The World Beyond the Gates
“I just want to love everyone — and be loved by everyone.”
It’s not what she said but how she said it, choking back tears, her voice quavering, her expression a mixture of joy and sorrow. We were at Viviane’s apartment. Leslie was sitting on the floor, legs crossed, and someone — I think it was Rachel — was comforting her. This was the most… authentic thing I’d heard anyone say in ages. Here, at last, a moment of truth, of genuine vulnerability.
We were in the right place: if anyone would understand, it would be our fellow perverts. And yet it’s funny how even those of us who live on the fringe find it difficult to express our hopes, our fears, our doubts. Maybe it’s the boundless energy of the city. We all try to be bigger than ourselves.
She wore a sheer evening gown, under which she wore only pasties and a thong. Resort wear. We were still processing what happened during that magic week. We were still adjusting to the quotidian flow of life in the civilian world. Our minds struggled with the dialectic: freedom versus restraint, pleasure versus obligation. I should have known emotions would run high.
My own moment of truth wouldn’t arrive until months later at a downtown orgy. But that night, at Viviane’s, all I could do was gaze upon my fiancée, thinking she’s too kind, too gentle, too good-natured for this world. I was afraid. People out here, in the world beyond the gates, go about their business with teeth bared and knives drawn.
The evening hours found us at a lounge on the Upper East Side, in the company of a Latin girl and a friend of hers. I wasn’t hot for the Latin girl but all was well. I rather enjoy spending time with friendly Homo sapiens. People cast sidelong glances at Les. We laughed. A bouncer approached: “Yo man, your girl’s gotta cover up.” We canceled our order and left, but not before Les mooned the establishment, her gesture evoking memories of our encounter with that stripper in Vegas. (“You want to see an asshole?” our companion had said to the middle-aged man who’d insulted her. “I’ll show you an asshole!” She made good on her threat, flashing the rooftop of the Palms.)
“Civilians,” I said, shaking my head. “You were the most exciting thing to happen to that place all year.” The previous night’s party notwithstanding, our efforts at bringing some of our newfound freedoms home with us had yielded mixed results. For one, there was too much commuting involved. And my swingdar was anything but reliable. I’d never been less enthused about being back in New York.
We found an agreeable place on the wiggity West Side, where Leslie’s outfit drew compliments rather than complaints, and after awhile people seemed to forget there was anything unusual about us at all. This is how it ought to be, I thought.
Perhaps there was hope for us yet.
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