gave her a long kiss, mightily struggling to stay within the lines of my lane, as Shane McGowan shouted at an ear- numbing volume through my ravaged speakers.
We pulled up to Malone’s rowhouse on Harvard Street, a darkish block dimly lit by old-style D.C. lampposts. This was a real neighborhood, a mix of Latins, blacks, and pioneer whites. There was just enough of a violent undercurrent here to keep the aspiring-to-hipness young professionals away and on the fringe of their beloved Adams Morgan, which had become an artificially eclectic mess of condos, “interesting” ethnic restaurants, Eurotrash discos, and parking lots.
When Malone opened the door of his basement apartment and saw the four of us on his steps, beers in hand with swollen faces and ripped clothing, like some escaped group of mentally ill Christmas carolers, a look of exasperation clouded his face. McGinnes put a shoulder to the door and a beer in Malone’s hand, and we all stepped in.
In my Connecticut Avenue days I would often pick Malone up here on my way to work. We’d sit in his living room, trading bong hits and listening to Miles or Weather Report until it was time to go in. Though he’d upgraded his audio and video equipment since then, the apartment was still decorated primarily in variations of red.
Malone wore a silk kimono over pressed jeans and soft leather slippers. His date, who had changed her hairstyle since the afternoon, was standing by the kitchen door and staring in disbelief. McGinnes was already by the stereo, moving the dial off WDCU and undoubtedly searching for something more offensive.
“Just make yourself at home, Mick,” Malone said sarcastically, and McGinnes thanked him.
Carmelita was trying to talk to Malone’s date, who was answering in Spanish but not encouraging the conversation. Malone had a cognac in one hand and now a beer in the other. He shrugged, tapped my bottle with his, and drank.
“Thank you so much for dropping by tonight,” he said. “Will you be staying long?”
“We weren’t interrupting anything,” I said, “were we?”
“Bitch has some big red titties,” he whispered, then looked at me more closely. “Looks like you motherfuckers got into some shit tonight, boy.”
I rolled my eyes, took a swig, and stumbled backwards. Lee stopped me with a hand on my shoulder. McGinnes had lost patience locating a radio station and was rifling through Carmelita’s purse, finally finding a cassette and slipping it into Malone’s deck.
Latin music blared out of the speakers. Carmelita broke away from Malone’s date, excitedly crossing the room to McGinnes, who was dragging the center table away from the couch and moving it to a corner of the room. Malone mumbled something and followed his date, who now appeared to be spitting mad, into the kitchen.
The four of us began to dance. McGinnes was spinning and dipping Carmelita. Lee touched my cheek, and we kissed as we moved. Malone raised his voice in the kitchen. McGinnes cackled and turned up the volume.
Malone walked back into the room, moving to the beat, and started dancing with Lee and me, a fresh bottle of beer in his hand.
“Where’s your friend?” I shouted.
“She says I ‘did her dog’ by lettin’ you in,” he said, and continued dancing.
Another song began that was harder, faster, and, courtesy of McGinnes, louder. This was one of those horn- driven salsa numbers that stop periodically on the beat for two seconds of silence, then begin again. The repetition was hypnotic.
Carmelita had one palm on her stomach, the other upraised, shaking her shoulders, sliding her feet four steps, then turning ninety degrees and repeating. We all followed, freezing when the music stopped, then yelling out and continuing our line dance as it began again.
Malone’s tongue was out the side of his mouth, concentrating on getting the steps down, then smiling broadly when he had it, yelling, “No wonder you Latins are so happy. The music be so festive and shit!” Carmelita slapped him on the shoulder. Malone explained to McGinnes, “Carmelita be sayin’, ‘Right on time,’” and he rolled his r in imitation of her accent.
The music ended. McGinnes yanked the cassette from the deck, put it in his pocket, and said, “Let’s go.” We gathered our things and stood by the door.
Malone’s date was staring contemptuously from the safety of the kitchen doorway. Malone, who looked genuinely disappointed, said, “Where you goin’? We just beginnin’ to throw down!”
McGinnes and I walked over to Malone and poured the remainders of our beers over the top of his head. His date spun furiously and strode back into the kitchen.
I caught one last look at him before we booked. Beer streamed down the front of his face, falling onto his silk kimono. He still had a bottle in his hand, and he wasn’t moving, just staring at us and trying to look hard. But he was fighting a smile, the deep dimples of his smooth face betraying him, threatening to implode. The four of us left him just like that, and fell like sailors out Malone’s front door.
We dropped McGinnes and Carmelita a couple of blocks from Malone’s, on Seventeenth Street. I watched them walk away beneath the light of a streetlamp, his arm around her shoulder, hers around his waist, until they faded into early morning fog.
That is the last I remember of being in my car. Lee drove us to her place, where she undressed me and got me into her shower, then follow K, tt is thed me in.
She washed my back, then reached around and soaped beneath my balls. I took the bar from her and noticed with some relief that I was getting a strong hard-on. I began soaping her entire body, lingering on her hard breasts and the insides of her muscular little thighs. I slipped two, then three fingers inside her with ease. She bit my lip and sucked on my tongue with a deft roll of her own. We moved each other around the shower for several minutes, our bodies sliding together, until she put her hands on my shoulders, her back to the tiles, locked her legs around my waist, and pulled me in, arching her lower back to take it all.
When her breathing became more rapid, and her lips turned cold, I hooked a soapy finger into her asshole and she straightened against the wall, eyes toward the ceiling. She yelped, then shuddered, and buried her teeth into my shoulder, while I shot off with a spasm that traveled down my legs.
We held each other until the hot water began to expire. She put on her bathrobe and dried me with a large blue towel.
Sitting on the warm radiator, I watched her in the bathroom mirror as she carefully combed my wet hair. Then I was in a deep, dreamless sleep.
EIGHT
I wouldn’t have minded dying but that would have taken too much energy. I had dry-mouth and my stomach had less stability than an African government. My hands smelled like a woman and my hair hurt. The part about the smell didn’t bother me much.
Lee roused me, handed me a glass of Alka-Seltzer, dropped two aspirin in my hand, and said that breakfast and coffee awaited me in the kitchen. I sat up and washed down the pills with the seltzer.
She had folded my clothes for me, and I began to dress, pausing often to sigh and rub my forehead meaninglessly. She was not wearing my shirt, a morning-after ritual that I find neither cute nor practical, and I suddenly liked her even more for that.
I made it into the kitchen and sat with her at a small table. She looked fresh and was dressed for school in jeans and a gray sweatshirt. I took a sip of the black coffee.
“So,” I said, “did you take advantage of me last night?”
“Repeatedly.”
“And where am I?”
“Tenleytown,” she said, and after watching my expression as I looked around the nicely appointed apartment, added, “Yes, Mommy and Daddy take care of the bills.”
“You’re from where? New York? Jersey?”
“Long Island. And I’m Jewish. And I go to AU. Do I fit the profile?”
“Yes,” I said, gamely forking in a mouthful of runny eggs. “I usually don’t go out with Jewish girls.”
“Why’s that?”
