Impact of Collision Ch. 05

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. 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 haven't and tell him so.

"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, it's almost plebeian. 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 says, 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."

"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, inviting her to come, but she'd forgotten. "Would you like to 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, there will be lots of people there."

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 the 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, maybe 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. "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 step-father introduced me to Paula... Et voil�, 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.

"Have you ever been with girls?" 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 in our direction and carefully worked in bits of positive information about him sprinkled through the conversation. Darci was careful to seat us together and over dinner he really turns 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.

She seems to notice and I feel her bare foot gently stroking my leg. Did she wink at me, or did I imagine it? I turn my attention to Oliver, he really is a good catch. I don't miss the not so subtle Darci excitedly tapping Kwasi's hand, a signal to look over. Claire's foot rises higher, resting against my inner thigh, I imagine her winking at me, her lips mouthing the words "You're mine." Or did she actually do it? Maybe it's too much wine, blurring my reality, I can't tell anymore.

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.

Out 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 cold 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 amazing!" she agrees. "He's SO tall, and such an amazing chef - I didn't expect that. I see why you like him so much."

"I can cook but he is next level - he's going to have his own restaurant in a couple of years, it's been his dream for as long as I've known him. I love talking to him about food."

"He told me all about how important the 'allium' flavor is to cooking, I mean, I learned a little French cooking from ma grand-mère but..." she tells me. "Leeks, onions, shallots, garlic, chives..."

"RAMPS!?!" I laugh in astonishment. "Like I said, next level."

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. As she opens her door I 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 towards my door, but Claire has a hold of my wrist, pulling me back.

"What are they like?!" She is curious, looking up at the strobing lights like a child watching a Ferris wheel.

"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 going around and around the elevator shaft. Kids are coming down as we climb up and others climbing behind us. I find myself nervously tugging at the back of my little black dress. 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.

Just as we are walking in, he points his blacklight at our stamps and yells "first drink free!" Over the thumping music and smiles. Our stamps are little hearts.

Claire smiles at me as she pulls me into the dark loft. Bodies press us from all sides, rubbing against my legs and ass, jostling my arms, pushing me into Claire's back. I hold myself pressed against her as she pushes deeper into the strobing dark mass of dancers. At some point she decides we are far enough, maybe she feels the crowd is a little thinner here, or the music that much louder. She turns and we start dancing, her eyes glitter with excitement.

In the dark, under the strobes, the one thing I notice about where we've stopped is the crowd is mostly girls. Perhaps this is why she chose this spot. Young, strange faces watch us or don't; lithe bodies move and spasm. We are still in our date dresses, a bit out of sync with what the girls around us are wearing, but not horribly so. But as far as I can tell we are the only white girls. At first I feel self conscious, like an intruder, thinking of the looks we got as we walked in. But Claire doesn't seem to feel any such compunction. She moves with the music, her little silky shiny has never looked smaller, more revealing. The straps fall off her shoulders, her breasts are all that holds it up. The hem rises up her thighs as she dances and turns. Little more than a fitted slip, it's tight across her ass. She is impossibly sexy. The bodies of the girls around her seem to fall in line with her movements, taking from her energy and giving it back.

And her movements mold mine, sliding against me, gripping my flesh, her sweat running into mine. Her nails clawing at my skin. Her leg between mine so our bodies can press even tighter against each other, but also thrusting against my cunt. Her chin hooking my shoulder, her hands squeezing my ass, I ride the hard muscles of her thigh.

This isn't like the night we went dancing after the gallery opening. That night we danced together, maybe a little dirty. Tonight she isn't holding back. Looking over her shoulder I can see we are being watched. The girls around us stare, but I don't care. Some of the girls look surprised, maybe even shocked. One of the girls smiles, she is thin and beautiful, her moves are seductive. I smile back just as the rhythm and volume cycles up and suddenly we are all jumping and screaming and flailing violently against each other, the music and light exploding around us. I'm pressed by bodies and hands from all sides. Swinging my head, I see flashes of faces all around me. Each strobe of light a beautiful expression frozen for an instant of ecstasy - strangers, Claire, more strangers, so much pleasure.

By the time she begins kissing my neck I am fucking her, riding her thigh. I don't care that the girls are watching us, I don't care who's watching. I want them to see. I'm staring into the beautiful girl's eyes. I want her to watch me, what I'm doing with Claire.

The sea of bodies we are moving in is just that, a medium of humid, sliding flesh. Claire's hands are under my dress, squeezing my ass. Her mouth covering mine, her tongue swirling around mine. I hear a high pitch cheer, presumably for us, but I don't care. I can feel an orgasm rising and all I care about now is cumming; cumming for Claire.

I feel my back stiffen and arch, my face turned up to the sky as light and sound again explode above the crowd; hysteria.

"We never got our free drinks," Claire pouts.

We are standing in my kitchen passing back and forth our second pint of water. I'm taking greedy gulps as Claire watches me, her hand outstretched, waiting for her turn to drink. The water from the tap is icy cold.