Word Known to All Men

Posted by Lex Konrad in Relationships | Jul 26, 2003

Do you know what you are talking about? Love, yes. Word known to all men. Amor vero aliquid alicui bonum vult unde et ea quae concupiscimus...

James Joyce, Ulysses. Latin roughly translated to mean “love truly wishes some good to another and therefore we all desire it.”

I didn’t grab the pack containing the last two Marlboro Lights 100’s (“light” ciggies, now there’s a conceit). The fags were rattling around in there, which I hate, and I’m in the midst of making a vain effort to smoke less. Plus I was, like, rushed on my way out to Ciel Rouge because the girls wanted to relocate to Centro Fly. I knew I could bum a cig or two if I wanted. No expectations tonight. The girls were standing outside the bar smoking. Scorpio was cuter than I expected, all dark hair and protruding curves. Ripe. Strange accent though. Southerner? No. New Yorker. Upstate. Time served in the Bronx. Face somewhat angular. She smiled. Leslie posed in her blue sundress. The rear patio was quiet, humid. We talked. Scorpio placed her hand on my knee a couple of times. Nice ass which strained against her brown cords as I watched her strut toward the bathroom. Leslie said she’s cool so the night would continue. Knocked back a godfather, sweet scotch and amaretto, a syrupy drink cut down somewhat by the rocks, but still potent. We paid. On our way to Centro a petite girl with brown hair marked by blonde highlights asked us for directions. Whereto? Centro Fly. Odd coincidence. French girl in town for the summer, she walked with us. She doesn’t smoke, which I find odd for a Frenchwoman, but what do I know? Nice girl. We spoke about Baudrillard, Foucault. Not her thing. Economics. We bypassed the line. Eddie was working the door, all smiles. Girls comped; lone penis ten dollars, which French girl made up for by purchasing my drink. Not too busy. While Leslie toured the club with her date, I spoke with French girl about party life in Paris. Small clubs there… everyone stuck-up, which she indicated by putting an index finger to the tip of her nose and pushing upward. Her favorite group is Blur. She gave me her email address. We all negotiated our way into VIP lounge, featured in Dasani commercial. I winked at the bartender in her sunken pit. The French girl and I stood chatting as Scopio straddled Leslie in a secluded corner, the cleft of Scorpio’s ass barely visible above her cords. Are they together? French girl asked. No, just met. French girl was looking for her housemates. I walked over to the two busy girls and told them I’d be back, planting a soft kiss on Scorpio’s left shoulder. The two of us left VIP and I helped French girl find the housemates. Danced for a while. Discharged of my obligation, I went downstairs to take a piss, then back to VIP. Leslie and Scorpio were still at it. I sat next to them, and as I opened my mouth to say something Scorpio filled it with her tongue. I ran my hands along her back. Leslie got up to go use the bathroom. Scorpio sat next to me and pressed her body into mine. We chatted about nothing and everything. She told me about a sex party she went to. I bought her a drink and we toasted. She got up to go find the bathroom, drink and purse in hands. Mesmerized by the thumping bass, and the pulsating lights filtered through the oval cutouts of the VIP lounge walls, I lazily watched the pretty people socialize. Leslie came back. Where is Scorpio? Bathroom. Leslie went to look. Came back twenty minutes later. Nothing. Looked again another twenty minutes. Still nothing. I looked. In the darkness of a crowded club everyone looks like someone. Twenty minutes. Nothing. Leslie looked again and checked Scorpio’s bar tab at the main bar for good measure as I sat waiting in VIP. A woman said you had three girls now you have zero girls. Thanks, I thought. Leslie came back. Nothing. Bar tab still open. We were worried and angry. What if something had happened? No cell phone reception inside. We left. Called. No answer. Argued. Misdirected anger. Went to bed bewildered, angry and worried.

Is this the new freedom we’ve fought for? Are we all so many disposable sex toys? Are there souls, hearts, minds involved or is everything a mechanical means to a selfish end? Is this anything to celebrate? We escaped the meaningless camraderie of the drug scene only to end up selling another kind of drug, this time cutting pure lines of orgasmic ecstasy for a soulless, fickle clientele. Empty vessels. So many masturbatory aids masquerading as fully fleshed-out homo sapiens. A confusion of body and soul. After all, it is not LOVE that I am after, as one might find it in romance novels or checkout-counter cliches, but love: the genuine desire to see some good come to another. Respect. Warmth. Compassion. If even in a fleeting moment. An even exchange. Something to remember and cherish. Word known to all men? I wonder.

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