Though we always seem to worry
life’s becoming such a flurry
Can’t you see that there’s lights in the dark?
Nothing’s quite what it seems in the city of dreams

Wolfmother, “Where Eagles Have Been”

The scar on the young dominatrix’s forehead bisects the gap between her eyebrows at an angle. It’s not ugly, really. It’s just there, a crease in her pale skin, like a permanent frown. “I love the variety,” she says of her chosen profession. “Everyone has a unique kink. A client tickled me for an hour today—he didn’t even jerk off at the end.”

“I suppose that’s the point though; it’s not always about getting off.” This is why I’m here tonight, at the Pink Party. I want to be immersed in sex—I’m just not looking for anything in particular. Before the diminutive dominatrix can respond a friend of hers walks by and lifts the girl’s dress. Turquoise panties under white fishnet stockings. Flat, smooth abdomen.

She laughs. “I’m a switch in real life.”

“Under the right circumstances I’m up for anything.” I relate my wondrous tale of pissing on Nova. “The stream hit her clitoris directly. She said it was much better with a man.”

“Of course. You have a penis. You can aim better.”

I don’t know where Les and Emma are; they were here in the catacombs with me but must have left to rejoin the party. Porno Jim lights his pipe and offers me a pull. He tells me his girlfriend is going on her first solo date tomorrow night. I congratulate him. He asks whether I’m here to play.

“Not really,” I respond. “It’s weird—I only get turned on by public sex when I’m not supposed to be having public sex, if that makes any sense.”

“It does. It does.”

“Plus, y’know, I want to connect somehow. I mean, people come here and fuck and part ways, and I understand that—hell, I’ve done that—but I wanna fall asleep with someone and wake up with that same person the next morning. I guess I’m a slut for emotionally complex situations.”

“Look, you and I are sex professionals; we know what we want already. Most of the people here are still trying to figure it all out.”

Professionals. I think about the shit I used to do—board rooms and bottom lines. Optimization. Saving money or making it. And now, ever the entrepreneur, I’m falling back on my old habits. When you’re surrounded by money all you can think of is pussy. When you’re surrounded by pussy all you can think of is money. It’s a game. I’ve been turning it over in my head for days—do I need more of either?

I catch up with Les and Emma later on. We talk about the dissolute, transient nature of relationships in New York. “You guys put so much effort into meeting people,” Emma’s saying. “I don’t feel like I can trust anyone. My ex doesn’t even talk to me anymore—it really hurts me. I guess I’m just a cynic.”

“But if you never open up you’ll never have something worthwhile with anyone,” Les sez.

I shuffle my foot, grinding a cigarette butt into the concrete floor. “Sure, people aren’t always who they seem to be but I have to think the ones I can trust make the effort worthwhile. What would your life be without them? The old folks always tell me if over a lifetime you meet a handful of people like that then you’ve done well.”

I excuse myself to take a wiz and return to see Les locked in the arms of a girl in a black dress, the two of them kissing violently. The girl looks a little like Roberta and I wonder whether she’s also Italian. A short guy next to me, evidently a friend of the girl in the black dress, stands there at rapt attention. I try to imagine what this must be like for him.

The play room is busy but there’s little actual play going on, just a whole lotta people running around in varying states of undress, wearing varying shades of pink. Flat screens mounted on the walls flicker with entirely forgettable glamour porn. The women at this party are surprisingly hot, as are the men dressed as women. I run into a few people I haven’t seen in ages and spend a while exchanging pleasantries. “I wanna see some action,” Emma complains to me.

“Turn around, then.” Some leather-clad dude has pulled my girlfriend’s pink dress up around her waist. He’s whacking her juicy brown rump with a smallish crop.

“Oh, that’s impressive.”

A tall, skinny little white girl takes the guy’s place. She uses her hands. Leslie’s ass jiggles. “Harder, damn it!” my girlfriend cries.

“That’s a dude,” Emma sez, laughing.

I frown. “No fucking way. That’s a chick, and a hot one at that.”

“Uh uh.”

“Fuck you. I can see her delicate little pussy lips through her underwear. You’re talking to a dude who like studies female anatomy every day. You’re talking to a guy who got hit on by trannies in Chelsea for like five years. I know trannies—she ain’t no tranny.”

The sexy bitch, meanwhile, leads my girlfriend to a couch and has her lie on it, face down, ass in the air. She spanks with abandon, pausing now and then to play with my girlfriend’s thong. From halfway across the room I can see that Leslie’s asscheeks are turning a rosy shade of red. I walk over to the couch, bending over the white girl, and grab two handfuls of brown ass.

“Hay!” the white girl says, looking up at me. Upside down face. The black lights color her teeth and eyes a funny, grainy shade of blue-white.

“That’s my ass, babe,” I tell her. “You’re just renting it from me.”

Editrix Abby hands me a flyer for the apres-party, telling me we gotta vacate soon. Emma talks to her for a while and then we all grab our shit and go outside to hail a cab. We end up at a speakeasy on 14th street, many flights up from the ground floor. It’s well after 4AM and they’re still serving. “How the fuck do they get away with this?” I muse out loud.

I’m at the bar procuring a beer and this guy sidles up to me and says hello. I’m thinking this is a Brokeback scenario, but then he says, “Remember me? We met at the underwear party a few years ago.”

I shake his hand. “Oh yeah. We took that limo back to our place and had a sex party.”

“Anya’s here.”

“I know. I spoke with her briefly.”

His girlfriend comes over and she’s hot and I wonder why I wasn’t hitting on her that night. Then I remember: I was too busy putting the screws to another girl. I tell him about NLP. “We should hang out some time,” he sez.

Emma’s sitting in this wicker cocoon suspended from the ceiling. I have no idea where Les is. “How come you’re making Les hit on all the girls?” Emma asks.

“You know I can’t make her do anything. I just haven’t met anyone who floats my boat. Sometimes I meet a woman and we hit it off. Why should I settle for anything less than that?”

It’s one of those strange nights when everyone looks like someone. Attack of the fucking clones. Les reappears with a tall surfer-girl on her arm who looks a little like Bond Girl. They exchange numbers but her petit chien platonic boyfriend swoops in to perform the traditional cock-blocking ritual. I’m more convinced than ever that hot girls in this town don’t have male friends, only an entourage of sycophants hoping to bag a pity fuck.

Somehow Les, Emma and I wind up fooling around in our little corner. My girlfriend drops to her knees, hiding the sausage in her mouth, and then passes it to Emma, who’s still swinging in the wicker chair. People might be watching—I have no idea because I’m watching the pretty mouths at work.

We cab to our place in the brightening dawn and Emma wants to bail because she has to work at noon. She doesn’t think we’ll get her ass out in time. “Whatever,” I say, taking Leslie’s hand and walking toward our building.

“Oh whatever,” Emma sez, closing the car door.

“Fucking whatever,” I retort. When I get upstairs I realize I’m exhausted anyway and I promptly fall asleep.