Mona Lisa Was a Man

How the hell did they get to Ginny Urban's Horatio street walkup. He did remember climbing the stairs to what she said was a cold water flat. The toilet was in the public hallway. The apartment door opened into the kitchen where Ernie was surprised to see a bathtub. It was covered with a stained,-natural wood door; the kind of living quarters that the bourgeoisie would vilipend. But the ambience turned him on. Greenwich Village became Ernie's destination because his buddy Pete used to talk about bohemians and poets in, 'The Village.' Ginny's pad, like Washington Square, fulfilled his expectations to a tee. Across from the tub, were a small refrigerator and a china cabinet. Left of the kitchen/bath, was Ginny's living room. They passed an easy chair to sit on a dowdy couch resting against two windows looking out onto a brick facing, across an airshaft. A lamp on an end table-there was no incoming light-gave the room a dim, noir feel. Ginny removed her pumps. He followed suit by taking off his penny loafers. They sat, each with a knee folded on the couch. His knee, pressed against his gray gabardine pants, was to Ginny's mind absolutely phallic. To Ernie, here in 1958 America, the sight of Ginny's pink knee, peeking from beneath the hem of her skirt, inspired expectations beyond what he dared expect. "So, Mr. Ernie, what brings you to the big town?" She delivered the icebreaker in a facetious tone. Without a beat, "Mr. Ernie" feigned seriousness. "You of course, Miss Ginny." The banter,"Miss Ginny," had barely passed his lips when self conciousness wrapped itself around the new acquaintances. Neither of them was naive enough to pretend that racism did not fill every crack and crevice of the nation; a black man adressing a white woman as "Miss," was a stark reminder of Jim Crow abounding. At the same time, they both were caught up in the beatnik conceit of racial neutrality. They allowed the moment to pass without appropriate notice. "How did you know that I was here waiting with aching arms?" "A little bird told me." The smoothing-over exchange ended with them leaning together for a brief kiss. They kept their faces close and enjoyed each other's breathing. They cross-gazed, brown into green-into brown eyes, to share quiet acceptance of having come closer to unrestrained trust. "Oh! I've got a quart of Rheingold in the fridge." She patted him on the knee. "Manage not to miss me while I retrieve it for us to keep our buzz. Ok, hon?" "Sounds good to me." His words slid between her lips when she pecked him again before she got up to get the beer. The little kiss reminded him that the two of them were already intimate, in a way. That thought was a nip of honey. 'Man!' It was copacetic not having to climb a goddamn mountain just to get it on with a chick. He leaned against the back of the old couch to watch urbane Ginny Urban, in her sweater suit, glide with a slight swivel into the kitchen light. It was a relief to pluck the urbane/Urban aliteration from a lower mental shelf to make space for worthier puns, ones he could say out loud. "Yeah!"