Wickedness is a myth invented by good people to account for the
curious attraction of others
- Oscar Wilde

I. I'm hanging out one night with these two guys from the neighborhood and we decide that we should go out in Manhattan, I mean like really GO OUT, so we head to the subway but none of us have any tokens or cards and the train is coming so we jump the turnstile and ride to freedom. At least I jump. Vaughn crawls underneath like a cat and Cuge, well, Cuge had a Metrocard actually, which he, in fact, used. So I guess it wasn't as outlaw-ish as I described, but still, it was kind of cool.

But wait! There's more! See, we're on our way to this club but we're hungry so first we get some pizza. Actually, Vaughn gets some and we eat his. Anyhow, Vaughn leaves the restaurant before us, and as Cuge and I are leaving, the pizza man asks if we paid and I say, "of course we paid," thinking we had, and he believes me and we leave. Then on the street Vaughn tells me that he never did pay, and as we hustle down the sidewalk we begin to laugh and cackle because we are bad, bad boys! Bad, terrible Brooklyn boys unleashed on Manhattan, the gigantic landscape our personal candystore, a massive teat for us to suck and bite at.

We get to the club but it's really lame and I have to convince the older and voluptuous hippie woman at the door to give us each back our $5, which she does. Then we can't get a cab for like a half hour, and some portly uptown chicks end up stealing one from us. As the cab pulls away I scream "bitches!" at the top of my lungs and all of these people look (I'm such a bad boy!). Some guy who was with the girls quickly walks away, and I go up to him and yell at him for having helped steal our cab. He says it wasn't our cab at all, and I give him a little push, just to see what his reaction will be, but he merely limps away, weak and dejected, like an inferior species being told that they won't be needed anymore - they simply didn't make the cut for the next round.

Eventually we get a cab and drive to the East Village, a place I was once proud to call home, as I'm sure you were, and if you never lived there you at least spent some time there, and, if not, you'd at least heard about it. And if not even this, you are a total loser.

We decide to stop at Astor Place, but before we've even gotten out of the cab these three girls proceed to climb inside. One of them - the leader, a loud, ugly, preppie type - tells the driver that she wants to go to 14th and B. Vaughn overhears this and explains to her, calmly and nicely, that she should simply walk, that it is not that far, that she can save some money, etc. Well! This girl cannot believe her ears! She proceeds to lecture Vaughn and tell him that she has lived in the East Village for all of two years and that she knows what she's doing and doesn't appreciate being told what to do by a complete stranger.

By this time I've had enough and I jump out of the cab and lay into these girls about anything I can think of - their clothes, their manners, their hair (all awful, I assure you) - about how they and their kind have destroyed the neighborhood, have gutted it and filled it with their yuppie crap, have taken a place that was once cherished for its art and culture and rawness and turned it into a country club. Then I try to get them to explain to me why all yuppies want to live around cool people and artists, but then when they move in they eradicate everything that once appealed to them, but they drive away without answering.

After a few minutes I cool down, and we go to our next destination, Joe's Pub. The doorman tells us that tonight it's a private party and there's no chance of us getting in. Vaughn runs off a list of names of people he knows who work there or own it or whatever, but the guy doesn't want to hear it. Then I explain that we're very private people and would therefore be perfect for such a party, but the meathead doesn't buy it and tells us to get lost.

Perhaps to further add to our self-degradation, we head to the Bowery Bar. At first they refuse to let us in, as we are all wearing jeans and sneakers (God forbid), but Vaughn apparently built the place or something, so they are forced to let us pass. And the place is literally jam-packed with everything and everyone I had just gone off about. Everywhere are JAP's and preps, pancaked mannequins and their buttoned-down escorts, every piece of clothing, every drink, every sentence ringing with the same subtext: Money Money Money. You can almost hear a cash register opening and closing in the background. But then I look over and there actually is one, behind the bar, opening and closing every few seconds.

After elbowing a smattering of aggressive losers for a place at the bar, we order some drinks and take a seat in the center of it all. No one looks even remotely like us. We are a freak island in a green sea (Get it? Green? Money? Ha-ha!). The only positive thing is that the chicks are hot. Really, really hot. And Vaughn, who fancies himself as some kind of ladies man, starts railing us for not trying harder to talk to them, even though all he does is circle the room a few times like a sketchy pimp and return to us, empty-handed. But we have to do something, and so, to draw at least some positive attention, we pull a page right out of the How To Pick Up Chicks Rulebook: pretend you're having a good time. A really good time. Even if you're not, if you're miserable, if you hate your friends and want to die, live it up like you've never heard such witty banter, such incredible one-liners, such amazing stories.

So we do this, but of course we overdo it, and pretty soon people are looking at us like we really are freaks. We laugh and slap each other on the backs and clap our hands and scream. Then someone knocks the table and my wine spills everywhere and there's a huge puddle where I was resting my elbows seconds before. If any of us move at all we will bump the table, spilling the wine onto one or all of us. We sit there for a few minutes, silent, and all of a sudden burst out laughing and the table is hit and the wine spills out in my direction, but I jump up before any lands on me. And while it's kind of funny, and I'm laughing, the vein of the evening - the taxicab assholes, the New East Village assholes, the surrounding assholes - begins to wear on me, and I realize that I need to leave. Vaughn and Cuge agree, so we spend our last few dollars on some paperbag beers and a taxi, the driver of which lets us blast our music all the way over the Williamsburg bridge.


II. When I get home I'm pretty drunk but not as tired as I thought, and I can hear P.L. upstairs, who's busy with this girl he's been seeing off and on named Agnes or something. I can also hear Trevor, who's busy with this girl he's been seeing lately named Thora. This is not the environment one wants to come home to late at night, especially when one is alone, where one will no doubt be kept up all night by the screams and the moans - and that will just be me yelling at everyone to shut the fuck up.

While Agnes is a temporary diversion for P.L. (just the other night he landed a Hawaiian honey with Hula dancer hips and Aloha state warmth), Trevor and Thora are a little more serious. Their story is actually quite interesting and worth mentioning, albeit briefly. See, before Thora there was this one girl who kind of liked Trevor and who hinted that she wanted them to get married - for her green card - although there were deeper feelings involved. Now, this was Thora's best friend. Add to this the fact that all three of them work together. Now add the fact that Thora is actually engaged to someone else, as her parents wouldn't let her come to the States from her home country without doing so (otherwise she would have been forced to stay and marry this person). So see what poor little Trevor has to deal with, just to get a little puss!

So I make a phone call and am given the green light on the invitation I have proposed for myself. The call I've just made is important, as it was to someone who has been discussed in this column previously but never fully explored, someone who's mere mention has inflamed a nation of minds and other bodily regions alike. I was of course making a booty call, which was, in fact, an amazon booty call.

So yes, even amazons have phones. And booties. And late-night desires. In case you were wondering. She meets me at her door and I have to force myself to stand up straight to meet her lips, almost leaning upwards, like a little bee-atch.

The first time we hooked up we tore off each other's clothes even before we made it into her bedroom, and tonight is no exception. I've got her totally naked in only a few minutes, and as we grind or dry hump or whatever you call it, it's amazing how perfectly aligned our bodies are, how conducive they are to such an activity. Tonguing her with my hands around her waist, on her ass, her breasts, we are one. That sounds so gay but it's true.

Eventually, however, the bumping and grinding gets old. As far as I'm concerned, this can only go on for so long. For some women, this is can go on all night. And these women I do not understand. Luckily, the amazon is not one of these women, although she comes close. The amount of foreplay she needs is staggering, particularly due to the fact that it is all of the fake sex variety. And I don't get this, for it's one thing to get naked and get all turned on and do lots of rubbing and stroking and everything, but it's something else entirely to do it all night. It's a good opener, that's it; it's not the main show. It's like getting a fake Christmas tree, or an inflatable woman - it looks okay from a distance, maybe it's good for a few laughs, but beyond that, what use is it? You need the real thing.

So when I can't wait any longer I make a move for the condoms, but she's like, 'no, I don't think so,' taking my hand and squeezing my wrist so I have to drop them on the nightstand. I pin her down but she bites me hard and I have to release her. Then she pins me down, and even though I can get out I'm kind of liking it so I pretend that I can't. She kisses my face, then my neck, then my chest. And slowly she's making her way down and I'm thinking - how nice this is, I wish every woman was so accommodating - but then she stops and now I'm thinking - how shitty this is, why do women do this kind of thing - but then SHE reaches for the condoms and opens one up and puts it on. WITH HER MOUTH. Okay no, not really, just with her hand, but it's still kind of a surprise and cool.

And then we're doing it. Shagging. Screwing. Fucking. I'm not sure how to describe the act itself, only to say that it was really good. It always is. I mean, her legs are like super long, and so is her tongue, so imagine the possibilities.
While there is a distinctive animal quality involved, with lots of furniture being knocked around and countless post-coitus bruises and bitemarks, there is an equally strong spiritual vibe, an intimate, zen-like, almost tantric coming together.

Afterwards we lay together and talk about whatever - art, life, etc. - and then I make some sort of excuse and go back home. I've never once stayed over there - it just never felt right. It has nothing to do with a lack of intimacy - on the contrary - it just isn't something that needs to be carried on throughout the night, to be extended beyond its scope. It's like, if you somehow manage to bed Xena, afterwards you kind of just want to go away and leave her be, let her have her space. Meanwhile, you're busy contemplating exactly what happened, what it all was about, what it all meant.

Besides, she takes up the whole bed anyway.

--Russ Josephs

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