Chapter One.
Let's call him André, though his name hardly matters. And while at it, let's call him a man, even if he wasn't much of one to begin with. Oh, he was tall and strong and hairy and all that, even nicely hung, but he was... let's call him one of a kind. He knew he was inferior to women. In fact he knew all men were -- and he'd always known that.
As a toddler he let little girls pummel him. They'd straddle his body and slap his face. He'd cry, but he'd never protect himself. As a boy girls took advantage of his inability to say no to whatever they asked him. It never dawned on them to be thankful; they took it for granted. Some even despised him for it. Later, as a teenager, he ran their errands and did their homework. He also allowed them to treat him like filth -- calling him names and laughing at him whenever they didn't just ignore him. He wasn't hurt or even surprised; he knew it was how things were meant to be.
Boys ridiculed him for it. They called him names like wimp and faggot. They also teased him, trying to lure him into fights. He never took their bait. Most of the time he just turned away. He wouldn't let them taunt him into a fight if he could prevent it. He was stronger and taller than most of them, but if he couldn't avoid them, he would just raise his arms to ward off their punches. He knew it cost him all respect, but that didn't bother him. Boys didn't count; they were nobodies, just like him. The only difference was that he knew it and they didn't -- yet.
Soon his lack of response discouraged his bullies.
As a teenager he'd adored girls from a distance. He'd envied them for their relaxed sensuality when he saw them walking hand in hand in the schoolyard. He admired their perfect, graceful bodies and the elegant way they moved. He saw how easy they touched and kissed without a trace of embarrassment. He noticed them sitting on benches braiding each other's hair, huddling together, kissing and sharing secrets, while around him the rowdy silliness of boys raged. He knew he was as male as any of them, but he'd never belong to their uncouth world of blustering violence and Neanderthal grunting. He also knew he would never be part of the girls' world. Of course he yearned to be with them, even be one of them. He'd tried, disastrously, only to find out it was impossible. He would never cross the fence between him and these superior creatures.
But he could dream, couldn't he?
***
So now he was a man, or to be more precise: he'd settled into the uncouth shape of one. While growing up he'd suffered all the scorches of adolescence that came with the job -- the raging hormones, the brainless response to tits and asses, the relentless erections and the blind urge to empty his balls. He knew women found him attractive -- his looks, his voice, his cock. And he knew that any normal, blustering male would take advantage of that, thinking it meant something -- or, more probably, not thinking at all.
He never stopped thinking. Even when he got to third base with girls -- as it is so crudely called in the adolescent lingo -- something kept nagging. He couldn't believe he really satisfied them -- or himself for that matter. Of course there was the messy spurting and the convincing spasms and moans of the girl he fucked, but there always, always was this certainty that he ought to know better. He was certain that women just toyed with him, as with all men. They saved their true orgasms for themselves, when they had sex with each other -- hot, gracious sex; a dizzying dance of tongues and fingers that made their gorgeous bodies arch and churn, their voices sing like angels.
With men they played a devious game, disguising the truth with layers of insincere adoration and mock compliments. All they were really after was prestige and money. He knew he meant nothing to them; it was lust that forced him to go along. But whenever he'd played the male ape to their soft sweet bodies, there would be shame afterwards. There would be this haunting feeling of having been the clumsy bull trampling its way through precious porcelain, leaving only shards and splinters of what might have been.
He tried dating less. He tried avoiding women, even if every fiber of his being screamed to be with them -- or at least be allowed around them in the silly hope to catch a glimpse of their eternal secret.
It became harder and harder to even look at girls, though watching them had always been his greatest desire. He started training his budding arousal to a point where it would morph into a wave of shame -- shame that would dilute his lust, spreading it through his bloodstream and turning it harmless. It worked, but it often left him with a blinding headache. Soon he lived in constant shame. He avoided girls and retired into an invisible shell made of work and boredom. It protected him, both against what he feared and what he craved, just to avoid his next disappointment.
And then he saw her.
***
She must have had an appointment with the editor-in-chief at the culinary magazine he worked for as a food journalist. He saw her walk through the maze of desks, cabinets and glass dividers that made up the office floor's landscape. Everything about her was amazing -- her bearing, her clothes, her eyes... Her business suit was black, as was her hair; even her lips were painted black. It was a blackness that contrasted sharply with the pallor of face, her throat and arms, hands and fingers.
It took her only seconds to pass him by -- float him by, rather. It was enough to block any attempt at finishing what he was working at. He wondered if he'd taken a breath from the moment he saw her to the moment she went into the editor's office. He didn't die; at least he didn't think so. But he distinctly felt his private universe shift. A myriad of tiny parts tumbled, reshaping his fate.
His head drifted in a halo of hot, humid air. He knew he'd seen more than just a stunning woman. What he'd seen was what he'd glimpsed fragments of all through his life -- as a boy when he watched the heavenly creatures in the schoolyard, as a teenager masturbating to the images of their superior presence, as a man cringing under their mocking scrutiny. What he'd seen just now was the final click of a huge, invisible machine that had started constructing his life from the moment of his birth. And now, with this final click, it had pulled him into focus -- each and every atom of his being.
He didn't think he'd moved his eyelids until she came out of the office again. When she re-appeared her body was framed by Jenner's three hundred pound ex-quarterback's mass. Jenner was the editor-in-chief. He also was a dog with women. Sniffing one -- anyone -- seemed to trip an invisible thread running from his nose to his underbelly. Not this time, though. His face wore an inane smile, like a hypnotized hick in a television show. He really seemed confused; his hammy hand shook hers with male awkwardness. She slid out of his grip like a drop of oil from a pail of water, her lips copying the smile of a painting by a long-dead Renaissance master. Then she turned and her eyes found his.
They slid by him at first. It felt as if the sun peeked through thunderclouds, washing his face with warmth for a second, only to plunge him into darkness again. Inexplicable tears pressed against his eyeballs. Then she stopped and looked at him again, doing the slowest double take ever. She walked towards him, her eyes slowly filling the frame of his vision. Each slow-motioned step was echoed by his heartbeat; the booming must have been heard throughout the office.
The eyes approaching were green like emeralds; he felt their blaze against his face -- like a summer's breeze in winter. It warmed the stiff coldness of his skin. All blood must have gone. She was the sun to his moon -- he could only absorb and reflect, basking in it, and knowing at once he might never be able to live without it again.
Then she was gone.
The office lights returned to their glaring selves. The room was empty again, but for the jumble of battered furniture and the shining linoleum. His colleagues crouched over their desks -- oblivious to what happened. Did anything happen? He sat and shook. His body shivered while cold sweat evaporated. He felt a growing tightness in his pants. He covered it, feeling the usual shame.
A small square of lilac paper stuck to his computer screen. Words were penned down in black, spidery writing. "Pick me up at the Memphis," it said. "Seven o'clock."
***
He'd been at the Memphis before. He knew the lobby -- the blond wood paneling, the gray stone floor, glass everywhere, a huge clock, and a bank of elevators. He was early, of course. His body felt uncomfortable inside his new white shirt and khaki slacks -- like a visiting stranger. He wore too much aftershave too. After checking the clock he walked over to a bench opposite the elevators, and sat down.
All afternoon he'd considered not going. It seemed easier not to; there sure would be embarrassment if he showed up, wouldn't there -- awkwardness, humiliation? Hadn't he sworn to avoid girls? Why would this time be different? He'd considered the consequences of going -- the confrontation, the conversation, the lack of conversation, the lulls in conversation, the banalities. There would be the sickening demands of convention, and of course, the unavoidable disappointment. He'd considered everything, and reconsidered, but the simple thing was: he couldn't stay away.
That afternoon, trying on his new slacks in the hot fitting cubicle of the department store, he was caught by the reflection of his face in the tall mirror. It was just another face, he thought, only special to him because it always had been his. Long nose, dark curly hair, black eyebrows... nervous eyes. Nothing new. So why did she pick him? What did she think? Had there been amusement in her gaze, irony or even sarcasm? He couldn't remember. He remembered nothing but this sea of emerald green, engulfing him.
Yes, he shouldn't have come. But yes, he couldn't stay away.
The clock's hand passed seven. Was he supposed to wait for her down here, or should he go up? The note had been vague on that. "Pick me up at the Memphis. Seven o'clock" was all it said. No room number, no specification. Women would be late, he knew, it was part of the game. So he waited for another quarter. At twenty past seven he rose and went to the desk. The girl behind it was blond. She wore a white starched blouse, pancake on her face and too much mascara. He opened his mouth and realized there was nothing he could say. He had no name, no room number, nothing. He felt the muscles of his face force themselves into a smile, his eyebrows rising. Then he turned on his heels and walked back to the bench.
