31 Ejaculations: No. 5

I don't know what you call what I am.

By Eric Bogosian

Jun 7, 2000 | I don't know what you call what I am; I think some people have names for it. All I know is I am who I am. Like last weekend. I walk into the party, smile at someone I kind of know and then scan the women there. I can walk into a party anywhere and find people like me in minutes. We know who we are. People who don't know anything about us think that the women with the low-cut halters and the red lipstick are part of our clan, but far from it. No. People like me stay hidden. But we know each other. I just let my eyes meet the eyes out there and in minutes I know. I "see" her and she "sees" me.

This one last weekend is in a way typical. Petite. Brunet. Really cute with big eyes. Nice breasts, very round. Hiding in a corner reading magazines. I know women who are one of us have to be very careful. They don't want to mix with amateurs; they only want me and my ilk. They don't want stories being told about them around the water cooler on Monday. Nah-uh. They just want to do the deed. And so we find each other. I found her. She was flipping through a copy of the Economist, nibbling on a crab cake.

I said, "Those crab cakes are amazing, aren't they?" And she knew. She looked up, said nothing, just smiled. The next step is usually "Where?" And we're out the door, usually separately. But we find each other. We do. In a stairwell, on a rooftop, in a car. And that's all we want.

The crab cake girl and I actually went back to her place. Her teeth chattered when she came. I guess I'm supposed to be ashamed about the way I live. But like this girl last weekend said, "Dance or get off the floor. Life is too short."

Read on to No. 6

• View blog reactions