NOT SEEING THE STARS

The driver was Portuguese. He must have told us four times. He asked us if we wanted any hookers. He pronounced hookers like he was coughing up phlegm and getting ready to spit. Tim and Dave grinned at each other.

“Get us good place,” said Tim, “and there’ll be something in it for you.”

“Do not worry,” said the driver. “I get it on the other end.”

Dave leaned forward toward the driver. “Someplace good,” he said. “I don’t want any place that’s scummy.”

“Best in New York,” said the cabbie. “I will take care of you.”

Tim looked at me for approval. I shrugged. I was curious and excited about going to a whorehouse.

It was over a drug store on 49^th and something. A small man with a wide-brimmed hat and leather coat over a t-shirt stood on a stoop in front of a door. He opened the door theatrically and said, “Enter here, gentlemen, the palace of delights. You’ve come to right place.”

We walked up to a landing at the top of a flight of stairs. We stood in the dark. A buzzer sounded and the door swung open. The man holding the door was white, but had an enormous Afro and Fu Manchu moustache. He had several gold chains around his neck. Despite his clownish appearance, he looked threatening.

“Come in boys,” he said. “Make yourselves at home.”

There was a large living room with sofas along the walls. Men sat while woman of different sizes and colors paraded around in negligees. Some girls sat in chairs and filed their nails. One was reading a book.

Tim and Dave sat down immediately with big smiles on their faces. I stood, taking it all in, wondering if I shouldn’t be waiting outside. This didn’t seem right. Tim read my thoughts and gave me a look that said Don’t be a pussy. I sat in a high-backed chair somewhat separate from the crowd.

Men paired with women and disappeared down a hallway. Tim and Dave struck conversations and were similarly gone. A couple of whores made half-hearted attempts to seduce me, but they weren’t much to look at. Most of them had pale skin with large bruises dotting their thighs. Behind all the makeup, few of them were pretty. All of them looked tough, and you see the contempt they held for their clientele.

While waiting, I dozed off. I awoke to someone shaking me and saying, “Wake up, sailor.”

I looked up. A tall black woman had her hand on my wrist. She bent at the waist looking into my face. Her Afro was reddish and huge, her eyes were covered with electric-blue eye shadow, and her lips were hot pink with lipstick. Her breasts looked like cantaloupes. When she stood in her heels, she was more than six feet. The Afro on top of that made her look six-six. She was a spectacular sight with her Amazon legs and her cantaloupe beasts. Her smile was broad and enticing.

“You’re a cute one,” she said. “How ‘bout you make me some money?”

She grabbed my hand and pulled on it gently. I rose from my chair obediently, surprised at my submissiveness.

She led me down the long hall. The room we went into had no furniture, just a mattress with a dingy sheet on it. A red light bulb that hung from the ceiling cast a surreal glow to the proceedings. She sat in a corner, Indian style, and began rummaging though a purse.

“What are you looking to do, honey?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said honestly.

She smiled maternally at me.

“Well, a blowjob’s fifteen, and a fuck’s thirty-five. How much money you got?”

“Some,” I said.

She shook her head a little and smiled at me pitifully.

“Why don’t we start with a blowjob,” she said. “You got fifteen bucks, dontcha?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t talk much, but that’s good. I got guys wanna tell me their life story. Take off your clothes and lie down on the bed.”

I complied in slow motion, unable to resist. It was like I was watching myself outside of my body a few feet over near the door.

She kicked off her shoes. She pulled a spoon and some powder from her purse, put the powder in the spoon along with some liquid, and lit a flame under the spoon with a lighter. Then she produced a homemade syringe and expertly drew fluid one-handed from the spoon. She leaned forward and spread apart two of her toes and inserted the needle, plunging the fluid into a vein.

“I use my toes,” she said, “so my arms be pretty for you, baby.”

She swooned a little and closed her eyes. I was lying on my side with my head perched on my elbow watching her body sway in small circles.

I awoke on my back staring at the red bulb. I sat up and looked over at her. Her head was slumped chin to her chest, and the corner of the walls supported her body. She had taken off the huge reddish wig. Her hair was short and nappy and greasy looking. I couldn’t tell if she was breathing.

I didn’t know how long I had slept. I was conscious of having dreamt about Ann, and I rose feeling sordid and filthy. I dressed, took fifteen dollars from my pocket, and dropped it in her lap. I hurried down the hallway, away from my indiscretion, and into the living room where Tim and Dave waited. They rose with big smiles on their faces.

“What took you so long?” asked Tim.

“I fell asleep,” I said.

“You what?” he asked incredulously.

“I’ll tell you later.” I turned to the man with the Afro and chains. He was counting out money. “You better check on that girl. I think she OD’d.”

He