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When I was 13 years old, I slept with a 26 year old Asian girl with purple hair, who lived, per chance, a block away from my parent's house. It was late, I was out buying beer and cigarettes (only in new York, right?) and she was obviously drunk. As I stepped out of the deli I began to pack my cigarettes, when I was stopped by the aforementioned Asian who inquired about the possibility of acquiring a spare smoke.
I thought nothing of it and handed one over from my fresh pack, starting to walk away as quickly as I had stopped, when she asked, ever so innocently, "Wait, where are you going?" As I'm not one to be rude, and as I was more surprised at the meaning of the question then at the Asian asking the question, I pivoted on my heels and replied simply and as suave as humanly possible, "Um...Haha...Nowhere, why?"
I could tell she was drunk, and to any other 13 year old this might seem out of character, but I am a born and raised New Yorker and discerning the drunks from the crazies is second nature in a town where both are forces to be reckoned with, at least for the sake of one's safety and survival. She seemed to know what she was doing, which I can only assume, because I don't remember my feelings at the time, made me feel more comfortable with her.
In any normal world, where the skies are always blue, the government is always honest, and people are always warm-hearted, I would have told the Asian that I was going home, and that I was not interested in any further conversation, but New York City is not a normal world. It is, in fact, a cesspool of dirt and grime; a bubbling pot of piss, vice, and opportunities. In my case, the opportunity to have sex--ne, have the company of an older, obviously more experienced woman, is something that I wouldn't have passed up, especially at the ripe, young age of 13.
And so, with my mind sending wave after wave of hormones down my spinal cord, I agreed after a brief talk, that I would accompany the Asian back to her place, which was, as goes the story, right around the corner.
The facade of the building was something I had never bothered to study up close, even though it was, actually, around the corner from my house, but it was decrepit in every sense of the word. The black, outside door was old and covered with graffiti and old stickers and looked in bad condition, to say the least. It was a precursor to whatever was on the other side of the door. The stairs up to her apartment were dirt encrusted and each one squeaked and groaned. I remember walking a few steps in front of her and turning around at one point to see how she was doing, only to find a look of sudden puzzlement written on her face as to what I was doing there with her. I smiled the most genuine smile I could come up with at the time, hoping to at least make it to her apartment before she decided this was all a terrible idea.
Unfortunately for the both of us, that time never came. In a drunken haze, she asked, "How old are you, again?" Almost without thinking, I lied and told her I was 16, which, even for a lie, was a bad choice of age on my part, considering she was obviously older. She seemed to have a need to justify this question, although in hindsight it was obvious why she would want to ask, so she said, "Oh...Well, I'm...umm...26." I tried to laugh, as if a defense mechanism like laughter was appropriate to make the situation much less awkward then it already was. Needless to say, she did not laugh.
When we got to her door, I did not know what to expect, but this was the proverbial point of no return, and I made a decision. Her apartment was not so much of an apartment, but one room, with a bed, a window, and a small sink. In fact it looked more like a prison cell than anything. She told me to make myself comfortable and that she had to go to the bathroom, explaining that she shared it with the other people on her floor, and although I never saw the bathroom I can only imagine what it must have looked like, considering what shape the rest of the building was in.
When she returned she appeared a bit more relaxed and I, with sweaty palms, welcomed it as a sign of good intentions. She smiled and told me that she had been music shopping earlier in the day and had bought 2 new CDs, one a band I had never heard of and the other being The Rolling Stones. She pleasantly suggested that I choose which she should play, and I picked the Stones, trying to seem older and smarter then I was at the time. She turned the music on and sat down next to me on her small, messy bed. Her floor was covered with books and magazines and clothes, although there wasn't much floor space to really be covered, and I assumed she was a student or an artist, never bothering to figure out which. I searched for something on her bare, white walls to let me know what I was doing, and why I was in this Asian's room. I found none, so I sucked up all the courage I had and talked to her.
We talked for only a few minutes, although it seemed longer, most of the talk coming from her in the form of harmless questions. She asked me what I did, where I was from and what I was interested in; questions that could have no emotional value. I allowed myself to tell her only what I deemed acceptable, making sure not to tell her anything too important or incriminating (i.e., my age, etc.)
There was a brief pause, and as though it were planned out in a movie script, she softened her voice and asked if she could kiss me. I remember being caught off guard by the question, but nevertheless intrigued by it, and immediately nodded in silent approval.
I had some sexual experience under my belt, but it was obviously nothing compared to hers, and I let her make the moves, which made me feel powerful and older. I felt as though I were the king of all men, and I just conquered the neighboring lands.
I was the general who got to fuck the princess.
I was the loser who got to feel up the prom queen.
It was over and she was passed out before I even got my underwear back on. In some attempt at decency, I found a piece of paper and marker on the floor and scribbled a bunch of words down that I can't remember, most likely something unnecessary and benign. I might have left my phone number at the bottom, and maybe even my name, but I decided against any further action. I zipped up and, like some secret agent home from a deadly and classified mission, was home in less than a minute, accidentally leaving my beer and cigarettes next to her bed.
I thought nothing of it and handed one over from my fresh pack, starting to walk away as quickly as I had stopped, when she asked, ever so innocently, "Wait, where are you going?" As I'm not one to be rude, and as I was more surprised at the meaning of the question then at the Asian asking the question, I pivoted on my heels and replied simply and as suave as humanly possible, "Um...Haha...Nowhere, why?"
I could tell she was drunk, and to any other 13 year old this might seem out of character, but I am a born and raised New Yorker and discerning the drunks from the crazies is second nature in a town where both are forces to be reckoned with, at least for the sake of one's safety and survival. She seemed to know what she was doing, which I can only assume, because I don't remember my feelings at the time, made me feel more comfortable with her.
In any normal world, where the skies are always blue, the government is always honest, and people are always warm-hearted, I would have told the Asian that I was going home, and that I was not interested in any further conversation, but New York City is not a normal world. It is, in fact, a cesspool of dirt and grime; a bubbling pot of piss, vice, and opportunities. In my case, the opportunity to have sex--ne, have the company of an older, obviously more experienced woman, is something that I wouldn't have passed up, especially at the ripe, young age of 13.
And so, with my mind sending wave after wave of hormones down my spinal cord, I agreed after a brief talk, that I would accompany the Asian back to her place, which was, as goes the story, right around the corner.
The facade of the building was something I had never bothered to study up close, even though it was, actually, around the corner from my house, but it was decrepit in every sense of the word. The black, outside door was old and covered with graffiti and old stickers and looked in bad condition, to say the least. It was a precursor to whatever was on the other side of the door. The stairs up to her apartment were dirt encrusted and each one squeaked and groaned. I remember walking a few steps in front of her and turning around at one point to see how she was doing, only to find a look of sudden puzzlement written on her face as to what I was doing there with her. I smiled the most genuine smile I could come up with at the time, hoping to at least make it to her apartment before she decided this was all a terrible idea.
Unfortunately for the both of us, that time never came. In a drunken haze, she asked, "How old are you, again?" Almost without thinking, I lied and told her I was 16, which, even for a lie, was a bad choice of age on my part, considering she was obviously older. She seemed to have a need to justify this question, although in hindsight it was obvious why she would want to ask, so she said, "Oh...Well, I'm...umm...26." I tried to laugh, as if a defense mechanism like laughter was appropriate to make the situation much less awkward then it already was. Needless to say, she did not laugh.
When we got to her door, I did not know what to expect, but this was the proverbial point of no return, and I made a decision. Her apartment was not so much of an apartment, but one room, with a bed, a window, and a small sink. In fact it looked more like a prison cell than anything. She told me to make myself comfortable and that she had to go to the bathroom, explaining that she shared it with the other people on her floor, and although I never saw the bathroom I can only imagine what it must have looked like, considering what shape the rest of the building was in.
When she returned she appeared a bit more relaxed and I, with sweaty palms, welcomed it as a sign of good intentions. She smiled and told me that she had been music shopping earlier in the day and had bought 2 new CDs, one a band I had never heard of and the other being The Rolling Stones. She pleasantly suggested that I choose which she should play, and I picked the Stones, trying to seem older and smarter then I was at the time. She turned the music on and sat down next to me on her small, messy bed. Her floor was covered with books and magazines and clothes, although there wasn't much floor space to really be covered, and I assumed she was a student or an artist, never bothering to figure out which. I searched for something on her bare, white walls to let me know what I was doing, and why I was in this Asian's room. I found none, so I sucked up all the courage I had and talked to her.
We talked for only a few minutes, although it seemed longer, most of the talk coming from her in the form of harmless questions. She asked me what I did, where I was from and what I was interested in; questions that could have no emotional value. I allowed myself to tell her only what I deemed acceptable, making sure not to tell her anything too important or incriminating (i.e., my age, etc.)
There was a brief pause, and as though it were planned out in a movie script, she softened her voice and asked if she could kiss me. I remember being caught off guard by the question, but nevertheless intrigued by it, and immediately nodded in silent approval.
I had some sexual experience under my belt, but it was obviously nothing compared to hers, and I let her make the moves, which made me feel powerful and older. I felt as though I were the king of all men, and I just conquered the neighboring lands.
I was the general who got to fuck the princess.
I was the loser who got to feel up the prom queen.
It was over and she was passed out before I even got my underwear back on. In some attempt at decency, I found a piece of paper and marker on the floor and scribbled a bunch of words down that I can't remember, most likely something unnecessary and benign. I might have left my phone number at the bottom, and maybe even my name, but I decided against any further action. I zipped up and, like some secret agent home from a deadly and classified mission, was home in less than a minute, accidentally leaving my beer and cigarettes next to her bed.
posted by samuel at 8:23 PM
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