NYC is different. In any city, you lounge on a couch for an afternoon, and this horniness slowly builds from the inside. You are so relaxed that all these horny feelings and thoughts bubble up until they drive you crazy to want some men flesh all around you and inside you. New York on the other hand is so intense. You are constantly being stimulated by a million people in the streets, maniac bicyclist shooting through red lights and into the middle of crowds in blind faith that pedestrians will jump out of their way, and you have maniac work schedules. Your mind is simply raw and you are ready to jump on the next thing. And thus sex happens the same way, an opportunity happens and you jump on it. Before you know it's over, you are already frantically hopping in one pant leg trying to get the other one up because (A) you always wear too tight clothes and (B) the subway is going to have a delay and make you late unless you hustle right now.
The other thing is that NYC is a slut city. I put it out there plain as that. In any city with a surplus of men, women rule the sexual life. They will put the prude rule on everyone. They will lock force their rule onto the men to be chaste. But in NYC, there are three single women for every man. That's intense competition. At least one of those three needs some release and is willing to lower the prude rules. So if the rest want to get any men, they have to follow suit. While in public, we NYC women are dressed well hustle in business suits and sneakers - sneakers because we have to walk a lot and our heels are in our handbags, in private, we fuck relentless like bunnies with multiple guys.
It's plain as that. It's an intensity that not everyone can handle. Many people both men and women quit Manhattan after three years because they can't handle it anymore. They move to the suburb to get a quiet life, sit in their SUVs, and ponder life while they spend it sitting at red traffic lights or plain traffic. Me, I'm still hungry. I finished graduate school about a year ago. I finally make money. I want to kick in some doors, corporate doors that is. I admit that I'm a little excited to wear my black business skirt, my D&G blouse, and the thing that I'm most proud Christian Louboutin heels. Their skinny stiletto pointers lift me up six inches. The platform sole gives me another inch and a half. I'm right there at what I call eye level zone. I talk straight and fierce into your face as I pitch my social media marketing campaigns. However, when I step out of them, I feel naked and helpless like a little girl that doesn't get to sit at the adult table yet. I'm okay kicking them off around my friends, where I feel safe. But otherwise, it scares me. I feel like people won't notice me and don't pay me attention.
I do have a skinny body. I work out hard. When I'm naked in front of my full body mirror in the bathroom that my roommates and I share, I'm contoured. Every muscle - calves, back of the shoulders, abs - is there clear as day. I'm not a body builder bitch. I've got lean, long muscles everywhere. However, being that short and that trim makes me pretty small. The guys in the conference room with their bellies and ill-fitting suits that are at least a size too large take up two or three times the space. And when their frat boy voices boom like they are still drunk from late night drinking, they command attention without saying anything. I've had man say pretty much only "hm, yeah, hm, alright" and the company execs nodded in approval, while I was sitting in a chair that was so much larger than me that I get lost in it. I'd have all the market points researched, but they didn't even hear my voice. They talked over me. And when I yelled to get their attention, they smiled smugly for how chivalrous they were to let the woman in the room talk. I could see on their faces that they were too busy patting themselves on the back for letting the woman speak to not pay attention to me. And they'd go straight back to agreeing to go with that campaign that the doofus had pitched. So yes, those super high Louboutins feel like they lift me into the conversation and are my power platform. They raise me to a level from where I can spew my hard hitting facts, pitches, and counter proposal. When I step out of them, I feel like that teenage girl that I was - girly, cute, and eager to please.
Part of that life style is that I can afford a fancy Equinox membership. They go for $250 per months now. That's how much my roommate share rent was as a grad student to sleep on a couch where my roommates would burst in for about any reason while I slept simply because the couch was in the living room. Anytime one of them needed to shower to go out or even only grab a glass of water from the kitchen, they'd have to pass the sleeping little me, Nicole. But now that I'm working in a fancy Hudson Yards office, I can spend that much money on a gym membership alone.
I love the Pursuit:Burn class. It's intense - just like I like it. An instructor, who has the cred to do so - hard body, hot face, and Bandier yoga pants, yells at us on stationary bikes for an hour to push those peddles harder and harder. I'm a small girl. We are often stepped on. It gives us a strength that makes us crave pressure, even abuse. When I get a massage, I pick the biggest guy I get and tell him to go full pressure with his elbow. That pressure that's pain to others is what gives me the release. It's the same with cycling. I need to fill that all out beating on the pedals. I need to feel my muscles screaming, my lungs exploding like I can't get enough air, and my heart pounding so hard that I can hear it in my ears like the bass drop at a rave party.
There was this one day - and this is where my confession to you reader starts - where my standby location at the High Line was closed. Their plumbing had been toast. They sent out an e-mail to everyone to go to an alternative location. Of course, they sent out the e-mail so late that almost every class was already booked up. You might not know. Equinox classes require advance reservations in their app. Reservation opens 24 hours in advance. Every member sets their alarm to be reserve the class right as it opens because if you wait only five minutes for a popular instructor, it's filled up. That day, I still remember the day. It was a little rainy. It felt like the start of fall. The pavement was dark from wetness, but there was no rain coming down. So that day, there was only a pursuit class with open spots at the Bond Street location. That mean that I had to hustle from the 7 to the R train in the midst of rush hour. Subway rush hour means that my nose will be buried into a finance guys back while a little kid will relentlessly kick me in the heels. Good Lord! But we small women are tough. We can handle it.
I rushed into class. The cycle room was a dark cave with colorful strobe lights to flash when the pace got more intense. The teacher was somewhere up front with her headset. I could barely see her in the darkness and tangle of black body silhouettes in the dark room. It was a good and intense workout. The instructor told us to sit up to do some arm stretches while peddling at a cool down pace. That was my cue. The class packed fifty people. They would all be rushing out and clogging the locker room - forget about finding place in the shower. So I unclipped from the pedals, slid of the bike seat, and slipped out of class. I hurried down the stairs barefoot with my bike shoes in hand. I still vividly remember how I held onto the railing to pull myself around the corners fast.
As usual, I turned right into the locker room. Ah - what a refreshing sight! It was completely empty because everyone was in class. My damn locker, number 157, didn't open. The locker combination locks are often broken. It simply meant that I had to find a locker room attendant with the master key later. There was no time for that now. I ripped the sweaty clothes of my body, sleeves inside out any way they came off, and threw them on a pile on a bench. I quickly walked the stone tiled floor with my bare feet towards the steam room. I grabbed a large white towel from the shelf on the way. I entered the white cloud of steam. I sighed in relief as the heat hit my face. I found a seat on the highest railing to get the most heat burning on my skin.
I sighed again in relief. I had beaten the after class rush. The moisture was collecting on my skin in drops. The tension in my muscles that I had been holding all day in the office began to dissipate. I couldn't see anybody in the thick steam cloud. Those ten minutes in the steam room are literally the only moments in the day when I feel alone. My office has desks packed tightly because Manhattan real estate is so expensive. The subway is like a rat cage. I live in an overcrowded roommate situation to afford the high rents in Tribeca. But here in the steam room, even though people would be sitting right next to me any moment, I felt like I was alone. Alone at last!
