The music
is pounding.We're on a bed in a stranger's room. Where the music's
coming from people are drinking and dancing. Where we are I'm giving him a blow
job. His boyfriend's not here. His boyfriend's drunk. Perhaps dancing. Just outside. I
stop sucking his dick to take a drag off a joint I've put on the nightstand. I
look at him. Skinny boys always have the biggest dicks. He's no exception. I get
back to work. Play work. I also have a day job.
::: It
goes like this: Any toy in particular you're looking for? or They
come in three sizes, or Thank you for shopping at Mary Wilkes Toys. Come again.
::: I'm
as good at the day work as I am at the play work. You can understand why. ::: The
music is pounding. It's a party on Central Park West. Enormous
apartment. Jackson Pollack and Jasper Johns on the walls. Jasper Johns and I were
born on the same day. He's older. We're both gay. I'm not sure whose apartment
this is or whose parents' apartment this is but it's impressive. Even for Central
Park West. And the party's fine. Good enough drink and drugs. And sex with someone
who has a boyfriend who's just outside. Don't stop, he says. I have to rest,
I say as I take a drag off the dwindling joint. He might come in, he says. I
laugh. What's his name? I say. Carter, he says. What's your name? I say. Brent. Brent,
I say, if Carter comes in, we'll play it off. I laugh. What the hell kind of name
is Carter? I climb on top of Brent. His shirt's off and his pants are pulled
down around his ankles. His legs are hanging off the bed. His penis is erect.
I can see it in the light coming through the two large windows. He has full lips.
I rest my fully clothed body on top of his. He holds me close to him. I kiss him.
The kiss is long and passionate. Like he hasn't been kissed in awhile.
::: I'm
in charge of the two windows at Mary Wilkes Toys. Before I worked there the windows,
which face out onto Lexington Avenue, were filled with whatever Mary had ordered
too much of. Things were mixed and matched, haphazardly placed. That didn't make
them sell any faster. And it didn't get kids in the store. When I started I asked
Mary to let me have a go at the windows. Thousands of kids with rich parents walked
by every day. They needed to be stopped. They needed to be seduced. It
was easy. I put the most colorful toys in the windows. If the toy plays with the
customer, I told Mary, the customer will play with the toy. She was happily
astonished when it worked. It was simple, really. And it surprised me that no
one had thought of it sooner.
::: The
music is pounding. We enter the party. The apartment is filled
with people and smoke and music. The lyric is It's so easy to love me /
It's so simple to make you care, repeated over and over. The voice is partly
computerized. The ceiling is painted with a strange and mesmerizing mural of
an angel delivering a baby to a beastly creature. It's frightening only if you
think about it for too long. People sway and bump into me. Another of the rooms
has a blue light emanating from its open doorway. Inside people are dancing to
the music. The floor has been cleared. The gaudy Rococo-esque furniture is lined
up against one wall. Above the large fireplace is a portrait of an old woman who
sort of resembles Eleanor Roosevelt. She is blue. I spot a skinny boy dancing
by himself in the corner. He is jumping to the music. He's quite attractive. Aquiline
features. Full lips. Nice shoes. Maybe on cocaine. As skinny as he is. As jumpy
as he is. I quickly find the kitchen, get a cup of water and return. He's still
there. Hi, I say as I approach him. What? he says. Hi, I say, louder. With
my unoccupied hand I pull a little blue pill out of my pocket. Try this, I say,
handing him the pill. The music throbs. I'm okay, he says. He's still dancing. It's
pretty, I say. It's blue. It's fun. Here's some water. It's so easy to love
me. He smiles. It's so simple to make you care. I'm the only
one here who's going to offer this to you, I say. He takes the pill and swallows
it with the water. He continues to dance. Good job, I say. I take the empty
cup from him. Stay here, I say. Don't go anywhere. I'll be back in a minute. What?
he says. Stay here, I repeat. I'll be right
::: Back.
Thirty minutes. Will I enjoy this party? Sure you will, says Deryn, a co-worker
from the toy store. Who's throwing it? A friend of a friend, Deryn says. Will
it be all straight? Fuck off, she says. Forty-five, she says, pulling me toward
an old Deco building. The doorman opens the glass door. Good evening, he says.
You want the eighth floor. The elevator's in the ::: Back. Sure,
he says. I'll be right here. My boyfriend's around here. Somewhere. Great, I
say. Which one is he? Over there somewhere, he says with a wave of his arm.
Blue hair, he says. I turn to look. I search the crowd. Bingo. This guy could
do better. I walk toward the guy with the blue hair. The object is to occupy him
while the pill passes go.
::: Thank
you for shopping at Mary Wilkes Toys. Come again. Not if we
can help it, the old woman with the blue hair says with a laugh. Her grandson
is fondling the new toy she has bought for him. He can't wait to get it home.
::: The
music is pounding. I talk to Blue Hair for a bit. Intensely
boring. Easy to amuse. Predictably, he's an artist. I ask him if he's seen the
mural on the ceiling in the other room. He says no. He's too fucked up to care
but I request that he go take a look. He'd enjoy it. He does. I spot the skinny
boy dancing in the corner. He's smiling. I walk toward him.
::: I
took some fiction classes in college. The professor told me you have to make the
readers care about your characters. So how to make you care about me? My
parents divorced when I was ten. I don't have insurance, medical or dental. Sometimes
my eye twitches uncontrollably. I came to New York to write. I haven't written
anything yet. I work in a toy store in the city and can barely pay my bills. No.
I could go on forever with that stuff trying to make you care. Better to make
you care by telling you nothing. That way we can keep it simple. That way it never
fails. The skinny boy in the corner starts to touch me. He dances close. Do
you want to play? I say.
::: Those blocks
are one of our most popular items. Oh? says the woman. Why? Because
no one else in the city carries them. My son saw them in the window, she says. Those
blocks are hard to resist, I say. And we are the only store that has them. Right,
she says. The secret is, and I don't say this, is getting the kid in here and
getting the parent to buy the toy. The secret is saying the toy isn't available
anywhere else. The only one on the block with the blocks. Is it true? Not usually.
Does it matter? No one's ever called me a liar. Not to my face.
::: The
music is pounding. I close the door. He's at one of the windows.
The city is beautiful, he says rocking back and forth. I've gotten myself a joint.
I put it on a nightstand next to the bed. I walk up behind him and put my hand
on his ass. He quickly turns around and I kiss him. He pulls me to him and runs
his hands up and down my
::: Back. Two
days. Put that doll in the window. There's an extra one in the ::: Back.
Two years. I move to New York City to pursue some sort of dream. To write. I took
some fiction classes in college and one of the professors said a good place to
start was somewhere you can do a lot and where a lot can be done to you. I suggested
New York. He said New York works but you have to watch your ::: Back.
It feels good. He pulls his lips off mine. I'm thirsty, he says. We'll
get you some water in a minute, I say. I unbutton his pants. They fall around
his ankle. I put my hand on his dick. He's not wearing any underwear. He's erect.
I maneuver him to the bed. His legs drape over the end. I go to work.
::: At
the toy store, a boy and his mom browse. He's cute, I say to
Deryn. He's nine, she says. Yeah, I say. True.
::: I
go to work. I have no real talent. This is what I do in New
York. People whisper behind my back that I do it because I have no real talent
and because I've never been loved. I've never been loved. People have said I love
you to me but I don't think that's the same as really being loved. I suppose you
feel something you've not felt before when you're really loved. But maybe people
who say they're in love only mean that someone says I love you to them on a regular
basis. Perhaps that is love and I'm just not fooled.
::: The
music is pounding. I stop and climb on top of Brent. I can feel
his erect penis on my crotch. I have an erection, too. I kiss him and fondle one
of his nipples. Can I fuck you? he says as he slides his hands into my pants
and feels my ass. The door to the room opens. The music is instantly louder. I
freeze. His hands still move. The door slams.
::: I
climb off him. This is easy. Too easy. No, you can't fuck me,
I say. I lie next to him. He reaches over and touches me. He gets on top of me.
He licks my neck. Okay, I say. I think I'm done here. I push him off me. I get
up. Where you going? he says. I'm being anti-social, I say. I'd really like
to come, he says. Okay, I say. Get your clothes on and follow me. I laugh. Come
on, he says. I walk away. Come
::: Back.
Yesterday. No, honey, not now. That doll will be here next week. Put her ::: Back.
Thirty seconds. Can I fuck you? he says. Before I say no I marvel at how easy
it is to get this. How simple it is to make this happen. But I don't want to be
fucked by him. I do it for the game. This party's full of people. I'm not bored
yet. I'll leave him. Maybe I'll come ::: Back, he
says. I walk out of the room. I walk through the party. A
girl is lying on the floor. I step over her. Hi! someone says to me. Hi! I say.
The music is faster. Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! a female voice commands over
a thumping beat. Thumping in my head. Thumping in my body. Through the party. Go!
Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! I see Deryn in the corner. She's talking to another
girl. I wave. She calls my name but nothing seems to come out of her mouth. Go!
Go! Go! I think I'll go. Go! Go! Go! I think I'll sit. Brent
wanders into the room. At least he's got his clothes back on. He starts to touch
another guy. Deryn comes over. You look bored, she says. There's some good coke
in that bathroom. She points. I think it's that one, she says. No, thanks, I
say. You look bored, she says. I think maybe I'll Go! Go! Go! Go! Go!
Go! What? she says. I said I think maybe I'll just sit here for awhile. There's
food in the other room, she says. You probably could use a munchy. Will you
get me some? I say. You have two legs, she says. You Go! Go! Go! Go! Go!
Go!
::: I spot a cute boy in the
corner. He's leaning into a girl and sloppily kissing her. He's drunk. Drunk boys'll
do anything. You just have to play nice. ::: The
mom spots the ball. We're the only store in the city carrying
that ball. Really? she says. How much? $250. Give me two. People will
buy anything. You just have to play it right.
::: The
music is pounding. The drunk boy is passed out next to me on
the bed. Some people are smoking pot in the corner of the room. City light comes
in through the two windows. It's hazy. I took some fiction classes in college
and one of the professors said a good place to start was somewhere you can do
a lot and where a lot can be done to you. Stories come from experience. Action
inspires action. I chose New York. He told me that you have to make the reader
care about your characters. But he never said what to do if there are too many
characters. I can hear millions of voices just outside the door. Voices mixing
with an unrelenting soundtrack. All waiting for the right offer, asking for more.
::: |