I’m an exotic woman: half black and half Vietnamese. You’ve seen women like me in Jay-Z videos. There’s always one. In fact, you’ve seen me in a Jay-Z video. I was paid two thousand dollars to dance and drink Cristal for a few hours. I have the high-perched ass and big Bantu titties of my father’s people and the shy rice paddy slant eyes of my mother’s people. Men tell me all the time how “exotic” I am.
I’m a hysteric. A lot of women don’t like this term. Most women are brainless cunts who don’t even want to be women. They whine for their castrated men to give them an identity, the more banal the better, and if the loser accidentally gives them anything good, they pout and sulk. That’s your average cunt. I’m a cunt too, but there’s nothing average about me. I deploy my demure smile and demand the best, and when I get it, I open like a sunflower.
It was a Friday morning. I had woken up in the arms of a very lovely boy, a poet, broke of course, but ready to sacrifice everything for me. He begged me to drive to Mexico with him so we could get lost looking for the chupacabra together in the mescal groves. I told him he was sweet and spread my legs. When I give a man my body, I give it to him completely, and Dmitri was poet enough to see the beauty of my soul in the symmetry of my perfect ass. After forty minutes of inspired lovemaking he grunted something about Hegel’s concrete universal and then came on my double D’s. I could see the sincerity in his blue eyes: a voluptuous pleasure your average brainless cunt will never know.
A few hours later I could still feel Dmitri inside me. I had decided to go shopping on Fifth Avenue. I love beautiful things, and I have the money to afford them. I wanted to buy a new bottle of perfume to wear that night for my date with Robert, a brain surgeon with a cleft chin with whom I had been having an affair for a few months. The last time we had seen each other he took me out to dinner at Cobalt. Our bottle of champagne cost a thousand dollars, and Christian Bale was sitting two tables down from us.
I was about to walk into the Lanvin store on 55th street when I noticed him. He stopped dead in his tracks to watch me jiggle by. As soon as I turned towards him, he looked at the ground and blushed. This happens to me about twenty times a day. This peeper was a skinny, middle-aged Caucasian of average height. He was wearing a light blue button-up shirt, khaki pants, ugly nondescript shoes with clunky soles, and a parka. I had a vision of him in Dillard’s carefully deciding which pair of characterless brown shoes to buy. He had the kind of face no one remembers.
I live a life of pleasure. Anyone who claims that hedonism is empty and shallow is too much of a coward to try to live such a life himself. I eat fine food, I share my bed with extraordinary men, and I spend my free time cultivating my tastes in music, literature, philosophy and art. I saved the money I made working as a model and escort and used it to buy an apartment building in Newark. I flipped it a year later, bought two more, flipped them too, and now I don’t have to worry about money anymore. I am thirty-two years old. My parents were poor and stupid when they were alive and now that they are dead I rarely think about them.
This man was the opposite of everything I am. He was a coward: a man who had never taken a risk in his life, a man who took no joy from his presence on earth, a man who watched beautiful women walk by and no longer even hated himself for not having the courage to approach them.
I am a hard woman. I have no pity for the weak. Life is hard, and no one can live it for you. Either you want to live or you don’t.
Perhaps it was because I had just seen Dmitri, but I found myself elaborating a fantasy about this omega male. It was a crucial moment in the smurf’s life: the flush I had caused in his cheeks would only diminish in intensity as the years piled up. He would never be more alive than he was right now. Not to say that he was alive now. Just more alive than he would be in a week, a month, a year, or a decade.
Then and there I decided to give this man the kind of explicit opportunity that he had never had the balls or the brains to create for himself. Not out of pity, not out of kindness, but out of simple scientific curiosity. After so many years living in fear, how would an encounter with the woman of his dreams affect him?
As soon as I made the decision to seduce him I began to get the butterfly feeling in my pussy that always precedes a seduction. Robert disappeared from my mind completely. The truth was that Robert had begun to bore me, as all men eventually do.
The man had now turned his back to me. Taking out a cigarette, I walked up to him and tapped him on the shoulder.
He flinched and turned around when I touched him. His intelligent eyes protruded a little from his sockets when he saw who it was.
“Excuse me, do you have a light?”
Here was his first opportunity. I wasn’t going to make it too easy on him too fast. After all, a real man would have already approached me. I wanted to see how much iron was left in him.
“Uh…I don’t smoke.” His eyes pleaded with me not to disappear, but he was incapable even of doing honor to this blatant invitation by responding in a minimally flirtatious way.
He couldn’t handle the fastball. I pitched him a floater.
“Didn’t your father teach you always to carry matches with you in case a lady needs a light?”
Notice that I do not split my infinitives.
I waited for the gloss but none came. Is this what the average woman puts up with every day?
The fear in his eyes told me that laying it on any thicker would cause an alarm to go off. I was beginning to get a sense for what kind of man he was: a boring moralizer too hung up on “honesty” and the “truth” to tolerate even three seconds of seductive epistemological uncertainty.
I would have to drop the sexy act and engage with him on the level of signification. How boring. This man had gone forty years without realizing that he had been destroying sexuality within the first five seconds of every encounter with a woman.
I have many expressions in my repertoire. Put a porch monkey bitch in front of me and I will go ghetto. I will slash a bitch with the box cutter I keep in my purse. I will set a bitch’s weave on fire.
I dialed up the shy smile I stole from my flat-assed Viet cousin Xuan. The man dropped his gaze, stealing a peep at my double D’s before focusing somewhere on the sidewalk.
“Look…I’ll be honest with you. I saw you looking at me. I know the effect I have on men. The fact is that I’m in a very peculiar mood today. So why don’t you come have a drink with me and catch the next bus?” I had already begun threading my arm through his and leading him towards the St. Regis King Cole hotel bar down the street.
The bartender smiled when he saw me. Hinkel is a dear man who makes the best Gin Fizzes in Manhattan. I wasn’t in the mood for a Gin Fizz.
“Two double Scotches on the rocks, please…your best single malt.” Hinkel’s fat bishop’s face broke into a ruddy smile.
“Of course, Miss Williams.”
My prey stared at the mahogany paneling with a sick expression on his face. I turned to him.
“What’s your name?”
“Like Stanley? Or is it Stanislas? Maybe Stanford?”
“It’s Tristan.” The little accompanying snort indicated that the irony of this impossible name did not escape him. One of my interests is Jungian psychoanalysis. This man had shriveled in response to the romantic name he was unable to live up to. My own name is Tran. I saw no need to share this with him.
“Is this some kind of a joke?” The last word was pronounced with a certain bitterness.
“This…you. I’m not dumb enough to think you might actually be interested in me. So why are we here? Are a couple of guys about to hustle me into the bathroom and rob me?” He attempted to sneer.
Finally a sign of life. I rewarded it with a little smile.
“Tristan, let me explain a few things to you. You seem like the kind of man who needs explanations. It’s unfortunate. As I told you, I am in a peculiar mood today. You’re right, of course, that women like me are not interested in men like you: men with ugly clothes and no confidence. But women like me are capricious, and today I have decided to pick a man like you and allow him to realize his dreams with me. Call it perversity, call it curiosity, call it what you like, but I can assure you that you are never going to have an opportunity like this again.”
Tristan flinched and took a big gulp of his Scotch.
“But why? Why me?”
“That is precisely the kind of response I would have expected from you.”
Enough of this.
“Tristan, I am not a patient person. Even now you refuse to allow yourself to admit what is happening to you. Let me be even more clear: I am offering you full access to my body as well as my mind, for no reason. I find your stupid hesitation boring, and will not put up with it much longer.”
Tristan finally tore his eyes away from the bar and looked at me. His eyes were beginning to water. He closed them then spoke slowly and with great bitterness.
“I’ve been married for twelve years. My wife is boring and unattractive. We have a mentally retarded son. I claim to love him but that’s a lie. You’re the only person I’ve ever admitted that to. My wife loves our retarded son more than she would have loved a normal child. It’s disgusting. Every day I think about throwing myself under the wheels of the bus that I take to and from work, but I am a coward. I masturbate to images of women like you…exotic women…at night before I go to bed.”
The detail about the retarded son alone was worth the boring lay I was going to have to endure in a few minutes.
His mouth twitched as if struggling with something. His eyes remained closed. If I had been a more generous person I would have chosen that moment to take his hand and lead him up to a hotel room, but I had made it too easy for Tristan already. Without opening his eyes, he spoke.
“I…want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything before.”
Maudlin, embarrassing, and probably not even true. I’m sure he wanted Suzy Applebottom in the 9th grade more than he wanted me. I had a sudden vision of a middle-aged convict struggling to read Harry Potter.
“Then take me, Tristan.”
He looked at the bar and nodded vigorously as if assenting to some inner voice. He leaped out of his stool, grabbed me by the hand and led me to the registration desk. We were practically running.
“Give us your best room,” he told the clerk. “Mr. and Mrs. Smith.”
There it was: probably the most dignified act of his life.
On our way up to the room I could feel my pussy getting slippery. This is an entirely mechanical process, and happens whenever I know I am about to have sex, whether I am excited or not.
Tristan was trembling.
We walked into the hotel room. Tristan tried to kiss me. I pushed him back.
“No kissing,” I said, as I slipped out of the Chanel dress I had been wearing. In ten seconds I was completely naked. I arched my back and looked down. The sight of my black nipples pointing straight out from my perfect, firm breasts excited me.
“Do you like my breasts?”
“They’re the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.”
God, give me a break.
“Take off your clothes,” I said
Like a good boy he did what he was told.
Although Tristan was not a sexy man, he regained a certain animal virility once his ugly clothes had come off. His penis was large and curved to the right. I wondered how many times he must have wrung his dead sperm out of the thing to give it such a twist.
I kneeled down and started sucking.
I had expected Tristan to be a timid and rapid lay, but once things got going, I realized to my astonishment that I was in the hands of an expert lover. He stared into my eyes as we fucked, boring into me with what I presume was a lifetime’s worth of frustration.
At one point his right hand went to my throat and began tightening. I fantasized that he was strangling his retarded son. It turned me on. I came quickly after that, for the third or fourth time.
After at least an hour and a half it was finally over. We both lay on the king-sized bed, spent.
I could feel Tristan shrinking back inside by the second. He had laid his forearm across his forehead and was staring at the ceiling with a stricken look in his eyes.
I began to dress. Tristan continued to stare at the ceiling. His body looked small and weak again. I wanted to leave.
As I was pulling my dress down over my ass, he turned to me.
“Stay…I’ll do anything if you stay…anything you ask.”
“It’s too late,” I told him. “Destiny can only be cheated for so long.”
He nodded and looked back up at the ceiling. I saw now that he was crying. It was time for me to leave. I could see that Tristan wanted to talk, and I had to get out of there before the clouds burst. I supposed he was capable of talking for twenty hours nonstop. That was his problem, not mine. If there is one thing I cannot tolerate it is too many words.
“Wait,” he said as I began walking towards the door.
“Goodbye, Tristan.” He had turned into a baby wailing for his mother, and that is a game I refuse to play.
“Please,” I heard him croak as I closed the door.
Part of me wanted to listen outside the door for the sobs that I knew would come, but I kept moving towards the elevator.
Suddenly I realized that I wanted to see Robert after all. It still wasn’t too late to stop in Lanvin either.
Life can be good if you let it be.