We left the office separately. There was no need to tell me that I was not to announce our upcoming escapade to anyone.
When he was ready, he said good night like always and I quickly followed him down to the lobby.
He was waiting for me out on the street where we hailed a cab away from any probing eyes.

Once in the cab, he directed the driver to take us to the then Hemsley Palace. It was before the fall of Imelda and her shoes and the word Palace made me feel like Cinderella off to the ball.
“Had you ever been there before?” he asked.
As if I was frequenting the highest motels of Manhattan’s golden Midtown. As if it was a common Friday night after dinner hang out for me and my freaky pals.
“No.”
“Oh, I think you’ ll like it.”

Was this an intended seduction? All designed to impress and awe?

Oh, yes. I see it clearly now and I think I knew it then, but the cab was on its way.

We were pulling up to a building covered in gold. I had doors being opened by uniform clad door man calling me miss. I was ushered by a god into a room filled with the elite of New York. The ceilings rose over two stories into a space rivaling a cathedral. The room had the quiet vibrations from a deep woolen carpet, the hushed voices of culture, the gentle tones of fine china stroking crystal and linens. It was the “Harp Room” and if I’m wrong and no one knows what room I am talking about, then it was the “Music Room’ or something to that effect. I know for sure that there was a woman on a balcony playing the harp so maybe my mind has twisted the memory. I know we sat at a small table, tight for two, knees knocking in an intimate way. I know that I drank White Russians, no wine this time, it was cocktail hour in NY and I suppose I needed the added influence of hard alcohol. I know I had four of them and I felt it becoming ever more buoyant and animated throughout the ordeal.

It was, like before, not an ordeal. No matter what was spoken, the underlying vibe was prominent, and I believe there was laughing and obvious flirting.

What I recall most clearly: when it was Time to Go. We left together and got into a cab.

I thought, last vestiges of innocence that he would ask me where I needed to go, and I would reply Penn Station and make my way home. Believe it or not, I was surprised when he rattled off an address to the cab driver, but assumed it was a restaurant as we had not yet eaten.

The gig, as they say, was up.

The address was for his Upper East Side apartment and I, still ever so obedient, willing got out of the cab and entered his building, went up the elevator and changed the very core foundation of my life.

Now I was nervous, no faking it.

It was staring me right in the face and my teenage boyfriends and youthful hookups gave me no basis to which course to take.

Drunken attractions at bars and clubs, late night fumblings with friends provided no answers. Maybe it was a good thing I was pretty drunk myself, again, maybe that was the plan, maybe I knew and let myself get that way.

Even for growing up in the 80’s, I was still kind of a “good”girl. I had stayed a virgin until 16 waiting until true puppy love and hormones took their effect. Willingly gave up “my gift”on my own bed, after school, to Darrin and then loved him for the next two years.

Granted that was one year after he dumped me, so the second year was closer to stalking and desperate attempts to rekindle or control something. Youth had given me no respect for dignity, so any frequent successes at luring him back into my body and my bed were followed with renewed heartbreak, and anger at myself and him.
One time I shaved my head and then used the story of a brain tumor to get his attention. That worked for a few weeks.
Then there was his constant need for a hair cut that I would so willingly provide and allow to become an intimate situation. It is amazing how much body contact you can get out of a mere hair cut.
Even when I knew that new life would not be breathe into our relationship, I got great pleasure knowing that I was getting him to cheat on his current girlfriend. Proud, I am not, but that is the truth and I will not mince it no matter how ugly.

So here it was, barely two and half years later, maybe a bit more, and I could still count my lovers on my fingers and remember their names.

I probably would have been just as happy to walk right out the door if he had started laughing at my foolishness for being there. Needless to say that didn’t happen.

Closing my eyes, I can remember entering his apartment.

It was dark and even after switching on a few mood lights stayed relatively dim. It was an older building, one that spoke of quiet money and an unpretentious dignity. Comfort was more than a mere luxury and was purchased carefully. Like himself, it was decorated in a no nonsense way. The kitchen was original to the building, old cabinetry and high ceilings, but filled with modern tools. The sofa was leather and the artwork originals. It was warm inside. Did he take my coat? Hang it up in the closet?

I recall being turned around maybe he whispered, “Come here.”

I obeyed. I was in his arms and followed where his kissing lead. Did I feel the passion or just taste the fear still? I don’t recall. I know my mind swam in a million different directions.
Knowing I should not be there.
Knowing I should get home.
I was missing my brother’s birthday.
The trains might go on strike.
I would be stuck in the city.
I had no where planned to stay that night nor clothes for the next day.
He was my boss.
He was so much older than me.

What was I doing, but how could I not.

I can remember other times that I knew what I was doing was bound to lead me to nothing but trouble.

Staying out late at night, pretending that I was having a blast without a care in the world, but having my mind scream about how much trouble I would be when I did finally get home. Thinking of the excuses and rationalizations for obviously flaunting any rational authority and logic in my actions. Planning my escape from the consequences instead of just doing what I knew I should be doing:
Go home.
Be on time.
Meet the curfew.
Don’t make mom freak out.
What makes us so rebellious and defiant and uncaring? How does this irresponsibility make us feel so grown up? When really all it did was give me a stomach ache. Stupid.

So I’m sure I had that familiar stomach ache instead of lust running though my veins. Yet, unable to call it off. Oh, if I had only known where it would all go.
Would I have run out screaming into the night or rationalized how much cooler and romantic it all would be with the tragedy and poetic license of youth?
I stayed . For whatever reason, I stayed.

I know I gave in to situations in the past where I would just rather not of. Now, they call it date rape if you don’t proclaim “yes!”, but then, when AIDS was still just a plague among the gay population and sex was still a clean pastime, giving your body to a man was easier to endure than the conflicts of driving him off. Ah, so you let him do what he wished and soon enough it was over and you could go home and shower. Wake up in the morning and pretend it wasn’t all that terrible, maybe he was just a bit too drunk, maybe you shouldn’t have smoked so much pot and stayed out so late. Shouldn’t have let him buy you all those drinks. Oh well, what do you expect?

Did it matter if I wanted to be there or not that night? Making out on his fancy leather couch. Doing my best to be all sexy and sophisticated. Make him want you, maybe then he’ll love you?

We did not have sex that night, but the die was set. Kissing and removal of clothing defiantly redefines almost any relationship.

He asked me if I wanted to stay over.

I replied that I should get home as the trains might be on strike, “Fuck, it was after midnight!”

What if the strike was on and I was stuck. Real fear.

“No, I have to go”

He holds out a hundred dollar bill. “Here, I’ll get you a cab. If the trains are out, take the cab home”

Clothes get rearranged. Coats get retrieved from closet. Down the elevator. Ignore looks from doorman. Walk to corner in the still of the late NY night. Hails the cab and kisses me goodnight.

The trains were still running. Last minute stall, negotiations and such that would only last a week or so, but I got home.

I kept the hundred dollars.

I felt like a whore immediately.

But I still kept the hundred dollars.

Continued on: Confessions of a Birthmother