Chapter 17B

Monday morning, Martha went back to the same old grind. After she left for work I went back to my same old grind, jogging to Central Park and hanging a few chin-ups from a tree limb. I was closer to Memphis, no closer to staying in New York or finding ways to get back more often, no nearer to a conclusion about my feelings for Martha or Ronnie. I did have cash in my pocket and a bundle of traveler's checks I'd earned from posing.

While I was cleaning up at Martha's, Ronnie called on the phone.

She said, "Hi, what's up?

I told her I was getting ready for a posing session at eleven.

"Oh, that's right, I forgot about that one. Well, I do have a couple more people I can call, but... I think that's the limit of my resources. I wish I knew more. What are you gonna do with all that money you made, anyway?"

"Get myself back to New York."

"Well... it's your money. You couldn't use it for school down in Memphis?"

I changed the subject. I said, "Wanna meet me somewhere this afternoon when I get finished"

"Why, Steven! Are you asking me for a date?"

"Come on, take it while I still have the nerve."

We set up a meeting downtown at Union Square at three in the afternoon.

I posed for a guy in his fifties whom I'd worked with earlier. He was in a cross mood, constantly badgered by telephone calls while we worked, and another guy in his late teens worked with him, apparently taking an art course from the older guy. But while they worked and I posed, I watched and listened. It became more evident that any fantasy I might have about being an overnight success in New York was not just fantasy; it was simply bizarre. The two people working as I posed were highly skilled, talented, and hard working. I heard them talking about the difficulty of merely making a living in the arts, the complex politics of it, the competition and backbiting. I knew, more than ever, that I had a long way to go before I could make my own way in New York.

It was enough to put me into a mild funk by the time I met Ronnie in Union Square. That, and worrying about Martha and Howard again.

Ronnie greeted me with a kiss and a hug. She carried a shopping bag filled with several of her drawing tablets. She hooked her arm in mine and said, "Come on, let's walk home up Seventh Avenue. You can take a closer look at New York and see what you're getting yourself into."

While we strolled I said, "Want me to carry that bag?"

"It's not heavy."

"But I'm supposed to carry it."

She said, smiling and handing me the bag, "My god, you guys from the South..."

I said, "I guess being so polite would identify me as a hick to every girl in town."

"Then you don't need those girls."

As we strolled toward uptown she pointed out the blocks where Houdini lived and where Teddy Roosevelt grew up. We saw a character near Herald Square who was dressed like Jesus, haranguing a small crowd on a street corner about sin and salvation.

Ronnie said, "And I'll bet you thought this only happened in the Bible Belt."

We saw what Ronnie identified as a couple of beatniks, smoking marijuana openly on another street corner. They appeared to be in their late twenties or early thirties, hanging around on a junky street corner, lounging on the benches at a bus stop like derelicts. One of them appeared to be in mid-thirties and looked dirty and greasy.

Ronnie said, "This is one reason I'm not in that crowd any more. I know I smoke too much, but not that stuff any more."

We walked on, and she said, "They're not all that way, believe me. So many of them are very creative people. Writers, artists, screenwriters. Stock brokers. It's just copy cats like those guys that give the whole movement a bad name."

We strolled into the West 40's and 50's, and the neighborhood looked more and more rundown. Some of the older, orange-brick tenements looked as if they might crumble into dust at any moment. The street had a sour stench to it, made worse by the August heat. I was surprised to see so many people on the sidewalks, so much chaotic activity, in a neighborhood that didn't seem habitable.

On one street corner we passed a couple of overdressed girls who were obviously prostitutes, lounging in a doorway and sizing up the clientele. I glanced at them; I had never seen streetwalkers before. They certainly didn't look like the heavily made-up glamour girls I'd seen in movies. One of them was fairly chubby, dressed in tight green toreadors and a skimpy halter. She looked me over as Ronnie and I passed, and her eyes followed me as I sneaked glances at her.

She said jeeringly, "Hi, honey, lookin' for a party for three?"

I muttered bashfully, "Hi," and kept going.

Ronnie gave me an elbow in the ribs, grinning and shaking her head. "I can't believe you're so polite. This isn't Main Street in Memphis."

"Well, she said hi."

"Sure she did. She's open for business. You don't have to respond to that. She's a prostitute."

"I know." I added sarcastically, "Thank you, Aunt Ronnie."

"Oh, you. I'm trying to tell you, that's how a lot of people make a living in this town, playing on insecurity and desperation." She strolled along with me, looking ahead. A shadow came over her face. She took a deep, sad breath. She said, "I used to be one of those girls. I guess Martha told you."

"Yeah. A little."

She glanced at me quickly, her eyes not meeting mine. "That must considerably lower your estimation of your Aunt Veronica."

"It doesn't."

"I was hungry. I was scared. I didn't think I'd ever get so hungry and scared in my life. Every time I got a few bucks together I'd think about getting on a bus back to Michigan. Thank god I didn't end up there again."

I hugged her arm that was hooked into mine. I didn't know what to say.

Ronnie said scornfully, looking ahead as we walked, "Guys think those girls know so much about sex. What a joke. Most of them don't know a thing, and they care even less."

We dodged several people coming out of a busy shop, and Ronnie went on.

"The worst part was lying, making them think it was love. They all thought it was love. They didn't know it was robbery. That's what you had to do keep some of them coming back without hustling for new guys, make them think it was love and that they were attractive. See, I didn't have a pimp. I knew what they were like. Most of the girls get so hardened, though, they don't even pretend. But the same guys keep coming back. They keep hoping, this time she'll see what a great guy I am. But most of them... most of the guys..."

I said firmly, "Ronnie."

She didn't say anything for a moment. Half a block later she said quietly, "It only lasted a few days."

Soon we entered Central Park near Columbus Circle and headed East, across the park.

I said as we walked through the entrance gate, "Here. This is better."

Ronnie said, "Whew. Yes."

But for a while she was still dim and cheerless, untalkative. We neared the Bethesda Fountain and headed down the East 72nd Street transverse toward the Fifth Avenue side of the park.

I said, "Did you show me that part of town on purpose?"

"Yes. I haven't been there in so long. It hasn't changed."

"But you have."

"Yes." She fell quiet again.

I said, "But that's all over, Ronnie."

"Yeah, I know." She smiled, and she blushed. "I'm a hell of a tour guide. See New York with Ronnie. Watch Ronnie stumble over the past. Watch the -- I mean, plenty of people have suffered worse, and I guess being in the bus station was actually worse than -- " She continued walking, looking down. "Sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about."

"Yes there is. Plenty. I was lucky, I managed to slip through the cracks. But don't dare come to New York with nothing under your belt. The gentler you are, the more honest you are, the more trusting you are, the easier it is for this town to beat the hell out of you."

I had to change the subject. I said, "Look, there's a cardinal."

"Oh, look at him! He's so red, so bright red. He's beautiful."

"Where's his girlfriend?"

"She'll be around somewhere. Look, here she comes. There she is. They're always together. That's so sweet. I wonder if cardinals are aware, how sweet that is."

I was falling more in love with Ronnie. It wasn't the consuming passion I had for Martha, but it was a loving friendship whose progressive development continually surprised me. I began to think that Anita paled more and more in comparison to Martha and Ronnie, and so did all the others I'd met in New York. The episode with Anita seemed more a transgression against both of the young women who filled my days and nights in the city.

My feelings toward both of them had me guilt ridden as I set up Martha's dinner for her and prepared to leave for Chris' birthday party at around six thirty that Monday night. In her dining room, Martha looked so tired and listless that I didn't want to leave her alone and was tempted to change my mind about the whole thing. There was the nagging thought of her pending date with Howard as I gave her a little kiss before I left. That thought had me ambivalent and insecure. I felt that leaving her for the date that Chris set me up with was like abandoning Martha to Howard as her only recourse.

I said as I kissed her, "I'll be back early."

"No, you have a good time. Just call me."

I said again, "I'll be back early."

The conflict roiled inside me even as I entered Chris' house and found that he had already driven out to Glen Cove, Long Island and picked up Susan and my date, Gina.

The same conflict tugged at me when I saw that Gina was an attractive, outgoing, long haired seventeen-year-old with a sexy, lowpitched voice, smiling brown eyes and a wide, sensual mouth. And brains. And an open, poised manner and a dry, candid sense of humor. She looked and behaved older than her years and we got along famously as we sat in Chris' house and had a small dinner.

Chris and Susan and Gina enjoyed hearing my hilarious stories about my family in Memphis, and I was having fun going over much of the same material I'd used to entertain the people I'd met at the restaurant with Martha and Howard and his friends. And conflict, doubt and need began to collide more forcefully while I observed the interaction between Chris and Susan. They were familiar and affectionate, but there was something formulaic about the way they conducted their relationship, a certain formality, an undertone of mild bickering. There was much in their conversation with each other that seemed to come out of a tv family show like Ozzie and Harriet. Susan would have made a good Harriet Nelson, and as the evening wore on I could almost imagine her growing into a wealthier Mrs. Nelson when she was older.

Not so subtle was the way Chris and Susan seemed to set me up with an encounter with Gina. After our lengthy dinner and table talk, we settled in the living room, Chris turning down the lights and settling with Susan on one sofa while Gina and I found room on the bigger sofa across from them. The two of them chatted quietly, growing more intimate as time wore on. I glanced at them now and then as I spoke with Gina, who smiled continually and seemed to totally ignore the couple who sat across from us and who were soon kissing.

Nor did Gina seem fazed when Chris rose and led Susan out of the living room, with Susan smiling demurely at us as they passed and left through a door behind us. Gina's only reaction was to glance briefly at them out of the corners of her eyes as she smiled and spoke with me.

And let's face it, Gina was a tempting morsel. She was perfectly at ease when I gave in to her charms and kissed her. She leaned into me and fell back easily when I put my arms around her as we kissed and I moved her into a reclining position on the sofa. While my lips were still on hers I felt her kicking off her loafers and heard them thump softly onto the thick shag carpet near the sofa.

I wondered what the hell I was doing and why I was doing it. Gina was affectionately responsive, sighing a quiet "Mmm" as I ended the kiss and trailed my lips along her soft neck.

She whispered "You can kiss."

And I whispered, "So can you." And she could. She was very good. I kissed her again. She was damn good. She got better as we went along, her mouth getting warmer and softer and her face and arms heating up. I began indulging in what was known in the vernacular of 1957 as a heavy make-out session. I was soon lying on top of her, both of us fully clothed, and she opened her legs and we kissed and I pressed my cock against her over her full skirt and she pressed her hips against me, and soon she was breathing hard and getting hot. And her hot breath was exciting against my ear while she stirred her pelvis against mine.

It all went well until I realized that, regardless of what Gina might be feeling, I wasn't experiencing much emotionally. This wasn't Martha, this wasn't Ronnie, this wasn't even my illusion of Anita. This was a fit, attractive, alluring girl who, after nearly three hours of conversation, I still didn't know personally. She was a stranger. Pretty, sexy. But she was a stranger and what we were doing didn't fill the big space inside me.

I rolled off her, settling close to her on the big sofa, and I looked down at her. She seemed so overheated she looked distraught, her head thrown back, eyes closed tight and full, red lips parted. I couldn't believe I felt sorry for her. I had my hand under her skirt. I began caressing her legs, finding her skin soft and plump, and her thighs moved farther apart. I slipped my hand under the edge of her panties and fingerfucked her, holding her on the edge for a while so she could have a good cum. While I pleasured her she found my zipper and pulled it down and she rubbed my cock over my underwear and then found the opening and pulled my cock out. Her hand was soft and warm and gentle with me, getting me hard. By the time she came I had my very first, first-class case of blue balls, but I resisted climbing onto her. She came quietly, with a single, brief, muted moan, the heat rising from her with her damp scent.

I held her and kissed her while she settled down. After a moment she cradled her face against my chest. She whispered, "That was nice."

And I thought: oh, what a sweet, sexy, whispery voice. Why don't I feel anything? Possibly, it was because she reminded me too much of two other women.

With her face against my chest she looked down, and her hand went to my cock again.

I put my hand on hers, stopping her.

She looked up at me. "Something wrong?"

I bent down and kissed her temple and whispered, "Not right now."

She whispered, "Oh." She put her arms around me again and snuggled, relaxed. After a moment she said, "You don't have to worry. I know what to do. I mean... it won't be a problem later."

I said gently, "It's okay. It's not that." I looked down at her. She watched my face, her own face placid, her eyes revealing that soft afterglow I'd seen in other eyes.