New York Minute
by Ang

New York Minute

by Ang

It's not really that I can't recall how many men I slept with in the space of seven days. It's just that once I got up around nine, I stopped counting. Hitting the double digits in a week would just confirm the status of "whore" in my mind, and I'd rather not have that confirmation, thanks. I knew I was, I just didn't want to know I was.

I saw Jason everywhere I looked, anyway, so I just pretended that I was sleeping with him over and over again.

Was it love? How the hell am I supposed to know? I know that when I was with him, nothing and no one else seemed to matter, but perhaps that was just tunnel vision. Perhaps it was simply an extended stay with the object of my lust - my desire. I hesitate to label anything as love. Love fades and leaves nothing, not even a hole, just nothing, once it disappears.

With no time to experience the fade or the nothing, I've no way of knowing whether I loved him or not.

We met at a club on 52nd Street called "FLiP." It was named "FLiP," but offered no explanation as to the origin of the letters. Lots of patrons said that they were the initials of the owner's lover, others said it simply stood for "Freedom, Liberty, Pleasure," and there were the precious few who called it "Fuck Like Prostitutes." Regardless of its true meaning, the club was packed on a regular basis and that Thursday night was no exception.

I danced with nobody in particular, my slick, white Oxford button-down hanging open, exposing a toned, though not overly muscular chest and button-fly jeans lying flat against my stomach, just below my bellybutton. Nights like these, I tended to overplay my boy-next-door features, spiking my blonde hair and flashing intensely blue eyes at anyone who caught my interest.

Jason stared at me from across the dance floor. I didn't know at the time that his name was Jason... but I remember it with perfect clarity now. I remember that night more clearly than any of the last seven. He leaned back on the bar, unabashedly drinking the uber-trendy drink of the moment, Hypnotiq, and licking his lips after every sip. After one or two passive glances, I returned his gaze with nothing less than abject admiration of his features and signaled him out to the dance floor.

He loped his way across the floor and didn't stop until we were nearly chest-to-chest. I had long since stopped dancing and even my minimal swaying to the beat halted when he got so close. Dark obsidian eyes stared into my deep aquamarine and a slow smile spread across his lips, lighting his eyes from the inside.

To be poetic for a moment, he was the dark to my light that evening - black hair, dark eyes, black button-down shirt hanging open. At a mere two inches taller than me, it was just enough height that when we danced closely, the flap of denim covering his zipper caught on the top-most button of my jeans.

Every time we got caught in one another, the fabric would snap back against me and I had to look away from those eyes for fear of embarrassing myself far too early in the evening. I had my arms wrapped around his neck and his arms were wrapped around my waist and we began to dance slowly around in circles, ignoring the heady beat coming from the speakers.

One of his hands snaked forward and slid between denim and skin only to find no further barrier to get to me. He smiled and the brilliance of it made my breath catch in my throat and I kissed him, pressing tightly to him, sucking his breath away. I needed CPR... I needed...

I needed to go home.

"Let's get out of here," I said over the music. He simply nodded.

Taking his hand, I led him out of "FLiP" and toward the street. Painfully, I readjusted myself behind the suddenly way-too-tight jeans and slid into the first taxi that would condescend to stop in front of a gay bar. I spouted my address to the driver, but only got out "Ave..." before Jason's hand was between my legs again. There was no viable reason for him to affect me like this other than pure, unadulterated lust. It wasn't as if I was hard up (punny, I know...) for a night on the town. Taking men home or being taken home was a fairly regular event, but this... This was different.

The need to know his name, and for him to know mine, washed over me with such fierce intensity that I actually slid half-way across the back seat away from him. "I'm Tom..." I managed around a tongue that felt heavy and useless in my mouth. That could prove to be problematic later. I did, however, work out a smile.

For the first time that night, I noticed that he seemed to be feeling much the same way I was. Though this was nothing spectacularly unusual... it was still spectacularly unusual. "Jason," he replied. It was the first time he'd spoken and his voice had a melodious tone that begged to be used for singing. I imagined him singing to me... before sex, after sex, in the shower, in the kitchen... everywhere. I focused very diligently on avoiding the "during sex" image.

When the taxi pulled up in front of my apartment building, I threw a wad of cash at the driver, without a doubt his most generous tip of the evening, and jumped out of the car, tugging Jason out behind me. My fingers fumbled with my keys while Jason's fingers fumbled with my buttons. "Inside... inside..." I gasped in my fervor.

The door fell open when I finally figured out how to work my key again and we stumbled into the front hallway. Luckily, my room was on the first floor and I had a little easier time of getting that door open. We slipped into the darkness blessedly offered and the door slammed shut as Jason pushed me against it, lips meeting mine and fingers finally comprehending how all five buttons worked at my waist. Cool air slammed into the warmest part of me and I pushed against him to stay warm as I stepped out of my jeans.

To my ever-increasing delight, he picked me up and hustled me off as I directed him to the bedroom. He lay me down on the bed with my white shirt splayed out on the dark bed sheets around me. I like to imagine that, to him, perhaps I looked like an angel.

* * *

I awoke the next morning to the horrid sound of my alarm clock buzzing in my ear and the even more horrid feeling of a cold, empty space beside me. "Just another brick in the wall," I muttered, feeling oddly depressed about the whole situation and scratching my head underneath totally mussed hair. It had crossed my mind once or twice that perhaps Jason would be the one to spend an entire night. I neglected to wonder how many men had that thought cross their mind about me.

However fulfilling an evening out was, it left me inevitably ravenous, so I padded out to the kitchen, not bothering to add underwear to my ensemble au naturale. I bet you're thinking that Jason was in the kitchen or the bathroom or something... if only! But, there was a note, which surprised me almost as much as his physical presence would have.

"I had to leave for work this morning, but I enjoyed you immensely... I'll come by this evening if that's okay. If not, call the number on the business card and just give her your name and say 'No.' That way if you don't want to talk to me, you don't have to. Hope to see you..."

"I enjoyed you immensely," I read aloud, grinning at the word choice. He'd simply signed it "Jason." If he'd put a "Love" on there, I very well may have called his secretary... but he hadn't and I didn't and we met again that evening.

* * *

Five weeks into our relationship - for that's what we had established it was, we were in a "relationship" - we decided it was time to meet families. Mine was first, though technically I had already met Jason's sister at a lunch the week before. Anyway, I told mom I was bringing a "friend" over for dinner and asked Jason to show up a few hours after I was going to already be there to try and prepare her.

There was this small issue about mom not knowing I'm gay and everything... Just a detail, really.

I meant to use my time alone with her to prep her for what she was going to see, but instead we discussed family issues and her health and how much we both missed dad. Four o' clock came and went without a peep from Jason and I started to get antsy. Then, I started to get angry. I tried to call him, but got no answer. His cell phone went directly to voicemail and there was no answer at his apartment. Just great.

Mom and I ate half of what she had made by ourselves. The spaghetti and garlic bread made an uneasy mix with the iced tea in my stomach. I apologized and left, trying Jason's apartment again to no avail. My phone rang half way though the taxi ride home, startling me out of my anger, and it was a number I didn't recognize. I answered on the slim chance Jason was calling from somewhere unusual...

"Tom?" said a female voice on the other end.

"Yes, this is he."

"Tom, this is Jason's sister." My stomach plummeted to my feet. "Listen, I got your number off of his cell phone. He - he was hurt, Tom. Pretty badly..."

She explained to me how the taxi he'd hailed to come to my mother's house had been piloted by a driver obviously high on more than just life and anxious for the monstrous cab fare to New Jersey. When Jason had tried to get out, the driver held up a gun and stepped on the gas.

The driver opted for the bridge instead of the tunnel.

They should have taken the tunnel.

The car plummeted over the edge of the bridge and the gun went off on impact. Jason probably would have been fine if not for the gun. He escaped the sinking car only to float to the surface, bleeding out slowly waiting for rescuers to get to him.

Her sentences were short, clipped and technical as though she were repeating everything the paramedics had told her. She probably was.

"I'll be right there," I told her in a quiet voice. Giving the cab driver the hospital information, he changed his course and before long I was rushing into the lobby headed for the elevator to ICU.

I stepped off the elevator and saw his sister sitting in the waiting room with tears streaming down her face. She looked up and saw me and shook her head gently. I was too late.

* * *

Jason remained the dark to my light... even after he was gone. Though now, my light seemed to be drowning in the darkness. Every man I fucked had his coloring... his build... it made it easier for me to put his face on them. I didn't go to the viewing. The idea of some fucked up little tea party meant for mingling over my lover's dead body left me cold and empty.

I went to the funeral.

I cried when I was supposed to cry.

I pretended to pray when I was supposed to pray for real.

I left before I was supposed to leave.

Still the men look like him. They all do. They can't help it. It's not their fault. At the end of the day, what needs to happen is that I need to get out of New York. I need to get as far from New York as humanly possible. You know, when you're a kid, you think that if you start digging a hole, you can dig straight through to China.

I need to start digging.