“Get undressed, please,” I tell him.
I can see he’s started getting nervous. They all react the same way, feeling awkward until they’re sure of what I want from them. In other respects, though, this one seems different: he’s not dressed like a lowlife, he’s reserved, he doesn’t say much and says it quietly, he takes off his clothes slowly and neatly. The others always toss them brusquely to the floor as if they were pissed off. It pisses them off to have to strip naked with you sitting there, not moving, just watching them.
And then he’s naked. He’s lanky, not at all ugly. He’s got a normal body—he hasn’t gotten all buff at the gym. Not much hair. A large penis, but it’s not erect.
“Now what?” he asks.
“Now nothing.”
“All right. I’ll stay just like this.”
Fine, I’ll stay right here—though I would like to know what the nub of this all is, how this sexual conduct is described in the user’s manuals. Static voyeurism? Staring at a naked guy. Maybe it should make me uncomfortable, but I just feel ridiculous.
“Aren’t you going to get undressed?” I ask.
She opens her eyes wide. How dare I speak to the goddess?
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t feel like it.”
What does this guy think? That we’re pals, that we’re spending some time together as friends? It’s not too late to kick him out.
“This all seems really weird to me.”
Nobody’s told me to keep quiet, and I’m feeling mutinous—I’m not a doll in a store window.
“That’s not your concern.”
“Depends how you look at it. We’re about the same age. We’re in the same room, but I’m naked and you’re dressed. I’d like to know why.”
“Because I’m paying you and I’m the one who decides what happens next.”
Because she’s paying me, of course. The two of us are here, ludicrously motionless, because she’s paying me. Her dressed, and me buck naked. It was a mistake to come here, an absurd mistake, and I should have known it. They pay me to waggle my ass in a crappy show. They pay me to fuck. And I do it—I do all of it and then charge afterward—but no snooty little girl is going to have me at her service just to humiliate me.
“I’m sorry, but I think it was a mistake to come here, a simple misunderstanding. I’m going to get dressed and go. Don’t worry about the money—consider my time a gift.”
“Didn’t they tell you what you’d be doing?”
“It doesn’t matter, seriously. It’s not worth talking about it any further. It’s been a pleasure. If you tell me how much dinner cost, I’ll pay my part and then we’ll be square.”
“We’re already square. Dinner was my treat.”
“Well, thank you very much. Good night.”
He got dressed and left. He shook my hand goodbye! Who is this guy? What was it about the situation that he couldn’t bear? Maybe he doesn’t do this professionally? Maybe it was his first time? But he’s a stripper at the club! He was probably expecting me to succumb to his charms once I saw him: “Oh, baby! I want you so badly! Take me, please!” Idiot! A total waste of time.
* * *
“So it didn’t go well. So what? Come on, man, you’re a fucking stud! The grand dame just called me—they want to go out with us again. Both of them! It hasn’t even been a week, and I can tell you these arrangements don’t tend to go for a second round. Irene’s the one who’s requested a replay—it’s not that Genoveva’s wild about me. These broads who’ve got their lives all sorted out don’t get hung up on some lowlife—or anybody, for that matter! They’re living it up, and relationships would just create complications! These birds don’t feel trapped or lonely—they do their own thing. I don’t know if Genoveva has any grandchildren, and I’m not about to ask; I don’t want to get her all upset over the age thing. But I’ve been doing this a while, so I’ve met a few ladies who show you photos of their grandkids after you screw. Holy hell! And they’re so goddamn satisfied. That’s because you don’t count—you exist for as long as the two of you spend in the sack, and that’s it. They’re free as a bird, man—they don’t give a rip about anything. Money gives you freedom—you can just buy it off the shelf, man. ‘Give me ten pounds of freedom,’ and they fucking giftwrap it for you.”
He gives me a look that says, “That’s not my thing.” The hell with the teacher! He’s such a pain in the ass, goddamn weird. Just when you think you’ve got the hang of him, he comes out with something totally unexpected. There’s no getting anywhere with him. It’s like he still doesn’t get that these are the things you do for money so you can have your nice apartment and all the rest. I’d like to know what happened the other day with Irene. Sure, the chick seems kind of prissy, but if it’s true what he says, the only problem was his own hang-ups. “I can’t take getting undressed and having her just sitting there, fully clothed, looking at me like a zoo animal. She just wants to humiliate whatever guy is there in front of her, and I have my dignity.” When he said that about his dignity, I got pretty pissed. Does he think he’s the only one with dignity, and I don’t have any? I’ve got it just like everybody else, damn it. But if you’re a guy trying to make ends meet, you have to just close your eyes and put up with a lot. Plus, we’re just talking about getting undressed here—being in your birthday suit. He’s got to stop being so squeamish, because life’s a bitch. I’ve had to do a lot of things I really didn’t want to: having some awful, raunchy chick slap me on the ass, rimming a couple of nasty fifty-somethings. But that’s the business. Every job has its downsides—or does he imagine it’s a fucking joy to wake up every day at six in the morning, get on the subway, change lines twice, and clock in at the factory at eight so you can spend the whole day locked up in there like a goddamn prisoner? Come on, man! And then live in a goddamn hovel on four euros a day. If you think about all that, it puts dignity in perspective pretty quickly. Plus, the teacher should already know that chicks are filthy and impulsive, even poor ones. Why does he think I won’t commit to anybody? And then on top of it, he doesn’t even charge the broad. The guy’s a real piece of work, seriously.
“Look, Iván, I don’t want you to be mad, but I don’t think I’m going to go this time.”
“Listen, Javier, we’ve been lucky so far and you’ve been able to pick and choose: a private party here, a couple of tourists there . . . but we’re heading into winter now, so there’s not so much tourism, not so many parties. If you start with this bullshit, you’re going to end up dead-ass broke and not even be able to make your rent. And then what will you do, turn back? Is that what you want?”
“No, of course not.”
“Well then, man, be responsible and come with me.”
I burst into laughter. His solemn invocation of responsibility seemed hilarious coming from him and applied to such circumstances. The sound of my own laughter made me realize I was making a mountain out of a tiny molehill. Iván was right. I pondered: it wasn’t that I was especially protective of my dignity. Maybe I’d just been annoyed by that cold, contemptuous woman. My reaction was unsettlingly like that of the typical macho Spanish male. And of course—and it was here that Iván’s reasoning was most persuasive—I was going to have to pay my rent, eat, buy books, get dressed, pay for those lines of coke I was snorting more and more often, and which gave me the strength to keep going.
“Let’s make a deal. I’ll go to the next appointment, and you promise to finish reading Crime and Punishment.”
“Shit, teach, you’re a real brain-teaser! But OK, it’s a deal. I’ll finish that punishment business, though you’re more than enough punishment for me. What do I need fucking Raskolnikov for when you’re around?”
Who knows what the hell goes through this dude’s head. Definitely not me. Here he is voluntarily changing his mind. Maybe he set this up just to
get that chick all hot to trot. Everybody knows chicks are all about having a good time, and when you mess with them they come slinking back with their tail between their legs, begging for more. Is the teacher that devious? Maybe so.
* * *
The room isn’t the same one we were in the other day—we aren’t even in the same hotel. I had a lot to drink at dinner. I’d glance over at her from time to time, briefly, against my will. She always looked the same: serene, mostly quiet, barely smiling. Iván and her friend were taking care of the carousing: jokes, laughter, toasts . . . I tried not to reveal my curiosity.
Now I’m here with her, animated by booze and coke, firmly resolved to do what I have to do without making a big deal about it. She’s wearing a black pantsuit, a scarf knotted at her neck. She’s elegant—a bourgeois sort of elegance, unimaginative. What is it that’s brought her to this room? Why is she doing this? I remove my pants. I shrug off my sweater. I stand there. I look at her.
“I’ll just do the usual, ma’am?”
“Yes,” she says tersely.
Either she found my irony too on the nose or she has no sense of humor.
I casually finish getting undressed, making no effort to be sexy. She watches me, expressionless. Good poker face. I ask, “Do you want me to sit down, or should I stay standing?”
“Sit in that chair. Pull it in front of me. Not there, farther back.”
“Great, I’m a little tired.”
“Spread your legs, please.”
Here he is, sitting naked in front of me. I wonder how I can have become suddenly so uninhibited, how I’m able to play this game so calmly, so coolly. With the other men I found it more difficult, but not with this one. I am aware of his shame, his nervousness, his discomfort, and that reaffirms me.
It’s strange—I’ve spent the whole week thinking about this man. I had the feeling he was a fantasy, an unreal being, as if my memory of him had been a sort of hallucination. But no, he’s just as I found him the first time: slender, not very muscular, with a boyish quality. He doesn’t at all seem like the kind of guy you rent by the hour, paired up with that bum Genoveva’s so crazy about. His reaction the other day was odd: in high dudgeon like your classic Spanish gentleman. He left without taking my money, indignant and dignified. He doesn’t fit into any of the categories of men I expected to encounter in this underworld. I always imagined immigrants with hardened faces, marginal people who spend their earnings on drugs, hustlers who’ve learned to live off of women because they don’t want to work. What box can I put him in? At first I was angry about his reaction the other day, but afterward I felt curious enough to ask Genoveva to set up another date. And here he is again, naked in front of me. I thought he wouldn’t come, but here he is.
Today he’s changed his strategy. He’s ready to fulfill his obligations without a murmur, but his attitude is the same: defiant, irritated, rebellious, as if he were demanding an explanation for why I’d hired him. He can’t possibly behave like this with all the women who request his services. So what’s going on? Is he angry with me? Is there something about me that drives him crazy? Regardless, I’ve made him get undressed and sit just the way I want him. He’s got to understand that I’m the one in control here.
“You’re not going to ask me to get undressed too this time?”
I’d sworn to myself that if she said anything to me, I’d respond with vague statements or giggles. But I’m an idiot, and as soon as she opened her mouth, that was that. I was even grateful she’d spoken!
“I didn’t ask you to get undressed.”
“You certainly insinuated it.”
“You want to know the truth?”
“All right.”
“It seems ridiculous to be naked in front of a woman who’s fully clothed.”
“And if I were naked too, it would seem less ridiculous?”
“Look, seriously, this whole thing is absurd: me sitting here, whether naked or dressed, and you there looking at me. It’s not just absurd, actually. It’s crap. So don’t ask me anything or make me talk. When you get bored, I’ll get dressed, you pay me, and I’ll leave.”
I’m sitting on the bed, and I stand up. I start getting undressed. I didn’t think I was capable of such a thing, and I don’t know why I’m doing it, but I am. I’m calm; I feel relaxed. I don’t pay attention to him while taking off my clothes, but when I’m done I see he’s watching me, disconcerted. He’s not smiling—he’s still got that expression of an angry, self-righteous little boy. Now naked, I sit back down. He closes his legs. I let him do what he wants.
“Better?” I say.
“Yes.”
This chick’s making me nervous. She really has gone off the rails now. What does she want from me?
“Why do you do this, Javier?”
“What do you think?”
“For the money?”
“Of course I do it for the money!”
“You don’t seem like the kind of guy who does this sort of thing because he’s broke and doesn’t have another option.”
“Well, I am. People who have money are always surprised to find that other people don’t have it.”
“And do you enjoy it?”
“No, no way, not at all. I hate it. I’m a literature teacher, you know? That’s my real profession. But I got laid off from the convent school where I was working, and this allows me to make enough to live on until I find another job doing what I’m supposed to be doing.”
The chick starts laughing. It’s the first time I’ve seen her laugh or smile. I’m an even-keeled sort of guy, but right now I’d like to slap her. What’s so funny, that they fired me?
“All the guys who do this say they’ve got intellectual jobs or really important jobs.”
“I don’t care. I am a teacher, and that was a really rude thing to say.”
It’s amusing that he’s so ill-tempered. I get up and go to the minibar. It does take an effort to walk around naked in front of him, but I don’t care too much as long as I’m in control of the situation. I pick up two glasses and pour a small bottle of sparkling wine, splitting it evenly.
“If we have a drink, maybe we’ll stop arguing.”
“Listen, Irene, I don’t want to give you the impression I argue all the time. I imagine you’ve hired me to have a nice time, but to be honest, you don’t make it easy for me.”
“Drink.”
I obey my customer and drink. I guess things are finally going to go back to normal: we’ll have a drink, look at each other, kiss . . . I’m getting an erection, and I don’t know whether to cover it up or just let everything flow, maybe it will all go as it should. But she’s still imperturbable and silent, so I ask, “What about you? What do you do?”
“Me? I’ve been idling away for a while now. I don’t feel like working.”
“Are you going through a rough patch?”
“I don’t feel like talking about myself either.”
“Of course.”
“Don’t ask your customers personal questions. Isn’t that right?”
“Who cares! We don’t know each other, and we’re not going to. We can talk and it won’t matter a bit.”
“You’re right about that. I am going through a rough patch. I’m seeing a psychiatrist.”
“Oh, wow!” Jesus, and now what do I say to her? “We all go through bad spells.”
“Let’s drop it. It’s better if we don’t talk.”
“You’re right.”
I interpret her “better if we don’t talk” as a signal, so I stand up and walk toward her. My intentions are obvious, but she doesn’t move, doesn’t bat an eye. I’m an inch from her and she still hasn’t reacted at all. I notice how beautiful she is: intense red lips, shiny hair. She’s got fantastic tits. I put my hand on her shoulder. I bend down to kiss her on the mouth.
“Please don’t touch me. You can get dressed and leave now.”
“Have I done something to upset you?”
“No. My head hurts. Thanks for coming.”
His face has tensed in an expression that looks almost like pain. It seems like he really wanted me, but maybe he’s such a professional that he’s able to fake it perfectly. He gets dressed hastily, his back to me. He waves at me and turns to go. I call out to him:
“Javier, I didn’t pay you!”
“Give the money to Genoveva when you see her. She’ll pass it on to Iván. We always do it that way.”
He’s said that last bit with contempt, as if emphasizing that I’m just another customer. What a peculiar man.
Back at home, alone, my head is spinning with thoughts I should control, discard. In all the time that’s passed since David and I split up—or, rather, since he left me—I haven’t resolved a single problem that’s come up in this new life. My work is hanging by a thread, with me unable to make any decisions. I go to the psychiatrist, but I never tell him anything important or follow his advice. He tells me over and over that I need to set up a daily routine. He harangues me about how I need to analyze my past so I can understand what happened. He thinks I’m an idiot. I don’t need to analyze anything—I’m quite clear on what happened. I married a man who was interested in me only for the money, social position, and professional advancement I could offer. He didn’t love me. He probably wasn’t even attracted to me. When things started to go south, the man left. Full stop. It’s easy to understand what happened. What I’m finding more complicated is figuring out why I want to see this guy again. Is he handsome? I don’t know. I suppose that after the ones Genoveva’s been introducing me too, he seems, quite simply, civilized. He belongs to an unfamiliar tribe. I’m sure we’ve never frequented the same places, even though we’ve been living in the same city for years.
Naked Men Page 26
