Meatpacking District

I was still young enough to have to go on holidays with my parents. My mom, however, did not come. We went to New York for whatever reason, I can’t remember why. It was May and my grandmother always said New York in May is the most wonderful thing. We stayed at a near to fancy hotel apartments called Affinia Gardens on the Upper East Side. I think it was on 64th and 6th .

I had not been allowed a drink all week because in the US everyone asks for your ID, even if you are with an accompanying adult. I wondered why. The last night, however, they didn’t ask. And I ordered a drink with my dad, that, with his best intention, has always wanted me to have fun. I probably ordered funky drinks with fruits and colors that taste mostly like sugar as I had not yet understood the pleasure of drinking alcohol. I just did it for the sake of it.

We were at a top restaurant in the Meatpacking District. The room was huge and, as we had a late reservation, they sat us at the bar in front of the kitchen. The chefs in white aprons swung around with fires and steams and yelled commands and orders in a show worth of the New York hastiness. I had not seen many things in my life and everything was overarchingly stimulating. I was being allowed to have as many drinks as I wanted.

We didn’t order dessert but suddenly a plate with flaming bananas was served to us by a funny looking short man. He was probably on his thirties and had a grim smile on his face. He said something charming and made us understand that it was a gift from the kitchen, from him. My dad was fascinated by the idea that I had allured the main chef on the kitchen to, not only talk to us, but give us a free meal. I was equally marvelled by my undiscovered seductive abilities and as I always look to pull the thread ever a bit so slightly further, I thought it’d be a good idea to ask him what he was doing after work. My dad, with an accomplice look, stood up and went to the toilet. I can remember his face, his happiness, his little girl was conquering New York. I wrote a note with my number and asked the chef when his shift was over. I think he said at 12 although I remember it written on a napkin somehow. My dad came back from the men's room.

- Mission accomplished? - he asked. We paid and left.

The streets of the city like a raging beast had so much going on. And there I was. My dad had said goodbye and took a yellow taxi to the hotel, he probably gave me money to spend on whatever I liked. I met a friend that happened to be with her older sister at a restaurant nearby. She had a fake ID from her other sister and handed it to me for us to be free of prohibition for the night. We drank champagne with other older friends in a mirrored room with shell shaped velvet sofas. We took a picture of ourselves in a black bathroom. I can remember what I was I was wearing from that picture. Black stockings and a plated skirt, an orange sleeveless shirt and a blazer. Hanging from it, a round silver brooch my mom had given me for my brother’s wedding. My eyes were red because of the flash light and I was wearing a pony tail. From the way I was lifting my foot on the picture you could tell I was only 16.

At midnight, my friend and I parted ways from her older sister and her friends that had given us champagne and went to the restaurant where I had dinner with my dad earlier. It was empty but someone met us at the door. Waiters and waitresses were clearing the tables and sweeping the floors. The sound of plates clattering in the background were loud but a very neat lady offered us two glasses of white wine on a silver tray while we waited. I felt I was the most sophisticated person on earth. Eventually, the chef arrived. He was shorter than me, much shorter. His hair was thin and red and he had freckles on his cheeks and nose. I remember his eyes being completely black. He said hello and introduced himself.

- I’m Ian - he said. And I said my name back.

We walked through Times Square up to a club. People were queuing but we got in straight away. It was a loud and dark place but I had been to clubs before and I have always had this manner of pretending, even without wanting to, that I have already been to the place I am in, as if nothing could surprise me. Ian gave me a shiny card with which I could order whatever I wanted from the bar. I got my friend and I some tequila shots and we had them with salt and lime.

I remember being alone in the club, going around the rooms and corners by myself. Clubs always feel like a maze we choose to be in and simply get lost. And there I was. At one point I met Ian again. My friend was, if I remember correctly, dancing on top of a table with some random people. He said she would be fine and gently dragged me to another bar downstairs. There, it was not so loud and we could talk. I don’t remember what we spoke about. I can’t think of anything I could’ve had to say. I hadn't finished school. I lived with my mom in a city very far away. I had had sex only once. My heart had been broken, only once. Without asking what I wanted, Ian ordered a couple of drinks for us and took the shiny card back. At this point I was already very drunk but soon I started to feel a type of drunkenness I hadn’t felt before.

Then we were walking through the club, he was holding me from my elbow. I was being carried out. I think I saw my friend but my friend didn’t see me.

We left. There were even more people at the door, queuing , wrestling, trying to get into the place that I was leaving. There were bright lights all over, as if paparazzi were trying to take a picture of the smallest instant of my existence. He pushed me into a yellow cab that stopped for us in the middle of the crowd. Then we were on the traffic. I don’t remember talking and I don’t remember him asking but I was sucking his dick on the back seat. I remember the plastic window that separated us from the driver. The card machine, the signs, the little sliding door that you would open to pay in cash. His dick was not hard and I didn’t know what I was doing, I hadn’t done that before. His hand pushing my head into his open zip, I felt that I was going to drown in a mud puddle.

Then we were at the reception of a cheap hotel. Marriot was written in golden cursive on the red carpet. I remember the room being round and I remember that no one else was there. Then a man came and Ian asked for a room. I don’t remember the other man’s face. I wish I did. I wish I could see his eyes and see what he could see. I like to think that he felt something for me. I like to think that he had not seen that before. But the room was too expensive I think. So we left.

Then we were on another taxi I suppose. Queens, I heard. I knew that that was far away. As hard as I try to picture it, I don’t think that I said a single word. Then we were at his door, we had come up the typical New York stairways and the air felt nice while we waited. He had forgotten his keys and his flatmate had to open the door for us. I don’t remember his face either. I wish I did. I wish I could see his eyes and see what he could see. We went in on a rush and he locked us inside the bathroom. The light was white, it was hurting my eyes. He pulled down my stockings and fucked me against the counter. I remember his tiny dick inside of me, his wobbly skin, his sweaty hands, the top of his head filled with thin red hairs. His face looking at itself on the mirror, looking at me. My eyes were gone, I couldn’t focus. But I could see. I could see him and I could see me. And then the words came.

I want to go home, I want to go home, I want to go home, I want to go home. I started to cry, I want to go home. I pulled up my stockings, I want to go home. I looked for my stuff, I want to go home. I can’t find my phone, I want to go home. I opened the door. I want to go home.

The apartment was untidy and the lights were off. I made it outside. And there I was in Queens, New York. The wide street, empty. Then I was on yet another yellow taxi. I do remember that man’s face, I remember his eyes on the rear-view mirror. I had no reason to believe it but I trusted him and fell asleep.

He woke me up at the Affinia Gardens hotel. His sweet voice. I was afraid. I had some of the water with cucumber they offered at reception and took the elevator across the hall. I came into my room as silent as I could and threw my skirt together with the stockings and my underwear, to the trash. There were a lot of bags and tags from the day of shopping so they were easy to hide. I made it to the bed and fell asleep with the breathing pattern of my dad on the other bed.

The next day we were flying back home. I told the story of the champagne and the mirrored rooms, the silver tray and the wine glasses while we waited. I told the story about the queue at the club and us going in. The shiny card and the V.I.P. When my dad was taking a nap before the flight I tried to call the restaurant, but they never picked up. I don’t remember my dad being mad at me for losing my wallet, or my phone. Did he know the things he could’ve been angry about? Would he have been if he’d known? Would he have blamed it on me? Would he have been able to stop it all?