By Albert Samaha
By Steve Weinstein
By Devon Maloney
By Tessa Stuart
By Alison Flowers
By Albert Samaha
By Jesse Jarnow
By Eric Tsetsi
The Village Idiot, a bar in the meatpacking district, has always provided. Whenever I go there, I leave with someone's lips locked around mine. The sleazy wannabe-white-trashhaven for suits who hunt for Pabst and peanuts on Thursday nights never disappoints. I've met merchant marines, a coke-addled painter, creepy dotcommers, an Andrew Shue look-alike, and most recently my Kyrgyzstan man, Adam, a Peace Corps volunteer who teaches fifth grade in a remote village where snow hits desert sand.
I found him mashing my roommate on the dancefloor, all loose-limbed, his saliva dripping. He was shot to hell, sweating vodka, and easily distracted by a new arrival. He gave me a freak greeting and a little lick. What happened next is unclear, but after he poured ice water on his head, we hid for a while underneath a pile of coats. Then we decided on escape.
We walked to the pier, hoping for a make-out session under the moon. Finding the iron gates locked, we tripped and skipped to the sanitation waste facility on the next pier over and pressed up against a dirt-caked, concrete wall. Every 10 minutes or so a garbage truck would hurl through the driveway, lighting our chins and the trail of spit between our mouths, spiderwebbing its way from shoulder to ear to throat to teeth to temple. Giddy with groping and the gurgle of monster truck engines, we floundered among cement stumps and stray trash caught in the crosswinds off the Hudson.
Walking north to my place, falling on each other at every corner and on every stoop, we drew glances from other couples smiling at our fresh connection. We stumbled over an orange traffic cone. "That's going between my legs, but you're not," I told him. "We'll see about that," he said.
In my bed we talked of tiger force, had squirrelly cuddles and loud lap dancing, but we didn't fucknot for lack of trying. He asked, "Did you feel the shocks? Did you feel them?"
I smiled. I didn't have to say yes.
He said, "You gave over your mind and body."
I said, "I didn't give them to you; I shared."
He said, "That's what 'gave over' means in Christianity."
I, in Jewish ignorance, said, "You're welcome, and so did you."
My lips are no longer sore from trying to swallow him whole. I can still feel his phantom arm cupping my belly, his tongue riding my teeth. But he's gone now, back where he swam with sturgeons in the icy waters separating Europe from Asia, downing midnight moonshine and living on $50 a month, which is what I spend on a haircut. My Kyrgyzstan man ran. Time for another visit to the Village Idiot.
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