Sex in the City - New York

by Maxim Jakubowski

  ‘Tonight, sure,’ he said.

  11

  Outside the building where she lived, Jill had her own surprise visitor waiting: Evan Hudson. He wore an overcoat and a hat and he looked like something out of a detective movie.

  He looked disturbed.

  He spotted her.

  She had no time to turn away.

  He said, ‘Jill.’

  She tried to appear distant. ‘Mr Hudson … what are you doing here?’

  ‘Where have you been? You were gone all night.’

  Coldly: ‘I don’t think that is any of your business.’

  He brought out a folded envelope from his jacket and handed it to her. ‘Your paycheck, with a bonus.’

  ‘You could have mailed it.’

  ‘I needed to see you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Don’t leave me, Jill darling.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I have to. You know why.’

  ‘I thought about what you said and I was jealous, jealous of that other man. I don’t want anyone else to have you. So I have decided to leave my wife. I’ll divorce her as soon as possible.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked.

  ‘So we can be together properly. Not as secretary and boss, but as … husband and wife.’

  She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘Mr Hudson … Evan … that’s crazy.’

  ‘I’m crazy about you.’ He grabbed her, held her. It was a swift and bold move on the street.

  ‘Mr Hudson!’ she cried. ‘Evan, don’t. You don’t love me and you know it.’

  He said, ‘I always have. I was afraid to say so.’

  She said, ‘Let go of me.’

  ‘Let’s go up to your room,’ he said, trying to kiss her. ‘We’ll make love properly, like we should have always been doing.’

  She tried pushing him away. ‘Stop.’

  ‘I can’t lose you.’

  ‘Let me go or I’ll scream rape!’

  She was serious.

  He stepped back.

  ‘So sorry,’ he said. ‘Damn sorry.’

  ‘Evan, go back to your office,’ she said, ‘go back to your work, go back to your wife, and forget about me. All right?’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You have to.’

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘You have no choice.’

  ‘You really love this other man?’

  ‘With all my heart,’ she said.

  He looked down.

  She went into the building, afraid he would follow her in, force himself on her.

  He didn’t.

  He stood on the street, watching her.

  ‘Jill,’ he said.

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Hudson,’ she said.

  12

  The ‘bonus’ on her check was for $2,000. That amount made her head spin. Was this supposed to have been a bribe, to make her come back? Why did men believe money could sway a girl? Well, some girls were influenced by dollar signs, she knew this was true.

  Who needed money when you had love? Who could put a price on that?

  She considered giving it back. She didn’t want Hudson’s dirty bribe money, this payment for all the sordid sex.

  She thought it over.

  She deserved the money.

  She could put it to good use.

  She couldn’t wait to tell David! He could take some time off, they could go on a trip, or they could get a nice apartment here in the Village or mid-town and live together, and … and …

  She was restless, waiting for the end of the day. She bought a newspaper at the corner stand, to look in the employment section. She spotted one of David’s books on the stand: Hellcat Hellion on Sin Campus. The old man who worked the newsstand gave her an odd look when she presented the sleazy little book for purchase. She supposed women didn’t often buy these things.

  She read some of it, back in her room, and laughed out loud during certain parts. It was truly tawdry and badly written. No wonder he didn’t want his name on the cover.

  At six o’clock, she dressed for the evening and took a cab uptown. This time she would treat him to a nice dinner.

  She found a short woman in her fifties, wearing a drab potato sack dress and apron, vacuuming in David’s room.

  The room was empty: no card table, no typewriter, and no scattered books.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said to the woman, ‘where is the young man who lives here?’

  The woman looked up. ‘Who?’

  ‘David Challon, this his ...’

  No. Oh, no.

  The woman looked Jill up and down and shook her head. ‘You’re the second lady to come by and ask about him. I tell you what I told her: he’s gone. He moved out. Packed his bags and books and left. Good riddance, I say. Always making so much noise!’

  ‘Moved?’ Jill felt dizzy.

  ‘Moved.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘How am I supposed to know?’

  ‘Oh no.’

  ‘Skip out on you, did he?’

  ‘David,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, I found this under the bed.’ The woman reached into her apron and brought out a book: To Kill a Galaxy by David Challon. ‘Want it?’

  Jill nodded and accepted the paperback.

  She scanned the pages. Maybe he left it on purpose; maybe he left a note for her, telling her where he was.

  Nothing.

  The dedication page read: To Lucy, my first love – I’m sorry.

  What did that other woman say about the hearts he had broken? She wasn’t special?

  Jill left the building. The sun was gone and night settled over Manhattan like death at the door knob. People were starting to come out and fill the streets.

  The night would be long, lonely and painful.

  Jill walked into the first bar she saw.

  About the Story

  New York City is mecca for any writer; this is where you mail your manuscripts, this is where you live to write, especially in the days of paperback pulps, when this story is set. The past year, I have been reading a lot of vintage sleaze novels, and sometimes pulp writer alter egos pop up in the books. One particular inspiration for my story was Thirst for Love by Mark Ryan (Bedstand Books, 1959) later reprinted as Wayward Wife by Loren Beauchamp (Midwood, 1962). Both are pen names once used by Robert Silverberg. A major part of his novel concerns a young alcoholic widow who gets entangled romantically with a pulp author. I identified with the guy.

  I love New York but I could never live there. I love visiting, love New York women, graduates from the Seven Sisters, strippers, editors, writers, painters and streetwalkers. Like Hollywood, New York attracts people from all over the world, searching for a dream or an escape. It’s easy to disappear in large cities. I would vanish if I lived there, so I’m a better tourist than resident.

  Woman in White

  by Lisabet Sarai

  I’m not a stalker. I didn’t mean to freak her out. Aie – Dios Mio! The last thing I wanted was to hurt her. I just couldn’t help myself. She was my goddess, my dream. My reason for getting up in the morning.

  I didn’t know her name or where she lived, but still, I knew her. Every day I’d hunker down on my milk crate outside the Graybar entrance to Grand Central, her Times and her Wall Street Journal already set aside and ready. I’d wait for her cheery ‘Good morning’, delivered in that husky voice that sent shivers down my spine.

  ‘Good morning, miss.’ I’d hand her the papers. She’d give me her four bucks and a smile that turned me to jelly, then stride away on her high heels and disappear into the terminal. I’d stuff the bills, still warm from her hand, inside my shirt, as close to my skin as I could get. At night, I’d bring them out, sniffing for a hint of her perfume.

  I’d lie on my co
t in my cousin’s kitchen, gripping my bicho, conjuring her out of the darkness. She usually dressed in white; fitted jackets and straight skirts that were sexy but business-like. In snug clothes like that, someone with her curves should have looked trashy, but somehow she was always elegant and professional. Never mind the gold in her earlobes, the lips painted blood red, the stilettos that had her towering over me as I crouched near the pavement. She had class.

  I loved to imagine what she might have on underneath. Smooth silk cradling her swelling breasts, the snowy lace a shocking contrast to her espresso-dark skin. Pale satin hugging that ripe ass and vanishing into the cleft between her thighs. I’d be hard in a minute from the pictures I painted for myself.

  Her voice was in my ear, low and raw. ‘Come on, baby. Give it to me,’ she’d tease. She would straddle me, tits dangling in my face, brushing her pussy hair over my dick. I’d grab her meaty hips and pull her down onto my rod. Her moans drowned out the traffic, the sirens, the thud of my cousin’s bed as he banged his girl in the next room.

  It didn’t matter how raunchy she talked. She was always a lady, even when I rammed her from behind, making her curse and clench her pussy around my dick. She was my beautiful black queen. She was practically my saint. I worshipped her with my come, pouring it out for her by the gallon. It was the only thing I could give her, aside from her papers and my nervous greeting.

  She showed up every work day around eight, more predictable than the sun. Before her arrival, my heart slamming against my ribs, I kept my eyes on the crowded sidewalk, watching for the first glimpse of her curvy form coming up Lexington. After she left, I’d replay the memories: the twinkle in her eyes, her throaty laugh as she bid me good day. Had she been a bit more friendly today? Had she smiled more warmly, lingered a bit longer than usual? She hurried off to what must be some important job, maybe down on Wall Street, leaving me aching but happy.

  Weekends and holidays, without my daily dose of her magic, I was miserable. Then I had to remind myself how lucky I was to be in the city at all.

  Two years before, back in Santa Domingo, I killed a man. It was an accident. I was drunk. He was drunk. Before I knew what I was doing, there were knives, screams, blood pooling on the floor of the bar. My parents scraped together enough cash to get me to America. Their savings and the remains of my college tuition account went for fake papers and a one-way air ticket. It was risky, but the alternative was worse. If I stayed in DR I might rot in prison for decades.

  My cousin Julio gave me a place to sleep. A friend of a friend got me the newspaper job. After my shift on the curb, I had another gig as a cleaner inside the terminal. It was hard, but I was surviving. In a few months, I’d have enough for the deposit on a room of my own.

  I actually liked being a janitor. Something about Grand Central gave me hope. The first time I stood looking up at the star-studded blue vault soaring over my head, it was like being in church. I felt tiny, yet protected. The guilt that I’d been hauling around with me since I left home eased. We were in the same boat, me and all the crazy humans scurrying around me like ants. Maybe we had sinned, but there was always the possibility of forgiveness. When I finally lowered my head and rubbed at my stiff neck, I discovered tears in my eyes.

  I never got tired of the place. The marble archways and grand staircases whispered of wealth, power and pleasure.

  And of course, it was her temple. The gateway to her world. I wondered, if she happened on me scrubbing the floor in my orange coveralls, whether she’d recognize the shy cabron who provided her morning news.

  Fantasy is no substitute for reality, but it’s better than nothing. In the mornings, I had her smile. At night, she kept me company as I jacked off. I could at least relieve the physical need. Every time I came, though, I wanted her more.

  Through summer and winter and back to spring, I offered my secret love the morning papers and my heart. Then came the day that changed everything.

  It was a Tuesday, overcast and threatening rain. She was late. Eight-thirty, quarter to nine, and she still hadn’t shown. My stomach twisted into knots of barbed wire. Maybe she was ill. Maybe, Dios no lo quiera, she had left the city.

  Then I saw her, trudging along, staring down at the sidewalk. I could hardly believe that it was the same woman. She wore a skirt and blouse of drab grey. She had the same juicy body, the perfect ebony skin, the fountain of black braids cascading down her back. But the energy that had danced through her was gone. As she plodded past me, I searched her face. Her forehead creased into a frown. Her lips pressed together as though she was struggling keep something inside. Her cheeks were wet with tears.

  She didn’t stop. I was suddenly desperate.

  ‘Miss? Your papers, miss ...’ I blocked her path, holding out her newspapers, which I had wrapped in plastic as protection from the weather. ‘Here you are.’

  She seemed dazed. It took a moment for her to focus on me. I saw gradual recognition, but no smile. ‘Oh ... sorry. Never mind. I don’t need them.’

  ‘Please. Take them. You might change your mind later.’

  Like a robot, she accepted the packet. She paused, looking confused. Pain sliced through my chest, echoing the pain I saw in her eyes.

  ‘Don’t ... don’t worry, you can pay me tomorrow,’ I stammered. ‘You’re late.’

  A ghost of her normal smile flitted across her features. ‘Yes. Yes, I’m very late. But he probably won’t even notice.’ A sob shook her. She forced the next one down.

  ‘I’m sorry. Thank you.’ She scanned my face as though trying to imprint it on her memory. ‘After all this time, I don’t know your name.’

  ‘I’m Miguel.’ My heart leaped into my throat. I ‘Are you going to be all right?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she whispered. I had to bend close to hear her. Her perfume swirled around me. My dick swelled inside my jeans.

  ‘It matters to me.’ My hand hovered above her shoulder. I wanted to pull her into my arms, right there on the street. I could barely resist. My imagination showed me what it would be like, to feel her melting against my body. I’d stroke her hair, comfort her, gently press my lips to hers ...

  I reached for her. She was gone. While my mind was spinning fantasies, she had disappeared into the bowels of the terminal.

  No! I couldn’t let her leave. She needed me. I threw a plastic tarp over the piles of newsprint and sprinted to the entrance. Pushing my way through the crowd, I hurried down the passage past the ticket machines and the fancy shops and into the concourse.

  Morning in Manhattan. Thousands, maybe millions, of commuters filed back and forth through the vast hall, rushing to catch their trains or make their appointments. How could I expect to find one woman in this crush? Yet there she was, stock still near the information booth, looking lost. The tides of humanity flowed around her.

  I raced over and grabbed her hand. ‘Come on,’ I urged. ‘I know a place.’ My queen followed me like a docile child. I led her through the Vanderbilt Hall to one of the side passages. The hum of voices died away. I sat her down on a marble bench in one of the arched alcoves. At one time, this corridor probably led to an exit, but now it was a dead end. Settling beside her, I dug in my pocket for a handkerchief. As she used it to wipe her eyes, I saw how I’d cherish the scrap of cotton forever.

  ‘Don’t cry, lady. I can’t stand to see you so sad.’ I put my arm around her shoulder, trying to ignore my throbbing dick. ‘A beautiful woman like you should always be smiling.’

  ‘Not beautiful enough for him.’

  ‘Who? What are you talking about?’

  My angel’s laugh had a bitter edge. ‘My boss. My married boss who told me again and again that he was going to leave his wife for me. The bastard has been lying to me for eight months. He’d promise anything, just to get into my pants.’

  I could identify. My need for her was agony.

  ‘T
oday I got the invitation. Next month they’re renewing their vows! How could he be so stupid, to include me on the guest list? Hell, how could I be so stupid, thinking that I could trust him?’

  ‘You should forget him.’ I watched her chest rise and fall as she breathed. The fine silk of her blouse hid nothing. ‘Find yourself a man who appreciates you.’ Open your eyes, I added silently. He’s right in front of you.

  ‘I can’t.’ Her eyes glistened with fresh tears. ‘I love him. In spite of it all. I’m so pathetic. I can’t help myself. I can’t live without him ...’ Her voice trailed off into a wail. She buried her face in my shoulder, and I held her tight. Her gardenia scent made me dizzy with lust. I didn’t dare move.

  My dreams had never been like this. I wanted her, but even more, I wanted to erase the sorrow that had quenched her glorious smile.

  I was frozen. I had no idea what to do or say. If I shifted position, even a little bit, my pinga was going to spurt right inside my pants.

  She was the one who made the decision. She raised her tear-stained face to mine and gave me a little grin. ‘Thanks for listening, Miguel.’ She added my name as though trying to fix it in her mind. Then she kissed me.

  Her lips were as soft. Her tongue was as bold. She tasted like coffee, strong and black. She left me breathless.

  She gripped my shoulders and mashed her pillowy breasts into my chest. Awkward, sure that I’d shoot in the next instant, I stroked her back with trembling hands. The thin fabric stretched across her shoulders was like a second skin. My fingers caught on the clasp of her bra. White lace fluttered in my mind. I could unhook the thing through her clothing if I wanted, if I dared. She moaned and tightened her arms around me.

  I let myself wander further, to her waist and over her hips. Her abundant flesh made my palms tingle. Her skirt was made of denser stuff than her top, with a pebbly texture, but if I applied a bit of pressure, I could feel the elastic band of her panties hugging her body. I traced the line across the small of her back. Amazed at my own courage, I slipped my hands down to cup her butt, massaging her ripeness. She writhed in my arms. My dick surged inside my jeans as I struggled for control.