Naked Men

by Alicia Giménez-Bartlett

  This woman makes me so nervous, I’m acting like a total jackass. I pull myself back together, try to be energetic and forceful. I called her because I want to know more about her, right? I spit it out:

  “I want to know you better.”

  She takes a long pull from her glass. A smile! Hallelujah? No, it’s a hard, mocking, cynical smile.

  “I thought we were here to talk about La Celestina.”

  She’s right, I’m a moron—I’d forgotten.

  “That’s true. You said you didn’t agree with my interpretation, and I’d like to know why.”

  “You explain everything in terms of passion: you see desire and sex as the key theme. But I think there’s something far more important: social differences. The two lovers are from the upper class. The others are commoners: the old procuress, the servants . . . they’re just after money and that’s it.”

  “But they know passion too.”

  “As a weapon they can wield against the powerful.”

  Where the hell is this coming from? Who is this woman, a slaveholding business owner? Is she implying I’m just a libidinous servant? But she’s given me ammunition for an attack. I’m sick of being beaten up on, so I use it:

  “Well, Celestina herself nostalgically recalls the time when she used to enjoy sex. Not to mention the servants, who screw like bunnies.”

  “Exactly, and they never dress sex up as love.”

  “Irene, do you realize what great chemistry we have in bed?”

  I’ve caught her off guard. She blushes. She clenches her jaw and looks at me furiously, her eyes narrowed to slits.

  “That’s not in the book.”

  “No,” I answer, and hold her angry gaze.

  She reaches into her purse and looks for the check to pay it.

  I cut her off: “It’s my treat.”

  “Great. Oh! and if you don’t mind, the next book you recommend, try to have it be about politics or war or religion. I’m not interested in ones about sex and love.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. You’re leaving already?”

  “I have a meeting.”

  “When will we see each other again?”

  “Genoveva will set it up.”

  I start laughing.

  “Of course, we’ve got to include Genoveva!”

  She ignores me and leaves, muttering a goodbye. In this moment, I hate her like I’ve never hated anybody in my life, and I barely know her.

  * * *

  He’s still going out with that chick. I know because Geno figured it out, not because the chick’s told her anything. But Genoveva’s a smart cookie, so something’s up. I don’t care, obviously. I’m not his father or his brother, much less his pimp. If he wants to set things up on his own, I’m not going to demand a cut. I’m just pissed he hasn’t said anything. Why is he hiding it—is he afraid of me? I’m a straight shooter, damn it, and it makes me crazy when people do things behind my back. If the teacher’s earning some scratch off of her, that’s great—he can just tell me. But if he’s being all mysterious because he’s hung up on her and is afraid to admit it, then he’s screwed—he’s going to get gored like a bull runner at the festival of San Fermín.

  But I have no idea what’s going on now. Yesterday Genoveva called me to arrange for the four of us to go out again. What’s up with that? If those two are screwing on their own, why do we have to all go out as a gang? Maybe Genoveva’s wrong. What the hell do I know. I’ll just keep doing my thing.

  Dinner at an Argentine place. Awesome plan. I polished off a massive steak with mushrooms and roasted potatoes on the side. I was so hungry after the show that I didn’t pay attention to anything else: I just tucked right into the cow. Then, over dessert, I start to notice a couple of things. There was a good vibe going, with teasing double entendres about tenderloins. Genoveva loves that crap—despite her age, sometimes she seems like a little kid.

  As I ate my chocolate mousse, I started really pricking up my antennae: the teacher was gazing moonily at the chick—so was she, though not as much. Little glances, little smiles . . . it’s clear they’ve got something going on besides our double dates, but I have no idea what. One possibility is that this dumbass has gotten himself hung up on that ditz, but maybe he’s actually a goddamn genius and he’s screwing her to finagle a car out of her or something. I really wouldn’t advise that, though; big gifts can end up really tying you down afterward. If you accept a car from a chick, you’re basically at her beck and call. That’s the worst, a total bummer—the chick gets all bossy and demanding, and you just have to sit there and take all her crap. It’s a goddamn nightmare, not worth getting involved.

  After that last supper at the Argentine restaurant, I called Javier so we could get a kebab and a beer at the Arab place. And I asked him. Hell, there’s nothing wrong with asking!

  “Hey, teach, what’s up with you and that chick?”

  He starts laughing, but he’s faking it—I know him well.

  “You’re still harping on that, Iván? You’re a broken record, man!”

  “Shit, though, you’d have to be blind not to see it! Makes no difference to me—I’m just asking to make sure you don’t get in too deep, buddy.”

  “No worries, man. I’ve got it all under control.”

  I wish what I just told Iván were true, but it’s not. I’m not in control of anything, and I don’t even know it is what I’m supposed to control. I’m liking Irene more and more. She’s a hurricane in bed, but it’s not just that. Right when you least expect it, she transforms into one of those first loves from your youth: inexpert, frightened, tender, a little girl you’re holding hands with. And then her other face suddenly appears: aggressive, distant, sour as a lemon, tormented. That torment doesn’t dissipate until she places the money on the table to pay me. Still, lately she’s agreed to go out with me a few times just to have coffee and talk.

  “Do the two of you meet up to have sex every day?”

  “No, Iván, Jesus. We meet up every once in a while, and not always to have sex. Sometimes we just talk.”

  “Talk about what?”

  “Books, movies . . . The other day we went to see a movie. Then we got a drink and talked about it for a while.”

  “When you do those things, does she pay you?”

  “No.”

  “And when you sleep together?”

  “Yes, she does then.”

  “That’s weird.”

  “Well, it’s like if you had a friend you . . . ”

  “Yeah, a friend you occasionally sleep with for money. Sure, I get it.”

  I don’t get it at all. It’s a goddamn mess. Today we go out and take in some culture for free, and tomorrow we knock boots for cash? How does that work? Really, though, good for the teacher. He’s got some massive balls on him. He sleeps with her before she pays him, and then the guy goes and tops it all off with a bunch of books. And she loves it: cock and brain for one low price. The combo would never have occurred to me! Maybe I should be offering these two-for-one deals. Not with books, obviously, but tell the girls I’ll change the oil in their car for the same price as a lay. Get a load of the teacher! The guy’s amazing! A goddamn genius!

  * * *

  “We’ve got to sell the company, Irene. We don’t have a choice. If we wait another month, it’ll lose all its value. The crisis is global, and it’s lasting longer than we expected. It’s time.”

  “Let me think about it.”

  “There’s nothing to think about. We’re totally bankrupt.”

  “I said I’ll think about it! I’ll call you when I’ve made a decision.”

  So long to everything. I have nothing left of my father. I have nothing left of my life. I have nothing left of me. Selling is easy for this guy, but for me . . . I want to curl up and hide somewhere where I won’t feel anything
, where I can wait quietly for the very end.

  I’ve agreed to go out and have coffee with Javier a few times. At first we acted strictly on that plan, but not the last few times. When it comes time to say goodbye, something prevents us from separating, and we end up going back to his place. I’m starting to think I’m sick—just the way he smells makes me want to jump on top of him. I’d never thought anything like this was possible. It’s not normal. I can still feel the sensations of sex with him for hours afterward. I wake up in the middle of the night, wild with desire. It’s not normal. It scares me—maybe I’m developing a pathological obsession. It’s as if I no longer belonged entirely to myself. For the first time in my life, I sense a danger that Papá wouldn’t be able to protect me from. Javier is unquestionably that danger. He knocks me off guard, derails me, makes me dependent. He’s destroyed my willpower. And he’s a prostitute too, a guy who charges money to sleep with women. Some days, I can’t believe this is happening to me. How far I’ve fallen.

  I decided to tell the psychiatrist about some of my fears. I thought I wouldn’t be able to be honest with him, but then I figured I was paying for his discreet listening skills.

  “I’ve met a man, and I’m obsessed with having sex with him.”

  He asked me about the man. I told him he’s polite, cultured, good-looking, pleasant. He started laughing.

  “I don’t see the problem.”

  The problem is the obsession, you damn idiot. The problem is I feel trapped in a spiderweb. The problem is my hunk is a hooker. I wasn’t able to tell him that part—the words refused to come out.

  “Maybe you’ve been too sheltered, Irene. Often, without our realizing it, our refuges become prisons, and the people who protect us become our jailers.”

  He’s not just an idiot—he’s an asshole too. He’s referring to Papá and me. Anything I tell him, he connects it back to Papá and me. As if relationships didn’t contain nuances, special circumstances, infinite variations. No, we always end up right back in the psychoanalysis manual. He has no idea how perfect my father was. He doesn’t realize the complications and pain my father saved me from. And as far as my current situation, if I told him what Javier does for a living, he’d understand I actually do have a problem, and one that’s not easily solvable. But why tell the truth? The man’s an idiot and an asshole.

  He ends the day’s session by placing a decorative cherry atop his psychiatric cake.

  “Look, Irene, you’d be surprised if you knew how many wealthy women with quiet lives discover sex and love late—or never discover them at all. You’re lucky. Enjoy it. Don’t put up barriers—let yourself go. Don’t be afraid. Just stay calm.”

  I’m just another wealthy woman—that’s how he sees me. A woman who’s led a conventional life with her husband, playing tennis, drinking tea with her friends, buying a million Christmas presents. But none of that is true: I grew up without a mother, worked like a dog at the company, endured a husband who married me purely out of his own self-interest, suffered a humiliating divorce, stopped seeing my friends, and go out with male prostitutes for sex. I’m on my own. If you call that a placid, bourgeois life, then yes, I guess I’m just another wealthy woman.

  When I left his office, I’d already made a decision. So long to the idiot asshole. No more therapy—shame about the money wasted. I’m going to use only one bit of his advice: enjoy it. I swear up and down I’m going to try. For starters, I’ll agree to put the company up for sale. I can’t fight it anymore. I have and will continue to have money to spare. The hell with everything! This wealthy woman’s going to wage her own little revolution.

  * * *

  Nothing is written—everything develops little by little, and we can give it whatever shape we choose. I’ve never believed in destiny, but I vaguely remember my mother telling me, “Everything’s going to be OK.” Then I never saw her again because she died in that ridiculous accident. But I’m still alive. Everything’s going to be OK. I’m not depressed like I was when I lost my job, like I was when Sandra left me, kicked me out. I’ve fought tooth and nail. I’m a stripper and a prostitute, but the only thing that should count is that I’m still myself, regardless of what I do for a living. Plus there’s Irene. We see each other almost every day now. We make love, but we also talk about a million things. She remains an enigma, never tells me anything about her life, but I can tell she’s moving closer to me; she’s more open, more real. She’s starting to smile, and the other day she almost laughed out loud. Her face is beautiful when it lights up, when it loses its tragic aura. I like her more and more all the time. She’s brave, mysterious, elegant. I get goosebumps seeing how she gives herself to me when we have sex, like a virgin bride, like a wild woman I’ve found on a desert island. Afterward, she pulls herself back together, turns cynical and aloof again. But that mask, too, will fall one day, a defense she’ll no longer need when she’s with me. Everything’s going to be OK.

  There are some things I’m having a hard time accepting: her money when she insists on paying me, the company of women that Iván keeps finding for me. Irene asks me about that sometimes, seemingly casual—“Have you seen anyone else today?”—or tinged with sarcasm—“How’s business?” I’m sure pretty soon she’s going to ask me to see her exclusively. And when she does, will I agree to it? Because if I see only her, my income will depend on her. Maybe she’ll offer me a set amount per week, per month. If I go along with that, our relationship will be forever tainted: the lady and her rent boy. Just thinking about it turns my stomach, but I’m trapped in a labyrinth that has no way out, at least for the moment—nobody can predict what might happen in the future. Today I have to move cautiously: no scaring her, no losing ground on the progress we’ve made, no driving her away with some clumsy gesture. Everything’s going to be OK.

  The phone rings. It’s her. She wants me to go out to dinner at her club, with her friends. I’m so surprised, I don’t know what to say. Is it a test? Does appearing with me in polite society mean we’re moving up another rung on the treacherous ladder of our relationship?

  “What should I say if they ask what I do for a living?”

  “Tell them the truth.”

  “That I go out with you for money?”

  “Is that the truth?”

  “Yes, but no.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well . . . ”

  She understands exactly what I mean; she’s just trying to get me to talk. I’d like to know what it is she wants to hear.

  “Don’t worry about it—it doesn’t matter. Just tell them you’re a teacher. That’s true too—or is that another yes but no?”

  “Actually, that’s a yes but no too.”

  “It’s pretty ambiguous, what we’ve got going on here.”

  “Yes but yes.”

  I hear her laugh on the other end of the line, and it is a beautiful, clear, happy laugh. We agree to meet at eight that same night. She doesn’t tell me to dress appropriately.

  * * *

  Shit, man, I can’t believe what I’m seeing! Well, I’m not actually seeing it, but the teacher told me about it. Irene invited him to dinner at her private club with her fancy friends. A real sniffy place where you can play a ton of sports—it’s even got an indoor pool—and they also hold galas, banquets, cocktail parties . . . real blackout ragers. He got all dressed up for the occasion. It’s like Pretty Woman, but the other way around: the rich woman marries the poor prostidude. But maybe there’s something fishy going on here! When Javier started telling me about it, everything sounded great: how everybody was looking at him with curiosity, her all affectionate and putting her hand intimately on his knee . . . It was pretty intense for him, of course, because apparently the rich folks kept staring at him, smiling as if to say, “Get a load of Irene—she finally hit the jackpot.” And she goes and snuggles with him in front of everybody and asks whether he enjoyed the
food. The teacher says she’s never that attentive when they’re alone because she’s shy—but I think she was putting on a show for her audience so they’d all believe the teacher was her new fella. If I were him, I’d have been really pissed, but he’s patient and never thinks ill of anybody. He must be thinking something, though, otherwise why the hell is he telling me all this? He usually never tells me anything.

  Just in case, since I don’t want anyone talking smack about my friend, I called Genoveva to go out for a beer and just came right out and asked her:

  “Hey, Geno, did you know Irene invited Javier to her club?”

  “It’s the first I’ve heard of it.”

  “Well she did, and apparently she turned all lovey-dovey for the occasion, even though she never acts like that in private.”

  “Wow, everybody at the club must have practically died of shock. The curiosity must be driving them crazy. I’m surprised nobody’s called me to find out more. Irene’s cut off contact with all our friends, so you can imagine what the place must have been like after that performance. Do you know how she introduced him—as a friend, boyfriend . . . ?”

  “No idea, babe, no idea. And to be honest, I don’t really give a crap what they think. What I want to know is what your friend is up to with Javier. It seems like things have gone a little beyond the usual arrangement. She can go out with him, fine, but why introduce him to her friends and start making out with him in front of everybody, when she doesn’t usually do that?”

  “What do you care?”

  “I care. Javier’s a good guy, a really good guy, and he doesn’t have as much life experience as me.”

  Shit, what the hell is up with her? Glaring at me like she wants to leave—really? Doesn’t she get that that’s what this meeting is about, that we’re here about my friend?

  “Whereas you’re more of a dick, huh, Iván?”