by J. J. Murray
“Are you hungry, Matty?”
He looked into her hazel eyes. “I’m ravenous.”
Monique batted her long eyelashes. “Not as ravenous as I am. Let’s eat.”
Lovin’ Cup Café had a long bar on one side, a collection of small tables with two chairs on the other. Matthew looked forward to their knees doing the cha-cha-cha in this crowded, intimate restaurant.
As soon as they sat looking over the menu, Monique’s calves rubbed against his.
“Oh,” she said, “they have drunk brunch specials. Maybe we can come back tomorrow for brunch.”
Matthew thought this was a wonderful idea. “I haven’t been here in quite a while. What’s good?”
“Oh,” Monique gushed. “You have to try the tots.”
Tots. A grown woman has just said “tots” to me. “I think I will.”
They ate Whole Lotta Lovin’ Tots. They savored tortilla soup. They split an order of Jalapeño Mac ‘n’ cheese.
And Monique drank.
A lot.
In less than half an hour, she knocked back two strawberry tequilas and a Parlourita, a spicy margarita with jalapeño tequila, Cointreau, and lime.
Twenty-five bucks for our food, twenty-five bucks so far for drinks. There’s something symmetrical about that.
Matthew soon discovered that although Monique had absolutely nothing to say as she ate, her body never stopped talking and whispering, “Take me, Matty!”
As Monique sipped her second Parlourita and Matthew his original Sam Adams, Matthew tried to get a conversation going. “So, how’s Brooklyn Legal?”
“The same. You know.”
I don’t know. That’s why I asked. “Still busy?”
“Yeah.”
“Still crowded?”
“Yeah.”
“You obviously like working there if you’re still there.”
“Yeah.”
“How long have you been there now?”
Monique groaned. “Five years.”
That was a sexy groan. I hope she groaned because of my question and not the effects of all that alcohol. What’s she weigh, one-twenty? She has an unusual tolerance for alcohol.
“Is Mitch still there?” Matthew asked.
“Yeah.”
“I remember when I started and Mitch was doing some Greenpoint rezoning case and fighting developers,” Matthew said. “That was a mess, wasn’t it?”
Monique blinked at him, frowning.
Did her eyes just roll? They did. “But that’s past history.”
Monique’s smile returned.
I talk, and she rolls her eyes. I stop talking, and she smiles. I will stop talking. “The night is young. Do you want to go somewhere, maybe play some Brewskee-Ball at Full Circle Bar?”
Monique blinked.
Not her idea of fun. “Or maybe we could catch a movie at the Nitehawk. I think they’re doing a series of Kung Fu flicks with live music. Or is it The Princess Bride with waffles and chicken? Either way, it will be really . . .” Monique is frowning. This is not good.
Monique sighed. “I’d rather go to The Cove.” She pointed out the window and across the street. “I love to dance.”
She has a body built for dancing. But at The Cove? That’s a mini aircraft hangar, a veritable firehouse that masquerades as a nightclub. It’s always so crowded, but if she wants to dance, we will dance. I want to see her dance.
“It used to be called Hugs,” Matthew said.
“Yeah?”
Monique can also turn “yeah” into a question. She has an incredible vocabulary. “Let’s go dancing.” Matthew stood and threw three twenties on the table. “Ready?”
“Yeah.”
They crossed 6th Street and passed people standing outside talking on cell phones and smoking. A strong whiff of urine washed over Matthew. They still haven’t solved their bathroom problems. If I have to, I will use the upstairs bathroom.
As they waited to be carded, Monique grabbed Matthew’s driver’s license from his hand. “Do you have a car?”
I would have picked you up if I had a car, right? “Not anymore. I used to have a BMW when I worked for Schwartz, Yevgeny, and Ginsberg.”
“Who?”
You can’t turn on the radio or TV without hearing their abrasive, in-your-face ads. “The ‘Know Your Rights or You’re Nowhere!’ guys.”
Monique blinked.
She has no idea. And she’s a paralegal? SYG is the scourge of the legal world from coast to coast. “They’re the lawyers who sue the known and unknown world, the living and even the dead, the law firm with all those loud ads on TV.”
Monique squinted then broke into a dazzling smile. “Oh, those guys. I didn’t know you used to work for them.”
“Past history.”
Monique shrugged. “Matty, if you don’t have a car, why do you still have a driver’s license?”
“It’s mainly for ID, so I can get into clubs like this.”
“Oh.” She held the license in front of her nose. “It says you’re a donor.”
“Yes,” Matthew said. “I’m leaving all my organs and my eyes to someone who needs them when I die.”
“But won’t you need them?” Monique asked.
Wow. Is she trying to be funny ? Her eyes are serious. “Yes. Now. I need them now.”
“So why are you a donor?” she asked.
Oh boy. I need to go inside so I can stop talking and she can stop trying to think. “Are you ready to get your dance on?”
Monique shook her head. “Get my dance on? You’re so old-fashioned.”
“I guess I am.”
“No one says that anymore, Matty,” Monique said, handing her ID to the guy at the door.
“Okay, how about . . .” Keep it simple. “Are you ready to dance?”
Monique smiled. “You know it.”
Matthew handed his ID to the guy. “Still no cover charge?” The guy nodded and handed his card back.
Monique grasped Matthew’s arm, and in they went as DJ Full Time Fun was playing a reggae song that had the crowd bobbing and Matthew’s ears ringing.
One hundred twenty decibels at least. It’s as loud as the subway in here. I hope he plays some old-school hip-hop and R&B tonight. Those don’t seem as loud for some reason. And I hope I don’t have to use the unisex bathrooms. It’s extremely disconcerting to open your stall door and face a woman waiting for her turn.
“There aren’t any places to sit!” Matthew yelled.
“What?” Monique shouted. “I’m thirsty!”
Monique dragged him straight to the bar, where Matthew wasted thirteen bucks on a gin and tonic and a Brooklyn Black Chocolate Stout, as green lights flashed and glowed, giving the place a post-Christmas and pre-St. Patrick’s Day feel.
Notorious B.I.G.’s “Juicy” thundered from the speakers, and Monique raced to the packed dance floor, leaving Matthew to bob and weave his way next to her.
I will not talk much here. Therefore, Monique will smile at me often. I’d have to put my tongue in her ear for her to hear me anyway.
He looked up. Such low ceilings. This is more a cave than a cove. If you throw your hands in the air and wave ’em like you just don’t care, you could chip your nails, bruise your knuckles, or dislocate your fingers.
Monique gyrated and writhed, sweat beading on her forehead, her gin and tonic high in the air.
And she hasn’t spilled a single drop. She obviously has her priorities in order.
Within a few minutes, Monique was only a flash of bare midriff and some tight jeans three dancers away.
She has forgotten that I exist in the span of one song while I’m bathing in other people’s sweat. Hey! Watch the toes! Is that a man or a woman? Or both? Matthew took a closer look. Or neither? Is that being even human?
He saw Monique’s hands waving in the air, no sign of her drink. She needs to hydrate more during the day. There’s a guy a millimeter from her booty. Flavor Flav? Here?
I am getting too old for th
is scene.
Matthew wormed closer to Monique as the song changed.
No, no! Not Katy Perry’s “The One That Got Away”! This is Joy music. If they play Britney Spears’s “I Wanna Go,” I’m leaving.
He stood next to Monique and shouted in her ear. “Such a cheesy song, huh?”
“This is my song, Matty!” She grabbed his hands. “Dance with me!”
To this?
Monique put his hands on her hips.
Well, maybe it’s not such a bad song. Look at her hips go. My hands are getting dizzy. They’ll be buzzing for days.
Matthew looked around at the other dancers. Most were doing no more than wiggling and writhing in place. Hung-over and high hipsters, some wearing the Samurai “Man Bun,” shook themselves near tanked bankers and hot ripped vixens in ripped jeans. Some gin-sipping gay and straight fashion divas of both sexes bumped elbows with thugs armed with beer bottles and tattoos, while wasted frat boys wearing worsted sweaters ogled some seriously overserved European women with bad accents and even worse dance moves. It didn’t matter a bit that Matthew really couldn’t dance. He could barely move, surrounded by a kaleidoscope of Latinos, Jamaicans, and assorted white people bumping chests and thumping toes.
And surrounding his date.
It’s the attack of the leeches, Matthew thought sadly. Joy hated men to be “all up on her,” so I only brought her here once. Monique doesn’t even seem to notice.
One huge guy wearing a William Paterson University sweatshirt grabbed Monique’s booty from behind, and Monique only smiled at him.
I guess that’s how they say hello in New Jersey. He’s gone. I should have said something like, “You could have shaken her hand.”
While Monique swayed to Mary J. Blige’s “I’m Goin’ Down,” an old Jamaican wearing a Rasta cap stood shouting a millimeter from her left ear while a Latino shouted into her right. Matthew found it bizarre that strangers became territorial over people they had just met.
They’re being more territorial than I am, and I’m her date!
Matthew tried to get in front of Monique, but the Jamaican boxed him out as the Latino asked to see Monique’s phone.
Don’t give it to him.
Monique gave the phone to him.
Matthew watched him put in his number.
He watched Monique save the man’s number, pressing several buttons to give him a name.
I should have said something like, “Dude, she’s with me,” but I want Monique to smile. The less I say to her, the more she smiles.
Matthew felt more like a security guard than a date. Actually, I feel more like a typical security guard, one that only watches and reports and doesn’t actually keep anything secure. It’s not as if we’re dating, though this is technically a date. I think. What passes for a date these days is up for debate.
What bothered Matthew the most was that Monique didn’t seem to mind any of the groping or the grinding, as if she actually expected to be groped and ground. She loves the attention. Maybe getting felt up by strangers in public is her foreplay. Matthew was sure Monique rode the train from Bushwick to Brooklyn Legal so men could get a handle on her before and after work.
The song changed to “Holiday,” a prehistoric Madonna song, while Matthew was more than three sets of hips away from Monique. She’s moving way too fast for me and twice as fast as the song. What’s she doing? What’s it called, soca, chutney, calypso, zouk?
Matthew noticed a crowd of appreciative men inching closer to her.
No one can do the limbo at The Cove. You’d be trampled to death. Hey! Does she have to lock her groin with that guy?
Matthew was about to give up and find a place to sit when Monique appeared in front of him. She finished his beer and set it on the ground. She smiled, turned around, and grabbed Matthew’s hands, placing them on her front pockets.
Okay, now we’re dry humping on the dance floor. Joy told me about this. What’s it called? Daggering? Cabin stabbing? Whatever it is, I like it very much.
And so did about eight other guys before me.
The Jamaican man crouched in front of Monique.
Hey, we’re dry humping over here! She’s busy.
“Did a magician give birth to you?” he shouted loud enough for Matthew to hear.
“No!” Monique shouted, laughing.
“But you are so magical!” the man yelled.
I’ve had enough of these interruptions. Matthew pulled Monique’s booty tight to his groin and looked down on the man. “She’s with me! She’s my magic tonight!”
The man backed away.
Monique straightened up and turned. “I’m your magic?”
I’m buzzing from her breath! “Can I get you anything?” A gallon of coffee, perhaps? Some breath mints?
She stood on tiptoes and shouted, “You can get me out of here, Matty!”
Matthew took her hand and led her outside, a few men straining their necks to watch Monique’s booty bounce by.
Outside in the crisp, fresh air, Matthew wiped the sweat dripping from Monique’s forehead with his sleeve. “Should we get a cab?”
Monique nodded. “You hear that guy in there?”
Which one of the dozen who talked to you? “Yeah.”
“He said I was magical.”
Matthew smiled. “You are.”
Monique stepped closer and kissed his chin. “Ooh, salty.”
They took a cab to her apartment in Bushwick near Miguelito Grocery on Central Avenue. After entering her cozy ground-floor apartment, Monique didn’t turn on a single light, pausing every few feet to light a candle.
It’s romantic, but come on! There have to be other kinds of scented candles. Vanilla again? Why not cranberry or apple pie or something?
“Are you ready for me, Matty?” Monique whispered.
“I think so,” Matt whispered.
As Monique moved through a tiny kitchen, she kicked off her heels, shimmied out of her jeans, tore off her blouse, and dropped her bra and thong onto the kitchen floor.
She has obviously practiced that. She has dispatched all of her clothing on less than ten square feet of linoleum in less than ten seconds.
Matthew noticed several tattoos above, below, and in between her magnificent booty as she opened her bedroom door and threw herself face down on the bed.
“Mmm,” she cooed. “See anything magical, Matty?”
Matthew nodded. That is not a body. That is a living sculpture. That’s some serious booty art.
Monique turned over and ran her hands over her breasts. “Are you ready to get busy, Matty?”
Matthew nodded, watching one of her hands sliding down between her legs.
“I’m getting ready, Matty,” she whispered. “Any time you’re ready.”
Well, yes and no. Yes, I am ready to enjoy your body and read all your tattoos, especially the largest one: “Je suis trop sexy.” I didn’t take French, but I can guess what it means. But no, I’m not prepared for this. At all.
“I didn’t expect we would do this, Monique,” Matthew said. “I mean, on a first date. I mean, I hardly know you, you know? We haven’t spoken in years, right? So I’m not . . . I don’t have any—”
Monique’s other hand slid down her stomach to join the other. “Top drawer of the nightstand . . .”
Matthew had to duck under a ceiling fan to reach the nightstand. That fan isn’t up to code. Opening the drawer, he saw the largest collection of condoms ever assembled in one nightstand drawer on planet Earth.
In every color, flavor, size, and texture. I live over a pharmacy, and I’ve never seen anything like this in there. Jex Menthol? Scotch-flavored McCondoms? Vanilla-flavored Glyde Ultra, which are one hundred percent Vegan? Coffee-flavored Moods? Most people put some gum or some mints in their nightstands for those late-night cravings. Monique has these.
He watched her slender fingers for several long moments.
“Hurry, Matty . . .”
“Monique?” he whis
pered.
“I’m almost there, Matty.”
Matthew looked into the drawer and noticed that all but one of the XL condoms was missing from a box. In fact, most of the boxes were nearly empty. That condom wrapper is already open, and it’s glowing.
Monique’s hips rose and fell, her booty rising a foot off the bed. “Matty, come on.”
“Um . . .”
Hit the brakes! I know she’s probably a nice girl. Okay, maybe not. She’s definitely popular. She likes to dance, right? Horizontally, too. She is far too fast for me. I’m sure she’s a gymnast, intense, insatiable, free, an exhibitionist, loud, and most likely a scratcher from the looks of her nails, but the cornucopia of condoms in her drawer is a definite stopper.
“Matty . . .” Monique’s booty dropped to the bed, her hands returning to her breasts. “What are you waiting for?”
A certificate from the health department? No, that’s a mean thought. She is practicing safe sex. Often. But she is too wild, too flirtatious, too sexual, too . . . loose. Does anyone use that word anymore? Monique is fast and loose. Or maybe she just likes to have a lot of sex. There’s nothing wrong with that, but that makes me only another hookup to her. She’ll probably be calling Latino man later this week.
“Matty, what are you doing?” she asked.
I’m not doing . . . anything . . . or anyone. I wanted to go on a fun date that led to more fun dates. I didn’t want a one-night stand. I didn’t want a hookup. I didn’t want to see the contents of this drawer either.
“Monique,” Matthew said, “I had a great time, I really did, but I . . . I have to go now.”
Monique rolled off the bed in a flash, standing dangerously close to Matthew. “You’re kidding, right?”
She is so fine. “No. Thanks for dinner and . . . dancing.” And a show I will never forget.
Matthew slipped to the side, ducked under the ceiling fan, and left the bedroom, stepping carefully over Monique’s clothes on the kitchen floor. By the time he reached her door, Monique was beside him, wrapped in only a whispery thin sheet.
“You’re leaving?” she shouted. “Now?”
She doesn’t have to be so loud about it. “Yes.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No, Monique,” he said. “You are gorgeous. I will regret leaving you the second I shut this door behind me.”
