Naked Men

by Alicia Giménez-Bartlett

  That guy. Javier. I don’t think he’s lying. When he told me he was a teacher who’d lost his job, he was telling the truth. He’s well spoken, cultured; it’s obvious he’s educated. I shouldn’t be, but I’m curious. The next time we meet I’ll try to get him to tell me a little about his life. Maybe if I know more about him, he’ll stop haunting my mind like a ghost. Getting to know him better will confirm that he’s like all the other men. Because he’s doubtless no different. He relied on clichés: “People with money think,” “I’m doing this because I have to.” Clichés. If he were as pure as he pretends to be, he wouldn’t dance at a strip club or sleep with women for money, and he definitely wouldn’t be friends with a guy like Iván. A man like any other. The first thing he did when we were both naked was try to touch me. I shuddered. If he’d pushed it, I might even have called reception for help. But now I want to see him. I’m going to call.

  “Genoveva? It’s Irene. I just wanted to know if we’re going out with those guys this week.”

  “Oh, no, sweetie! I can’t this week. I’m going to a wedding in Marbella. My niece, my brother’s daughter, is getting married. It’s going to be such a drag! I’ve got to start thinking about my dress, my shoes . . . and the trip there! And since I have friends in Marbella, I’ll be staying a few days longer, of course. If you want, I can give you Iván’s number, and he can put you in touch with Javier and the two of you can go out.”

  “No, not the two of us alone, no. We’ll go out next week.”

  “Irene, if I ask you something about that guy, will you get mad?”

  “Almost certainly. Best not to ask.”

  * * *

  How about that. Turns out he’s taken a shine to the girl. Why else would he ask if Genoveva’s called to set up another night out? And when I told him no, he got all pissy.

  “Listen, Javier. You like Irene, right? I’m sure that whole business with having you stand there naked and not move is over now. I bet she’s wild in the sack. That’s awesome. What’s not so awesome is the other stuff. If a chick comes to me and tells me to strip and that’s it, I’ll tell her to go to hell. Maybe once she’ll get a pass, but twice . . . If she wants to look at statues, she can go to a museum. A screw is a screw, and a man is a man, and you can’t screw around with men. Her making you stand there in the buff, as if she had nothing to do with it—it’s like she’s telling you, ‘You ain’t worth shit, man. I’d rather do it with a vibrator than sleep with you.’”

  “Let’s just drop it, Iván.”

  “All right, kid, it’s none of my business, huh? I was just saying it in a general way, professionally speaking. But if you don’t want to talk about it, we’ll drop it.”

  And now what the hell’s wrong with him? Maybe he thinks it isn’t nice to discuss screwing your customers. I’m not the kind of guy who’s always talking about what I do or don’t do with women, but I don’t hold back if there’s something weird going on, and this Irene business is really weird. If I end up making out with a chick who’s been acting like a goddamn holy virgin, that’s unusual, right? It bears mentioning. But if he doesn’t want to talk, I’ll keep my mouth shut.

  “Just drop it, Iván.”

  “It’s dropped, man. Don’t get mad—your blood pressure’s going to go through the roof.”

  As far as I’m concerned, though, I can’t stand this fucking Irene chick. And not because of what she does or doesn’t want to do in the sack—I don’t give a damn about that. What pisses me off is it seems like she looks down on everybody. She’s stuck up, silent, with that good-girl vibe but always looking at you like you’re a piece of shit and she’s got to endure the smell. I’ve never put up with that crap from a chick—much less from a dude, of course. And I’ve been with chicks who had money coming out their ears, but as soon as they started acting superior, I was out of there. Because in bed, man . . . I’m the one in charge there, and they can ask for weird shit or make me suck whatever they want me to suck, but there’s no way I’m letting them look at me like I’m a loser. No chick is going to reach for the sanitizer after touching me. I may not be educated, I may have to hustle for a living, but I’m nobody’s inferior! No way! Plus, if a chick’s paying to sleep with you, she’s got to have something wrong with her, right? With guys it’s different—the more they sleep around, the better. But women? Not having a dick available must be really sad. In Genoveva’s case, it’s kind of to be expected. She’s getting up there, she’s divorced, and she likes sex. What choice does she have? Hire a male escort—that’s it. But she doesn’t act like a goddamn princess! In fact, she’s well aware her body is past its prime, and she doesn’t just pay you, she thanks you for fooling around with her. She’s grateful, goddammit, and horny. Now that’s satisfying work. But if you get some snooty-ass prude, just take a pass, man—that’s what I’d do. But I have no intention of telling the teacher any of this. Anyway, it works out better for me if things stay the way they are. The four of us go out as a group, I earn some money, and we’re all good.

  * * *

  She’s a strange woman. I like her eyes—they’re strange too, cold, intense. I don’t know what they’re expressing. Something potent and unidentifiable, maybe despair. At first I wasn’t that into her, but I’ve gradually started finding her more and more beautiful, elegant, special. When she got undressed, I didn’t want to stare at her too much. Given the situation, I have to be careful. I don’t want her to get scared or think I’m some kind of insensitive brute. She must have a completely distorted concept of me. She didn’t believe I was a teacher. It makes sense—I don’t blame her. If I could, I’d explain my circumstances in more detail, but for the moment it doesn’t seem possible to share such confidences. The only thing we have in common is a hotel room, and we each have a role to play with the other. I play mine without conviction, and I could swear it seems like she’s not all that committed to hers either. My previous experiences sleeping with women for money have been very different: the Russian and Scandinavian tourists sometimes speak to me in incomprehensible tongues while we fuck. I barely remember any of them. But Irene is too similar to the kind of women I’ve always been with. It makes me a little uncomfortable, even though it’s with her that I’ve been the most natural. I wish she’d give me some sort of clue as to her personality. But no, she watches me with her frigid eyes, and when I speak, her replies are vaguely mocking. I really should just never see her again—one less complication in my life, which is already far too complicated. But I want to meet up with her again. I want to know. Who is she, really? Why does she want to look at naked men? Why did she get undressed with me? And above all, what’s behind that tragic air of hers?

  I’m a dumbass who’s getting lost in his fantasies. I’m transporting my fictions into the real world—which is what you’d expect from a man for whom books have been his succor and his guide. Absurd clichés: the enigmatic woman who conceals secrets and life experience, tumultuous passions. The lady with the dog, the vampiress who bears life’s stamp. Cheap symbolism. Irene is a rich girl from the upper crust—that’s how she was presented to me. All you have to do is take a look at her companion: Genoveva, the prototypical wealthy woman, the grandest of grandes dames. The only things she worries about have to do with her personal care: fashion, hairdressers, spa treatments. I assume she also cares about her stock portfolio. Irene is probably exactly the same way. Although . . . what if I’m letting myself get taken in by stereotypes? Maybe she reads Schopenhauer, recites Rilke at her mirror, and thrills to the music of Gustav Mahler when she comes home at night. If I’m inferring that Irene is just a rich girl because of her association with Genoveva, then by that same logic I’m a hustler like Iván. And I am, of course I am, I’m an escort and prostitute, but with less property than Iván, the hustler king. That’s my hope: that Irene may be well heeled, but not as much as Genoveva. I think that tragic quality of hers frees her from that. Rich women can be pathetic, but never t
ragic.

  Where does that pained grimace on her face come from? Can divorce really mark a person so deeply? It all depends on who it is that’s having the experience, rather than on the experience itself. She must be a sensitive woman despite her sour humor, her frostiness. I have no idea what the hell she’s like—she’s got this inscrutable quality to her. I’d like to know her story and—no point in denying it—I’d like to fuck her, overcome her resistance, scale the wall, reach the treasure chamber. Other people would probably say I’m driven by the same desire that drives any man: to seize what is forbidden, prove that no woman can resist me, invade sanctuaries, triumph. But that’s not true, I don’t think that’s true.

  * * *

  The wedding was really nice. The bride was stunning, in a cream-colored, strapless Cavalli gown, just perfect. I didn’t have a bad time. Even so, I’m less and less inclined to attend these kinds of events. Once you reach a certain age, you don’t get excited about things unless they’re real firecrackers. And then there’s the whole business of being with your family, which never changes. I don’t get it. Other people in the world change, right?—but your family never does: they say the same old things, tell the same old stories . . . You know it all by heart: children, grandchildren . . . Only the ailments vary: slipped disc, high cholesterol . . . a real drag. When I’m at one of those family gatherings, I feel like I’ve aged ten years. I leave the event and bam!, the decade falls away. Luckily, I met up with a couple of friends at the wedding, and the partying and the gin and tonics helped me hold out till the end. Otherwise I would have ended up going back home in a massive funk. I don’t see my family much, but they make me incredibly claustrophobic. It always feels like I’m in a cheesy illustrated story like the ones we used to read when we were little: the father duck, the mother duck, and all the little ducklings trailing behind. All so predictable, so normal, so atrociously commonplace! And then you remember the awful things they’ve done to you!—my sister-in-law always spreading dirt about me, my brother trying to pull a fast one with the inheritance after my parents’ death . . . I don’t hold a grudge, but once you go through certain experiences, you realize who you’re dealing with. And the worst part is that the exact same things happen to poor people. Puri, who was my assistant for so many years, was always telling me about her life. Well, turns out her family problems were very similar to mine: her sister-in-law was badmouthing her, her sister was angry about the distribution of the inheritance their mother left them when she died . . . On a different scale, but exactly the same crap. So this family stuff doesn’t just suck—it’s also incredibly mundane.

  I’ve experienced it before: coming back from a family event, I want a man! I guess I get the urge to act naughty to make it clear I’m not like everyone else: no kids or grandkids or sad weddings full of flower girls with beige ribbons in their curls. Oh, please, no, those things are out of another era! My family hasn’t figured out we’ve entered a new age, one with Internet and women’s liberation. I’m a person who lives in the moment, more modern, more open. And as soon as I got back from Marbella, I called Iván so the two of us could go out—but on our own. I’ve had enough of double dates.

  I had a great time. I’m crazy about this guy. The first thing he asked wasn’t how the wedding was but what kind of car the newlyweds drove off in. Well, at least he’s original. We met up at my house, and we spent the whole afternoon in bed, nonstop. I love sex with him! He’s self-assured, commanding, imposing. You feel like you’re in the hands of a real man. He doesn’t display any pleasure himself, but it’s almost better that way—it’s like screwing a machine that’ll never wear out. He restored the years of youth I’d lost at the damn wedding. Later, we got to talking. He told me his friend the teacher wanted another group outing, and I told him Irene did too.

  “Seems like those two are getting along,” I remarked.

  “Like a house on fire. Let’s hope that friend of yours moves past just wanting to see guys naked.”

  “God, I don’t know what to tell you! She’s so weird!”

  “So’s he—the teacher’s a weird dude! But he’s a good guy.”

  “Can you imagine if they fell in love? That would be so funny!”

  “I don’t see what’s funny about it. Hey, your friend’s not a ball-breaker, is she?”

  “A ball-breaker? What do you mean?”

  “One of those women who like causing destruction, seeing men suffer.”

  Because if she is, I’ll smack her. I know all about those broads: neurotic, high-maintenance, demanding . . . They like playing with guys, reeling them in and then once they’re hooked . . . never seen ’em before. I don’t like that chick—she gives me the creeps. Seems spoiled to me. Javier’s a little clueless, totally oblivious—he can’t fathom that there are people out there with bad intentions. He goes around with his heart on his sleeve—he’s a fucking chump. If this chick messes with him, I’ll make her pay. She’d better not try it.

  “Irene, a femme fatale? Honey, I don’t know. She doesn’t give me that impression, but who knows. She never says what she’s thinking or feeling.”

  * * *

  I’m nervous, and angry about being nervous. It’s not stress—it’s expectations. I don’t know why it throws me off so much to be alone with this guy. There aren’t going to be any surprises: he’ll do whatever I say. Maybe I’m unsure what I want to have happen. The other day I got undressed in front of him without even thinking. I’ve got to be careful, take things slow. I don’t have a lot of experience with men. I never dated boys when I was young. I’d see my girlfriends, listen to them talk about their relationships. It didn’t seem appealing. They lost their personalities, turned into other people, foolish girls with no will of their own. I just couldn’t imagine myself acting like such an idiot: rolling my eyes heavenward, writing my crush’s name on all my notebooks, crying whenever we argued. I had Papá—we spent the weekends together, went to the club, idled our Sundays away in each other’s company. It was all simple and peaceful, no problems or surprises. And my obligation, my sacred obligation, was to be with him. Papá had devoted his life to taking care of me. He never remarried, didn’t go out with women. I was always by his side. He took up all the empty space in my heart. I didn’t need anything else.

  I met David at the club. He was friends with one of Papá’s friends. My first boyfriend, and my last. Our relationship progressed as if the stages had been planned out in advance. He was the one who fell in love, and I let him love me a little more every day. Papá would have rather I found a wealthy man, one who had his own company, but he was always very pragmatic, and he quickly realized he could hire David at the factory and secure his future. He sat me down and persuaded me it would be to everybody’s benefit if David and I got married. My friends were already married. Though he was a modern man and believed women should make a living, he also thought marriage offered additional protection. He wanted to continue to protect me even after his death. Poor Papá—if he could see the way things turned out: our factory hanging by a thread, David sprinting out the back door as everything was crumbling around our ears, and with another woman. A disaster—total collapse.

  Papá was never wrong, but he was wrong when he advised me to get married. The two of us were good on our own. If I’d remained single, maybe I would have put more effort into our business. If I hadn’t gotten married, I wouldn’t have had to suffer through having my husband leave me. If my marriage hadn’t fallen apart, I wouldn’t be where I am now, paying guys to undress in front of me. Papá was wrong, and I was an idiot who didn’t feel secure in my own desires. That’s the truth of it.

  There’s only an hour till Genoveva comes to pick me up. I’m not nervous anymore. It’s been good to think about the past. Memories keep you from deceiving yourself, they put everything back in its place. You’re humming along in your mind, you get distracted, and gradually you veer off the road. But suddenly you rememb
er and reality comes rushing back—a firm jerk on the wheel puts the car back on the highway. My expectations are gone. I’m not going to meet up with an attractive young man I’m excited about. I’m going to pay to be with a naked man.

  Today Javier’s had a bit of a haircut, just a trim. He’s wearing a navy-blue sweater that looks brand new. I’d swear he’s gotten dressed up for the occasion. My memory of his facial features had gotten blurry. I confirm now that he’s pretty good-looking, maybe even handsome. He doesn’t take his eyes off me, a conspiratorial smile on his face. I don’t smile back. I don’t talk to him either, addressing Iván instead, though I’m repulsed by his cocky hood-rat look, so coarse and vulgar.

  “Do you like the place I chose for dinner, sweethearts? It’s really hot right now, but it’s nice and cheap. That way you won’t spend a lot and we can go have some more fun afterward. You can’t say I don’t look out for your finances.”

  “Don’t call me ‘sweetheart,’” I tell him.