This Is No Cinderella Story

T

I could have danced all night, and if I had $10 more I would have. It was a Tuesday night which felt more like a Friday night because the night was so lit. It started after Cinderella ended hers. She could have spent the night with me, cleaning the gritty streets of the city with our dancing feet. She was sans a glass slipper and couldn’t handle the concrete jungle in such fragile footwear. I knew fairy tales didn’t reflect reality. But, this fairy shook his tail all over Le Soux in the Greenwich Village.

Bottomless bottle service tested my willpower, which failed me every time. I was unable to resist another cocktail. Two drinks and six hits of hookah later, I swiveled like a high-class hooker through a revolving door of a hotel searching for a senator to suck on. 

I danced with a Canadian brother from another country, who lacked rhythm and flavor like a Canada Dry. I had no plans on pulling a move from the movie, Pretty Woman, dressed in high heels and short shorts. 

We drove over to Westway, which was so gay on Tuesday; it’s called Westgay. It was so hot it was in again. It was uncomfortable at first like new shoes I had to break in. The venue featured a live performance by Mykki Blanco, who wore a white skirt with a matching bra and a pair of white clunky heels. The look was quite clinical, except his weave swayed from side to side, sopping with sweat and grease — sort of like a mop tangled in an oil spill. I’ve never heard his songs before, but I danced to them anyway.  

After I sweated out my dress and turban, the club closed. I walked from the West End to the West Village to get to the subway. As I walked towards the mouth of the station, Sebastian emerged. He towered over me at 6 feet tall in his mid-30s. He was definitely my type:  he was older and taller. He pressed me against the bricked wall and kissed me on the lips. I can still taste the whiskey. He was drunk and so was I’m so I gave into the moment. 

“I miss working with you,” he said while holding my hand. “I meant to call you but I’ve been so busy.” 

I was such a fun boss. We used to cut those overnights short and go clubbing with the staff. His reluctance stemmed from him having a boyfriend, who was abroad in India. 

“Well, your loss,” I said. “I only wanted to hang out, not have sex with you.” 

He laughed and kissed me again. This time he grabbed the small of my back and held it. He pivoted his pelvis in the pit of my stomach, I felt his blood rushing as my heart raced. 

“I still remember that night we hung out at Splash,” he said. “I enjoyed spanking your bare ass.”

I was drunk that night too, post-breakup in a short black skirt. We could have gone as far as we wanted. I could have used a distraction. Instead, we settled for a lap-dance on the bar.    

“I also remember you grabbing me and flipping me over the railing.” 

He laughed out loud, grabbing me again for another kiss. He held out a white pill in his palm. 

“What is that?” 

“It’s a Vicodin. You take it with champagne and gets you where you need to be.”

“How Upper East Side of you?”

He placed the pill on the tip on his tongue and kissed me. I pressed himself against my thigh while the pill bounced around my mouth. He thrust my thigh again, causing me to swallow the pill. 

“My boyfriend will be back this weekend,” he said. “So, I’ll have to be good.” 

I needed an A train towards Brooklyn, which was several blocks away. I meandered into two strangers in front of CVS, one was tall and sexy and the other was short and stout.      

“Where are you going,” said the tall one.  

“I’m walking to the station.”   

“No, you’re going the wrong way.”  

“Oh, perhaps you can show me.”     

“You’re drunk. Where are you coming from?”      

“Yes, I am. And I’m coming from Westway.”

Who said New Yorker’s weren’t friendly?  We walked a couple of blocks towards the one train. Although, I needed the A train; I figured I was one step closer to my destination. 

He left his friend and walked me to the subway. It was dangerous to have a stranger with me this late at night. I found his hood swag, and dark skin tone intriguing. He drew me in loose-fitting clothing and overt masculinity.  It underneath his hard shell was a gentle spirit. He had a boyish charm. 

“You should come with me. I live close by.”

Two stops and a mild flirtation later, I was climbing the stairs of his apartment building. It was old, filled with dingy walls and dusty stairs. The halls reeked of urine.  I should have known from the outside what the inside would be like. 

Everything was in one room except the bathroom. This was an open concept before the open concept was in fashion. We sat at a black card table with four matching chairs with various states of wear and tear. The room reminded me of something a depressed person would like. It was bare, broken, and badly needed repairs. 

He pulled out a brown wrapper and sprinkled weed inside. Then he rolled it with his fingertips, sealing it with saliva – without breaking conversation or eye contact. I could never do that. 

I used to invite a hood boy over from the neighborhood, who used to do my hair and roll up my blunts before I went out to the club. It was a win-win since he liked to smoke but he couldn’t afford it and I could but didn’t know how to roll it.

I snapped out my internal monologue when he passed me the blunt. I felt calm and relaxed. Oh no, I think the Vicodin is kicking in. He grabbed the blunt from me and escorted me to his bed, which was next to the table. It was a squeaky fold up cart straight masquerading as a bed.  Suddenly I was feeling like Cinderella, well after midnight.

He laid next to me, I could feel his dick rubbing against my ass. He reached over and kissed me. I pinched my nipples. He jumped out of his bed to retrieve an NYC condom and lube packet from his shorts. Those were the free condoms from the clinic. I laid there as he penetrated me, releases a deep hunger within me. My body tingled and shimmered. Each kiss felt like raindrops on my smooth skin. He consumed my essence, my smell, my body. I belonged to him. It’s a strange and powerful thing to submit yourself to someone — even for a moment. 

It was fast love, cheap and dirty. He collapsed on my back after he came, while still trapped inside. My body became his own warm embrace. The only thing protecting me from his swimmers was a thin layer of plastic. It acted as my lifeboat.

It was at that moment, I felt relief. I can get away clean, without getting contaminated, without forcing something more than a whim. The past can just be the past. And my future was not sealed with a tryst.

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Love, Walter

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