Slut Retires

Short Stories

Dear Friends,

I’m sharing a short story from the collection Dirty Stories.

Best,

Sam

SLUT RETIRES

They met on a date; at a bar. He was five minutes late, she had already ordered a round. The look he thought he saw on her was glazed, disapproving. He’d been on a string of bad dates just before this, and knew how the script would play out, the way the conversation would kind of swim around to the different, translucent corners of a person’s life — a bit on their childhood, a bit on their job, on their hobbies, a disproportionate amount on trips they’d been on, their zodiacs, maybe if the conversation was really going well they’d get to parents and siblings. And the hope — always — that the conversation wouldn’t be about either one of them, that by some alchemy it wouldn’t be back story, wouldn’t be these monologues stretching back to what had you been like in high school. It would be banter, flirtation, maybe a bit on what the apps had been like for the other person.

And with Ellie that’s all the conversation really was, same sort of thing. She was an odd person, clearly. Laughed in this way like it had been programmed into her. Wore combat boots and a short skirt. They went a little more deeply than they might have expected to — talked about relationships, breakups, how being single was going for them. The really critical difference, though, was that they were both drunks. They each had three drinks, plates of oysters to go with them. When there was a frisson in the conversation, and they both felt it and kissed, they were equally surprised at how well it turned out. “Huh,” she said, when they finally came up for air.

She lived in a sort of commune studio in deep Brooklyn — some sort of retrofitted basement, he wasn’t exactly sure what it was. She had a room in the back that was full of her drumsets, her art installations, her boxes of records. There was a bed in the corner next to the window grate. “You’re like the last artist,” he told her, surprised himself at how impressed he was with it. She was already in her 40s, older than him. The feeling was that there were whole stages of life that would just be skipped over. She made installations, video, experimental music. “Nobody gets what I’m trying to say,” she’d told him, in her programmed laugh, over drinks.

There was a lot he could learn from sex with her. There was nothing very coquettish about how she went about things. She had a drawer by the bed full of condom packages, went diving through it to find one that wasn’t empty. Seemed to be waiting on him to execute different moves, and, when he did so, encouraged him like he’d finally gotten a quiz question. “Yeah, pull on my fucking hair,” she’d say.

She was really hard to place, hard to understand. Petite, like a sorority girl. Clothes like a goth provocateur. A room like she was Laurie Anderson. In the middle of the night, wrapped up together – they were falling asleep and waking in sync – he said, “When I first walked in I thought you weren’t feeling it, thought I was like disappointing you or something.”

“No,” she said. Like a coin dropped in the slot, a laugh coming out. “If you looked like your photos, I was down,” she said.

***

Over drinks he had told her more than he had meant to about his crazy-making on-again off-again relationship. Even told her about the real issue there, the lack of compatibility. Everything else but not that, he had said. Ironically enough, that had been the cue for them to fall silent — the ruminations on this topic, the mind wandering – just before he had felt the click, turned to his side and found her waiting for him.

And, in her worldly way, her understanding for the mess and cynicism in human relationships, she had gotten right away that he wasn’t over his ex, that it was complicated, that there were still all kinds of feelings there – with everybody else he had gone out with, the idea had been that he would have had to, like, spotless mind himself before he was allowed to download Tinder.

He still met up with Sylvia, they still had coffees, long, recriminatory walks. They still talked about the flaws in each other, bits of thoughtlessness, selfishness, as if these were just minor defects to be spruced up as they were developing their happy home; as if he wasn’t frenetically dating, as if she weren’t in love with someone else. The way they were trying to deal with this difficult patch, this strange new reality, was to be hyper-tolerant, hyper-sophisticated. “How’s sex?” she would ask him and he would actually answer, pretty much honestly, and she would press for details.

The problem in talking to her about this kind of thing was that she judged – even when she didn’t say anything, she did judge. And if Luke had been enjoying himself, his single ways, really did look forward to the evenings with Ellie in deep Brooklyn, the way she’d bike to the bar they agreed on, the way she’d ditch her bike when they ordered a cab together, how synced they were in their sleep, it sounded a bit less than impressive in the way it was laid out to Sylvia, 40s, experimental artist, no, no particular connection.

Sylvia was from money and he interpreted that as the fundamental problem between them. Never articulated as such. But everybody around her, father, uncles, brothers, were earners. She was in art and so to be forgiven a bit if she ended up with someone a bit more bohemian, but the kind of bohemian everybody had in mind was gallery openings, art parties, a cozy investment with a bit of extra cash. Nobody quite seemed to be ready for the cases of camera gear, the paying gigs that seemed always to be in podunk America or darkest Africa, the all-night shoots that were what he did for fun, frittering away hard-earned money for experimental shorts.

And the man she was in love with just so happened to be an artist with a very good artistic kind of life. He had openings, and he gave talks about them, and every time this was mentioned to Luke — or, even worse, if he happened to see an article about it — it was like a murder to the psyche, metal in his mouth, a hot ringing in his ears.

But he was bad, that was the truth about him, his work, as much as Luke could tell anything about painting, was the work of a jerk; and, at some stage in the excruciating coffees and long walks, Sylvia had had some turning point in the conversation where she could start complaining about her new love. And Luke listened with a mix of humiliation and open fascination — he really couldn’t tell if this was some new fresh hell, being spoken to like a sister, or if what they were doing really was ultra-modern, some super-cool way of handling breakups.

And, in the end, as much as you can have a verdict about these things, that’s what it seemed to be. He heard, in succession, about the bad behavior of her new love, the way he cut people dead at parties, the way he turned on old friends, the way he disappeared for days from the text thread with Sylvia, and then, eventually — Luke and Sylvia were friends by now, the walks less recriminatory, more just ambling, catching-up with the person that understood them better than anyone else in the world — the way he told her about all the other affairs he was having, the way he was surprised at her surprise. “Where I’ve gotten to in my career,” he’d actually told Sylvia, “I thought you would have taken that for granted.”

And, when Luke was told this — they were somewhere around the North Meadow, they had been broken up for years by now, this reveal was in the context of a discussion about open relationships, how Sylvia felt about that — he actually stopped as he was walking, faced Sylvia. “Listen to me,” he said. “I know we’re broken up, I know I’m not supposed to have opinions about these things, but you’re a good person, in spite of everything you are, and that guy, I swear to you, is a piece of shit.”

She laughed at that. They were under an elm tree and she reached for a leaf, sniffed at it when she pulled it down. She seemed to be as surprised by the way he’d halted in his tracks and was staring at her as by anything he’d said. “You’re absolutely right, you’re not supposed to have opinions about these things,” she’d said as coquettishly as the situation would allow. But as they were leaving each other — after their walk, after their warm-up coffee, she hugged him with unusual ferocity. “Thank you,” she said. “It was so good to see you.”

The feeling Luke had was that had passed some kind of test. And there was another one, a more grueling one, that he was in the process of passing as well. He had started out as a camera operator, which meant gear, which meant tech specs and flights at 6 in the morning, banging cases down the steps of his and Sylvia’s walk-up, meant getting screamed at by directors who were more diva-ish and unhinged the higher-up they were in the food chain. But it also meant time between shoots – time that was, basically, aggravating, just waiting for the phone to ring — but he had gear and he knew actors and, one time, on a shoot, when his most diva-ish director had been complaining about her director of photography, she said in Luke’s earshot, “The thing about them is that they’re not creative, they’re around movies all their lives, they have everything they need, and they just never, ever do it,” and Luke, in the down-time, began making short films, in his apartment, in the parks near where he and Sylvia lived. They had, no question, been on the embarrassing side back when he and Sylvia were together, but, with time, they got incrementally better. He shot, learned to edit, learned to write well enough. He had found his way to actors who didn’t mind staying up for weeks at a time, shooting and shooting. And these elves would appear from the undergrad film programs to set up the c-stands, adjust the lighting, etc, etc. It was a wild thing to do to one’s apartment, but his landlord had, of course, been a director of experimental as well as blue movies back in the day, took it in stride when he saw the elves trying to maneuver the sets of gear up and down the stairs. And it was special, a really special thing. “It’s like there’s a certain point when you get to a place of pure creation,” the soundman said after a really successful take. And Luke had learned, too, the art of the film festival circuit — first these places, definitely the embarrassing side, that were basically projectors in somebody’s apartment, and then places that asked you for gazillions of forms mostly about the diversity of the cast, and then places that seemed above all interested in previous work, seemed to be very taken with the number of places Luke had already had films accepted to — and then, from there, it was amazingly easy to sell work, to have it distributed, for people to start messaging him with new projects that they wanted him to direct.

By this time he was living in Manhattan again, he and Sylvia were back together. Everything about their lives suggested that this was just how it was, how it had always been, the way the doorman clocked their presence every time they passed by — yes, another one back in their place; the way she brought him coffee in bed, the tableau of the breakfast tray. “Nice of you to at least get up to drink it,” she said to him. Yes, he sometimes managed to think to himself as he was sliding to the edge of the bed to have his first sip, as he was drifting off at night — this is what happiness is, this is everything I could have ever wanted, and I have it, I really have it.

And part of that happiness, that good life, almost needless to say, was other women, affairs. There wasn’t much thought that went into it and not a lot of remorse either. He was cool, considered an interesting director, women came his way, it seemed all to be of a piece; everybody knew he was with someone, no one seemed to expect much of him. Ellie was one of the women he saw. They had never really stopped seeing one another. It was like once every three weeks, once a month; he texted her if he had a night or two clear in a week; he particularly liked going to her place straight from the airport if he was coming back from a shoot and for some reason didn’t have gear with him – the taxi out of deep Queens, the basement in Brooklyn, the way he’d watch the driver sail off, the way that no one else would know where he was, Ellie a bit shyly standing in the doorwell, the heavy door open for him.

Sometimes she didn’t reply for days or weeks at a time and the thought would be, a dull ache flipping through his messages, the feeling of having forgotten something, that that was it, the last time he saw her would be the last time ever, the last kiss as she was ushering him towards the door; the check-around to see if he’d forgotten anything important; the glance at her expression to try to tell if it were forever or just till he next texted. But always, even after weeks of this, she’d text back, send him the emoticon of a pair of boots, which was her, like, signature, send him the emoticon of a pair of champagne glasses if they were going to have a drink first — and he might send her the emoji of a plane if he was taking a flight in that night.

She really was about as odd a person as he’d ever met. At a stage when they were getting more intimate, more comfortable, she’d sent him links to some of the videos she posted.

As far as he could make out, it was the story of several pieces of technology and the different outfits that they wore, all set to some very drone-y electronic music. There was a penny slot machine wearing sunglasses. There was a SanDisk hard drive with headphones on. There was a CD case surrounded by dappled lights. He was on a shoot when he opened the links — this was during his DP days. There were a bunch of camera operators, grips, PAs all running around, setting up the shot in the way that he was telling them to do. It took him a long time to think of a reply to her. When he did it was weeks later. He wrote, “I just LOVE your work. I think it’s really stunning. It’s like the era we all live in — the loneliness of all of our gadgets — and you just CAPTURED it. I’m so haunted by this.” And it was true what he texted, actually it was true and he meant it, but the delay spoke for itself, she didn’t reply for weeks in turn, and then sent him a hearted thank you, a champagne glasses emoji, and a question mark.

It was a funny thing to be with somebody for years — which is what, Luke thought bemusedly at some point, they essentially were — and to know nothing about them at all. They had their drinks, sometimes they chatted, she talked about the gallery world, about the shows she put on, told him some family things, let him know about a sister of hers who’d been diagnosed with cancer, who eventually died, but there were vast gaps that neither of them made any attempt to fill. He paid up for their check. She liked exploring places and often they were far from her, so she would take her bike and he would take a cab and then be sitting on her stoop like a teenager when she pulled up the bike and locked it. And sex, if it was always the same, was also consistently really good. There was something about her body — he had no idea what — that seemed to click for him; and in the somewhat tedious intervals when they were just locked into each other, in their rhythm, his mind drifting, he found himself mesmerized by her tattoos, the vines she had crawling around her upper arms, the butterflies and snakes, a whole garden really, that she had on her legs. There were agreed-upon events — how at some stage he would rip off the condom and she would take him in her mouth, and that was startling, always, for both of them, how he’d clutch at the bedding, roll onto his side afterwards — it was difficult for him to look at her as she was swallowing; and then the way their bodies seemed always in sync, him waking from tumultuous dreams at about 3 in the morning and her there, eyes open, how sort of non-plussed she looked when he leaned over, started to kiss her; and then the hurried mornings, all the more so when he was back with Sylvia, the feeling of the spell of it inexorably breaking, how, after he’d finished and she’d have to rouse him, she’d pull her bathrobe around herself, say, "Ok ok, I’ll walk you to the door.”

There was one variable, which shifted a bit over time. There had been a sort of stillness about her from the beginning, which he had sensed, and then when he had reached out and grabbed her hair she had reacted spasmodically. “Yes, yes, that’s it,” she would say, “that’s it, that’s what I want.” And he had proceeded, over time, to a bit of slapping, to a bit of scratching and choking, and after a couple of years that they’d been seeing each other she reached into the inexhaustible drawer by her bed and pulled out a riding crop. “You know, if you can find a way to work this in,” she said. And it lay there, on the bedspread, as they went through their usual maneuvers, Luke guiding the way, sort of pivoting around it. “Riding crop got your tongue,” she said when he was sprawled out, his usual pose, on his side, his eyes shut tight.

“It’s not — I don’t know,” he said. “I just didn’t find the opportunity.”

She was wide awake and alert even if he was already starting to drift off. She shrugged, replaced it back in the drawer. “Different strokes, different folks,” she said.

It was the first time, in the entire time that they’d been together, that she’d alluded to other lovers. That wasn’t something he was necessarily shy about; he was a filmmaker, after all, he was interested in drama and erotics; there was nothing threatening to him in the thought that, on nights when he wasn’t there, strange Ellie, the slot-machine chronicler, would go diving into the same drawer, produce the same toys and oils for some mysterious array of men.

“I’m sorry,” he told her. “I just don’t think it’s me — it’s not anything I’ve ever done.”

She was lying back down next to him, propped on an elbow. She had her hand on his shoulder, she was consoling his refractory state. “Well, we don’t all get to have your wonderful career,” she said. “Some of us have to get our kicks in other ways.”

He was spent; he had his eyes shut; he had no idea what to make of that.

“I don’t know,” he told her, “I know it’s a whole other world — pain — I know that’s what does it for a lot of people. I guess I’m just too chickenshit or something.”

“That’s one way to look at it,” she said and let herself down completely, her lips nuzzling into his neck.

***

Inevitably, his cheating caught up with him. Sylvia had gotten suspicious about how he was with an old friend of hers. That was nothing — the old friend being flirty — but that had led her to dig through his phone, with predictable results. The apartment transformed itself. Surfaces took on very different uses. Sylvia leaning against the bedroom wall, as if it were an aerobics exercise, Sylvia sinking to the corner of the floor. Luke on the very edge of the bed, hunched over. Luke dropping to her level, the conversation Indian-style, both of them running their fingertips over the slats of their mahogany floors as if they were kids playing in sand.

He said and he did all the right things. As she watched, he messaged the different girlfriends he had that he couldn’t see them anymore, deleted the threads, blocked the numbers. He explained, sincerely, that he just had never expected to be as successful as he was; the sex available to him had caught him off-guard; it would be no problem to forget all of that, to revert back to his old, true self. He just sort of hadn’t been vigilant about this, he would be much better from now on. Hadn’t realized — although he left out this part of it when they were talking — that this cheating stuff would affect her so much. She’d always been so loose about sexuality, always talked so freely. But, whatever. She was almost 40 now, moving into a different way of thinking.

As luck would have it, he and Ellie hadn’t texted in weeks at the time when Sylvia did her phone-search. The boots, the champagne glasses, the flight times, the lonely slot machine videos went undiscovered. He tried to be good, tried to keep to the new regimen, but when Sylvia went on a family trip to Vail, he messaged her. “Haven’t heard from you in a bit,” she messaged back. “Yeah. This week. Tonight. Whenever. [Boots emoji].”

He found her, holding the doorjamb for him, with a fresh shock of blond hair. It had been the same basement ever since he knew her, same layout to the room. She must be close to 50 now. There had never been any talk about kids. She’d been trying to get into film editing at some point, they’d chatted a bit about it, and he’d sat there as if he didn’t know a thing about it. But whatever. There was no way anybody he’d worked with would end up hiring her.

“Thought we were done or something,” she said as she led him through the kitchen, past the roommates — the fresh crop of DJs; conceptual artists.

He couldn’t think of a lie quickly enough so he told her what had happened; the phone, the cessation of his love life.

“A slut retires,” she said. She was propped on her pillows, she looked like an imperial consort or something — it was a pose she sometimes liked to adopt, arms crossed, verdicts lofted down towards the foot of the bed.

“Well, on probation, in any case,” he said.

Her hard laugh. “That’s what you’re calling this?”

He looked around. The grate of the basement window. The drum set he’d never seen her play. The slot-machine with the sunglasses on. “I think it’s just the way relationships are,” he said. “At some point they annihilate sex.”

“I don’t know if it’s just relationships,” she told him. She was in a very domestic sort of mood, apparently, pushed her drawers shut, slid her change off the bureau, consolidated it in a bowl. “Like, I can’t be bothered anymore with that shit,” she told him. “All these old men now. In the end, it just takes time from the art I want to make.”

He was surprised; something as abrupt as that just wouldn’t have occurred to him. “You’re not — ”

“Retired,” she said. “Two sluts. Both retired. One gets little Mrs Princess. One gets what she really wants to do.”

She seemed to be in a good mood; she had this look of knowing something he didn’t, of having figured out something he hadn’t. Probably, he figured, they would have sex a little later — that was the whole point, the only thing that brought them together. But, for now, he just pivoted to the pillow side of the bed, lay down next to her and she made room, after a bit curled herself into him. Nothing to do with each other, he thought, as he wrapped her head tight onto his chest, as his fingertips flitted through her hair and pressed into her scalp. Nothing in common, really. Barely knew her better than he had at the beginning. The way their bodies melded into one another. The years they had spent together.