Girl no. 00000

Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Jun 16, 2005

If it weren’t for the confined space, riding the subway would be ideal for people watching. Once you’ve been in New York for a while you can always tell what line you’re on, and approximately where the train is along its route, by the changing composition of the subway cars. On a long ride I’ll study the young girl with the book, or the old married couple, or the rowdy group of college friends, and try to predict their respective destinations.

And so tonight Leslie and I are rocketing downtown and I’m studying people’s faces, careful not to actually make eye contact because that would be gauche, and Leslie’s playing Pac Man on her little phone. The women are unusually attractive and each of them looks like someone I’ve known, you dig? Leslie’s game times out. I turn to her. “So, I have this theory,” I say.

She sighs. “Not another one.”

“You know the little hamster in my head never stops running. Anyway, I’m convinced that within any given race there are only 20 types of women.”

“What, personality types?” Owing to her profession, Leslie sees everything in terms of personality profiles involving complex lattices of letters, colors and numbers. Myers-Briggs is only the tip of her iceberg: she’s forgotten more about this subject than most people will ever know.

“No no. Call me shallow, but I’m talking about looks. Like that blonde across from us; I’ve seen her dozens of times.” Looking to my left now at a girl locked into an embrace with her boyfriend. “Or that chick over there; she looks like a cross between Bianca and Layla.”

“Only twenty though?”

“Maybe twenty, maybe thirty; an exact figure would require extensive field research. Plus, you have to make allowances for variations within each type. Like I’m sure you’ve seen someone who’s an ugly version of someone you’ve dated.”

She nods in the direction of a bookish-looking girl in a mini-skirt. “That girl looks like Anya.”

“Except less attractive. Now you’re getting it. And the interesting thing is, once you’ve made it with a woman her type in general suddenly becomes more attractive. I was never into that athletic, surfer-girl look until we met Bond Girl and then suddenly I had this crush on Jennifer Garner.” I pause for a moment. “This explains my infatuation with Jewish girls. They remind me of the pretty things I lusted after in my youth.”

“What about other races?”

“Not enough data, unfortunately. I’m sure there’s some motherfucker in Korea who can similarly classify Korean girls, but that’s some other guy on some other job.” I kiss Les on the cheek. “But you, babe, are an original, although the possibility that there might be more Leslie-types out there makes me a little giddy.”

The meatpacking district is barely recognizable anymore, what with the new hotel and the velvet ropes and all the fresh-faced yuppies in training. We met Natalia, Jen and Nikki at the formerly-quiet-and-now-trendy Gaslight and secured a couch in the back. A slender, raven-haired girl in a midriff-baring top struts by on her way to the loveseat across from us. Girl no. 17. Natalia and I both check her out and then return to our conversation. She’s telling me she doesn’t see a future with her boyfriend. “He wants to marry me,” she says in an exasperated tone.

I look her over, my lovely dark chocolate girl. Jorge once told me Natalia’s the most stunning woman we’ve dated. I think he might be right. It strikes me as oddly appropriate that the one girl I met through Naked Loft Party would be ideal in so many ways: kinky, loyal, free of drama, and undeniably considerate of my relationship with Leslie. “Well why wouldn’t he? You’re intelligent, gorgeous and twenty years younger than he is. Look, I can’t really advise you on this because I’m obviously biased. Do you know how hard it is to find a good mistress these days?”

“I’m having fun right now but I don’t see this lasting much longer. He won’t even go at it more than once in a night.”

“But you’re so easy to please. You don’t even give a shit about foreplay. Well, you gotta do what you gotta do—just be honest with him.”

Girl no. 17 is trying to grab our attention. She extends a long leg, then uses her hand to grasp the toe of her high-heeled shoe, striking a stripper pose. “Oh my god,” Natalia sez.

“Too bad she’s wearing pants,” I intone. “If this were another sort of party I’d go over there and sort of casually stick my cock in her mouth.” Now the girl’s got both legs behind her head. She’s positioned herself in such a way that the show is clearly intended for me.

The rest of our party now sees what’s going on. “What the fuck is she doing?” says Jen.

I finally get it. “Don’t you see? She walked in here and saw me with four lovely babes. She’s trying to compete with you. It’s all a ploy for attention.”

“More like a cry for help,” Nikki says. We all laugh.

We relocate a little ways up the street to that hotel that used to be a halfway house or an insane asylum or something. Well, perhaps it still is these things: you’d have to be a deranged alcoholic to pay $12 for a goddamned mixed drink. The women, primarily of the Garden State variety, appear to outnumber the men. I’m sitting next to Nikki at the bar and Girl no. 11, a skinny blonde, rubs up against me. She’s facing away from us. “This chick is making love to my elbow,” I tell Nikki, which sends her into a fit of laughter.

The party rolls on. Nikki returns to her hotel room to change out of shoes that had been bothering her all night. The rest of us take a cab to Tribe, the little bar in the East Village made famous by the infamous Bad Man. The place is packed but the crowd is friendly and diverse. “What the hell is going on tonight?” I ask Les as we make our way in. “Everyone is so sexy.”

I’m sitting on the bank of couches that line the wall. Jen’s standing in front of me and dancing between my legs, her flaxen hair swaying in tune with the music. I run my hands along her thighs, let them come to rest against her ass, giving her firm round cheeks a little squeeze. When Nikki finally arrives, this time in comfortable boots, I rise and dance with the women. I find myself in front of lovely Natalia. She presses her tits up against me. She says she misses hanging out with Les and me, to which I say we’d be happy to give her some special attention again, to which she says we should hang out real soon. She exits stage left.

On my way to the bathroom I walk past a woman (Girl no. ??) who must be six feet tall. Double take. I’m standing over the urinal when a short black man strolls on in and uses the one beside me. We are urinal buddies now. I ask him if he saw the girl and he says he did and I’m pleasantly surprised by his gentle English accent. “You two should have children,” he sez. “People like me are obsolete.” And so when I exit the bathroom I’m determined to ask the tall woman to procreate with me. Alas, she’s already gone.

Les and I step outside for a minute. She tells me she’s been dancing with a handsome gentleman. “Well, why don’t you get his number then?” I say, and when we go back inside she does just that. Observing Leslie’s negotiations, Jen asks me what’s going on, so I tell her.

She grins. “Why can’t more men be like you?”

Rock Candy? Rock-n-Candy? Who the fuck knows. Ruben is there and Nikki hasn’t gotten enough of him this weekend so it’s our final destination. On the way over Jen’s asking me to sing and, full of drink as I am, I belt out a little Willie Nelson and Johnny Cash. When we arrive the man with the clipboard tells us the doors closed at three. I’m all like come on buddy I’m here with three hot babes. He relents. The place is dying but this is to be expected: the Flatiron district always shuts down early.

When we finally stumble into our apartment Les and I are too drunk to screw. I sit bolt upright in my office chair until the world stops spinning and then join Leslie in bed. When our hangovers finally subside early Sunday evening we have supremely lazy, sweaty sex—sweaty only because I hadn’t bothered to install the air conditioner. We started halfway through Crossing Jordan and now we’re both craning our necks to catch the dramatic conclusion. It’s the kind of sex that only someone who loves you lets you get away with.

I honestly don’t know whether Leslie has a place in my taxonomy of chicks. If I were to classify her, however, I’d like to think she’d be Girl no. 00000: a number that expresses everything and nothing, where all things in this world begin and end.

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