“People go to hotels for all kinds of reasons. What about you—do you live here too?”
“Yes, I live here.”
He starts babbling on about the city’s artistic wonders, its Romanesque and Gothic churches, the Arabic heritage . . . That’s enough to convince me he’s a male escort. It’s the same incessant blather Rodolfo and Uriel offered, this time with a cultural element, probably to show me he’s not a rube. I take long sips of my gin and tonic to keep my nerve up. His big teeth, which I found jarring at first, now seem to give him an appealingly naughty air. From Gothic architecture he’s somehow moved on to high-end design stores. He knows about that too. These guys, assuming he’s one of them, sure do talk a lot. If he’s not one of them, he’s just a bore. Suddenly he realizes I’ve stopped listening.
“I beg your pardon,” he says, “I’m rambling. I just love this city.”
“Oh, no problem, I’m just a little tired. I should go.”
He stays where he is even though I’ve signaled to the waiter. He waits for me to pay, and as I’m closing my purse he says, “If you’re that tired, you should probably get a room in the hotel.”
He’s expectant. I look him right in the eye, an inscrutable expression on my face. He rides it out. He’s one of them. It seems incredible: all you have to do is come here, sit down, and that’s it. The city must be full of places like this for anyone who knows them and knows what she’s looking for.
“Would you come and rest with me?” I take ownership of the situation. I shed the embarrassment. I start to enjoy holding the reins.
“A little rest is always good.” He laughs the most forced and foolish laugh I’ve ever heard.
“Then let’s go rest.”
I arrange for the room myself. He waits for me by the elevators, discreet. The receptionist realizes what’s going on; he doesn’t ask me if I have any luggage or how many nights I’ll be staying.
We go up in silence, standing very close but without looking at each other. When I’m sliding the card into the slot in the door, he moves toward me and tries to kiss me behind the ear. I brusquely pull my head away, but he doesn’t react to my rejection; he’s still smiling like an imbecile. But my gesture, which is odd given the circumstances, puts him on guard, and he says, “Resting with me costs money. You know that, right?”
“How much money?” I ask, still unable to believe it’s my voice I’m hearing.
“Three hundred.”
“No problem.”
It’s a big room. I take off my jacket and go over and sit down on the bed, just like I did last time. He slowly walks toward me. Now his smile is like that of someone who’s daydreaming—or drunk. When he reaches out to unbutton my blouse, I stop him short.
“Don’t touch me. I just want you to get undressed.”
“What about you?”
“I’m staying like this.”
He cocks his head like an alert dog—all that’s missing is for him to prick up his ears.
“But if I don’t see you naked, I won’t be . . . motivated.”
“That doesn’t matter, I just want to look at you.”
“But if I don’t get motivated . . . ”
“Listen, let’s not make this a problem. I’m telling you what I want you to do. If you’re not interested, you can leave, no problem.”
My heart is pounding in my chest. I feel a faint fear but also enormous pleasure at speaking to him like that, insolent, in a commanding tone.
“All right, honey, don’t get mad. If that’s what you want . . . ”
Slowly, he gets undressed. Feeling awkward, he starts humming a parody of a striptease tune. From beneath his clothing his bulky muscles emerge: thighs, calves, shoulders. He’s got a flat belly and strong biceps. He’s tanned all over, with no tan lines. He’s hairy, but his torso has clearly been waxed. His penis, which is large and very pale, hangs a good way down between his thighs. I like looking at him, but I don’t feel the least bit of sexual arousal. If he stayed still and didn’t say anything, it would be better, but the moron goes and asks, “Do you like what you see?”
“It’s not bad,” I say curtly.
He strokes his chest, his hips. He turns his back provocatively. He has a small, round butt, very flat, not too prominent, beautiful. He’s still yammering the whole time: “This right here, that over there, half turn . . . ” I ask him to be quiet—or rather, I instruct him. His face flushes with rage. I think if he could he’d slap me, but he refrains and finally stops talking. His expression grows serious, concentrated, contemptuous. He moves and twists as if he were hearing some internal music. It’s a silent dance, impressive. After a while he starts stroking his penis. He becomes erect. He masturbates. First slowly, then more and more eagerly. He abruptly ejaculates into his own hand, panting. His eyes closed, he says, “Can you pass me a tissue?”
I don’t move; I keep watching him. He opens his eyes and looks at me with loathing. Somewhat hunched, he goes to the bathroom. He comes back out after a good long while. He’s had a shower. His dumb smile is plastered across his face again.
“Did you enjoy it?” he asks.
I don’t even answer.
“Can you lie down on the sofa?”
He lies down and closes his eyes. Now I can analyze his body inch by inch. I don’t like it. It’s too tanned, too muscular, too tended, too fake. He’s sleepy; his head nods to one side.
“You can leave now.”
“I was falling asleep, I swear.”
While he gets dressed, I rummage for the money in my purse. Three hundred euros. I give it to him.
“What about the drink we had in the bar?”
I hand him another twenty. He takes it, almost snatches it.
“Shall I give you my phone number for another time?”
“There won’t be another time.”
A mocking, ill-humored expression crosses his face. He adopts a dignified tone.
“Well, you know what? That’s a relief! I’m not into weird crap. Plus, I’ve got all the chicks I want.”
I turn my back on him. He leaves, slamming the door. What a rude man, a real nightmare! Arrogant, stupid, vain . . . Evidently it’s not easy to find pleasant guys. I wonder how Genoveva does it; she’s certainly got more experience. But I’m happy—happy I dared to pick one up on my own, happy I was so firm with him. I’m proud of myself, the way I sometimes used to be when I’d walk down the street on Papá’s arm.
* * *
I’ve gone out to buy some books and take a walk. When I get back home, I’m surprised to discover Iván’s already arrived. He’s lounging on the sofa in front of the television, eating a pizza. Upon seeing me, he raises his hand in the air for a high five. He signals for me to have some pizza with him. I tell him I’ve already eaten, and I’m about to say something else when he shushes me with a finger to his lips. Then I notice he’s watching a show, engrossed. I walk into the kitchen, grab a can of beer from the fridge, and go back to the living room. I sit down next to him, curious to know what he’s watching with such interest. It looks like a reality show. Filling the screen is a close-up shot of a young woman wearing a lot of makeup. The vulgar quality of her appearance is intensified when she starts talking. She strings together clichés, faulty grammatical structures, brash expressions. She’s one hundred percent low-class. I listen carefully to what she’s saying. She’s complaining about her friends Carla and Andrea, who could have said something but decided to keep quiet. Her complaint gradually ramps up to an almost tearful lament. After a few more minutes, I figure out what’s going on. A young man has cheated on his girlfriend, and the issue is being debated. Both parties are present, and acting as mediator is a TV host, heavily made up and hairstyled and dressed like a tramp. Rather than seeking reconciliation, it seems like the tramp is trying to make the two young people argue and say horrible things to each other. The cheater
is a young, cocky-looking guy who’s trying to defend himself. In that effort, he’s employing some atrocious clichés: “I was drunk—drunk people aren’t responsible for their actions,” “Some temptations a man just can’t resist,” “A one-night stand isn’t a threat to true love.” A real philosopher, this lowlife. I’m starting to feel nauseated, a sensation that increases when the camera zooms in on the girl again so we can see the tears running down her face. “Is there any possibility you might forgive him?” the horrible host asks. The girl sobs openly. “Baby, I swear it’ll never happen again,” the asshole says. I’m ready to unleash a barrage of expletives and offer a heaping helping of destructive criticism for this garbage, but when I look at Iván, I find that he’s choked up, his eyes damp. What the hell’s up with him? Is he as revolted as I am and weeping in disgust, or does he have a screw loose? I opt to utter an exclamation that can be interpreted a multitude of ways.
“Shit!”
He sniffles. He’s not embarrassed about showing his feelings. He wipes his eyes with the napkin, which is stained with pizza sauce. Still staring at the screen, he says, “Yeah, man, it’s a shitshow. This guy’s a real bastard and really hurt his girl when he stepped out on her. Look at her, poor thing, she’s just wrecked. Of course, it’s kind of understandable if you put yourself in his shoes. Say you’re a little shitfaced one night and a chick starts coming on to you . . . what guy can resist that? That’s why I don’t have a steady girl. What for? If a nice quickie comes my way one day, why should I have to hurt somebody or lie to her?”
I am flooded by an irrepressible wave of indignation.
“Hang on, Iván,” I start ranting. “I couldn’t care less about these people’s situation. The really screwed-up part, the thing that really makes me crazy, is seeing those two losers going on TV to tell their sob stories. It’s unbelievable that anybody would make a show out of this garbage and broadcast it, and even more unbelievable that anybody else would watch it.”
I’d never seen him so surprised, so perplexed. He forgets about the TV. He doesn’t react for a few seconds, and finally says, “I’m watching it.”
“No way. You’re watching it because you were chowing down on some pizza, you turned on the TV, and you got sucked in.”
“Not at all, man. I watch this show whenever I get the chance. I know what time it comes on, and if I’m home, I always turn it on.”
“I don’t get it. What do you see in this crap? Tell me, what’s so good about it?”
His close-cropped hair must be standing on end like a cat’s.
“What do you mean, what do I see in it, man? It’s life, it’s things that happen to people. Or do the things that happen to everybody else not happen to you? You special or something?”
“Those guys get paid to go on there and air their dirty laundry in public.”
“So what if they get paid? At least they get something out of it! Yeah, they’re going on TV to talk about personal stuff, but if they were just doing it for the money they wouldn’t cry their eyes out like that—it’s obvious from a mile off they’re crying for real. And they wouldn’t put themselves in a position to come off looking bad either.”
“Would you go on that show and talk about your life for money?”
“The hell with the damn money! What about what the two of us do for the damn money? Didn’t you used to stand in front of a chalkboard reading poetry to little rich girls? And now you’re shaking your naked ass, as am I—and I do things that are even worse. So don’t give me that bullshit about what I would or wouldn’t talk about. I’m going to hit the hay. To be honest, you’ve really pissed me off this time, teach.”
The hell with the teacher! There are some things I just don’t get, man. All that book learning and everything, but he doesn’t even have the heart to understand two screwed-up kids who go on a TV show to see if they can fix their relationship. So what if people watch it? So what if they make some money telling their story? Who does he think he is, the prince from the Príncipe cookies wrapper, with the crown and everything? Is he in his palace, protected from the riffraff? He hasn’t even been able to rent a room of his own since his girlfriend booted him out. And what does he do? Nothing, mooch off of me till I’m fed up. He could have gone on that show himself to fight for Sandra and see if he could change her mind. But no, young sir couldn’t possibly lower himself like that and go on there talking about his problems. He’s an intellectual, a teacher—he’s superior to the rest of us. I was nice and relaxed with my pizza and my TV show, and now he’s got me all pissed off. He’d better find a place to live soon or things are going to get ugly.
He’s mad at me. It’s obvious I went too far, but it just blows my mind that a tough guy like him could fall for . . . But I went too far, period. He is who he is, and he’s not going to develop critical awareness overnight. I didn’t mean to offend him, but I did. Still, everything I said seemed so obvious . . . but for him it’s not. I’m going to apologize. It’s becoming more and more clear that I need to get a place of my own as soon as possible, even if it’s a nasty hole-in-the-wall. I can’t keep staying here. Living with someone who’s so different from me is like sleeping on a powder keg.
I knock on the door to his bedroom. He yells out, “Now what do you want?”
“Iván, I want to apologize. I’m sorry, I really am. I was criticizing the TV show, but there was a misunderstanding and . . . ”
“That’s enough, man, I’m dead tired!”
“But please tell me you’re not mad.”
“No.”
“No, you’re not mad, or no, you won’t tell me that?”
“Are you serious? You’re like a fucking goat, teach! Go the hell to sleep!”
He laughed. Whew. I’d been feeling guilty.
* * *
I can’t fucking stand Christmas. Peace and love. Everybody can just fuck off! But it is what it is: ubiquitous ads for nougat and other seasonal treats, and twinkly lights in the streets. Everybody says “Merry Christmas!” even though they don’t know you from Adam and the extent of your relationship is that they’re selling you a goddamn pack of cigarettes. It drives me crazy! The only thing I like about it is the lottery drawing on December 22. I never win, but every year I buy a couple of tickets just in case. If I win, I’m going to buy a sweet-ass car! And a mansion with servants from all around the world: a Chinese cook, an Ecuadorian maid, an Arab guy as my bodyguard. I’d know how to spend my loot, not like those goobers who go on TV after winning some lame amount of money and jump up and down in excitement. The dumbass doing the report asks, “What are you going to use your prize for?” and they say, “To fill in some holes in the budget!” Jesus, the holes they should be filling are in their heads!
If I won a big amount, I’d give part of it to social causes—soup kitchens and that sort of thing. But I never win anything, big or small. I don’t have that kind of luck. Everything I have, I had to earn it through my own blood, sweat, and tears. If I’d depended on luck, all I’d have is a turd on a stick. Lady Luck’s always mooning me; I’ve never seen her face.
For starters, take the parents who brought me into the world. My dad, a real asshole who at least had the decency to kick the bucket. And my mom, I don’t even want to think about it—I’m about to get the same song and dance I get every year. On Christmas Day they let her out of the psych ward at the prison or whatever it’s called. The idea is for her to eat with her family, and I’m her family. The hell with family! In the past I’ve always taken her to a restaurant, but she always makes a scene: she gets drunk, cries, attacks the waiter. I’m embarrassed to be with her; everybody always stares at us. This year, since the teacher’s staying with me, we could have our meal in the privacy of home, as they say. So I ditch the restaurant. Of course it’s a real drag for Javier, but oh well, it’s a way for him to pay for his lodging, right? To be honest, I’m not thrilled to have him hanging out with my
mother, but this way he won’t think I’m a bastard for never going to visit her in prison. He’ll have a better image of me. Plus, when he meets her he’ll see what the world’s really like—things may have been shit for him for a while now, but they’ve been shit for me ever since I was born. With parents like mine, if I hadn’t hustled, I’d have been screwed. But I figured that out early on and said to myself, “Shit, Iván, either you change tracks or you’re going come out the loser.” And I changed. A new life, basically reborn. And I’ve done pretty well—can’t complain! The only crappy thing I have to do is this damn meal at Christmas, but I’m going to ask Javier to help me out, and since he’s a good guy, he’ll agree. Every year I put up with my mother’s visit, but it’s harder and harder for me to handle because she keeps getting worse and worse. It used to amaze me to see the way she was falling apart, but now I wouldn’t be amazed if the Virgin herself appeared before me. Not anymore.
I’m not going to make things complicated for this dinner. I’ll go down to the takeout place and order cannelloni and a nice steak. And I’ll spend a little cash on some good bubbly. My mom will get lit because she also takes medicine for her nut, so everything hits her hard. With a little luck she’ll pass out quick and we’ll be able to lay her down on the sofa and eat in peace. When I pick her up, the social worker always tells me not to give her alcohol, but I never pay any attention. She drives me crazy asking for it, so I just give it to her from the start and everybody’s happy. What does it matter at this point whether she drinks or not? For fuck’s sake, let her be happy. At least once a year, let her forget the crappy life she’s had and still has, the horrible things that have been done to her and that she’s done to other people. “Drugs are terrible stuff,” my grandma used to say to excuse her dead son. Well, all right, then they shouldn’t have taken them; it’s a little late now to be sorry about that.
* * *
“No, I don’t have plans for Christmas. I can eat with you.”
Naked Men Page 18
