Debauchery

By Jessica Martinez

I stopped to catch my breath at a nearby bus stop and glanced at

my watch; I was ten minutes early. I continued to speedwalk down

Houston Street, still cracking my bruised knuckles. I spat out my gum

and suppressed a wave of nausea. I caught my reflection as I passed

by a bodega door and nervously tugged at my Jean Seberg nautical

shirt.

I should’ve worn something else.

I looked childish. Leggings are not pants, and my vagina was

nothing to be imagined anymore. My breath increased in speed as I got

closer, anxiety suddenly becoming a problem. Finally, I stood outside

the dimly lit bar, on the verge of physically shaking.

Don’t be nervous. Don’t be nervous. Don’t be nervous. He’s just

giving you feedback. Don’t be nervous—STOP IT.

Lowering my headphones, I went inside.

I quickly scanned the place, squinting. He wasn’t there. Just a

handful of post-grad friends trying their best to ignore the sexual

friction amongst themselves.

“Do you have any red wine?” I asked the Bartender sitting at the

far end of the corner, deeply absorbed in a book. Imagine, getting paid

to pour alcohol from time to time, and still being able to get some

reading done. How convenient! I want that job. Why don’t I have that

job?

1
 “Uhhh…” the Bartender replied with an uneasy look on his face.

He moved around the counter, not really knowing where to look.

Maybe I should’ve gotten a beer…

This dive bar is definitely everything I always imagined my ideal

gritty bar to be. I had passed by it far too many years without ever

noticing it. It is a hidden gem amidst what is undeniably becoming an

outdoor strip mall, a well deserved kept secret from Asian and

Midwestern tourists lurking just two blocks north, gawking at what their

version of The Real New York is.

I grabbed the cabernet sauvignon—which has somewhat become

my staple drink—and sat down at a nearby table, trying to quickly look

for any grammatical errors that my short story might have. (He hates

editing lazy grammar.) The more I read my story, the more convinced I

became that I should’ve become an orthodontist.

So I tried to finish a Hemingway book instead, wine in hand. How

overwhelmingly pretentious, I almost felt ashamed.

I couldn’t concentrate. What if he doesn’t come? The idea

horrified me. I haven’t been stood up yet, so that’s a good sign. That

says something about me: tolerable.

My stomach growled. How was I still hungry? I had forced myself

to eat a quesadilla a few hours earlier, refusing to drink on an empty

stomach, an embarrassing past mistake. All that can be said is that I

will never wear a see-thru dress ever again. (For further details, please

2
see Jim.)

“You’re here!” he said, surprised.

I looked up from my book to see Ben, my American Hugh Grant,

handsome sex-god to teenage girls and middle-aged women

everywhere. The man I had fantasized about and lustfully stared at

whenever he would drop by my desk, or simply pass by on his way to

the elevator or the conference room, pen tucked under his ear, always

saying hello. Always acknowledging my existence and contributions to

humanity.

A man whose mere presence made my day, a feeling mutually

shared with my co-worker. A man whose grin and charisma won us

over the first time he spoke, often causing us to suppress our laughter

as we IM’ed one another about the things we would be more than

happy to make him grin about.

Did I mention he happens to be my former supervisor?

“You already got yourself a drink?” he asked, eyeing my glass.

“Yeah, it’s wine. What do you want to drink?” I replied, as I

grabbed my wallet and got up.

“I was supposed to get you a drink. I was just kidding. You don’t

actually have to buy me a drink,” he explained, and looked at me like

I’m too gullible; I am. “Now I feel bad—do you want something else?”

I shook my head, embarrassed. I’m not great at subtext either,

especially in the forms of e-mail, text, or IM’ing. Since this has so far

3
been our only way of communication, I wondered when he was going

to start using my digits, which I had already given him twice. If the e-

mailing was going to continue, he should know that this gullibility will

commence as well.

“Are you sure?” he repeated.

I nodded. After he returned with a small shot of bourbon in his

hand, he inspected our table and frowned.

“Do you want to sit somewhere else?” I asked.

“Let’s go sit over there,” he said, walking towards the back. To

my surprise, he led us to another room, and eventually to a small,

secluded corner.

“Sit over here.” He pointed to a decrepit sofa that, no doubt, was

clinging to its last days. We sat down and smiled at each other. We

were glad to be here.

I was almost positive that we wouldn’t have much to say to one

another. That at times it would be quiet and very awkward, despite our

loud backdrop. (Again, please see Jim.)

What does a handsome man in his early forties have in common

with a mousy girl in her early twenties? How many stories can they

possibly swap with one another with perfect ease and trust? Many

apparently.

Ben has a theory that he can ramble for a very long time about

absolutely anything. He is correct.

4
 Our “Real World/This Is What Non-Sense Adults Really Talk About”

conversation included: The Metro-North train and voice-over royalties;

chasing dogs around pools; the idea of living in Paris when you’re

young and then doing it; teaching Monks in Asia; choosing to backpack

by yourself; uneducated parents and how we’ve disappointed them;

lonely Memorial Days in Westchester; not being able to stand people

your own age, and generally living in isolation because we are writers.

Ben has the most fantastic, booming laugh, I can’t help but be

euphoric. His eyes light up, mouth turns slightly sideways, shoulders

move up and down to the sound of his delight. It’s a teasing heckle,

incredibly flirtatious. I feel like no one else can make him laugh this

hard. I am the only one that can make him feel this way. (I am, of

course, in complete denial. He is currently openly romantically involved

with someone, and has been for a couple of years. He later assures me

that she’s “okay with this.” There is simply no care for this information,

at least during what I think are our intimate moments.)

This group in an NYC bar on a Sunday night involves two straight,

slightly unhappy, wishful, “single” people. Simply put: a female and a

male, quite obviously having way too much chemistry for our own

good.

There is a bit of innocent hand activity on his part. He playfully

touches my arm and leg, sitting so close that I can smell his drugstore

shampoo, after-shave lotion, and bourbon breath. (I keep my hands to

5
myself, only using them to shift my glass of wine from time to time, or

to brush off my bangs from my face. I desperately tried to hide my

chipped black nail polish out of sight. I already look like a high school

girl, there’s no reason to feel like one.)

At that moment, our chemistry was all that it should be. But then

again, part of this group involves moi.

“Did I mention that no one would sit next to me?” he asked

incredulously, in regards to one of the countless bus rides that he took

on one of his countless trips. He’s well traveled, this one.

“Really!” I exclaimed in surprise. Anyone who has eyes would sit

next to him in a heartbeat.

“It was always the last seat taken,” he explained. “The whole ride, it

was always empty.”

“That’s so weird!” I just couldn’t contain my excitement as I spilled

wine all over my shirt. “I was just wondering the other day why no one

ever wants to sit next to me on the subway.”

“Is it because of this!” he replied, as he leaned over and pretended

to pull my septum piercing.

“No! This was prior to getting it,” I said, defensively. “And besides, I

like to think that I look like a nice girl.”

Ben coyly smiled. “You like to think?”

“Yeah. I can be nice sometimes,” I replied, unable to hide my smirk.

“You’re so secretive,” he muttered, taking a sip from his second

6
shot of bourbon.

“You mentioned that once. I hope that’s a good thing.”

He briefly stared at me. Placing his glass down, he looked straight

ahead, deep in thought. Beautiful wrinkles spread across his forehead,

his lips slightly pouting as he displayed his thinking face. I patiently

waited for a bubble to appear above his head. Is there ever a time

when this man doesn’t look handsome doing anything?

The answer is no.

“You’re so…” He slowly stretched out his arms and pretended to

type robotically, daydreaming in the distance. “The first two weeks I

was like, I can’t talk to Anna. She’s too…”

“Hostile.” I nodded in agreement. “Go on.”

“It’s as if you wanted to have no contact with anyone else—you

were unreachable. I was like, I can’t work with her; I won’t give her any

assignments.”

“Then I remember talking to you one day and just…” He drifted, a

look of utter amazement on his face. His hands kept furiously

stretching out back and forth, trying to demonstrate overwhelming

feelings, trying to come up with the perfect words.

Say it! Say it!

“You just laughed!” he burst. “You just laughed! And it was this

explosion of warmth. I had never seen you like that. You were a

completely different person. That’s when I knew I had you all wrong,”

7
he said, finishing his drink.

Taken aback, I laughed in response. His eyes peered from the glass,

smiling at me, which made me laugh all the much harder.

A loud screech from a nearby speaker disrupted our eye fucking.

Karaoke night was about to start.

“Oh god,” Ben moaned apologetically. “I am so, so sorry. I would’ve

never brought you here if—“

“I don’t practice Santeeeeriaaaa/I ain’t got no crystal baaaall,” sang

someone in the other room who was surely more sober than he gave

himself credit for.

As we desperately tried to carry on our conversation, the singing

became too intense for Ben to handle. Karaoke night was full

underway.

“Do you want to go somewhere else?” he asked, leaning over, hand

on my knee.

“Sure,” I slurred. As he gulped his PBR, I gulped my second glass of

wine. We passed by the small sad crowd of karaoke enthusiasts on our

way out.

It was dark outside. I glanced at my watch. How had over two hours

passed by? Other than my frantic talking-to-myself-in-the-bathroom-

mirror routine, I had done decently well. In fact, I would almost say I

was on a date. But the only realistic response to that was the same

one I gave to myself while staring at my reflection: I began to laugh

8
uncontrollably. The idea that Ben would be attracted to me was

beyond delusional. I may jokingly refer to myself as Lolita at times, but

that doesn’t actually make me one. Right?

We walked down the street, the cool reminder of spring ending. Ben

abruptly stopped and asked, “Alright, you have two options. I can walk

you to the subway station, or—this might sound a little inappropriate—

you can come over my apartment and have wine on the rooftop.” He

nervously eyed me, fidgeting with his hands.

“Apartment and wine!” I exclaimed, not thinking it twice. Slightly

stumbling, I followed him as he went on about God knows what.

My thoughts scattered.

Wait. Is this a date? What’s going to happen in the apartment? Is

this appropriate? He’s not my supervisor anymore, so this is okay. I

wonder how old he really is. He’s not really twice my age, right? He

doesn’t find me attractive does he? Oh my god, of course he does!

He’s being so flirty—but maybe it’s all that alcohol. Is he going to kiss

me? Are we going to have sex?! FUCK! HE’S CLEARLY DRUNK. What

am I doing! What is HE doing!

The idea of us being on a date suddenly became a possibility. I

wanted to jump with joy and call everyone and update my Facebook

status because that is what my generation has come down to.

“What are some of your favorite authors?” he asked, as we made

our way down Mulberry Street.

9
 “Oh you know,” I began, scrambling to come up with good answers.

“Hornby, Sedaris, Plath, Didion, Lamott, Nabokov, Tolstoy,

Vonnegut...The Bell Jar is my favorite book at the moment.” My

bookcase, which I proudly show off to my friends when they visit,

suddenly seemed too far off in the distance, their titles blurry and

cliché. My answers were nothing special, almost expected from a

twenty-two-year-old. (This was confirmed as he replied by smiling

politely.)

My heart rapidly slammed against my bony, flat chest as he opened

his apartment door. I walked in and couldn’t help but gawk. The

apartment was absolutely perfect, every writer’s wet dream.

It was the smallest one bedroom apartment I had yet seen. The

kitchen was the first thing you saw, coral blue electrifying the neatly

displayed pots and pans on the wall. Overflowed condiments and

exotic spices dangled wherever there was shelf-space left. The small

living room had been converted into a modest-sized bedroom, the

mattress feeling luxurious under my 5’3” frame.

And then there were the books.

It put book lovers’ bookcases all over to shame. Books were

everywhere, the overwhelming scent of old and abused paper sinking

into my pores. They were stacked near the kitchen, by the bathroom

door, on the bed, above the bedroom, and in his study. He had clearly

not exaggerated when he said that he powned around three thousand.

10
 If that wasn’t orgasmic enough, most of his books were rare first

editions. I was mesmerized by the classics, mostly books I’ve been

dying to get my hands on. And then he pulled out the oldest book he

owns—a French, leather bound book from 1695.

“Holy fuck,” I breathed, admiring the cover. A hand painted portrait

of a saint, sweetly stared back at me.

“Do you speak French?” he asked.

“Not really, just the basics.” I sighed, carefully inspecting each

page, desperately trying to recognize any words. “What does it say?”

Ben leaned forward, his chest making contact with my small back.

He began to translate in one of the five languages he is fluent in. I

could feel his heart beating. Thump, thump! Thump, thump!

I laughed when he finished. “Of course you know French!”

“I’m old!” he exclaimed. “I’ve had time to do a lot.”

As my mind began to wander off, I felt hot breath at the back of my

neck. Ben’s fingers massaged my skin, while his lips brushed against it.

“This isn’t entirely inappropriate is it?” he asked, still kissing my

neck.

Wide-eyed and in stunned I managed to reply, “No. It’s okay.” He

continued. I tried to remain calm, awkwardly standing in the middle of

the room, unsure what was expected of me.

Well, I thought, he definitely likes me.

For the first few minutes, I distanced myself away from him and

11
pretended to be distracted by his books. He had previously told me to

take as many as I’d like and I was definitely going to take him up on

the offer. I suppose I did a great job pretending to be invested since he

remarked by laughing, “I’m really proud of you. Here I am, trying to

seduce you.”

I looked up at him—I was sitting on the floor, a position of comfort—

and stared. Was he really throwing himself at me? If so, why? But more

importantly, what would happen if I reciprocated? He’s already

instigated, so nothing can ever really be the same again. I had let

things change, encouraged it even. Where do we go from here?

So I stood up and kissed him. The moment I had fantasized about

was here, and I’d be foolish not to grab it. My hands felt small against

his face, as they hopelessly tried to be somewhat amorous. His scruff

irritated my top lip, but I disregarded it. I was supposed to be enjoying

this moment. There was no room for debate.

“You can’t let older men seduce you like this,” he repeated in

between breaths.

“Oh, really!”

“No! You can’t!” He paused and took a closer look at my frame.

“You’re jailbait,” he said, thoughtfully. The acknowledgement of it

made me uncomfortable. I searched for my glass of wine and drank

some more, even though I didn’t want any. I kept telling myself it

would calm my nerves. But perhaps I knew deep down that I could

12
always just blame it on this, and somehow forget that I willingly got

myself in this position.

I can vividly remember lying on his bed as he told me all the

inappropriate fantasies he had of me while I still worked at the office.

“You began to wear all of these provocative things,” he said smiling,

kissing me everywhere.

“What provocative things?”

“Oh, you know. The short skirts; those things you called pants…”

I stared at the ceiling, and wondered if Jim ever knew that it was all

for him, not someone else.

“You made it so difficult to concentrate,” he continued, every once

in awhile glancing at my face in search for some sort of reaction. Were

these supposed to be compliments? All I could muster up to do was

laugh, mostly at him, for saying all of these uncomfortable things out

loud which didn’t make me blush as much as suppress horrified facial

expressions.

I continued to kiss him, despite that the age difference had started

to affect me. I hoped that at some point I would be okay with my

actions. I tried to make excuses for my behavior, telling myself that I

really wanted this. I had daydreamed and even joked about it. So why

was I panicking when the opportunity presented itself? Sure, I had only

been intimate with two other people, but isn’t this what adults do? Just

have casual sex? Don’t I want casual sex? Don’t I deserve to have

13
casual sex, without emotionally fucking myself up? Aren’t I capable of

giving some of myself and not feel like a piece of shit afterwards? Nice

girls are capable of just having casual sex as well. Right?

As Ben gasped, lost in concentration, I became overwhelmingly sad

and avoided any eye contact. I continued to stare at the ceiling and

thought of my ex-boyfriend who I dated for a couple of years. I

suddenly missed our intimacy; how nice he was to me, how

embarrassed he would get when he would accidentally say something

dirty in bed.

Was it possible that I hadn’t moved on? But what about Jim and our

maybe dates? What about all of that shameless flirting with Ben at the

office? Doesn’t all of this mean anything?

I finally looked at Ben, whose only concern was what position to try

next. The sex itself was a bit of a disappointment. It wasn’t the least bit

romantic. It was what it was; casual sex. I hated it. The idea of being

desired is more appealing to me than the actual act of it.

After a few minutes, it was over. We made small talk. I found out—

rather awfully—that he has a girlfriend; this was during the middle of it.

I tried to hide my horrified face, feeling like The Other Woman, a

position never imaginable for a girl who was convinced at the age of

twelve that she would grow up to become a nun. He assured me that it

was “an open relationship,” and she would be okay if she found out.

They are both adults about it, whatever that means.

14
 His queen size bed felt like the Earth’s ocean between us, so

faraway from each other you’d think we were repulsed by one another.

While he slept I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. Why was a man his

age fucking someone my age? How starved was he for intimacy? Or

affection? The same question can be asked about me. My answers

might seem like excuses, but in a way, I feel they are validated. I am a

stupid girl with a crush. I acted on impulse, rather than emotions. I will

be okay; do not repeat again.

But what about Ben? Someone who has slept with so many women,

many of them very young? Father of two kids, my father’s age. What is

he getting out of this, other than the obvious—an ego boost? Even his

girlfriend is only a few years older than I am. What is it about a

younger woman that is so appealing? Are we easier to seduce? Easier

to fuck? How naïve are we? Are we supposed to temporarily fulfill a

gap in his life? Are we the answer to his middle-aged crisis?

Maybe I’m being overly analytical and harsh. Perhaps we have more

in common than I think. We are after all, two lonely people who just

want to be liked. We yearn for some attention, a little bit of praise and

nice compliments, even if just for a few minutes.

Is this justifiable, or am I now making excuses for both of us?

15
16