At some point, he sidled up to me and confided in a low voice, “That woman Sheila's been talking to, she's all right, she's a cute girl.
But when I hugged her earlier, I wasn't feeling it. I'm not sure I'll be able to perform if we go into a private room with her and her husband.” I felt sorry for Mike, and a little disgusted that he had to pretend to like this sort of place.
There was a pregnant pause as we gazed at each other, suddenly shy. Beyond the curtains, something was finally happening.
Two transgendered men, both black and both outfitted in skirts and flowing, brightly colored wigs, were sitting down on the bed in the middle of the room.
The entire area was infused with a latex-and-semen-scented fug, which James claimed to like and I found mildly repulsive.
We sat close together on the couch, our thighs touching.
Aside from the sketchiness of the place itself, part of what was weird about this outing was that James and I are not a couple. We've gotten closer in the three years we've known each other, and there's always been something faintly illicit about our relationship, partly because he's a straight, married man and I'm a straight, single lady, and partly because our rapport was never wholly innocent: yes, we have similar politics and senses of humor, but we're also attracted to each other. People who don't know us usually assume we're sleeping together.