Christodora

by Tim Murphy

  Sometimes—often, strangely, in church, when she imagined she was supposed to be feeling her best—she would get deep pinpricks in her stomach that all was not right with the world, and that her usual daily belief that people were good and everything was as it should be was, well, a sham. She would think about how her father and brother held sway over the household, how she’d heard the words bitch and puta from them and other men, including her uncles and cousins, since she was a little girl, before she even knew what the words meant. She’d think about all the love children in the family and the neighborhood, about men who got off with impunity, and she’d think about the beat-down, sullen workaday indignance of her grandmother and her mother and so many older women she knew, and how those women seemed to take it out on one another in the form of backstabbing and gossip, and she would suddenly not feel so great, or that the real answers were not to be found here, in church, listening to this old, light-skinned Dominican priest drone on about rejecting the glamour of Satan. And she would seriously wonder if there wasn’t perhaps some other life out there for her that promised more than a dental-hygienist certificate. Then, to herself, barely perceptibly, she would sigh and dismiss her own thoughts.

  But her head wasn’t in that melancholy place tonight. She was just having fun—and oh my God, she felt amazing! Plus, these men were hot. Here was one coming up to her right now. The DJ had just changed the song. Baby, you make my love come down, the whole room shouted along with the singer. Oh, you make my love come down. And suddenly this guy, this big-assed, hairy-chested moreno with chains dripping over a mesh purple tank top, was bumping up against her.

  “Hey, baby,” he mouthed over the music. He held up poppers to his nose, inhaled, then held the tube up to her nose. She’d been watching guys inhale them on the dance floor all night and she wondered what they did, so now she allowed herself a demure sniff. Suddenly, she was feeling deliciously woozy and clinging to the guy’s neck while he stroked her breasts and buttocks. Her knees buckled in her leggings. She was going to go out of her mind if she didn’t have sex soon, she thought. She hadn’t had sex since—well, two years ago, that sort of bad incident at that party. That hadn’t been what she was looking for. Even the first time, at fifteen, with Ricky Malandrino, it hadn’t been what she was expecting, either—it had hurt, and it was over before it even began. It hadn’t seemed very romantic. And then Ricky not so much as even talking to her in the street after. That didn’t feel too great.

  But this moment—wow. They were sort of swaying and grinding, and she was holding on to his neck for dear life, feeling like her whole body below was giving out under his big hands. Then, as she felt the breathless, scary swoon of the poppers fade away, he pulled back. He put a hand under her chin and smiled at her and kissed her gently on the lips. “You’re beautiful,” he told her.

  “Shut up!” She laughed good-naturedly. “You’re just high.”

  He lost his smile, got stern. “No, baby, you are,” he said. “You gotta believe that.” He kissed her once more, then slipped away, leaving her there, barely moving amid the dancers. Tavi, who’d witnessed the whole thing, sidled back over to her.

  “Puta,” he said, then cackled. She shoved him, pleased with herself.

  They kept on dancing—hours, it seemed. At different times, other men came over to them, danced with them, did the bump-and-grind with Tavi—he came to this Paradise Garage club a lot and he knew a lot of guys here—and even sometimes with her. Ooh, now the DJ was playing “Heartbeat”—ooh, she loved this song, that slow beat, heartbeat, you make me feel so weak—that’s how she felt! Weak from dancing and elation. She had her head up looking into the lighting system, her arms up over her head. She felt sexy!

  “Girl, this song is turning you out,” Tavi shouted at her over the beat.

  She shoved him. “You’re so disgusting!”

  Some guys came over and danced with them. Kisses and gropes went all around. One of the guys, Issy noted, was very darkly handsome, a Boricua probably, with a somewhat serious, non-effeminate air about him. He looked a bit nerdy in his large, square-framed glasses, which he repeatedly took off to wipe steam from the lenses. There he was, dancing along with the rest of the guys in his tight T-shirt and designer jeans and Nikes, a bit of gold around his neck, but he seemed a little uptight.

  Tavi introduced everyone over the music; she and the handsome nerdy guy—who was how old? not quite thirty yet—met eyes. He gave her a kind smile, not that kind of “Heeeeey, girl!” greeting she got from most of the queens here.

  He took a few steps toward her, kissed her cheek. “I’m Hector,” he said over the music.

  “I’m Ysabel,” she shouted back. “Issy.”

  “How do you know Tavi?” he asked.

  “We grew up together in Corona,” she shouted. “Since we were little kids.”

  Hector nodded his understanding. “He’s crazy,” he said.

  Issy laughed. “I know!” she screamed. “He’s crazy, it’s true! But I love him!”

  “I do, too.”

  “How do you know him?” she asked.

  “First from out in the clubs, but now we volunteer together at GMHC, too, on the phones.”

  She knitted her brow in puzzlement. “What’s that?” she asked.

  “Gay Men’s Health Crisis,” Hector said. “It’s an AIDS organization.”

  “Oh.” She frowned. Then a horrible thought struck her. She glanced over at Tavi. “Is he okay?” she asked Hector.

  “Oh, I think so. As far as I know, I mean. The test for it isn’t out yet. We’re just trying to provide direct services because the Health Department isn’t doing anything. Which I should know, because I work for them.”

  Issy nodded gravely. She hoped Tavi was okay. Otherwise, she hadn’t caught much of what Hector had said. He seemed so serious for a guy on the dance floor! He’d even fully stopped dancing for a moment.

  “It’s a terrible thing,” she offered.

  He nodded in turn. “Yep. You gotta be careful, protect yourself.”

  Tavi came over. “What you bitches talking about?” he shrieked.

  Issy shoved him lightly. “Tavs, you didn’t tell me you do volunteer work for AIDS!”

  Tavi looked briefly freaked out, like he hadn’t wanted Hector to tell her, then he cackled and threw his arm around Hector. “Yeah, we’re like fucking Florence Nightingale and Mother Teresa up in there! I’m like Lily Tomlin with her receptionist-headset thing going.” He did his Ernestine imitation, with an overbite, stretching out his face. He hip-checked Hector. “This one’s always recruiting queens for the cause.”

  Hector shrugged. “If we don’t do it, nobody else will,” he said. So serious! Issy thought again. Yet very handsome. Could he loosen up and have fun? She took his hand, made him spin her. “Come on, papi, no more heavy talk, you gotta shake it more!”

  “Ooh, what a pushy bitch!” Tavi screamed in delight. “You heard her, Hectorina, she needs you to bump her pussy!” Hector smiled goofily and shrugged and obliged her and did the bump with her a little bit before politely excusing himself and disappearing into the crowd.

  Suddenly alone in the spot where she’d danced with Hector, Issy felt briefly bereft. She momentarily lost her footing, reached out instinctively for someone to break her fall. And someone did. But it wasn’t Tavi, as she expected. It was the hairy-chested, pillow-lipped moreno in the purple mesh tank.

  “Oh my God, thank you,” she said, regaining her footing. “I almost went down.”

  “I saw you!” He laughed, showing a mouthful of very white teeth, which Issy noted approvingly. “You were, like, whoa!” He did a funny impression of her tottering on her heels and reaching out wildly for support.

  “Oh my God,” she said, “I’m so embarrassed.”

  “Don’t be,” he said. “You’re up in the club.”

  Then the DJ put on
a song she loved from a few years ago, “I Want to Thank You.” I want to thank you, heavenly father, went the lyrics, for shining your light on me. You sent me someone who really loves me and not just my body. The song was a bit of a prayer for Issy. It was a dance song, but a mellow one, and she couldn’t help but exclaim to the purple tank guy, “I love this song!”

  His eyes popped open in delight. “I do, too!” he said. He took both her hands in his and led her into a bit of an old-fashioned hustle step, sending her twirling through the bridge of their two arms, then reeling her in close again until she could feel his moist chest hair against her cheek and smell his cologne, which reminded her of her older brother’s. Here, their dancing stopped. She became more and more aware of the feel of his body against hers—the width of his shoulders, the taper down to his slim waist, the feel of his jeans against her leggings, the warmth of his breath in her ear.

  “Dios mío,” she said, surprising herself.

  Purple Tank laughed and took her chin between his thumb and index finger. “You know how beautiful you are?” he asked her.

  “You told me that already!” she protested. “You’re just high on whatever drugs you’re on.”

  “I’m not on any drugs,” he insisted. “Well, okay, I took a Quaalude.”

  She laughed triumphantly. “See! You’re just fucked up.”

  But he held her chin in place and fixed his eyes on her. “No, baby,” he said. “I think you’re beautiful. Why is it so hard for you to believe that?”

  Issy felt both touched and uncomfortable all at once. Why is it so hard for me to believe that? she asked herself, still rocking to the song in his arms. Maybe because this was something she’d never heard ­before—not from family or from girlfriends, and certainly not from boys. She was just—well, she just was. She didn’t think she was a fea and she didn’t think she was a beauty queen. She didn’t give much thought to herself. She probably spent more time thinking about her abuela upstairs and what groceries she should pick up for her on the way home from dental school, or what she should fix her for dinner, than she did about herself. But now, she had to admit to herself, it was damn nice to have a ­handsome—albeit a somewhat strangely handsome—man looking her deeply in the eyes and telling her she was beautiful.

  Then she realized she’d forgotten something. “You’re gay!” she said.

  “I’m bisexual.” He shrugged. “I probably like women more than men, to tell you the truth. I just love the music and the vibe here. I love the crazy mix of people.”

  “It’s a great club,” she said. She certainly had to admit that. Tavi had been telling her for a year he’d take her, and tonight they’d finally made it. Speaking of that, where was Tavi? She glanced around, failing to see him nearby. Suddenly, she saw nobody she knew, even vaguely, nearby.

  Then Purple Tank’s lips were on hers. They felt unbelievably pillowy and insistent. Her throat constricted for a moment. This isn’t right, she thought. But apparently Purple Tank sensed her unease, because he pressed his hands firmly into her lower back, and she felt herself give out beneath him.

  “Just relax and enjoy it, baby,” he whispered. “It’s okay. It’s a holiday.”

  This was true, she thought. She lost herself in their necking. She clung gratefully to the solidity of his upper body. It took a long time for it to happen, went the song. But I knew those nights I prayed that you would send me someone who’s real and not someone for play. Issy desperately wanted someone like that, she thought. She remembered Freddy, just last week, rubbing his hand over the belly of her pregnant sister-in-law, Vanessa, and how her brother, usually so full of bravado and bluff, had a tender, almost reverent look in his eyes. She wanted a man to look at her like that. Maybe it was this man! she thought. And how funny that for the rest of her life she’d tell people that she met the man of her dreams in a gay club!

  She got so caught up in this reverie that she at first didn’t notice that Purple Tank was leading her off the dance floor. She opened her eyes, feeling deliciously sleepy and removed from her body, and pulled him back. “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “Let’s get some air outside, baby,” he said. He sheltered her in his arm and guided her toward the exit.

  “Just let me tell Tavi,” she said, straining to be heard over the music.

  “Tavi—” he called back to her. She couldn’t quite make out what he was saying. She stood up on tiptoes and scanned the crowd, much of which had divided into couples who were slow-dancing, just as she had been a minute ago. She couldn’t see Tavi. Well, she thought, a few minutes of fresh air wouldn’t be so bad.

  There was a crowd smoking and laughing outside the club, amid a cool and lovely May night boasting a sky where even a few stars, westward toward the Hudson River, were visible. Still feeling sparkly from the MDMA, Issy reveled in the breeze on her neck and arms. Purple Tank put his arm back around her and led her away from the crowd, down the street. “Let’s sit in my car,” he said. “It’s around the corner.”

  “I don’t even know your name!” she said, dragging back a little bit.

  He turned. “I didn’t tell you? It’s Chris. Your friend Tavi and I see each other out all the time.” Oh, Issy thought. So he knew Tavi. That gave her some reassurance. “And what’s your name?”

  “It’s Ysabel,” she said. “But just Issy.”

  “That was my abuela’s name,” he said.

  Issy put her hands on her hips. “You are too much!” She laughed.

  “I’m not fucking with you,” he said, laughing along. “I can show you pictures.”

  She stood there a moment longer, regarding him. “You are too much,” she said again, moving back toward him. He put his arm back around her.

  His car, around the corner, was a powder-blue Ford Fairmont with a plastic pendant of San Cristóbal hanging from the rearview mirror. “Oh, now I get the name,” Issy said when she saw it. “Cris-tóbal.”

  “That’s right.” He laughed. “El santo de los viajeros.”

  They sat in the backseat with the windows open to let in the breeze. The street, in an industrial part of town deserted at night save for the club, was still and silent. She closed her eyes, tilted back her head. In an instant, she could feel those lips back on her own. She curled in toward him until she’d thrown her legs over his. She felt one of his meaty hands, so hairy, slip between the lower buttons of her untucked, oversize shirt with the pink-and-yellow graffiti print on it. Then she felt two of his fingers slip underneath her bra. At that moment, she surprised herself again with an eruption of tears.

  The saint of travelers pulled back a moment. “Why are you crying, baby?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, and she truly didn’t. She vaguely remembered Tavi telling her that the MDMA would make her feel all emotional and open, that shrinks used it to get patients to open up about their feelings. “I just feel really happy. It’s been a great night.”

  He laughed. “It is a great night,” he said. “Because we met.”

  Her blouse and bra were coming off; her leggings were coming off. The saint of travelers certainly appeared to be truly bisexual, she noted, impressed. As he penetrated her, as she sank deeper and deeper into the cushions of the backseat, she drew her arms more tightly around San Cristóbal’s neck, letting everything fall away but the power of their conjoined bodies. Eventually, as their rhythm intensified, she felt the stirrings of a massive inner thrill. She was going to have her first orgasm with a man! She was so overwhelmed by the sensations racking her. She thought it would never actually happen, it would just build and build, but then when it finally did happen, she thought it would never end. Amid that, San Cristóbal himself came, deep inside her. They held each other, saying nothing, just breathing and shaking, until the sky changed from black to a deep blue.

  San Cristóbal finally sat up unceremoniously, disentangled himself, and fished a cig
arette from a compartment near the front seat. “You want one?” he asked her.

  She was a little disappointed these were his first words after sex. They were hardly very romantic. “That’s okay,” she said. “I don’t smoke. It’s bad for your teeth.” She began to pull her clothes back on.

  “I brush and floss,” he said, blowing smoke out the window. He was now sitting a foot or so away from her. He put his free left hand on the back of her neck as a halfhearted concession to intimacy. Issy didn’t want the moment to end, though. She lay down again, resting her head on his thigh.

  “I can’t believe we have to go in there again and I gotta find Tavi,” she said.

  “Yeah,” he said hesitantly. Then, after a pause, “Actually, I think I’m gonna just be getting home, now that I’m out of the club. I made some plans for today. You’ll be okay getting back in yourself.”

  This crushed her, deepening the cheap feeling that the oozy MDMA couldn’t quite override. “Of course I will,” she managed to say. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “No, I didn’t mean it as a question,” he said. “I meant, I knew you’d be okay getting back in because the guys at the door are cool. I know them.”

  Double crushed. He didn’t even sound mean about it, Issy thought, just matter-of-fact, as though he genuinely wanted to clarify his intent.

  “No,” she said. “I mean, I know how you meant it.” At this point, she made herself sit up, then check and fix her hair in the rearview window. Everything she saw—the streets and the buildings and the passing cabs—looked sparkly and extra-sharp from the MDMA, all of which made for a strange counterpoint to the core of badness she was suddenly feeling.

  “Well”—she turned to him—“good-bye.” This, she thought, was the moment of truth. Please, she thought, trying not to betray herself with her eyes, ask me for a phone number or something.