It’s Friday night and the city´s cutting loose. The daily shackles are coming off. The tropical air is fresher, the distant mountains more picturesque. A vender hawks tumba catre, cot crasher, proclaiming its wonders. A purple-flowered gualanday secretes the scent of musk. You´re beckoned by enticing music, the siren call of the flesh. 

“It´s great to be back out here,” says Beto, grinning as the taxi skirts a rut. 

The balmy breeze through the open window ruffles his thick black hair. He clutches your arm. “We´ve got to keep this going, bro.”

“Count on me,” you tell him. “Without these escapes, I’d go crazy.”

At a stoplight, a gaunt man with loose, flapping shirttails holds up a cardboard sign: We’re Venezuelans. Help us, please. By the curb, a young woman cradles a small girl. 

“How are things on the home front?” Beto asks. 

“I´m hanging in there for my daughter.”

Beto raises the bottle just as you hurdle a speed bump. The thick, white liquid streams down his chin. He slaps at his dress shirt rolled up at the sleeves. Thick chest, strong jaw. A man’s man. 

You share a laugh. 

Beto eyes the driver and lowers his voice. “You won’t believe what Brenda´s been feeding her lawyer. Accusing me of domestic abuse. Hell, if someone´s been abused, it’s me. She´s after every peso I have.”

“Sorry to hear that, man.”

Beto shrugs. “Tonight, we´re going to forget all that.” He takes another swig and passes you the bottle. 

*

            The nondescript building is hiding in plain sight, wedged between a laundromat and a wig shop. Windowless first floor, upper windows blackened. A heavyset man who resembles Hugo Chávez pats you down and confiscates your hooch. 

You stride behind Beto, approximating his swagger, and enter the long, dimly lit lounge. A blast of warm air wraps you like a robe. The pulsating synthesizer accelerates your heart. Half-clothed women roam about airily as if they´re embroiled in a feverish dream. 

You have the sensation that you´re walking on stage, subject to the scrutiny of infinite long-lashed eyes. The sauna-like heat and alcohol sweat. The tightness of your jeans, the swelling of your manhood. Your senses on alert, taking everything in. 

The waiter escorts you to a red-cushioned booth and flashes a signal to the ladies. One by one they present themselves, some with limp handshakes, others with provocative smiles. One woman stands out. Her presence is dazzling. She radiates an aura you yearn to inhabit. You grasp her long, elegant fingers. 

“Natalia,” she says, with a voice like an elixir. 

Your eyes transmit a coded message, to which she seems to respond, likewise in code, though not necessarily the same one. Then she goes with the others to greet some new arrivals. One wears a ball cap with the logo of Los Towboys, the infamous towing firm that hauled away your car. They laugh at something you´re sure isn´t funny.

You glare at them and lean toward Beto, raising your voice above the din. “Have you been following this Me Too stuff?”

Beto scans the room with a grin of satisfaction. A financial advisor and responsible dad, he lives for these moments when he can step outside the lines.

“Every day another one goes down. Can you believe what Weinstein did?” 

Beto is impervious. Beto is invincible. Any woman he wants is his. And tonight he wants them all.

“And guys like Ben Affleck, who served as enablers, or simply kept their mouths shut.”

Beto’s voice is like a shrug. “What were they supposed to do?”

“I don’t know, but I doubt they feel good right now.”

Beto exhales. “They’re going too far. They´re even targeting Dustin Hoffman.” 

You shake your head. “It´s made me reconsider the men I admired. And also reconsider all this.”

“All what?”

“This. Coming here. Leo calls it exploitation.” 

“Leo. I told you: all Marxists are moralists.”

*

You raise your arm for a waiter. A woman nearby is sitting alone. She reaches back, unclasps her hair, and casually shakes it free. 

It´s Natalia. 

Seeing her unleashes a cascade of memories, one after another like links in a chain: women you’ve known, women you’ve desired, longings, regrets, the passing of the years. How can it be that such exquisite beauty elicits a spasm of sorrow?

A shout, a crude remark, interrupts your reverie. The Towboys leer at Natalia, oozing the rapaciousness of thieves. You breathe through your mouth like someone on the verge of being robbed. Then, with a glance, she tosses you a lifeline. You grab it and hold on tight. Gracefully, almost gliding, she approaches. 

“Hola,” she says, squeezing in beside you, her face so close it´s hard to focus. Her fresh, damp hair means she´s just coming on shift. Transformed like an actress performing a role. 

“You saved me,” she says with a playful smile. 

That’s exactly what you want: to save her. And maybe, in the process, save yourself. Escape from the rubble of a devastated home, where you enact, post apocalypse, a pitiful charade. Pretending for your daughter´s sake that nothing has gone wrong. 

What you need is a woman to revive you.

Oh, give me a break, says Leo, the Marxist. Enough of your corny romanticism. Trying to gild your depravity? 

It´s legal here, Leo. They come and go as they please. 

Don´t kid yourself. They’re selling their bodies. And you´re complicit in their debasement. 

No, man, you´re wrong. And if she wants out, I´ll help her.

You mean you´d get serious with her?

Why not? Now who´s debasing?

Natalia slides closer, her skin brushing yours, igniting the passion you´ve stored up inside. 

“Don’t worry,” you say, “I´m not that kind of man.”

Her gaze puts your confidence to the test. In a way, you´re still that same young man: destined to be the eternal novice. Easily awed by a street-savvy woman who knows more at her age than you did then, or even now, about men. 

She wrinkles her nose. “What kind?”

You jut your chin at the Towboys, who brazenly ogle a corpulent blond. One reaches out and air-pinches her tail. 

“Those guys give all men a bad name.” 

“It must be tough to be a man.” 

You smile, duly humbled. “It´s getting tougher.”

A waiter appears with a huge pair of tongs. You flinch, then pretend to be joking. “Edgar Scissorhands,” you lamely remark. 

Natalia sips her rum and searches your face. “So, what kind of man are you?”

You stroke your jaw, considering. “The kind who wakes up after a party and remembers what he might have said wrong. And then spends all day revising his words.”

She loops a strand of hair behind a perfectly-shaped ear. “What else?”

“A man who’s honest to a fault.” 

“To a fault?”

“At a job interview, they asked me if I´d ever used drugs. I knew it was stupid, but I told them the truth.”

The electronic music reverberates. Natalia leans closer to hear you. Her eyes scan your face as if reading.

“And overly trusting, according to my friends.” You glance at Beto, who gives you a wink. “They dog me for loaning money and for walking alone at night. For going to hotels with strange women…”

“Hmm. What else?”

“Extremely affectionate.” You flash your best smile. 

She squeezes your leg. You´re in heaven. 

“And utterly unselfish. I always let the lady come first.”

“What a gentleman!” 

Her hand remains on your thigh. You can think of nothing else. It transmits vibrations that travel to your heart and then are dispersed to your other vital organs. You want to know everything about her: what makes her tick, what makes her laugh, and whether she believes in love. 

“When was your last real relationship?” you venture, afraid she´ll say she´s in it now.

“With the father of my son,” she responds in a neutral tone, as though it had happened to someone else. “He´s three.”

“How long since it ended?”

She gives a rueful smile. “Three years.”

You lift your chin. “Well, here I am.”

“My gallant!” 

You strike a pose.

Again, she asks why you come here. 

You´re looking for affection, you say. To be honest, you´re looking for love. 

She suppresses a smile. 

“What? You´ve heard that before?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, don´t believe them. I´m not like the others. Would any of you want a man like me?”

The smile she´s suppressing emerges. “Possibly.”

The heat. Then a gust of air from a rotating fan. Your hand is clutching her ribcage. You try to make a gesture, but it won´t let go. 

“I hate those guys who get women pregnant and leave as if it´s nothing.” 

Her lips are moving before she speaks. “I´m saving to go back to school.”

“Oh, yeah? And study what?”

“Psychology. Second year.”

“That´s great. Are you going to put me on the couch?”

“Be careful.”

*

Beto is fiddling with his phone. You´re worried, you tell her, that he´ll drag you somewhere else. Could she do you a favor and hook him up? 

She observes Beto closely before calling a friend, a curly-haired trigueña with a face like a porcelain doll.

Beto employs his ingratiating charm. “How lovely.” 

“She’s Venezuelan,” Natalia whispers. “It´s her first night.”

“Beto´s like a brother,” you tell her. “When I moved here, he took me in like kin.” 

Natalia continues to watch them. Her concern for the girl is endearing. 

The fan sweeps by. Then the heat, like a fever, returns. Natalia´s features crystalize: the contoured cheeks, the sensual lips; and lest perfection render her unattainable, the cute little belly fold. 

There´s a tap on your shoe. Something´s thrust into your hand. Beto gives you a sidelong glance.

“Don´t worry,” says Natalia. “The waiters sell it.”

You each take a hit.

“You were telling me why you come.”

Your mind is brimming with clever remarks, but your ability to express them falls short.

“When people get married, they think their intimacy will continue to grow. Instead, they close themselves off. They stop sharing the secrets that brought them together. More and more subjects become off limits. Whereas, here you´re free to drop your guard. To let out what you´ve got bottled up. You can bear more than only your flesh.”

You quote a line from Tennessee Williams: “What happens in the dark between a man and a woman makes everything else seem unimportant.” 

Natalia clasps her hands and feigns a swoon. 

*

Beto grips your bicep and bellows in your ear. “Wait for me, brother. We´re going upstairs.”

The Venezolana confers with Natalia before following.

A ruckus erupts from the table of the Towboys. A milky-skinned woman with a rose vine tattoo performs a lap dance to the rhythm of “Booty.” She waggles her breasts in one guy´s mug while the others look on with frozen smiles. 

A warm breath feathers your cheek. “Are we going up?”

Her sultry tone ignites your senses. It conjures visions of what might happen in the dark. But then you remember those spare, dismal rooms with the lingering air of unsavory transactions. 

“I like talking to you,” you answer. Tell her. “Maybe later we can go to a hotel.”

Her look of approval allows you to dream.

Enough of the bullshit, says Leo. To her, you´re only a customer.

A Towboy approaches Natalia. He reeks of cologne and oily bravado. His voice cuts the air like a buzz saw. 

You know that kind of man all too well. 

Growing up in a mill town where boorish coaches posed as teachers, you were subjected to the rule of the jocks. Which was akin to the code of the street and not far from the laws of the jungle. Where the brutes stalked the weak and the rest played along to avoid the same fate. Where the bookish were taunted and gays were demeaned and women were objects of sexual conquest. 

You managed to find refuge at the university, where a different mentality prevailed. Norms such as decency, which weren´t always followed, but at least it was a place where you could breathe. And imagine that you´d left that netherworld behind.

Until Harvey Weinstein reared his ugly head. 

Ever since, you´ve felt in need of a bath. You feel tainted by the things that they did. Shouldn´t you have stopped them, or at least spoken out? And are you sure you´re absolutely innocent? You must search through your memories, otherwise, you´ll never be at peace. 

A horselaugh from the Towboy as he saunters away. 

“What did he say?” you ask her.

“He wants to take me upstairs.” 

Your stomach clenches. Your mouth goes dry. Maybe she´s thinking about the money. Quickly, you slip her some bills. “For the therapy,” you say. 

You consider sharing what´s been weighing on your mind. You´d like to hear her opinion. But maybe you should wait until she knows you better. Maybe this is not the time to bring it up. 

The heat. You feel it inside you, pulsing. Your hand drifts down the small of her back and encounters a curve so emphatic you quiver. Maybe she likes a man who´s more assertive. 

“Tell me,” you say, “do you think, like Freud, that all our actions are driven by our desires?” 

Her eyes glint with mischief. “Sure.” 

“With women as well as with men?”

“Of course.”

Your nerves uncoil and you let out a breath. “What about friendships between women and men? Is it easier for a woman if they´re platonic?”

“When I´m with my male friends,” she says, grinning slyly, “there’s always a chance that something will happen.” 

Her candor is thrilling. What a pleasure it is to speak this way with a woman. Without worrying that you´ll say something wrong. 

Are men more responsive to erotic images? Are they more prone to sexual aberrations? You mention a guy who served the Navy always accompanied by his inflatable doll. When his mates found out, they asked him to share her. He decided to let them, but for a price. Though that didn´t last because he got jealous.  

Natalia rolls her eyes. 

Then you bring up the subject of objectification. Is it more common among men? Emboldened, you go further: “Working here, have you ever felt debased?” 

Her smile fades. “What makes you ask?”

  “No, I…”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I don’t,” you say, your voice going hollow. “Really, I don’t at all.” 

A silence descends. Have you broken the spell? 

“Beto´s taking forever,” you say. “Should we go up?”

*

You pay for the room and follow her upstairs. The staircase is narrow and sticky. You come to a stuffy, windowless hallway leading to several closed doors. Through another, slightly open, some women are changing. Natalia goes in to ask about a room.

You assume a posture of slouching aplomb and glance furtively around at the people. A short-legged man with red beady eyes sways groggily beside a thin woman in heels. They stare straight ahead as if waiting for a bus. 

It’s that hypnotic hour when time is suspended. When it bows to oblivion before hurtling towards dawn. A shudder of exhaustion and your body craves a hit. Don´t abandon the trajectory. As long as you’re ascending, you´re not coming down. A search of your pockets comes up empty. Could Natalia be sharing the goods with her friends? 

Disconnected fragments carom in your head. You replay what you said and start revising.

A door scrapes open. It´s a Towboy. He staggers out smugly and shuffles down the stairs. A tiny old woman with varicose veins arrives with a mop and an armful of sheets. When she emerges, the bus stop couple go in.

Your legs go wobbly. They´re about to give out. You lean your full weight against the wall. What´s going on with Natalia?

I told you, says Leo. You´re just another John. 

A sound rises up from the depths of the night. A strange, plaintive cry you´re unable to give a name. Is it the wail of a baby or the shriek of a cat?

Once again, you dig through your memories.

Your eyes snap open as the sound comes again. This time you know it´s not a cat. You hear the word no, then you hear the word stop, and after a pause, that same mournful wail. 

You look around wildly. All the doors are closed. The cleaning woman isn´t in sight. 

Then a door bursts open and a woman stumbles out, her face obscured by her disheveled curly hair. She scurries into the dressing room. 

The door is left partly open. A man with his back turned is putting on his shirt. Your instinct says, Don’t let him see you. Your instinct says, Don’t let him know you’ve seen.

Suddenly, he turns. He stares you in the face. He lurches forward and drags you down the stairs, banging against the walls, dashing out the entrance and past the snoozing bouncer.

The chill predawn air jolts you to your senses. A thin, gray drizzle is falling on the street. A pale light reflects cruelly in the puddles.

“What happened?” you ask Beto, writhing in his grip. “What the hell did you do?” 

“Nothing,” he mutters behind a mask of resolve. He steers you through the mist and toward a distant taxi. Somewhere in the night a baleful siren whines. Then, from behind you, comes a cry. It´s the poignant voice of a woman and she´s calling out your name. 

You pull away from Beto and turn around to look. 

“Come on, man,” he says. “You´re in this with me.”