Cock rings and Sympathy

G. is old and famous and I consider him one of the first friends I ever made in New York City. We met by accident as a 22 year-old aspiring journalist and 55 year-old SoHo artist/personality (yes, according to “New York” magazine, he is one of those “/” types…) can—by accident, in a swanky restaurant. We’ve been in contact ever since because we’re neighbors and Downtown Manhattan is his Manhattan, his territory, his lair. In spite of his ego, he has been a good neighbor and friend. My journalism reel would have been a complete disaster without his brilliant, engaging, coquettish presence on camera. But, somehow our relationship has changed, evolved, devolved…

Saturday night.

I’m a bit worried as I set out for G’s duplex penthouse on the Hudson River. Yes, my Ferragamo heels are uncomfortable. Yes, it is sweltering outside and I have unsightly boob sweat on my silk, handkerchief sundress. That’s nothing. I am most concerned about his voicemail.

“B, baby, I have a gift for you… think you’re gonna love it. Can’t wait for you to try it on for me. See you at 8:00.”

Am I overreacting? Maybe it’s a belated birthday gift—pearl studs from “Tiffany’s” or chandelier earrings from “Fragments.” The minute I step into his apartment, however, I decide that it has to be something more.

Candles.

Sinatra.

Veuve on ice.

What's next? A Viagra resting on the night stand?

“There’s my girl,” he says in a soft, intimate tone. He looks me up and down as I step out of the elevator and into his loft. Immediately, I spot the large pink and black “Agent Provacateur” lingerie bag on the dining room table.

Shit.

Air kiss. Air kiss. “How are you, doll?” I ask in the most platonic voice I can muster. I stand there and look at him with his tight curls and black, shrunken t-shirt in the middle of his modern, industrial loft—he looks like a little boy lost on the screwdriver aisle in Home Depot. That’s all he is, a little boy—a child with a very, very large bank account. Why do I insist on playing the role of the indulgent mother to every Manhattan male?

On the roof, he fills our flutes to bursting with the bubbly. I nervously toy with the glass like a toddler holding her first sippy cup. Composure, B. You’re the adult here.

“Go on, open it,” he says, staring at me, ignoring the setting sun and the silver-capped Hudson.
I peel off the black satin ribbon and open the box. Resting on pink tissue is a sheer black bed coat lined in brown mink (very Brigitte Bardot) and a pair of black, lace panties that tie at the side (very Carmen Electra). Is this really my life? How does a girl from rural, Northern Florida find herself in a situation like this?

“I don’t know what to say. G., you’ve out done yourself.”

“Wait, I have something else for you,” he says, reaching into his pocket. He pulls out a small, red velvet box.

He better not fall to one knee, I think. I down the rest of my champagne in a last ditch effort to inebriate myself.

Deep breath.

Flip open the box.

No chandelier earrings, no diamond bracelet. Nestled on the red, velvet cushion is a pair of black leather, diamond-studded pasties. PASTIES.

“What in the world?” I finger the tassles.

“Go on, now, try everything on for me,” he says as if we’re a lusty couple celebrating our first anniversary.

“What are you talking about? I’m not trying this on.”

“If I spend a fucking grand, the least you can do is to put it on.” His mood turned on a dime. Spit begins to collect at the corner of his mouth. His leg twitches. He’s been doing lines.

“I didn’t ask for any of this. I’m NOT trying it on.” My tone surprises me—it’s calm and firm.

“Then you can’t have it—you can’t take it home with you.” G. slams down his flute on the teak wood table, stuffs everything back in the gift bag and strides toward the door. “Stay there,” he commands.

14 floors down to street level. I contemplate the fire escape. Across the street, a couple is having a cocktail party in the new high-rise apartment building. One guest points to me, lit up on the patio in the dark night. Everyone turns and waves. They think I’m lucky. The husband raises a glass in my direction. He nods politely.

Yeah, cheers. Cheers to 28 flights of stairs, leather pasties, cocaine…

“Oh, B., baaa-aaby, what do you think now?”

I slowly turn toward the falsetto voice. I start at the feet and work my way up: G. is posing in the doorway in 4-inch Lucite heels, black fishnet stockings, MY black panties, MY sheer, black bed coat. A studded dog collar adorns his neck.

“I told you I had nice legs,” he says with an absurd grin on his face. “So, whaddya think?”

“I think you’re stretching out my panties.”

Stupid girl. Once I say it, he slips them off to reveal a cock ring.

I want to be back in 8th grade, I think. I want a wild night out to be stuffed manicotti at the Olive Garden and a Sandra Bullock movie. Dinner at 6:00, tucked in by 10:00. A kiss good night from Dad, a back rub from Mamma. Pancakes and “Saved by the Bell” in the morning.

I walk toward him. I look him in the eye—not at his absurd costume. I feel sorry for him. I give him a kiss on the cheek and walk home.