tongue circle the most private part of me, the most disgusting part of me, I can feel his inhalation and exhalation, his teeth pressed against the soft skin and then, finally, his tongue wedging inside. I wonder if he can taste my shit.

  I open my legs wide for him. He puts himself inside me and lifts my torso. I feel so wholesome. So monumentally loved.

  Later, he says, ‘I’ve got something for you.’

  He holds a palm-sized mirror and guides my fingers down to where his tongue had been moments before. I watch my fingers tangle in his, the yellow and black knuckles spreading the lips of my vagina open. He is slow, gentle. An expert. Careful.

  I fall asleep and dream about being raped by two strangers. They are aggressive, they are blunt, they don’t care what I think or feel. In the dream, I can feel my clitoris throbbing. Sometimes, I want the sort of callousness I see in films. I want to no longer be so conscious of my own desires to please. I want a man to degrade me. Maybe that’s the only way I can become a woman, because haven’t women always been degraded by powerful men? Isn’t that how men rise to the top? It has always required someone else’s submission. Women let men do whatever they please to them, don’t they? I want to assume this role. Play the part.

  App-man takes a small black object from his bag. It looks like the duster cleaner that Val uses on her SLR camera. A small rubber ball with a nozzle which you squeeze for air to come out.

  ‘What’s that?’

  He lies down next to me and kisses the skin below my breasts.

  ‘Remember my fantasy?’

  App-man’s fantasy. He’d never tried it with anyone. ‘I want a girl to fart in my mouth.’

  He squeezes the toy in front of my face. The puff of rubbery air blows against my temple, sends a few strands of hair flying up.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t have to if you don’t want to.’

  I reach for the end of the sheet and pull it up under my chin.

  ‘I don’t think I can.’

  ‘That’s cool.’

  He tosses the rubber toy back into his bag, lies down next to me and strokes my stomach. ‘Do you want to have a shower?’

  I nod and follow him into the bathroom. Under the showerhead, he smooths my hair ba
ck and takes my face between his hands. When he kisses me under the water it feels dizzying. I want to bottle him up and carry him with me everywhere I go.

  Afterwards, I walk him to the door.

  ‘See you later,’ he says, leaning over to press his lips over mine.

  I tell myself I am empowered because I get men to do what I want them to do and it feels good. It’s an achievement to have men like App-man try to please me. Sex with him feels like an especially sweet accomplishment. An adult accomplishment. This is what they talk about when they talk about sex without love.

  50

  When I’d landed in New York City three months earlier, the air had been brittle and cold. I’d felt an anticipation I didn’t know how to hold in my hand. The promise of something I had no name for, something to change my life. Throughout February; with less than a month until I return to Sydney, a rising panic sets in and finds a home at the base of my throat. Each morning, I dread the inevitable return to that place, that world, that world that rejects my hunger; a hunger that goes unacknowledged.

  The conversation with Maestro had felt promising, but I also know he’s spoken to other players too.

  In the second week of February, the sun makes a triumphant return one morning for a few hours, breaking through a thick grey sky. I slip on my sneakers and decide to walk around the neighbourhood. My body responds to the warmth, exposed skin clinging to each morsel of sunlight, and adjusts quickly. I walk through Washington Square Park and then down Fourth Street, all the way towards East River. I turn at Columbia Street, take the East River Promenade. For a few moments, the light stretches out, a golden bar shimmering across the rippling water. The sweat builds up around my thin sweater, staining the collar, the underarms, the upper back and chest. I reach under to readjust my bra. The air smells of coconut and diesel. It’s the first time I have felt the breeze on my face in days. With my sunglasses on, I can look up at the bright sun for a few seconds, pretend I am back in Sydney. This is what it will feel like, I tell myself. And you will be okay.