By: Thomas Hauser
“So, are you going to fuck me?” Thatʼs how she said it. Are you going to fuck me.
He had to think about it. The reality and intensity of her statement not quite registering in his beer-soaked brain. He was sitting on the hard oak floor in her third-story bedroom. There wasnʼt much light in the room, the hue strongly influenced by the light of the sodium lamps infiltrating through the large bay window.
The trees were swarmed with white blossoms this time of year. Heʼd seen these neighborhoods for years; from sky scrapers Downtown, from his friendʼs Chinatown apartment, from houses on the hill in West Philly. She parked her bimmer around the block, confident it would be there in the morning. They stumbled past the new construction and closed storefronts and abandoned row homes that were dotted across this once dilapidated neighborhood under the watchful glow of the same streetlights that would later illuminate her naked figure.
There he sat at the foot of her bed, nervous and in shock of the eveningʼs progression. Selecting one of her dadʼs vinyls from the wooden crate they were kept in and placing it onto the turntable she had just purchased. Probably from one of the trendy stores in the city, specializing in just this type of hipster paraphernalia.
She laid there in her bed wearing a dingy band t-shirt with the sleeves cut off and black boy shorts. Her outfit proclaimed her intentions with the innocent-yet-seductive elegance one would associate with Holly Golightly.
This girl held his imagination for several years before this night.
Having similar majors and interests led to them sharing several courses each semester. There was something about her, something he couldnʼt quite get a grasp on.
She was so mysterious and beautiful in a manner that played at his emotions and desires so severely that she had to know. The aura of unbridled sexuality she emitted was far beyond any other girlʼs. He lusted after her, wanting to know who she really was beneath her guarded persona. She was so cool.
That was part of her mystique and appeal she had. She always wore the coolest clothes, listened to the coolest music. He had always wanted to be cool. He was never cool. He felt cooler just being around Her. And she was never around anyone. He felt so cool being friends with her.
He still didnʼt know that much about her. It seemed as if no one did. Well not no one, but they were her friends on yachts in their pictures, always jetting to Aruba for New Years or to Belgium for Easter. They had lunches together and he slowly gleaned bits and pieces about who she was and why she was so mysterious. Her father was someone, and her grandmother was an even bigger someone. The more he learned, the more he began to think that he didnʼt know her at all.
His phone rang. It was Her. Thatʼs strange, he practically spoke aloud with a deep seated excitement bordering on mild hysteria. “Hey!” was all he could muster. “Are you coming to (insert obscure band) tonight? Itʼll be a lot of fun.”
He thought the bandʼs show in the city was a week away and he was planning on going. Heʼs liked this band for a few years and she mentioned it casually in conversation so obviously heʼs going. But as he thought it was the following week, he didnʼt have any plan for getting to the city that afternoon. Or home from the city, presumably the next day.
“Sounds like fun, pick me up at the train after work?” Fuck yes, was the only thought in his mind.
They hung out with her friends who were the bartenders to the upper-class of the city. The music promoters who organized concerts just like this. Writers who published their work in the newspaper and photographers who submitted to Rolling Stone.
He felt so cool. He had never felt this way before. He was as cool as her. And she was the coolest person he had ever known. He waited years to feel this way.
He bought her some cheap cans of cold lager and they danced together. Twirling and bouncing to the poppy drum and synth beats. The air conditioner was on, but it was vastly underwhelming in the humidity of the latespring night in the ʻup-and-comingʼ neighborhood. In reality it was just somewhat close to the already redeveloped warehouse districts and railroad yards, now filled with expensive bars, loft apartments, and farmers markets.
He made his way on to her bed, moving across the fluffy down comforter. He couldnʼt keep his eyes off of her, having difficulty believing the reality of the situation. ʻHot Rocksʼ was spinning on the turntable and Keith Richardʼs guitar urged them together. A guitar that she had showed him, hanging on the wall of her office.
He put his hands on her body, moving the soft cotton t-shirt that hung loosely from her shoulders. She arched her back as he kissed her, exposing her hipbones; revealing a tattoo on her otherwise flawless sun-kissed skin.
Even now he wonders if She thinks about him. Not even in the way he remembers her. Just, at all. Or remembers his name. Or even if she could pick out his face in a crowd. The same insignificance he certainly made countless girls feel after feeling important and special for a fleeting moment.
None of that matters though. Now he knows how it feels. How it feels to be cool. How it feels to be on a scuff on the crimson bottom of her favorite Louboutinʼs.