The address given was in a part of Brooklyn he’d never been to before. The only nonresidential building was a laundromat a few doors down. Its lights had been left on for the night, illuminating its checkered vinyl floor and rows of silver washing machines.
He’d made himself a couple of vodka sodas before he left, too strong, he realized now as he shook his head. It felt like a tank of water being sloshed from side to side. He’d decided not to eat that day, which might have been a mistake. Stepping into the faint halo of light cast by the laundromat’s window, he pulled out the vial from his jacket pocket and inspected it. It was already half empty. He should have brought two with him, he thought with irritation, while tapping two small bumps onto the back of his hand. It was his least favorite way of doing coke, messy and inefficient, but he wanted to be quick. He felt better almost instantly, that sharp, bitter clarity shifting his mind into focus again, giving him purpose.
He hadn’t told anyone he was coming here. By the time Cleo called him back, he was already in the cab, and he didn’t want to be talked out of it. He suspected that even girls like her, the socially liberal, sexually adventurous types, were deep down a tiny bit disgusted by what men did together. He couldn’t imagine having the kind of frank discussions with her that other girlfriends had with each other over brunch, giggling about penis size and elusive orgasms. And then I let him piss in my mouth while his power bottom boyfriend watched! Another round of mimosas!
He’d seen it once, the way Cleo recoiled when he’d told her about the bathhouses he’d gone to before he met Johnny. They were in the back of a cab hurtling from one party to another; he’d taken so much ketamine he could barely lift his head—like a baby, like a baby, he’d kept saying. As he babbled on to her about what he’d asked those men to do to him, what he’d done to them, he saw, as if from a great distance, Cleo turn her face slowly, slowly toward the window, leaving him just a sliver of her profile, queenly and remote, focusing her eyes on the wet glow of the traffic lights beyond, and a shame—he could almost taste it now, along with the drip of the coke—a terrible bitter shame had filled him. Enough now, enough.
He rang the doorbell and was buzzed into a dark entrance hall where a bald man wearing a leather loincloth and spiked dog collar sat on a stool, guarding a second door.
“Name?” he asked and scanned his list to confirm. “Proof of negative?”
Quentin removed a piece of paper. He had been tested earlier that week in preparation and was amazed by how relieved he’d felt to get the negative result. He used condoms, but there had been a couple of times with Johnny that they’d forgone them. There was nothing like taking an HIV test to immediately convince yourself that you had it. The bald man looked it over and nodded.
“Check all clothing and belongings before entering. There are no cell phones inside.”
Quentin laughed, but the man looked back at him blankly, waiting.
“Are you serious? Take my clothes off here?”
Quentin thought about turning around, but it seemed like such a waste, after the hours of expectation, plus the cab ride and drug money, not to at least see what was inside. He removed his shirt, then knelt to unbuckle his gladiator sandals. With some difficulty he managed to shed his leather shorts. He folded it all as neatly as he could and passed it to the doorman.
“These are a collector’s piece,” Quentin said. “They’re worth more than you.”
“Underwear too,” said the bald man.
Quentin pinched the bridge of his nose, took a deep breath, and pulled down his underwear. In return the man handed him a spiral plastic bracelet with a round number tag on it, not unlike the kind given at public swimming pools.
“What’s next?” Quentin asked. “A full cavity search?”
“You can get that inside,” he said. “Just don’t let anyone take the bracelet.”
“This fabulous thing?” said Quentin. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
The man shifted in his seat to indicate Quentin should pass. He opened the door and entered a long, narrow corridor leading to another door, behind which he could hear the insistent, bludgeoning beat of techno music and the dark ripple of men’s voices. He would have loved another bump, a little jolt to get him through the door, but of course the drugs were with his clothes. Naked but for his yellow bracelet, Quentin felt exposed in a way that was deeply unerotic. In fact, he thought, the whole experience thus far had been about as sexy as a prison check-in.