“No way, man, they don’t regret a thing.”
“Should we leave, Iván?”
“You think we should take off? You’re nuts! No way, this is going great. Russian chicks are weird, man, they do their own thing.”
Take off right in the middle of the fun? The guy’s totally nuts. He worries me, to be honest—if he makes a break for it, I’ll kill him. Who knows where he comes up with these ideas.
What did he think, that the Russians were going to greet us with kisses and gift us sets of nesting dolls? Right from the start, I could tell these women are rich and don’t put up with anybody’s bullshit. But what the hell do we care? The name of this movie is Take the Money and Run—nothing else matters. Maybe the teacher will finally get it into his head that this is just a damn job.
After dinner we went out for drinks. They ordered vodka. After that, the ice started to break a little. They showed us how vodka is drunk in Russia. The barge stood up, knocked back the contents of her glass, got up on her tiptoes, and then let her heels thump back to the floor.
“Shit, man!” said Iván. “That way the alcohol goes down faster. Russians really know where it’s at!”
He immediately aped the maneuver, his movements parodically exaggerated, and for the first time the girls laughed along with us. There was more laughter, more toasting, more military thumping of heels. We emptied one bottle of vodka, and midway through the second I realized I was drunk. Iván said at last, “These ladies are sponges, teach—they drink like fish. I think that’s enough. If we keep going, there’s no way I’ll be able to get it up. It’s time to go.”
He turned to them and started loudly repeating, “Hotel! Hotel!”
I’d have preferred him not to yell quite so loudly, since there were other people in the bar. The girls looked at each other, said something, laughed, and stood up. The barge paid the bill and we went out into the damp night. We headed to their hotel on foot, with them walking up ahead of us. It didn’t seem like the alcohol had affected them much. My head was clearing a little in the fresh air.
Before we entered the luxury hotel where they were staying, Iván took the arm of his presumed partner and murmured discreetly in her ear. I wondered what language he was using. Whatever it was, she understood, put her hand in her purse, and pulled out a wad of bills that she must have had ready because she didn’t count them. Iván did count them, with astonishing swiftness. He smiled, nodded. It must have been the right amount. I wondered what I would have done if he wasn’t there. Everything had taken place far from my sight: the contact, the arranging of a price, the choice of places to eat and drink, the agreement to pay us in advance. Iván had taken care of the ugliest, most sordid bit, but I, seemingly without being aware of anything, had been fundamentally complicit. And yet I was still thinking of him as being my corrupter, as if it were his fault that I was debasing myself. In the full flush of the sentimental phase of my bender, I felt like crying. Iván was helping me, benefiting me—he’d taken me in, offered me access to the means of subsistence he knew. What would have become of me if he hadn’t thrown me that crude, highly charged lifesaver? Where would I be, sleeping on a park bench? Why did Iván like me so much? I recalled some lines from a Lope de Vega poem: “What do I have that you should seek my friendship? What do you hope to gain, dear Jesus, that at my door, glazed with dew, you spend the dark winter nights?” Clearly, I was still plastered.
The fateful moment arrived. My Russian, who was gorgeous, shut the door of the room behind her and gave me a come-hither look. What was I supposed to do? I’m no idiot, I know what generally happens when you hook up with a girl, but this was different—it was a professional interaction. Maybe there were required prefatory procedures that I wasn’t aware of or details that I should avoid at all cost. I’d been too embarrassed, of course, to ask Iván about protocol. Plus, I would have run the risk of being the object of his merciless teasing. No, I’d have to figure this out on my own. With a little luck, if the girl was used to this kind of arrangement, she’d take the initiative and I’d just go with it. Otherwise, I’d have to come up with a strategy, and I hadn’t devised one in advance. How should I act—as if we’d met and been attracted to each other by chance, or did she expect me to behave all macho and dominant and controlling?
I was so motionless and lost in thought that she snapped her fingers in front of my nose. Then she made a gesture signaling a shower, waving her hands above her head and imitating the noise of flowing water. I nodded and went to sit on the bed to wait for her, but I had misunderstood—I was the one who was supposed to shower. I felt deeply humiliated: did she think I was dirty, was she afraid she’d catch some kind of disease? She grabbed me by the arm and pushed me firmly toward the bathroom. I was ready to put my jacket back on and leave the room, but I refrained. I’d gotten to this position by overcoming a lot of prejudices, and now wasn’t the time to quit. Plus, having paid us in advance, the Russians might start arguing with Iván, and the last thing I wanted was to hurt my partner.
I came out of the bathroom wearing one of the hotel robes. The Russian was lying naked on the bed. She was flipping through a city guide I’d seen lying on the nightstand when I entered. She looked at me and gestured for me to get undressed. I obeyed. She smiled and opened her arms, murmuring. She was beautiful, as beautiful as a woman in a painting. The white expanse of her flesh, her slender body, her lips . . . I felt a wild desire—it had been so long since I’d been with a woman. I pulled out the condom I’d brought, went over, and started kissing her thighs, but she pulled at me impatiently. She wasn’t interested in foreplay, just fucking. She pushed my cock into her and started to pant. I managed to hold out a good while. At that moment I loved her passionately.
I think I did a good job. When she fell asleep, I left.
* * *
Well, would you look at the teacher! I knew he could do it! Just three months in, and he’s already been able to rent his own apartment. It’s not as cool as mine, but it’s pretty nice: fully equipped kitchen, a living room that’s about 300 square feet, a bathroom with a rainfall shower . . . and in a decent neighborhood, not one of those awful slums full of Arabs and blacks he was looking at when he was flat broke.
He left my house, of course. I helped him with the mini-move and loading up the books. He could finally have them on shelves and look at them every day like pirate treasure! The first thing he did was hire a carpenter to install bookcases. Apparently that was what he cared about most: arranging his Raskolnikovs. Holy hell! I don’t have a problem with it, though. To each his own.
I haven’t asked him anything about his on-the-clock screws. I gave it a try the first few times, and he didn’t seem to take it well. So I zipped my lip, and that was that. Anyway, it’s not like I’m dying to know how he gets on with the ladies—well, maybe just a little bit. Maybe he gives lectures or writes poetry to get them hot. Whatever he does, it seems like it’s working. Some women request him, looking for him and no one else. OK, right on. It also seems like his conscience is no longer pricking him. He must be worried about other things now, though. The other day we were hanging out having a beer and I told him:
“Things are really going awesome for you, man. If you keep it up, pretty soon you’ll be able to think about buying a car and designer clothes.”
“Listen, Iván,” he responded, “I already have what I needed: money to live on and a place of my own. I’m not planning to earn more money. If they came to me today and offered me my old classes back for the same or even less money, I wouldn’t think twice. I’d drop all of this and be a teacher again. You get it, right?”
“Yeah, I get it.”
But I didn’t get it, and I still don’t. As a teacher, he didn’t earn even close to the money he makes now. He got by thanks to his girlfriend’s salary, in a crappy little apartment. Not to mention all the work: how many hours did he have to spend in class with those kids to make
what he makes now just working weekends at the club and going out a couple of times during the week? Plus, it doesn’t seem like he’s actually looking for work as a teacher. The truth is it sounds good to say you’re doing this because you have to, but no, actually you’re doing it because it’s a good living, and everybody wants a good living. Of course some people do it out of need—a kid doesn’t grow up dreaming of becoming an escort—but once you’ve tasted the good life, you don’t go back. And anyone who tells you otherwise just wants to be a saint—and nobody’s more of a saint than I am. I’m Saint Iván himself.
In any case, the teacher’s a huge success. He sure did keep it under his hat, the bastard! He must be dynamite in the sack. He probably goes at it all polite, and the ladies love that: “Would you most kindly grant me your permission to fuck you, your ladyship?” Holy hell! Maybe he tells them all they’re the most amazing dames he’s ever met in his life and talks to them about love. Speaking of which, I have to warn Javier never to use that word. In the heat of the moment, it’s OK to say, “I really like you,” but no love talk. You never know with women—they read romance novels and watch movies, so they take it super seriously and can really get you in trouble. It happened to me once with this chick who was more loaded than a dump truck. I never said anything to her about love, but she got all hung up on me. She hired me every week. She started telling me about how she was a widow, didn’t have any children, and was really lonely. One day she goes and asks me how much she’d have to pay me to get my services exclusively so I wouldn’t go out with any other broads. I dodged the question and gradually started pulling back from her. Sometimes I’d tell her I didn’t have room in my schedule to see her. I didn’t want to be straight with her because I was afraid she’d make a stink and then the word would get out and scare off my other customers. She didn’t have my cell number—I don’t give it to anybody—but she’d been to my apartment a few times to screw. I really fucked up there—she would wait out on the street at night for me to come home. One day I had to tell her that if she did it again, I’d call the police. She stopped for a while, but then started up again. One night she invites me to have dinner at a hotel, and then plunks down a sheaf of papers in the middle of the table. It was the list of her assets! A house in Mallorca, a downtown apartment, money in the bank, and the pension she inherited when her husband kicked it. She tells me she can’t live without me, asks me to move in with her, says everything she owned would be mine if I said yes, swears up and down we’d be as happy as clams. Shit, what a mess! I got up and scrammed without even saying goodbye—maybe she’d figure out how this story went. The next night—at three in the damn morning—I find her waiting at my door. I went up to her and said right in her face, “Look, lady, I don’t like you, you’re not my type, and you can shove your money you know where—maybe it’ll give you a little thrill.” “But I love you!” the bitch answers, like she doesn’t understand Spanish or something. So then I really did give her a slap that knocked her over. She was shocked, the cunt—as if she hadn’t deserved it. She started crying hysterically and ran off. I never saw her again, but it was a real pain in the ass to get rid of her. Some people might say it was a dumb move because she was so filthy rich, but I go through life a free agent, and that’s not going to change. Anyway, these broads get demanding after a while. At first everything’s great, but then they start wanting to control you: where are you going? Who are you calling? What do you want the money for? It happened to a buddy of mine, and he ended up getting sick and tired of the lady. Anyway, that’s life, but I’ve got to warn the teacher so he doesn’t get tangled up in any drama.
Only trouble is, Javier doesn’t want to go to these places on his own—he always asks for the two of us to go together. So he misses out on work opportunities because there’s not always a need for two guys at once. But between parties, showers, and tourists, we do OK. It’s cool to have him with me when they ask for two. Actually, it’s awesome, because he adds some class. He’s calm, sophisticated, polite. When we arrive, we seem more like the guests of honor than like two guys who’ve been hired to strip or screw. But I still think he’s going to have to go on his own at some point. It’ll happen when his wallet starts itching, you’ll see—he can save that bullshit about not needing any more money for somebody else, because I don’t buy it. Once you get started, the more you make, the better. After a while you start thinking about having a car, getting better furniture, dressing nicer. And for vacation you’ll want to go to the beach, since nobody sticks around in the city because of the heat. Not to mention blow, which I’m not supplying anymore. The truth is I’ve done a lot for the guy, but I don’t regret it. He’s appreciative and dependable, and there are some things about him that really surprise you. The other day he goes and gives me a gift. He bought me a bonsai. Holy hell, a bonsai! As if I were the sort of guy who had plants and took care of shit. I’ve got it there in the little window in my kitchen. It’s looking pretty sad, since I totally neglect it. But it was nice—him giving me a bonsai means he thinks highly of me, doesn’t consider me a clod who’s only happy if you buy him soccer cleats.
Anyway, the important thing is he’s on track, and any day now he’ll be ready to fly solo. He doesn’t spend his days whining about how he doesn’t have a job and society doesn’t need him. Plus he’s shed of that awful girlfriend of his, who just wanted to control him. His life has changed—he’s not a loser anymore. It’s obvious he’s going to end up lapping me—girls really like him.
* * *
“Oh, listen, you’re going to love him! I’ve gone out with him a couple of times and he’s great. Very funny, totally uninhibited. And he looks like a real man too! Of course, it’s not like he’s a gentleman or anything, but he says things sometimes that are unexpected and witty, and they make me laugh. I’d rather have that than your standard pretty boy who plays the urbane sophisticate and tells you some whopper about his Harvard degree. He’ll show you a good time . . . plus he’s very skilled in the things he needs to be skilled in. In the end, sweetie, a woman just needs to have a little fun—someone who recharges your batteries, makes your problems go away, makes you laugh. In Vogue the other day there was this survey about what women today value in men. I’ve read a ton of those surveys over the years, and the things that were always valued before were things like ‘He makes me feel safe, he’s considerate of my needs, he’s affectionate.’ But times have changed, and the characteristic that trounced all the others in Vogue was ‘He has a great sense of humor and makes me laugh.’ The thing is, women have changed a lot. These days you feel safe because of the money you have in the bank. You look out for your own needs, and affection . . . you only take it in occasional doses, since in excess it can be suffocating, makes you want to take off to the ends of the earth all by yourself. But having someone who makes you laugh is another issue. The world we live in is so grim and depressing: climate change, endangered species, impoverished children in Africa, recession . . . please, enough already! As if there were some way to fix any of that. I do what I can already: I don’t waste water, I turn off all the lights before going to bed, I’m on the board of an NGO . . . Just lay off already, let me enjoy life a little—it’s way too short! You get what I’m saying, right, Irene?”
“Of course, Genoveva, of course.”
I do get it, but what I don’t get is what the heck it has to do with me or where my friend’s going, trying to sell me on this nonsense—just because she’s met a wonderful guy who makes her laugh doesn’t mean she’s got an identical one ready for me. And I have to say the last few times we’ve gone out have been a little frustrating. She probably chooses the kind of guy she’s into and then requests another one for me without getting into any specifics. They just have to get undressed, so really anyone will do. But the last few times, the guys have been real bores. Nice bodies, sure, but kind of boorish, pure gym flesh. Plus, since they know the only thing I want is a little show, they spend most of the time doin
g poses that range from comical to pathetic. I’ve sometimes wondered whether I’d have a better time of it if I just signed up for a painting class and ogled the nude models. The only thing I’d be missing is the sense of power I have now when I tell them, “Sit down, spread your legs, don’t smile, get dressed and go because I’ve had enough for today.”
“Well, I’m telling you about the guy because I have a plan.”
“Another one of our nights out?”
“Oh, Irene, sweetie, Jesus! You say it as if I were talking about a funeral, not a night on the town.”
“Don’t take it the wrong way; I just want to know if there’s anything new to the plan.”
“Well, yes, listen, yes there is! This guy I’m telling you about works at a male strip club.”
“I didn’t know there was such a thing.”
“Right here in the city. Don’t picture a regular club like the ones women dance in—this is just a bit of fun. Girls go there for their bachelorette parties; groups of women go to celebrate divorces. The clientele isn’t exactly sophisticated—you know, secretaries, cleaning ladies, that sort of thing—but if we don’t take it too seriously we could have a great time. I’m thinking we can go on Saturday and have dinner with the guys afterward.”
“What guys?”
“The fun guy I was telling you about is named Iván, and he has a friend—the two of them always work together.”
“Look, Genoveva, if you haven’t even met the friend, I think it would be better . . . ”
“Can you hang on a minute? You’re just impossible today, honey! Apparently the friend is the cat’s pajamas too—handsome, courteous, an unemployed literature teacher who’s doing this kind of work as a temporary thing.”
“Really?”
Oh, sure, literature teacher, loves painting, goes to the opera every Sunday. I’ve heard it all before.
Naked Men Page 24
