Having spent my university years smoking weed and playing billiards in dimly lit pool halls with old men, I was still shy around girls. But now that I was in New York, my accent was no longer nasal and silly; it was imported and sexy and, for the first time, females were telling me I sounded smart. Could it be that simply being English would get me laid? Soon enough, I was ready to put this theory to the test. I met a Japanese girl from Rio at a pool hall and she brought me to her local bar, telling me to vanquish the burly, tattooed guy at the pool table so we could play a game. I did as I was told and, after the balls had settled, she whispered in my ear, “If you run this rack, I’ll sleep with you tonight.” Seven shots later, I walked back to my pint with a goofy smile plastered across my face.That night, however, nerves got the best of me—I couldn’t get hard. I chalked it up to performance anxiety.
Months later, I met an actress who told me she’d always wanted to have sex on a pool table, confirming my belief that two of my favorite hobbies could, in fact, be combined.
I sheepishly showed her the key to the hall I managed, she smiled, and we made our way over there—my balls, corner pocket! But despite the excitement, this seemed too vulgar. She lay there on her back, she was beautiful under the hanging light, or would have been if her legs hadn’t been so wide apart. We didn’t even kiss. Again, I had trouble staying up, but I remembered the advice of my friend Mary, who swore girls would never notice if I did what they had been doing for eons: Faked it. I grunted and jerked through a phony orgasm, threw away the condom, and wondered what the hell was wrong with me. I needed to lose these droopy inhibitions. I needed to perk up. Soon I found myself drunk and homesick in a sports bar. It was 1 a.m. on Christmas Day when I caught a beautiful and promising sight. She wore jeans and a Tshirt, had large, teary eyes and was sitting with her elbows on her knees, nursing a drink. Perfect. Plucking up a beer-fueled reserve of courage, I asked her what was wrong.With a Brazilian accent, she told me her brother had called her a whore.
Three nights later, lying next to each other in bed, the moonlight accentuating her gorgeous curves, she told me she was a Broadway dancer. She didn’t work in a chorus line though, she worked at Flashdancers.
I was shocked. She seemed well mannered and elegant, charming—timid even! Suddenly I saw that sexuality and mentality didn’t have to be in harmony.
She was a sexual object during the day, but at night she was nothing more than a sweetheart. That night we fucked, with those manufactured breasts bouncing preposterously between us, and my desire and dick stayed firm throughout. Later, the email I sent my brother in London was to the point: “Hey Will, I’m dating an illegal immigrant Brazilian stripper with implants! Nick.” Within a month I went to see her perform. The girls inside were lean and colorless, their movements robotic, and I couldn’t help scoffing at all the transparent 6-inch stilettos glinting in the black light.
Did men really find those sexy? Strangely, seeing my girlfriend in the lap of a buoyant customer didn’t faze me. In fact, I was quite impressed with her technique—throwing her head back to laugh at his jokes to give him a close-up of her chest—and cheered a little inside when he slipped her a $20 bill. I knew I should have felt jealous, but it all seemed so absurd.
When we left, I was full of questions. She told me about the coke and the booze, guys cumming on her or offering bribes to take her home. I told her she was the only girl in there who’d excited me, which was true, but she was still sad when I asked if she’d wear one of her dresses that night. She didn’t want to bring her work home. She revealed that some girls in Brazil would avoid going against the Catholic Church’s sex-before-marriage laws by having anal sex. She asked me if I wanted to try, but again it was too dirty; I couldn’t even climb on top, let alone fake another orgasm.
Since coming to New York I’ve had many things offered to me, things that one day I’ll tell my cringing grandsons about. Somewhere in my subconscious there is a small list of things to do that I’m slowly crossing off. Brazilian stripper with fake breasts? Check. Sex that isn’t self-conscious? Sure. I can even get all the way through a first night with a girl without a hitch. But I still cringe at the thought of a one-night stand.
New York might be helping me shed my stuffy British upbringing, but I’m still not ready for the kind of modern dating popularized by Sex and the City. As Bette Midler once said; “When it’s 3 o’clock in New York, it’s still 1938 in London.” Deep inside, I think I’m proud of that.
Nick Broad is a semi-professional pool player and online editor for 12th Street literary journal.Visit him at 12thstreetonline.wordpress.com
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