Naked Men

by Alicia Giménez-Bartlett

  Her schedule—such a childish pretext! She shows up for our date dressed to the nines—she’s gotten dolled up to see me. She’s classy, that’s for sure, with a delicate silk scarf around her neck and tiny gleaming earrings. She didn’t choose the restaurant at random either: widely spaced tables, white tablecloths, candles . . . I’ve never been in a place like this.

  “It’s a very intimate space,” I comment.

  Unwilling to admit she’s put a lot of thought into choosing it, she says curtly, “Maybe—I don’t know. I just heard the food is good. Plus, they don’t know me here, which is a plus.”

  “Of course,” I say. “You don’t want anybody to see you with me.”

  “Nobody knows what you do, but next time you should wear something a little more formal, if you don’t mind.”

  “A suit jacket? I don’t have one.”

  “Well, buy one. It’s more appropriate than a T-shirt and sweater.”

  The point of her rude remarks is to put me in my place and keep me there. I could get offended, but the upshot of what she’s saying suggests that we’re going to see each other again and she doesn’t want us to stand out—she wants us to seem like a real couple.

  We place our order, and she has them bring a bottle of wine. It’s spectacular, the best I’ve ever had: smooth and flavorful. My first impulse is to toast, but I refrain, fearing it’ll turn out she doesn’t toast with peons—or worse.

  We begin to eat. We don’t have anything to talk about. She avoids looking at my face. I try not to take my eyes off her even for a second. She’s a hard nut to crack! Maybe we should have started off in bed.

  By the time our entrees arrive, we’ve almost finished the bottle of wine. I’m in high spirits, but I still don’t know what to say. Impassively cutting her steak, she suddenly goes and asks:

  “Tell me about when you were a teacher.”

  Maximum confusion on my part.

  “So you believe I’m a teacher now?”

  “You do have a lot of books.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “I don’t know, what your students were like, what happened in your classes . . . ”

  “I taught at a Catholic girls’ school, but I wasn’t a full-time teacher; I taught supplementary classes. Some of the parents wanted their daughters to get exposure to good books so they could talk about literature and be more cultured. The school was full of wealthy young women—daddy’s girls.”

  “I’m a daddy’s girl too.”

  I start laughing and give her a sympathetic look.

  “Then you know what I’m talking about.”

  “No, my father didn’t care whether I could talk about books. He just wanted me to finish my economics degree so I could run the family business one day.”

  “The girls in my classes didn’t care about literature at first either, but that changed when they really learned how to read it. I guided their reading at first, and eventually they realized that novels and poetry were talking about life, love, human relationships, things that they were experiencing. I showed them that even though the stories were fiction, they were simply depicting reality.”

  “It sounds like fun.”

  “We had a good time—but things changed, and after a while it didn’t seem to matter whether they were cultured or not. The important thing was to study so you could get a top-tier job.”

  “And then they let you go.”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you recommend a book for me to read?”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Practically euphoric, I say, “Of course!” I keep talking, my tone utterly transformed, expansive and animated:

  “Do you know I lent Iván a book? Crime and Punishment. And he started reading it! Though I’m not sure he actually made it to the end. I’m afraid Dostoyevsky didn’t do it for him.”

  She’s laughing, she’s laughing! What is this—a metamorphosis, merely a truce? She has a pretty laugh, with her straight, white teeth and her eyes narrowing mischievously. She’s so beautiful when she laughs—why doesn’t she ever do it?

  “You’re really beautiful when you laugh.”

  It’s as if I’ve splashed her with ice-cold water. Her face darkens. I’ve got to be careful—it’s not enough to avoid calling her “baby.” The slightest suggestion of intimacy is going to put her on guard, drive her away.

  As we leave the restaurant, I ask her gravely, “Shall we go to my place?”

  She nods. A taxi takes us to the door. We’re silent the whole way there. I’d love to kiss her, to hold her hand. I’m feeling aroused, my body is exuding desire, but I don’t dare even brush up against her.

  When we arrive, a neighbor has left the elevator door open somewhere above us, so we have to climb the stairs. I’m walking in front, and she’s trailing a good bit behind me. I’m afraid to look back at her in case I discover she’s disappeared. We’re panting a little as we reach the sixth floor. I insert the key in the lock and pause. I glance at her conspiratorially and smile, but she looks away. As soon as we enter the apartment, she springs at me like a mugger. She’s thirsty, starving, out of her mind. She yanks at my clothing, pushes me against the wall. I’m caught off guard by her aggressiveness. I try to calm her a little, whisper in her ear, caress her. No dice—feverishly, she starts undressing, throwing her clothes to the floor.

  “Get undressed!” she commands me.

  “Should we go to the bedroom?” I suggest quietly.

  I think I see her shake her head in the dim light of the entryway. I take her in my arms and lift her a little, and we bump against the wall. Forcefully, I penetrate her. I come quickly. She moans gently, as if she were injured.

  All at once, the situation feels awkward: the clothing scattered across the floor, the darkness . . . It’s cold. Irene tries to go to the bathroom, but she doesn’t know where the light switches are. “Turn on the light,” she says in a tense voice.

  I go into the living room and pour myself a finger of whiskey while I wait. I see her glide toward the entryway like a shadow. I look to see what she’s doing. She’s gathering up her clothing, her shoes, her purse. She starts to get dressed.

  “You’re leaving already?”

  “It’s late.”

  “It’s not that late. Have a drink, and I’ll look for a book for you to read. Remember? You asked me for one.”

  “All right,” she says, almost reluctantly.

  “Pour yourself a drink. I’ll be right back.”

  I go to the bedroom and pull the bedspread off the bed. I drape it over my shoulders. I don’t have a robe. She’s surprised to see me wrapped up that way, like a victim after an earthquake. I go over to the bookcases, pull out La Celestina from the rows of books, and sit down on the sofa.

  “Most of my students never understood this book.”

  “Why not?”

  “They were young—they’d never experienced passion, and sexual passion is at the heart of the book. Listen.”

  I read the first encounter between Calisto and Melibea aloud. They meet by chance, and Calisto is enthralled by her beauty. He immediately attempts to seduce her, but she rebuffs him with all the phrases you’d expect from a decent woman. But a moment later, without prior warning, she eggs him on explicitly: “You will have much more if you persevere.”

  “It’s odd, right? She says what she’s supposed to say, but she doesn’t want to risk losing him. It’s a direct, forceful seduction technique that leaves no room for ambiguity or misunderstanding.”

  She’s listening with great attention, hanging on my words. I keep talking about La Celestina, even recall things I used to tell my students: the lovers’ great passion, similar to romantic love but always limited to sex. Suddenly, she shivers. She’s half dressed.

  “Are you cold?”

  “A little.”


  “Come here.” I open the cocoon of the bedspread, revealing a space next to my naked body.

  She hesitates, uncertain, but finally comes over to the sofa.

  “Take off your shirt,” I say quietly.

  She hesitates again, but she takes it off. I put my arm around her, covering her. We sit without moving. She’s holding her head uncomfortably upright to avoid resting it on my chest. Feeling her there, naked, warm, soft, I want her again. This time with tenderness, emotion. We make love slowly, deliberately, deeply. She is lost in pleasure, moving in slow motion with her eyes closed, her body as sinuous and sensual as a cat’s. We last a long time. I hear her dark, muffled orgasm. She collapses in my arms. I go next, trembling violently. We lie there, still and quiet. An ambulance siren filters in through the window, moving off into the distance.

  A light punch in the stomach awakens me. She is getting up and hit me without meaning to.

  “We fell asleep. It’s five in the morning. I’m going to go.”

  “Stay. We can get in bed, and I’ll wake you up at eight.”

  She is hastily dressing. “No, I have to be at work really early tomorrow.”

  She comes back from the bathroom with her hair combed and her face washed. She picks up her purse and retrieves her wallet.

  “Do I owe you the same as usual? We’ve been together longer this time.”

  I leap to my feet, filled with a surge of indignation.

  “It’s a set price. It doesn’t matter how many times we fuck.”

  I hope my harsh tone and ugly language will make her react somehow, argue, demand an explanation, even an apology. But no, she just shrugs her shoulders. She leaves the money on the table, puts on her coat, and leaves.

  “Goodbye,” she says before closing the door.

  I don’t respond.

  Now alone, once more I sense my intuition warning me that I mustn’t see this woman again. Not ever.

  * * *

  I have no need for magical or romantic explanations. It’s actually quite logical that it’s taken me so long to discover sex. I’ve spent my life so focused on my work that I didn’t have time to think about anything else. That might seem strange in a married woman, but that’s how it was. I was wrapped up in my work, and my husband was busy mooching off of me, so who had the space to think about sex? Routine sex just for the sake of it: him with me and me with him. I never missed it. My life was full already: the factory, Papá . . . Things are harder now—I’ve started seeking out pleasure, even though I’d do just fine without it. Ultimately, it’s a destabilizing element, provoking thoughts I’d like to banish from my mind. I’m going to the psychiatrist more often. He’s a nitwit. Yesterday I mustered some nerve and said to him, “I’ve just discovered sex.” After all those sessions of my sitting in silence, he should have changed up his reaction a little, but he went back to his old standard: “Tell me about your marriage.”

  “What do you want me to tell you? That’s in the past.”

  “And our project here is to analyze the past.”

  “There’s nothing to analyze. I got married because my father thought it was best for me and I didn’t want to disappoint him.”

  “Your father was an enormous influence on your life.”

  Of course he was, dummy—he took care of me and loved me more than anyone else. I owe him everything I have.

  “He was a great man.”

  “Have you ever found any flaws in him?”

  “My father is dead. I don’t think about him looking to find flaws.”

  If he thinks he’s going to dazzle me with the four basic concepts from a psychology manual, he’s in for a surprise: Electra complex, omnipresent father . . . I know about all that already, and it doesn’t apply to me. Why do psychiatrists put so much emphasis on the past? My head’s never worked that way. At the factory I had to prioritize the present to make sure some possibility of the future still existed. Thinking may be important, but acting is even more vital. That’s the sign of the times we live in. If we spent our lives analyzing what we’d done previously, the world would come to a standstill. It’s crucial to develop new ideas quickly and execute them fearlessly. That’s how Papá did things. But I don’t have his fortitude. If he saw me right now, he’d be ashamed of me. And with good reason. Here’s the big director of his big factory with no idea what the hell she’s doing. Look at her, observe her new habits: she goes to the psychiatrist, and she likes fucking. My lamentable situation does have one redeeming aspect: I’m paying for sex. I’m not going out with some moron I met on the Internet, I’m not seeking consolation in an artificial romance, I’m not willing to put up with the first asshole who comes along and offers me tenderness and companionship. No, I pay to fuck, and I find that comforting. The only problem is I like fucking Javier so much. I’ll get over it. And as for the psychiatrist, it’s ridiculous, I know, but it gives me a certain confidence to go to his office, even if I don’t say anything.

  Yesterday I went out to eat with Genoveva. She rattled on about her usual topics: beauty, fashion, well-being. Afterward, when they brought the coffee, I asked, “Genoveva, do you get the feeling you’ve missed out on anything in life?”

  “Oh, honey, good Lord, where did that come from? I’d have to think about it.”

  “Think about it.”

  She performs a caricature of deep thought, resting her chin on her hand and narrowing her eyes, and eventually I can tell from her expression that she actually does start thinking.

  “I don’t know, so many things! If I’d been born later, I could have been a fashion designer and led a more interesting life. I’d have gone on business trips, met famous people . . . But back in my day women didn’t have a choice. All we had was the sacraments: baptism, confirmation, communion, and marriage.”

  “But living the life you’ve led, do you think you’ve lacked anything?”

  “Sure, lots of things. For example, I’d have liked to have had a husband who wasn’t such a pain in the ass. Most importantly, I’d have loved to have a love story like the ones you see in the movies, where a man really fell head over heels for me.”

  “What kind of man?”

  “A millionaire. A powerful man who, being totally smitten, would take me sailing around the Greek isles. A wild, sensitive millionaire who’d sweep me away to the Paris Opera one night. What do I know! But to be honest, it doesn’t bother me too much that I never got to live out those dreams, especially at this point in my life. I’m a realist, and I’ve lived what I’ve lived. I’m not complaining. If I want anything extra, I just pay for it. As you know quite well!”

  She winks at me and starts laughing. Genoveva and her Hollywood dreams! Compared with my own aspirations—to screw more often and better—hers seem like foolish whimsies. And they are.

  * * *

  I call her at lunchtime. She doesn’t sound at all excited to hear my voice. Concerned she might think I want to suggest another date so I can get more money out of her, I quickly ask, “Did you finish reading the book?”

  Silence. Then she replies: “Yes.”

  “What did you think?”

  “I don’t agree with what you said.”

  “Why not?”

  “Let’s talk later—I’m at work right now.”

  “Do you want to get coffee this afternoon?”

  An extended silence. I brace for one of her rude comebacks. Finally, it comes:

  “Coffee? I thought you weren’t going to waste your time.”

  “Just because I do what I do for a living, that doesn’t mean I spend all my time in bed with women. I get coffee with friends, go to the movies . . . have a private life.”

  “And what does your private life have to do with me?”

  “Just a coffee—a coffee and a chat about books. If you’re interested, great. If not, no problem.”


  “All right.”

  I give her the name and address of a bar downtown, and we set a time. She’s the most unpleasant person I’ve ever met. Incredibly hostile.

  At the bar, I’m feeling nervous as I wait. What’s going on with me—do I like this woman? I like her, yet I’m also aware she can be as deadly as poison. I imagine she’s got her reasons for acting the way she does, but I have no idea what they are. Does she like me—does she really like me? What I like about her is the way she seems so normal. She looks like a normal girl I could have met at any point in my previous life. I also like the way she has sex with me: her complete dedication, the strength that thrums through her body combined with her vulnerability. It’s as if she’s trying not to feel what she feels and at the same time is letting go, almost ready to die. None of the other women I’ve slept with have reacted this way, not ever. The hard part is that when the party’s over, she turns as prickly as a sea urchin. If I could at least learn a little bit more about her, if she just relaxed for once . . . I’m such an idiot. What would I do if she did relax—ask her to be my girlfriend, my best friend, my wife? I don’t seem to realize what I am: an escort. I haven’t managed to process that my new job comes with a new identity. I keep feeling like I’m subbing in for another person, and that sooner or later everything will go back to normal. But I shouldn’t fool myself: the more time I spend in this role, the less likely it is I’ll find a direct, obstacle-free path back to a normal life.

  Through the bar window, I see her arrive. She comes in and walks straight toward me. Not even the hint of a smile. She says hello, sits down. She eyes me with an inquisitive look on her face. I can read her thoughts: “Now what? You called me here for this? Don’t you see we have nothing to talk about?” To fend off her silent reproach, I launch into a ridiculous speech about why I’ve chosen this place: the selection of beers and the solemn, ritualistic way they’re poured. She listens, wearing a pointed expression of endless patience. The waiter arrives and we order two beers, selected from among the many types I’ve rattled off like a parrot in a cage.