they remain anonymous strangers both before and after the party, and then provide them with provocative clothing to wear and a hyper-sexualized environment, perhaps they will all turn out to be the right kind of people.”
“That’s an interesting theory, Ms. Burgundy. Although it seems to me the hyper-sexualized environment you’re speaking of is largely the creation of the club-goers and not the club. Notwithstanding the bowls of condoms and lubricant.”
“Those are the people who aren’t here for the first time.”
“Or, when the ego and self is taken away—or hidden behind a mask—this is how we behave, as human beings.”
“That seems one assumption too many,” she said.
“All right. But what does naturally follow from this chain of reasoning is that you and I are the right kind of people, only we haven’t figured this out about ourselves yet.”
The two behind them had graduated from heavy petting to something much more serious. Her blouse was open and she was no longer on his lap; he had her on her back on the couch, her legs open and around him. He was undoing his pants.
Mr. Mocha noted Lindy’s wandering gaze.
“I’m envious,” he said. “Aren’t you?”
“Of him? Or her?”
“Of both of them. Of their lack of shame. I can’t decide if it’s more fun because they know we’re watching or if it’s just more enjoyable when it isn’t secret?”
“Sex isn’t exactly a secret.”
“Of course it is. We do it in the dark, quietly, behind closed doors.”
Lindy’s hand had left his knee and was fiddling with the buttons on his shirt. This seemed like a completely inappropriate thing to do but the less she thought about it the more okay it seemed.
“I see your point,” she said. “I’ve recently come to the conclusion that maybe one of the reasons I’m single right now has to do with what was going on with us, in the dark behind closed doors.”
“Is that so? Here.” He started unbuttoning his shirt for her. There was no undershirt. His bare chest looked sculpted.
“Thanks,” she said. “You really work out, huh?”
“Only for the last few years, but yeah. I got up one day, looked at the beer gut I was starting on, and decided not nearly enough gay men were hitting on me at parties. So what happened with you and your ex behind that closed door?”
“I don’t know. We never talked about it.”
Mr. Mocha’s collar had a chain dangling from it. She started fiddling with that, and wondered if he knew what it was supposed to signify, then wondered why she was so unreasonably turned on by having it in her fingers.
“The more I think about it though,” she continued, “the more I wonder if we just wanted different things. Not sexually. Well, yes, sexually, but not just sexually. Hey, can you take off your shirt?”
She gave the chain a little jerk when she asked. He probably didn’t notice.
“Sure,” he said. He slipped out of the shirt to reveal muscular, broad shoulders, with a tattoo on the left one. She sort of wanted to be held by those arms, and hoped he felt the same.
“Is that Tweety Bird?”
“It is. There’s a long story behind that. I’ll tell you sometime. So go on. Unless you want me to take off something else first.”
“Go on?”
“Your ex. We were talking about him.”
“Yes right.” Lindy really didn’t want to think about Michael any more but that was where they were. “I think we drifted apart, and there wasn’t enough going on in the bedroom to keep that from happening.”
“You weren’t having sex?”
“We were, but we weren’t.”
The couple on the other couch had managed to get out of all their clothes in the minute since she’d last checked, distracted as she was by Mr. Mocha’s upper torso and Tweety tattoo. The girl was a lithe, pale white little thing with small breasts and a tiny waist. Lindy could see her ribcage when she leaned back to
“That’s an interesting theory, Ms. Burgundy. Although it seems to me the hyper-sexualized environment you’re speaking of is largely the creation of the club-goers and not the club. Notwithstanding the bowls of condoms and lubricant.”
“Those are the people who aren’t here for the first time.”
“Or, when the ego and self is taken away—or hidden behind a mask—this is how we behave, as human beings.”
“That seems one assumption too many,” she said.
“All right. But what does naturally follow from this chain of reasoning is that you and I are the right kind of people, only we haven’t figured this out about ourselves yet.”
The two behind them had graduated from heavy petting to something much more serious. Her blouse was open and she was no longer on his lap; he had her on her back on the couch, her legs open and around him. He was undoing his pants.
Mr. Mocha noted Lindy’s wandering gaze.
“I’m envious,” he said. “Aren’t you?”
“Of him? Or her?”
“Of both of them. Of their lack of shame. I can’t decide if it’s more fun because they know we’re watching or if it’s just more enjoyable when it isn’t secret?”
“Sex isn’t exactly a secret.”
“Of course it is. We do it in the dark, quietly, behind closed doors.”
Lindy’s hand had left his knee and was fiddling with the buttons on his shirt. This seemed like a completely inappropriate thing to do but the less she thought about it the more okay it seemed.
“I see your point,” she said. “I’ve recently come to the conclusion that maybe one of the reasons I’m single right now has to do with what was going on with us, in the dark behind closed doors.”
“Is that so? Here.” He started unbuttoning his shirt for her. There was no undershirt. His bare chest looked sculpted.
“Thanks,” she said. “You really work out, huh?”
“Only for the last few years, but yeah. I got up one day, looked at the beer gut I was starting on, and decided not nearly enough gay men were hitting on me at parties. So what happened with you and your ex behind that closed door?”
“I don’t know. We never talked about it.”
Mr. Mocha’s collar had a chain dangling from it. She started fiddling with that, and wondered if he knew what it was supposed to signify, then wondered why she was so unreasonably turned on by having it in her fingers.
“The more I think about it though,” she continued, “the more I wonder if we just wanted different things. Not sexually. Well, yes, sexually, but not just sexually. Hey, can you take off your shirt?”
She gave the chain a little jerk when she asked. He probably didn’t notice.
“Sure,” he said. He slipped out of the shirt to reveal muscular, broad shoulders, with a tattoo on the left one. She sort of wanted to be held by those arms, and hoped he felt the same.
“Is that Tweety Bird?”
“It is. There’s a long story behind that. I’ll tell you sometime. So go on. Unless you want me to take off something else first.”
“Go on?”
“Your ex. We were talking about him.”
“Yes right.” Lindy really didn’t want to think about Michael any more but that was where they were. “I think we drifted apart, and there wasn’t enough going on in the bedroom to keep that from happening.”
“You weren’t having sex?”
“We were, but we weren’t.”
The couple on the other couch had managed to get out of all their clothes in the minute since she’d last checked, distracted as she was by Mr. Mocha’s upper torso and Tweety tattoo. The girl was a lithe, pale white little thing with small breasts and a tiny waist. Lindy could see her ribcage when she leaned back to
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