Impact 05: Pretty/Dirty

The event is for a MoMA "young collectors" group. And there are about a dozen of us, all in our mid-twenties to early thirties. There are only three guys. Claire seems to know most everyone and is careful to introduce me to everyone she speaks to.

"Sarah is a journalist and designer. She does infovis at the New York Times," she proudly tells one person after another. "Her work is amazing, unbelievably beautiful."

I try not to blush and enjoy the attention as best I can. The group is attractive, confident, and well dressed. Claire and I are a little overdressed, but only a little, and no one seems to care.

The artist is an older woman with a cap of nicely styled dark burgundy hair and clunky costume jewelry named Marilyn Minter.

She talks about growing up poor in Florida, her early work, starting with her student work, photos of her mother's drug addiction. The whole time showing slides as her work progressed into the 80s, of an ad she ran late night on network television. She tells us about being "expelled" from the art world by feminists for painting hardcore pornography.

"Maria Tucker told me I was too bad for the New Museum's 'Bad Girl' show," she laughs, gesturing over her shoulder at a slide of one of her older paintings. It shows three women in red lipstick sucking a long thick cock. "It was devastating!"

She talks about teaching, discusses her commercial work as a fashion photographer, how she carves out time during shoots for her fashion models to pose for her artworks. She talks about photoshop and how she likes freckles and other imperfections that fashion photography works hard to erase.

She is smart and funny and bawdy. I love her.

"Porn, like fashion, has always been a major engine of the culture," she explains. "It's despised by intellectuals because it's considered shallow, but it's so much more important than anything academia could turn up."

Afterwards the group walks down to the end of the alley for brunch. The alley dead ends into the artfully weathered front of a ramshackled restaurant - I'd assumed it was abandoned - it's unlike anything I've ever seen in NYC. More like something stripped from a scene of Amélie. Inside is surprisingly dark and has truly low ceilings with wood-paneled walls that are covered in taxidermied animal heads.

"This place is crazy!" I tell Claire as we are led upstairs to a private dining room.

"You've never been?!" she asks in surprise. "Ah bon, this will be a treat!"

Because of the decor I'm afraid there aren't going to be any options for me, but am pleasantly surprised to find many. I indulge myself and order the waffles. Claire orders the Norwegian Benedict.

"You and your Norwegians," I tease, making her laugh.

I listen to Claire talking with the others about Minter's work. She is contrasting the sexuality of the painting with a big show of Picasso's late work that is up in Chelsea right now. How Freudian and doctrinaire and dated Picasso's libido seems in comparison to Minter's.

"Marilyn's sexuality couldn't feel more of the moment, more immediate," she tells the group. "Her paintings are more akin to browser history than the 'subconscious.'"

We are holding hands. We have been holding hands or linking arms since we left her apartment. She hasn't let go of me for more than a few seconds the whole morning. I am so proud of her, so proud to be at her side.

"Have you seen the Picasso show?" the tall thin man sitting next to me asks. His name is Brent, he has model-good looks and a mild unassuming manner. His family owns a gallery in midtown. I tell him I haven't seen the show.

"You really should," he tells me. "Claire's right, it's amazing and awful and strange. The past is truly another country."

"I'll ask Claire to take me," I tell him, afraid he's about to ask me out.

"Do!" he agrees. "The only downside is how popular it is. Busloads of tourists empty into the gallery like it was King Tut or something."

After lunch Claire wants to take me to the New Museum. There's a big group show and she walks me through telling me about the art and the artists. The work isn't as exciting as Minter's, and I'm relieved that Claire seems happy just to walk through the galleries, telling me interesting tidbits, but spending very little time with any one piece. We are back out on the Bowery in a half hour.

The day is cool but the sky is clear and the sun is warm.

"Did you like it?" Claire asks.

"Enough? Not like Marilyn though," I admit with a shrug. "I liked what you said about her and Picasso. It made me think of Patti Smith and Hendrix."

"How so?" she asks, looking at me seriously.

"Just that her version of Hey Joe is so rich and visceral, so political? It reduced his to nothing but male bravado."

Claire is holding my hands in hers, studying me - appraising me. She seems to come to a judgement, smiling and pushing out her jaw.

"See this? My Young Sarah is very smart about art," she tells me. A look of real admiration on her face.

I feel myself blushing, and Claire laughs, kissing me wetly on each burning cheek.

"I think we should keep drinking," she tells me with a wicked grin.

"I'm expected in Brooklyn for dinner," I plead, and her face falls, making me feel awful. I had told her about the dinner the night before and again this morning, inviting her to come, but I can tell she'd forgotten. "Why won't you come?" I ask again.

"No," she protests. "I don't want to impose..."

"I told you it's no imposition," I insist. "I want you to come. It's a dinner party... but not like Paula's. I mean, there will be lots of people there, but super informal."

She protests, but I wave her down and call Kwasi.

"Can I still bring a plus one?" I ask.

"Does Sarah have a date?!" he asks mischievously.

"My date is Claire... the wine bar collision," I tell him, which makes Claire laugh.

"AND coffee shop catastrophe!" she chimes in loud enough to make Kwasi laugh.

"AND coffee shop catastrophe," I concede, smiling at her, "AND she wants to know what kind of wine we should bring."

"Oh nice, the curator!" he says, loudly enough for Claire to hear. She pulls a face and laughs. I've told Darci and Kwasi all about Claire, if not not ALL about us, and he tells me that they are excited to meet her and asks us to bring a bottle of red.

Claire chooses four.

"It's too much!" I tell her, seeing the total. She hands the clerk her card and smiling, leans over to kiss me on the cheek.

"Better too much than too little," she reminds me.

It's a clear Indian summer afternoon and lots of people are out enjoying the weather. We still have a couple hours before we need to be in Brooklyn, so Claire takes me to a Moroccan cafe on a relatively quiet street across from the walled gardens of Old St. Pat's in Nolita.

Claire exchanges pleasantries in French with a waitress who introduces herself as Blanche. Blanche gets us settled in at an outdoor table with a bottle of wine.

"My Young Sarah," Claire says, touching my glass with hers and toasting me.

The sun is warm.

For a time we talk of little things and nothing at all. Not able to help myself, I ask why she left London. We have previously glossed over her move, never discussing it directly.

"I was having an affair with a married man," she tells me bluntly. "We worked together."

I've never seen Claire look ashamed before, but realize that's what I'm seeing. She looks very sad to tell me this - maybe a little angry.

"His name was Bernard. He was much older, but very handsome and fit," she explains. "He was my boss. I made a fool of myself. I thought he was leaving his family for me, but I found out there were others, that I wasn't the only one."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to... I'd just wondered."

"It was truly terrible," Claire tells me. "We weren't engaged like you and Danny, but I thought... Ach! When I found out about the others it was so humiliating."

"What about his wife?"

"She knew everything. He was never leaving her. I was stupid. It seemed that everyone at Sotheby's knew, but me..." she takes an angry swipe at the air with her hand. "I didn't want to stay in London. I was done at Sotheby's anyway and my stepfather introduced me to Paula... Et voilà, here I am."

"Oh," was all I could muster.

"When I got here I didn't want to date anyone, but I got so lonely. It's why... the apps. I didn't want to date anyone I met through work and lose everything again. I'm not losing New York."

I thought of Claire's loneliness, and felt a shock of fear.

I think of how we laughed together over the boy with the erection as big as a Coke can. Of how she had told me stories of her past lovers, how exciting it had been to hear about the Algerian and the Norwegians. She had known what she was doing, had been teasing me, tuning me on. I imagine her in the arms of a man telling him about all her girls... telling him about her "New Yorker," how eager she was to lick her pussy.

The image is frightening, but feels false - or maybe I just want it to be false.

"Have you ever been with... girls... before?" I ask, leaning in to whisper in her ear, even though there is no one near us, we are the only ones sitting at the outside tables. Asking the question even seems taboo, not because it will be overheard, but because we've never spoken about "it" before; about us.

"No," she says, turning to look me in the eyes, and squeezing my hand. "Girl crushes, women I admired... powerfully, but nothing more. Young Sarah is the first."

Her expression is so warm, her eyes soft and liquid. The fear drains away and is replaced by a fierce longing. I squeeze back.

Kwasi and Darci have a parlor floor duplex in a brownstone in Fort Greene. The train is about forty minutes, with a fifteen-minute walk. We've freshened up, but are still in our dresses from the night before. We had stopped for espressos on our walk to the subway, but I'm a bit buzzed. I squeeze Claire's hand.

A guy I've never met answers the door, and introduces himself as Oliver. He's my height but handsome and powerfully built with a lush Caribbean accent. He knows who we are. Making a show of greeting Claire in French, and as he walks us past the parlor down the hall to the kitchen, explaining that he is studying at the Culinary Institute with Kwasi. TV on The Radio's Staring At The Sun is blasting from the ancient stereo.

Kwasi is shouting over the music at Darci, who runs in to say hello and meet Claire. She's all made up but still getting things on the table.

Kwasi wipes his hands on his apron and kisses and hugs Claire and I. He's sweaty and happy but as serious as a heart attack - until he sees the wine Claire brought. He stops his work to read the names out to us with a perfect French accent, more and more excited as he recognizes each label. He then makes a show of hugging and kissing Claire again, making us all laugh.

"We'll start with these!" he says, holding up all four in his huge hands and looking at the labels and then at Claire. "Claire, you're my kind of girl!" he gushes, which I can tell pleases her immensely. Darci looks so excited to see me I think she might lay an egg. She goes on and on about how good I look. She can't get enough of my hair and makeup. Something's up. But she hands us two big tumblers and chases us out of the kitchen.

Almost everyone else is already there. The kitchen is a big space at the back of the brownstone and opens directly onto the parlor via a big archway. The parlor has high ceilings and ornate plaster molding, a cast iron fireplace, and at the far end is a lovely bay window.

Kwasi and Darci have set up an enormous plywood table in their living room that seats all fifteen of us. Most everyone is gathered around the big window seat drinking Margaritas from a pitcher.

On the main table there are mason jars of pickled ramps and beautiful charcuterie boards laid out for us to snack on when we sit down. We're assigned seating - boy/girl - and Darci is careful to break up couples. I'm seated next to Oliver and a married guy named Craig, and across from Claire who is rubbing my leg with her bare foot under the table.

Kwasi toasts us all and thanks us for coming. He explains that it's "ramp" season in NYC. That ramps are wild leeks, that they have a mild green-garlic flavor and that a lot of restaurants put them on the menu this time of year.

"It's a big deal in New York," he says very seriously, and then, catching himself, he continues with a self-deprecating smile, "well... It's a very big deal for foodies.

To start, Oliver helps Kwasi serve us each a small bowl of homemade pasta with a ramp pesto. When we are done they replace our empty bowls with little plates of "simple sea salt and lemon grilled ramps". The main course is half a dozen varieties of ramp pizzas, most of which are vegetarian.

We aren't seated for long before I pick up that Kwasi and Darci are trying to set me up with Oliver. Too many interested looks from Darci in our direction and carefully worked in bits of positive information about him sprinkled through the conversation. Darci had been especially careful to seat us together and over dinner he takes full advantage of the chance she's given him, really turning on the charm.

He lives in Harlem, where his family owns three restaurants. He's smart, good looking, and funny. Exactly the kind of guy I've wanted to meet. But I find myself trying to balance being friendly and responsive with not leading him on.

It strikes me that a couple weeks ago I would have been ecstatic to meet Brent at a brunch, that I would have been falling over myself to charm Oliver, but now I'm holding them at bay.

I look across at Claire. She's telling a story about breaking her leg in the Alps on a ski trip. Her seatmates are beside themselves with laughter at her descriptions of her monstrous ineptitude and humiliations. I feel jealous of these men who have her attention.

But as she delivers the punchline she glances my way, checking to see if I'm looking, catching my eye. I feel her bare foot gently stroke my leg. I turn my attention to Oliver, not missing the not so subtle signal Darci gives Kwasi to look over at Oliver and me. Claire's foot rises higher, resting against my inner thigh.

We're not the first to leave, but we're not the last. We say our goodbyes. Claire is thanking Darci and Kwasi for hosting us, promising to come back for their next dinner party. Oliver kisses me on the cheek, gives me his number and asks me to call. I promise I will, but really I don't know if I will. Kwasi is looking at Claire, but I can tell he's watching me out of the corner of his eye.

On the street Claire and I link arms in front of the stoop. She rests her head on my shoulder while I crane my neck to see down the street.

When the car service finally arrives I give the driver my address as we settle into the back seat. Claire snuggles up against me for warmth, slinging her nearest arm under mine and lacing our fingers. She makes no move to add her address as he pulls away from the curb. I'm glad she doesn't.

"Your friends are nice," she tells me, dropping her head back onto my shoulder. Her voice is husky and tired from talking and laughing, she smells like cigarettes. I'm braced for her to tease and grill me about Oliver, but she doesn't. We're not drunk... exactly, but we've been drinking all day. Her hand on my knee is still cool from the wait for the car.

"Isn't Kwasi amazing?" I ask. They had taken to each other immediately. Laughing and smoking on the little deck off the kitchen.

"He's totally amazing!" she agrees. "He's SO tall, and a chef! I didn't expect that. I see why you like him so much."

Her hand squeezes the top of my thigh as we laugh, but then it pushes high, moves inward. I feel myself blushing but spread my knees, making room for her hand, for her fingers.

"I can cook, but he is next level," I explain. My voice sounds high and reedy. She is pinching the gusset of my panties, gathering and tugging at them.

"He's going to have his own restaurant in a couple of years," I tell her, struggling not to squeak or squirm. I'm watching the driver's head. My heart is pounding, afraid he will notice. This isn't a cab, there is no partition between us and him. But still, I obligingly roll my hips forward, offering myself to Claire. "It's been his dream for as long as I've known him..."

I had thought she was going to push my panties aside and finger me, but instead she has gathered them in her fist and is pulling at them, a slow steady demand.

"I love talking to him about food," I tell her as I obediently lift my ass.

"He told me all about how important the 'allium' flavor is to cooking," she says nonchalantly, pulling my panties down my thighs in one smooth motion and pushing them past my knees, dropping them to my ankles. "I mean, I learned a little French cooking from ma grand-mère but..." she tells me, watching me kick my left foot free and then my right. "Leeks, onions, shallots, garlic, chives..."

"RAMPS!?!" I laugh, a little hysterically, looking down at my panties, laid out like a pinned butterfly on the dirty floor of the gypsy cab. "Like I said, next level."

I lean forward to pick my panties up off the floor of the car, but she stops me. My heart aches with a little disappointment as I sit back obediently. They were one of my favorites, a set I know Claire admires.

When the car pulls up on my block there's a small crowd outside one of the buildings across the street. Claire is watching them as I pay the driver. I open my door and hear the music. Techno beating down on us from somewhere above.

"A loft party," Claire says, her voice rising in excitement.

"Yeah, they have them every few weeks," I tell her, starting to slide out my door with a last forlorn look at my abandoned panties. I feel a spike of relief seeing her reach down and snatch them up as she slides out of the car, wadding them in her fist as she slams the door.

Smiling, I start to move toward my door, but she takes hold of my wrist, pulling me back.

"What are they like?!" she asks, her expression is like a child watching a Ferris wheel. I follow her gaze to the strobing lights and throb across the street.

"I don't know," I admit, feeling sheepish as she flashes me an astonished look. "I've never been."

"Come on," she says, pulling me. "Let's check it out!"

I start to protest, but she's already pulling me into the street. All the kids at the door look like groovers. They're smoking and laughing as we walk up, some check us out, curious. The crowd looks young, in their early twenties at the oldest, and they are all Asian, Korean I think. Claire is bold.

"Bonsoir!" Claire calls out brightly.

"What up," a boy calls back dryly.

A couple of the girls give us disapproving looks, but they are outnumbered by the approving looks we get from the boys. And again Claire is undaunted - or oblivious. She pushes through the crowd smiling, pulling me in tow.

There is a small sign taped to the elevator that just says "NO". We climb the stairs - scarred, badly lit drywall and industrial steel treads going around and around the elevator shaft. Kids are coming down as we climb up and others climbing behind us. Claire is leading the way, holding my hand in hers. I find myself nervously tugging at the back of my First Date Little Black Dress with my free hand. It has a modest neckline, but the hemline is dangerously short. The music gets louder and louder until we reach a loft on the fourth floor.

There is a guy at the door who looks like he's in his thirties, he signals with his fingers that it's ten dollars each. I pay and he stamps our hands. The ink is invisible, but I see him checking the kids coming back inside with a black light. Little violet smiley faces on the backs of their hands.