<em>Sosa-dango</em>
The week was long and unforgiving. When Thursday night came around I felt ready to let myself out of my cage.
The subway is always depressing. Nobody smiles. The bland fluorescents sallow even the prettiest skin. I was reminded of those old Walker Evans subway portraits.
And so I was manic upon exiting the carriage at Houston, ready to claw my way back to the surface, to simply breathe again. Yama was a few blocks ahead so I whipped out my phone and called my parents on impulse. Don’t know why. I can tell them things but I can’t really tell them things but they may already know and I don’t mind if they do.
By the time I arrived at Zinc the girls were already properly soused on Godfathers and empty stomachs. They played with a plush red monkey Leslie had received as a Valentine’s gift. Nova made the monkey dance, deftly manipulating the doll’s booty and shoulders to the beat of some imagined house remix. We discussed our Valentine’s Day plans, made in jest some weeks ago and now suddenly rather serious—the three of us would cook dinner and then go out to wreak havoc among love struck couples and sullen singles.
Yama. A palace of exotic sushi, everything filled with spicy mayo, avocado, fresh scallions, multi-hued roe. “Henpai!” I announced when the hot sake arrived, intending a drinking contest, but Les couldn’t choke down the entire proffered thimbleful. Nova set the monkey on its back with a paw between its legs. We hooted and hollered and then stuffed our pie-holes with raw fish. Somehow I don’t think the other patrons appreciated our carrying on like fools. Dessert arrived—red bean paste wrapped in a moist green rice pastry wrapped in leaves of some sort, which were bound with makeshift twine.
“Uh, what is this?” I asked the waitress.
“Sosa-dango.”
I grinned at the girls. “Sosa-dango is the word of the day.”
On the way out we debated the merits of sosa-dango, stopping to interview a few people. We emerged into a sosa-dango night in a sosa-dango town under a sosa-dango moon wrapped in a sosa-dango sky. Sausa-dango. Salsa-dango. Bossa-nova-dango. Espinosa-dango. What’s-a-dango? Sosa-dango.
“You know, it’s like that movie Being John Malkovich,” I observed, “when he goes up into his own head and suddenly everything’s, like, Malkovich, Malkovich, Malkovich. Cept now it’s sosa-dango, know what’m sayin?”
“Are you sosa-dangoing me?” Nova asked.
“Maybe later baby,” I replied. We all laughed.
Nova brought us to a club a few blocks down the street. The girls made merry while I stood a few paces away chatting up the bartender. A tall Indian fellow gazed at the two vixens, a Cheshire smile painted on his face. Leslie was up on the bar now, slinking, stretching and purring.
“I can’t take them anywhere,” I said to the bartender, punctuating the thought with a mock sigh.
She cracked a smile. “Looks to me like you can take them anywhere.”
I heard a hissing noise and turned to face Leslie. A narrow column of flame shot up the side of her head. “Your hair’s on fire!” I shouted and used my hand to grab and smother the hair-raising inferno. Leslie shrieked and Nova sprung to her aid, ushering her into the kitchen. Les left behind an awful, acrid cloud of smoke that burrowed into my sinuses. It smelled of a thousand ants set ablaze atop a funeral pyre. The Indian gentleman and I simply looked at each other and shrugged. We talked for a little while until the girls emerged from the kitchen, Leslie wet-haired and giggling at her misfortune. Further inanity ensued and culminated in Leslie not-so-discreetly pulling my pants open and getting in a few licks as Nova cupped my balls.
Really, it was time to leave.
Meow Mix was crammed to the rafters with lesbians and the odd assortment of male hangers-on. Leslie and Nova sauntered off to dance somewhere while I wheeled through the crowd fetching drinks and looking dazed. I stepped outside for a smoke and offered a young woman a light.
“Sure are a lot of girls in there,” I said.
She laughed.
“I used to feel uncomfortable coming here, but then I realized something.”
“What’s that?”
“Lesbians need dick,” I said, pausing for effect. “I have the numbers to back it up.”
She didn’t seem terribly put off by my bold assertion. “Oh really?”
“Yup. I read that around eighty percent of lesbians who don’t already have a live-in lover have screwed a man within the past two years. And, speaking anecdotally, I seem to get approached a lot in places like this.”
“Eight out of ten of my friends don’t have any interest in men.”
“Maybe they aren’t telling you for fear of being kicked out of the clubhouse.”
“Well, a friend of mine did recently confess to a double life.” She flashed a wry smile. “I’m sold. I’m offering you my nice warm bed right now. High thread count sheets. Just say the word.”
“Ha! I have my hands full at the moment… by the way, have you ever heard of sosa-dango?”
Once again inside, I found the girls dancing on stage at the back of the club. We soon decided to head uptown for the night. On our way out we stopped to gawk at a go-go dancer, bethonged ass swaying mere inches away from our slack jaws. Leslie cooed and stuffed a dollar bill down the front of the girl’s underwear.
Nova fell asleep as soon as she crawled under the covers. I immediately jumped Leslie, impaled her, and pumped furiously while rotating through a series of pornomaniacal positions. Nova’s pretty tits jiggled. The bed shook. Still the girl did not wake. I felt my own climax coming on and Leslie cried out. Nova began to snore lightly. Les and I erupted in a fit of laughter. We came.
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