Ezra was hungry and he called the waiter back over. No matter how many times we ate there, I could never really draw a distinction between the wide variety of oysters on the menu; as usual, Uncle Ezra ordered for me, and when the waiter slowly walked away Ezra took a handful of oyster crackers and put them into his mouth, as if to stop himself from speaking further. He chewed patiently, and, when the crackers had formed a kind of paste in his mouth, he took a drink of ice water to wash them down.
The waiter placed a bowl of crab bisque in front of both of us. Why thank you, thank you very much, Ezra said, as if the soup had come compliments of the house.
We ate our soup in silence for a minute or so, until, suddenly, Ezra put his spoon down, turned in his seat so he was directly facing me, his bright button eyes full of life and promise. I’m going to tell you something that I want to keep strictly between you and me.
This guy I know, off and on for many years. An old buddy named Lincoln Castle. Fifty years ago, he turned his father in to the FBI for being a commie spy. Or maybe not a spy, but a commie all the way. Again, that smile. Since getting his dental implants, Ezra showed his convincing teeth at every opportunity. But stories of betrayal did truly amuse him. Can you imagine? They wanted to put the father on trial, put him on the hot seat, but he sneaked out of the country. I think he actually went to Moscow. Anyhow, Linc’s been into everything. He studied premed in college, where I met him, but he never got licensed, not that it stopped him from practicing, until it looked like he was going to get busted. Basically, at heart, he’s a hustler. He’s a whiz at coming up with ideas—he promoted a bunch of concerts for Ozzy Osbourne, he sold algae that’s supposed to pep up your prostate—but there was always a problem. And I loaned him a few bucks along the way, figuring I’d never see the money again.
Then one day I get a postal money order—Linc’s never had a checking account, he likes to minimize the paper trail—for something like twelve grand, with a little Post-it showing how he computed the interest. And also a business card. LINCOLN CASTLE, PRESIDENT, FLEMING TOURS. Written on the back, Call me, which I do, and that’s where you come in, Avery. He tells me something, and as soon as I hear it, I think of you. And now that I hear you’re single again…
That’s nice of you, Uncle Ezra. But what made you think of me? I was distracted for a moment—a couple of waiters on the other side of the cavernous room were sharing a long, merry laugh. The sound of it somehow touched a reservoir of worry over Deirdre—where was she, and with whom? What a mistake, putting my ego in someone else’s hands. Never again. Never.
Fleming runs sex tours. Ezra’s voice was suddenly confidential. As he lowered his voice, he raised his eyebrows, pursed his lips, nodded, exactly as he had when I was young and he would cut me in on some insider information about the unseemly behavior of adults: bought judges, cops on the take, women who married for money.
Our waiter arrived with the oysters, set in a diorama of rock salt and lemon wedges.
I was quiet for a moment. You don’t mean going around having sex with kids, do you? Ezra looked at his me as if the idea were preposterous. Of course not. Women, beautiful women. Grown-up women for grown-up men. I was aware of a certain quickening of my attentions. I felt so strange, hearing this. Like I was falling down the stairs, but painlessly. Or falling through the Internet, clicking away. So where do they go? I asked. Thailand? Ezra shook his head vehemently. No, no. That’s old stuff. Too raunchy. Lincoln takes his tours to places like, I don’t know, Scotland, Sweden, Liechtenstein for crying out loud, and he charges a hell of a price—a hundred and thirty-five thousand dollars. Everything first class, all inclusive. Totally. If you know what I mean. He explained it to me, broad strokes. He doesn’t even hire the women directly. He has contacts all over the place—mostly women, by the way—and they’re in charge of finding eight, ten, twelve, however many women, depending on how many subscribe for the trip, and what they seem to be looking for. There’s a questionnaire, you’re supposed to fill it out. Lincoln pays each of his contact people some huge wad of cash so they can hire really great-looking women, and what the contact people pay is up to them. They supposedly know what’s what. Lincoln’s not worried the contact people will cheap out on him because with the kind of clientele he deals with, believe me if there’s anything wrong he’s going to hear complaints, and if he hears complaints the contact people are out of a job. He gives them enough so the women make maybe four, five thousand dollars a night, with enough left over for the contact people to make a nice profit—that’s his whole philosophy right there: everyone has a nice little payday.
You’d think men who have that kind of money could have all the sex they want, I said. Ezra gave me pat on the face, not particularly gentle. You think you’re the unhappiest man in the world, Avery? Well, you’re not. Do you have any idea how many men in this city alone are walking around in a state of lust-induced psychosis? And anyhow, if guys want to screw around a little—who are they going to do it with? Women who work for them? The nanny? Thank you very much for the sexual harassment suit. Their friends’ wives? Ladies in the neighborhood? What a shortcut to disaster. It’s not so easy. People are isolated. Did you hear that thing on the news? Very few people even go on picnics anymore.
But come on, Ezra, aren’t there plenty of hookers right here in the USA? Sure, there are, Ezra said, but have you ever been with one? I’d come close, but, technically speaking, I hadn’t, and I told him so. You want to know why you haven’t? Because you are not insane. Ezra slurped an oyster out of its shell; the sound was like two pieces of Velcro separating. Don’t get me wrong, America has some great hookers, but mostly no. Mostly, even the pretty ones are drug addicted, diseased, all kinds of underworld connections. It’s dangerous business. Ezra tapped his finger on the side of his head. I wondered if it was a symbolic tap on my head; I wondered if he was somehow perfectly aware of what I’d been up to this afternoon.
So here’s Lincoln’s concept, Ezra said. He figures why not go someplace beautiful, somewhere safe, a lovely little destination where no one knows you, and you just have your fun, get the hell out, and no one’s the wiser. Everyone’s prescreened for health, police record, cleanliness, education, so the women Linc gets are fantastic.
The women better be fantastic, I said, for that kind of money. Christ! A hundred and thirty-five thousand? Ezra smiled. That’s all-inclusive, he said. Private jet, hotels. How about meals? Meals? What the hell’s wrong with you, Avery? I’m talking about jetting to Europe and making love with women you’d be lucky to even dream about, and you’re wondering if meals are included?
I felt like a child. Of course the world was made by—and for!—men who took what they wanted. If they could loot pension funds and pollute rivers, what was a little commercial nooky compared to that? They blasted holes in the earth and sent lesser men down and down and down and down, risking their lives to bring out the diamonds and the gold. They herded thousands of animals through stockyards, stunned them, killed them, chopped them up into little pieces, and if a few of the animals were diseased they sold them anyhow. They smuggled, they slashed and burned, they tossed their enemies into the river, they deep-sixed reports that might reflect unfavorably on their product, they burned down businesses that failed to show a profit, they celebrated their daring and their bounty, while men like me walked around knock-kneed going tsk-tsk, that’s not very nice.
Do you think you’d like to go on a trip like that? Me? I asked. If I had a hundred thirty-five thousand dollars, I’d spend it on an apartment and get out of that place on Fifty-fourth Street before I hang myself. Forget the cost, think of it without the cost. Do you think you could enjoy something like that? I shrugged. I’m not sure. Wouldn’t I basically be paying women to have sex with me?
All right, Ezra said, suddenly at the end of his patience. I think you need to give a little thought about what it means to be a man. To be a man you have to understand the importance of having something that not everybody else ha
s; you have to have a leg up. You understand? You can’t be a drop of water going over a waterfall. You can’t be the same as everyone else because no one else is playing the game like that, and if you’re the only one being like everyone else, that means you’re not really with everyone else, you’re all alone, and not all alone on top, either; it just makes you into a sucker. You’ve got to have a rock in your hand. You just can’t walk around empty-handed like a little shmucky boy who’s going skip to my lou with daddy on one side and mommy on the other. You’ve got to be carrying a rock, or a gun, by which I mean money. I don’t need to tell you, Avery. You’re a bright young man. You know the things money can buy: shelter, food, safety, respect, and you may as well include the most beautiful women in the world.
Well, money is one of the main things I don’t have, I said. Let me put it like this, Uncle Ezra said. It’s yours, if you want it. Lincoln comped me for the next trip, for favors granted. He comped you for a hundred-thirty-five-thousand-dollar trip? Yes, he did, very generously. Welcome to the world of men. There’s probably another fifty thousand in extras, I said. Ezra shook his head, No extras. They even supply a car and driver to take you to the airport.
I picked up an oyster, felt its rough shell, looked at its slippery shiny grayness, then let it fall back into the mound of rock salt. It’s so embarrassing to be cheated on, I said.
Forget embarrassment. And forget cheating, forget the word even. It doesn’t have any meaning because everyone does it, and if everyone’s doing it it’s not cheating, it’s just how things are. You think Aunt Sheila cheats on you? I asked. But Uncle Ezra paid the question no mind. What you need to do right now is forget all that hand-wringing bullshit, he said. This is life! Life is like a wind: it keeps coming, carrying things inside it, you breathe it in, you can’t control it, no one can. So? Are you interested? Lincoln’s holding a spot open for me, but I have to let him know.
Today?
What you don’t know today, you won’t know tomorrow. What are you? Thirty-seven? In twenty-three years you’ll be sixty, and let me tell you something about sixty. It’s not great. And I’ll tell you something else—those twenty-three years? They go like this. To demonstrate, he slurped an oyster out of its shell.
I need to move, I said, quietly. I need a place to live.
You’re still living with her?
I nodded. The thing is. I’m not really used to wanting something, aching for it. But now…that’s all I do. I want to get out of that terrible place on Fifty-fourth Street. I’d do it, I’d go on your friend’s trip, if I could write about it, Uncle Ezra. I can’t do it just to do it. But to write about? That could be something. I could make some money. Would your friend object to that?
Ezra tossed the oyster shell onto the mound of rock salt and smiled. As far as Lincoln and the Fleming Tours people are concerned, you’re my nephew, your life is in the shitter, and I’m giving it to you as a little pick-me-up. That’s your story, and like all good stories it’s more than half true. But, sure, you could write about it. It’s what I figured. He flicked the end of my nose. From someone else it would be a contemptuous gesture. I’m way ahead of you, kiddo, he said. But you got to step on it. They leave the day after tomorrow.
5
I WENT STRAIGHT TO WORK, or what passes for work in my profession. That is to say, I telephoned my agent. I was never sure Andrew Post would take my call. I was not a valuable client; I had never earned more than $25,000 in a year, netting his agency $3,750 at the high-water mark. But the assistant didn’t treat me as if I were worthless; she put me right through and I told Andrew about the sex tour idea. Post was in his seventies. There was something deeply embarrassing to be talking to him about going from country to country having commercial sex, though I did suspect that, in his prime, he had had sexual adventures the number, intensity, and theatricality of which I could scarcely imagine. Nevertheless, I found myself emphasizing the tour’s deluxe trappings, the high price of the ticket, the promise of posh hotels, the private jet. Mention of the jet launched Post into a rambling story about a trip he and his recently deceased partner had taken a year ago to Los Angeles for the Oscars on a plane chartered by another venerable old agent who didn’t forget his friends. Remembering your friends, it’s a noble thing, don’t you agree? Post said, but I had to jump in. I think I’ve got something worth something here, Andy. I hated to interrupt, but right now time was of the essence—maybe it always had been, and always would be, and I was just learning that crucial fact. I wanted some sort of publishing deal in place before I got on that plane. Do you think you could sell something like this fairly quickly. Oh, I don’t know, Avery. All the publishers are running scared. I’ve never seen anything like it. Why not put something in writing, just to give the flavor? Post’s voice was frail, wavering; I wondered if he had much hope for the whole thing. All right, I said, I can do that; I can do it right away. I can have it on your desk tomorrow morning. Well, he said, you don’t want to rush it. These things take time. And I won’t be in tomorrow morning. Then I’ll be there in the afternoon, I said. My, you’re really charged up! Well, okay then, tomorrow afternoon. But remember, Avery, less is more, so keep it short. Everyone’s so terribly busy these days. Let’s make it easy on them.
I wasn’t vain about my writing. To the people in charge of assignments, what I mainly had going for me was a reputation for never being late with my copy, and always remaining good-natured about being edited, no matter how severely. Even when radically altered pieces ran without the editor showing me the courtesy of checking the changed copy beforehand, I maintained an affable, professional air. The idea had always been: We’re all professionals, let’s get the job done and what’s the use of pretending we’re talking about high art here. I was perfectly aware that I was not writing The Odyssey or the Bill of Rights, and, above all, I did not forget that everything you write for a newspaper or a magazine ends up at the bottom of some poor canary’s cage. I knew where the caged bird craps.
Nevertheless, composing the pitch for the sex tour book was slow going. I set up shop in a nearby Starbucks and went over and over the page and a half from five in the afternoon to midnight, and then I crept back into my apartment and continued work until nearly three in the morning. I didn’t feel the slightest fatigue. Fantasies of riches coursed through me like waste water from a methamphetamine lab. When the time I had allotted myself to put something on paper was at its end, this is what I’d come up with.
THE SEX TOUR
OR
IF THIS IS TUESDAY, YOU MUST BE BELGIAN
Many people, upon first hearing the words organized sex tours, ask the following question: Do such things really exist? The answer, of course, is Yes. To many men, having access to beautiful, glamorous, desirable women—women at whom, under normal circumstances, they could only gaze with mute longing—would be the realization of their most fundamental fantasies. And so it is no wonder that while our government, along with many other governments and the United Nations, has curtailed the activities of sex tour agencies that promote child prostitution as well as trafficking, the sex tour industry as a whole is thriving, and it is today a large part of the multibillion-dollar-a-year sex industry.
For years, the most popular destination for sex tourists has been the Far East, most commonly Thailand. But as sex tourism has become more commonplace in Thailand, it has inevitably lost whatever cachet it once had, and, in the past few years, the preferred destination for the tens of thousands of men (and, in fact, sometimes women) who form this growing subculture has been the Dominican Republic, Cuba, Brazil, Russia, or Czechoslovakia. As with most commodities, there is a low end and a high end to sex tourism, and I have access to the highest end of the phenomenon—perhaps the most expensive and exclusive of all the sex tours. This is not the Cadillac of sex tours, it is not even the Mercedes-Benz—this is the Lamborghini of sex tours, where, for the clients, money is no object and no creature comforts are spared. The jet is private, the accommodations…
I MIGHT have been able to compose my pitch more efficiently had I not had visions of apartments dancing in my head. It seemed to me that people with their own address, their own closet in which to hang their shirts and sweaters, their own doors to lock were the luckiest people in the world. I viewed the lighted windows of the thousands of apartments I passed the way a brokenhearted lover views people walking through the park hand in hand.
After delivering my two-page pitch to Andrew Post, I went downtown to Perry Street to meet a real estate agent named Isabelle Rosenberg. Isabelle was Colombian and Israeli, with mink eyebrows, shiny shoulder-length hair, smartly dressed in a dark blue suit, like a senator. It was drizzling by the time I reached Perry Street, but Isabelle was waiting outside the apartment house—a redbrick building, seven stories high, with new windows that reflected the street’s flowering dogwoods. She carried a black leather purse, the size of a mail carrier’s pouch.
I have always found it difficult to know how to act around someone who is trying to sell me something. In the end, the seller is always pushing to get a dollar more, and the buyer is, of course, hoping to pay a dollar less. All the smiles and the laughter, all the sentences that begin I’m only telling you this because, or To tell you the truth, all come down to the final dollar. I long ago conceded I would rarely if ever come out on top in any business deal—from buying a scarf off a street vendor, to getting a New York apartment—and since I was always having to defend myself against having salespeople take excessive advantage of me, I was generally a rather taciturn customer, brightening only at the very end, when nothing more could be extracted from me.
Willing Page 6
