Naked Men

by Alicia Giménez-Bartlett

  He comes in yesterday and says, “It was awful, Iván!”

  “What’s going on, man?” I ask.

  “Wong tried to touch me, said he’s in love with me. I thought I was going to die. It was horrible! You should have told me he was gay; you should have warned me. You didn’t say a word—you just left me in the lion’s den.”

  I step into the shower and after a minute Wong asks me for the soap. We’re alone in the showers, and there’s no one in the dressing room. During the show, I thought I saw a girl I know in the audience, so I stayed till last to make sure nobody was waiting for me at the exit. Wong must have been watching me and turned up then. I pass him the shower gel, and then he hands it back to me. I’ve got my eyes closed, my face covered in foam. Suddenly I feel someone stroking my genitals, really soft, really gentle. I step back in the confined space and run my hands over my face, trying to clear my eyes to see. And there’s Wong, naked and erect. I don’t know what to do, how to react. Then he goes and says, “Don’t be scared, Javier. We like each other, right?” I cry No! like I’ve seen the devil, like Wong has a knife to my throat. But that doesn’t stop him. He says, “I love you, Javier. You’re different from the others. You’re sensitive. You’re not an animal like them. I love you.” “No, Wong, really, you’ve made a mistake, I’m not into men!” He utters a string of jumbled sentences and then puts his hand on my penis again. Nervous, I shove him—not hard, just to get him away from me. But the floor is wet and he slips. He falls to his knees and stays there a while, looking down, not saying anything, nor me either, with the water from the shower still running.

  When he got up, he was crying, and he was crying as he left. My heart was pounding, and I felt utterly rattled. The whole grotesque scene could have been avoided if fucking Iván had said something to me—or did nobody realize Wong was gay?

  “Don’t try to blame me for your screw-ups, Javier! Understood?”

  That’s life, man, that’s fucking life. Go ahead, do somebody a favor. Cheer him up in his low moments, invite him out for beers. Even get him a job. Put yourself out there for him, convince Mariano he’s a cool guy who was born to shake his ass onstage. And if he’s hungry, pull out a tit and breastfeed him, because that’s pretty much the only thing I haven’t done for Javier. When he came after me for not having warned him about Wong, I went ballistic. Didn’t he see it coming? It was so obvious! The sidelong glances, the little smiles . . . How was I supposed to know the teacher was such a goddamn idiot? All that studying and reading, and apparently he still doesn’t know shit about life. Aren’t there any queers in books? Where has he been all these years, in a fucking library? And to top it all off, he gets pissed and blames me!

  “I’m not your father, Javier, or your mother either. Didn’t you realize the guy was into you? You must be blind, man, seriously!”

  “You said the club didn’t have that kind of problem!”

  “I told you it wasn’t crawling with fags, but there’s always one who slips through! I can’t follow you around like a bodyguard.”

  Frankly, that little scene must have been something to see. Wong went way too far. Getting in the shower and grabbing his dick—damn, if it hadn’t been clear already . . . ! If the boss finds out, he’ll boot him; he’s told all of us he doesn’t want any problems in his show—no fights or arguments or jealousy, and definitely no faggotry. But Wong isn’t the first, and he won’t be the last. This job is for good-looking guys who take care of their bodies, so it’s inevitable that we get the occasional queer. All the performers boast about how they’re lady killers, but some of them go for both fish and fowl. That must have been rough for Javier. It’s one thing to deal with insinuations, glances, “accidental” grazes, but a full-on groin grope is different story. I could go tell Mariano about it. I’ve never been one to squeal on another guy, but Wong went way too far and should be taught a lesson. Plus, Javier’s such a wuss, it’ll be really awkward for him to keep running into the guy. But fuck it, I’m not going to be his nanny for the rest of his life. Maybe after thirty guys have come into the shower and tried to fondle his dick, he’ll finally figure out what’s up. I’m just going to have be patient with the teacher.

  “Well, man, I’m really sorry about that, but it doesn’t really seem right to blame me. These things happen, full stop.”

  “I know, I know.”

  These things happen, full stop. That’s a philosophical take, a maxim so profound you could base a school of thought on it. These things happen—to people without any education, without any sense of morals. Careful, though, I must be going crazy. Since when do I put any stock in morality? Haven’t I always claimed that the concept was invented to restrict freedom? I’m starting to believe I’m superior to the losers dancing in the buff alongside me, oblivious to the fact that I’m just as big a loser. No, enough, I need a little calm and self-awareness. What right did I have to yell at Iván, demanding explanations? I never go off on people! I’m either crazy or stupid. I don’t know what’s happening to me. Certainly nothing good.

  “I’m sorry I yelled at you, Iván. Things have been rough. I was upset and got carried away. What happened isn’t your fault. I’m a total dumbass.”

  I have no excuse. It had been twenty-four hours since my unpleasant run-in with Wong, long enough for my anger to have passed. But no, as soon I saw Iván I went on the attack. I can’t vent to Sandra about my problems, so the toxic humors have been building up inside me. It’s not fair to him at all.

  “I’m really sorry. Forgive me.”

  “No big deal, man! Let’s forget about it and move on.”

  Shit, any more of this and he’ll be on his knees in front of me. There’s no need for Holy Week–style self-flagellation here. This whole Wong situation could have actually been pretty funny, but we turned it into a goddamn soap opera. “It’s your fault. No, it’s yours! Ew, he touched my dick! Gross!” The hell with the teacher. If he’d had to deal with as much bullshit as I have . . . I even got bullshit from my parents. I don’t know what he would have done if he’d been dealt a life like mine: jumped out a window or something. Of course, maybe it’s good to have had a miserable life—that way you learn to survive and change your fucking destiny. You learn to turn turds into gold. I’ve got everything I need now: money, a good car, an awesome apartment . . . No lack of chicks, either. I get laid whenever I want. Maybe that’s what Javier’s missing, getting laid, and that’s why he’s in such a bad mood. I don’t know how things are going with his old lady. She seems like a total drag, like she wants him all for herself. Maybe she even wants kids! Of course, maybe the teacher wants that too: starting a family and all that bullshit people used to do back in our grandparents’ day.

  “Look, man, let’s stop this crap and go out for some beers. What do you say, teach?”

  “My treat.”

  “You’re on, man! Your treat! After all, we have to celebrate you hooking up with Wong.”

  “Asshole.”

  “No way, no asshole here! It’s been years since anyone joined me in the shower. And I’ve definitely never gotten a declaration of love! Just goes to show you’re the bomb, Javier, and as tasty to Chinese dudes as a bowl of rice. Just think if all those millions of them got together to fondle your cock. They’d wear it out, man!”

  “Are you done, dickwad?”

  “That’s right, man, you need to laugh a little. You can’t go around always being pissed off and so miserable it’s like you’re about to burst into tears. Everything’s fucked enough as it is—no need to make it even worse!”

  * * *

  Our friends are surprised that Javier’s stopped coming out with us. They ask about him all the time, so I’ve started lying to them, saying he’s tutoring on the weekends. Lying was always the one thing I refused to do. Lies indicate that, on some fundamental level, you can’t bear reality. I’ve tried—I tried telling people that he works at a str
ip club. I even imagined how I might present it. Humor seemed like a good approach—it would ease some of the shame. “You’re going to love this! The ninny was tired of twiddling his thumbs, so he . . . ” But I couldn’t do it. So I lied—which is ridiculous and risky. If a friend runs into him on the street one day, the cat will be out of the bag. Javier definitely wouldn’t lie about it. I doubt he’s proud of his job, but I can’t see him making something up. He prefers silence: he just disappears, ignoring the fact that I’m still in the world. Sometimes I even wonder whether one of our acquaintances is going to see him performing at the club. That would be a disaster after my tutoring dodge. Maybe I should find new friends. After all, why am I going out alone every weekend in a group where everybody’s coupled up?

  I’ve got the same problem with my parents. We used to to their house to eat sometimes, but now Javier refuses to come with me. My parents are nice people who’ve never interfered in our lives. They don’t even call on the phone very often so as not to disturb us. But they’ve started asking why Javier isn’t coming. It’s to be expected—I’d ask too if I were in their shoes. I’m going to end up telling them the tutoring lie too.

  The question is: why doesn’t Javier want to see anybody? The answer’s a cinch: he’s embarrassed and doesn’t want to show his face. If his job were as normal as he claims, he wouldn’t have disappeared like this.

  This whole situation is really hard on me. Every day that goes by, I feel more depressed. I don’t get excited about anything, and at work I zone out so much that it’s starting to worry me. The other day I thought maybe I should go to a psychiatrist, and I even started looking for a friend’s phone number so she could recommend one. But then I got mad at myself. He’s the one with the problem, so why should I see a psychiatrist? We women are amazing, always ready to take the blame for everything. I’m not unstable, I’ve just been thrown off balance because the man I live with is acting strange, that’s all. He’s the root of the conflict—a normal guy doesn’t take up dancing naked in some seedy dump.

  I think the two of us need to have a serious conversation. I’m too young to have this kind of bad mojo in my life. I’ve seen a lot of my girlfriends suffering because of their guys. It’s terrible for them, always wondering whether their boyfriends love them or not. They’ll put up with anything to be with them, to keep from losing them: disdain, infidelity, all sorts of nasty stuff. I’m not that kind of woman; I’ve got my head firmly on my shoulders and my feet on the ground. I have no intention of spending my life paralyzed with fear and letting people treat me like a doormat. I want a peaceful life, sharing my joys and sorrows—living with another person should be a happy thing. I don’t think I’m asking for the moon here. I hope that after our serious talk, Javier will realize he’s at risk of losing me. I think he’ll reflect on things a little—he’s never done anything crazy. Now it’s like somebody’s taken away his willpower, altered his personality. He’s caught up in a preposterous nightmare, but at some point he’s got to wake up. This damn recession is going to make all of us morally bankrupt! What a country—what a world! Sometimes I fantasize about going with Javier to live in the smallest, most remote village in Spain, where we’d grow organic vegetables or something. A simple life: work in the fields, bake your own bread, chat with a neighbor out in the street . . . But it’s not that easy. Doing anything requires a lot of money up front, and there are already plenty of people growing organic vegetables. And what do I know about vegetables? Absolutely nothing. I’m a city girl, and the only work I know how to do is in the city. Am I going to turn my whole life upside down because my guy’s decided to shake his ass in a some kind of strip joint? No way, man, not a chance.

  * * *

  I can’t believe it myself, but I did it. Today I called Genoveva to tell her I’m interested in going out with Rodolfo and Uriel again. She started ribbing me a little: “So you’re into that sort of thing, huh?” But I stopped her right there. I’m not going to let people treat me like a prissy little girl who’s a glutton for punishment, or a moron who’s an easy target for mockery. She goes out with escorts, and so do I. That’s all there is to it.

  This time we have our date in a cocktail bar called Fuego. At my request, Genoveva and I have met up an hour early. I didn’t feel like being with the guys the whole evening. Genoveva still doesn’t understand where I’m coming from and tries to make another joke at my expense:

  “So my idea of introducing you to a couple of studs wasn’t so outlandish after all!”

  “Genoveva, everything’s perfectly all right, but I’d rather you not bring up the guys again. It makes me uncomfortable.”

  She doesn’t respond or seem startled. She just arches an eyebrow and murmurs, “All right, honey, all right. Whatever you say.” I hope she gets it now. I’m not going to talk about this, whether seriously or in jest, when I don’t even know why I’m doing it. What’s driving me to go out with these guys again? The novelty of it, I guess, and curiosity. I know I’m not doing it because I need the company or want people to see me on the arm of a handsome man. The last time we went out, I felt something unexpected: ease. When you’re with a man, whatever kind of relationship you’ve established with him, you always have to keep in mind that he’s a man, treat him a little special, make an effort. But with these guys I was relaxed—I didn’t care who they were or why they were there. It would be pointless to share such nuances with Genoveva. But at the very least I’d like her to understand that this isn’t some world-changing discovery for me, like gunpowder. I’ll be able to keep on living perfectly happily after this, even if I don’t set off a single firecracker.

  “All right, honey, all right. Whatever you say.”

  Can you believe this child? “I’m doing it but I won’t talk about it.” Irene’s really something else. A total princess. I don’t think she’s all that healthy, psychologically speaking. But fine, if that’s what her ladyship wants, we won’t talk about it. Though I’d like to inform her that it doesn’t change anything. It’s obvious the little prude likes the same things the rest of us women do—or is the Madonna/whore binary true after all? Such an old-fashioned notion. The thing is, in order to do anything, you have to have clear ideas and a bit of class. Irene might be an amazing businesswoman and all that, but she seems to fall a little short when it comes to mental clarity and savoir faire.

  We’ve barely finished our drinks when the boys, as Genoveva calls them, arrive. They look quite dashing: impeccable chino pants, meticulously pressed pastel-colored shirts, gleaming loafers. Knowing what I know about them now—that we’re paying them for their time—I do see them differently. I’m more excited, and I’ve got a ton of questions: How do they see us, as self-indulgent rich women looking to have a good time? Are they harsh moral judges who think of us as total sluts? Do they find us attractive? Maybe when a man’s “on the clock,” he doesn’t even pay attention to whether a woman is beautiful or ugly. I don’t know—the whole situation is weird for me, anomalous. I need to assess them as dispassionately as I do my assistant, my workers: ultimately, they’re my employees too. I’d like to know more about the boys’ lives, but I get the feeling that if I asked anything, I’d just get a bunch of lies in response.

  We order aperitifs. Genoveva gets tispy immediately; she must be a bit of an alcoholic after all these years of unsavory nightlife. She starts flirting with Rodolfo, who responds in kind. A powerful wave of embarrassment runs through my body like a shiver. I’m on the verge of getting up and going home. What am I doing here? On second thought, though, what would I do at home? I stay put, but I adopt a severe expression so the guys can see I’m not like Genoveva.

  Uriel starts tossing me little meaningful glances, getting bolder and bolder. The careful reserve he displayed when we first met is gone. That’s no surprise, really—agreeing to meet them again means I’ve accepted the terms. There’s no possibility of misunderstanding here. We’re paying, they’re collecting,
and we all realize what’s going on.

  We have dinner at a Basque restaurant. The boys order fish and vegetables, telling us they don’t want to gain weight. I order a steak so it’s clear I don’t care about gaining weight. We drink two bottles of wine, with a glass of brandy for dessert. If this is the way they drink all the time, their livers must be ready to burst. I take it easy with the wine. I don’t need alcohol jangling my nerves. I can get up and leave whenever I want, and pay what I owe the next day.

  When we leave the restaurant, I assume we’re going somewhere else for one last drink, but Genoveva and Rodolfo, giggling, say they’re in a hurry and take off. I don’t find it funny, just crude. Uriel suggests we go to a bar for our last drink. I agree, which is a big mistake: as soon as we sit down, I realize I’ve got absolutely nothing to say. Seeing my silence, he talks instead, chattering away like a radio host, stringing together only vaguely connected sentences. I down my drink quickly because I can’t stand his babbling; it’s making me crazy. What is he saying? I tune in for a moment, and he’s talking about tennis. I hate tennis! Playing tennis is the one thing Papá made me do even though he knew I loathed it. Every Saturday we’d go to the club together, but he’d play a game with one of his friends while I had to take the lessons he’d signed me up for. We’d spend the whole morning apart, and I didn’t like that at all. Poor Papá! What was he supposed to do with me for a whole day? But I made it clear I hated the club, and when I got a little older I stopped going with him. I’ve regretted it ever since.

  The guy sitting across from me—suddenly I barely remember who he is—is going on about Nadal’s last match. I pull myself together and say, “Let’s get out of here.”

  “To your house or a hotel?”

  The question leaves me cold, though in fact it’s the relevant one to ask under the circumstances. “A hotel, of course,” I say without pausing to ponder it. “But we don’t have a reservation.”