To The Wild Guys In Our Lives!

"These heels are killing me!"

"You should have worn sandals with comfortable cotton socks like me!"

I held onto the hem of my knee-lengths, beige skirt to move my foot forward to show them off. They were great for hiking, which made them good for walking in NYC. The soles are comfortable, and their open nature keeps the feet from getting sweaty. It's simply the rational choice.

I looked at Natiya's sleek, skinny, shiny black heels. They were so steep that her foot revealed strong arch. Her toes were pointed at a sharp right angle to give that artificial look of glamorous balls. The paper-thin straps must have been cutting her. The heel was so skinny that she must have been wobbling. And then there were her endless legs. Not only was she a foot taller than me, but her tight, black dress barely ended beneath her butt cheeks. Whenever she sat down, she had to strategically throw a napkin over her lap to cover the sight of her underwear. (It was black lace. I had seen it on the cab ride here. With her knees high and four of us girls pressed into the back, she was clumsily exposed.)

She gave me a bedazzled look that told me that she was going to ignore my fashion advice. So far, my advice had been ignored. I had told the girls that the back room had a buffet with vegetarian biryani. Columbia had reluctantly adjusted the food options for the many Indian students. With my plate full to skip as many student meals as possible the next day, I was eating by the forkful. It wasn't the best but as a student, I had to find ways to save money. Food was definitely a major expense. The other girls were sporting skinny cocktail glasses. A flashy graduate student from London had injected the latest mixology trends into the bar offerings. They were sipping on a green bikini zombie, a purple sex devil, and Natiya had the most bizarre drink, a white, creamy thing called coochie juice.

Of course, I had warned the girls about the danger of drinking on an empty stomach. They'd get drunk too fast and act out of control. Natiya had smoky, dark eyes painted with her makeup. She was staring right at a grad student in a black suit with blue tie. Her index finger with a long purple finger nail was moving a blob of white cream side to side on her mouth. The terrible urge overcame me to wipe it off her mouth. How can someone be so inefficient wiping the mouth? All the while, she kept staring at the guy. When she finally got the blob in, she stuck her finger so dip, it was like she was trying to move the blub directly to her throat. I rolled my eyes, not because of what she did but of how predictable the guy was. He got up and asked her for a dance.

To be honest, the guy was a mix of flash and flop. He had his hair slicked back to look like a movie star. His suit was padded so heavily that he looked like a football star. At the same time, he looked like an out of place grad student. His eyes showed way too much white like he was a scared deer in the forest. His posture was bendy and twisty, slouching every way like he had never physically trained. It was funny watching him. You could dream and imagine him to be this handsome star and you could squint to see the reality and see an awkward, clueless young guy. Natiya saw probably the latter, not because she is foolish, but because she wants life to be grand.

That's what I love about her. At the first day of Columbia, she had insisted that we all get matching outfits to celebrate the day. I hadn't even wanted to go to class because on the first day, the professors only read the syllabus anyway. I could have gotten a head on reading textbooks. But in a strange way, that day stuck in my memory because of all the silly jumping into the air and climbing statues that she made us do for the perfect Instagram photo.

When Natiya had walked onto the half empty dancefloor with her hand held high by the guy like they were in some Viennese royal ball, the room had taken notice. I had become used to the attention that Natiya draws. Guys were watching her out of the corner of her eyes. Gals were watching her as well. When she dropped something on the floor, often five people in our proximity would instantly bend forward to look at the floor. It was the same here. I saw women tapping their partners to invite them to dance. The dancefloor filled with people, energy, laughter, and limbs flashing moves.

The guy tried to park his hand on her butt, but she instantly moved the hand back to her shoulder blade. At the same time, she pressed her pushed up cleavage against his chest. His eyes glinted down to look at the two perfectly round balls with her rich, softly brown skin pressing together. Every move he made, she abruptly blocked, but she kept out of control offering to him. She wrapped her legs around his thigh. She accidently kissed him on the cheek to whisper something in his ear. She was such an out of control mess all over him, but when he went for a kiss, she pressed her index finger firmly against his lips. That was her dance to drive the guys wild, get maximum flirtation without the risk of action. He probably would get dumped on the heap of discarded guys soon, simply a toy instrument for her to show off so that she could allure a better guy to cut into the dance and take her away.

Standing by myself, I could take in the elegant surroundings. Columbia had rented the banquet room at the Met 5th Avenue, a museum with some of the world's best art treasures. Giant baroque paintings covered the fifteen feet high walls. The frames were massively hand carved opulences. The oil colors of angels, chubby babies, rich and royal people had an immense richness. This was definitely not her barebones undergrad college in Bangalore that had drilled them to study hard and nothing else. One could easily tell the grad students as the young, goofy ones, the professors as the old, discussing ones, and the donors -- they were the ones who really dressed up to match the event. To them, this was an experience of society.

It never occurred to me that the approval of the thesis topic could be turned into a swanky event to raise millions in donations for the school. America was eye opening to an entirely different culture. They school had realized that the topic of the graduate theses would have bored the donors. So they came up with this idea of writing the thesis on a parchment paper sealing it with a big ribbon. The thesis advisors handed that roll over to their students with the dean behind for a perfect photo opp. Then they auctioned the opportunity for a drink and discussion of the thesis subject for donations. Natiya had waved her arms big to encourage the donors to raise the bid. A local tech entrepreneur won the auction for Natiya for $20K. When they met at a little cocktail table, he told her straight up, "You don't have to talk about your thesis. I know it's bad luck to talk about it before it's done."

This was my usual state at social parties. The girls had gone off enjoying themselves. I was the island floating around that they periodically came back to, reconnected, and then fluttered off like butterflies. I saw professor Bertrecht standing by himself under the baroque painting of a prince with a skinny sword and gold handle. His hair was gray and bushy. Hi suit was a size too small and ten years past its prime. The middle button had fallen off, but if you didn't look too closely, it did its job. If I talked to him about this multi-calculus economics problem that had been bothering me, I would be able to skip going to his office hour. So this gala evening wouldn't be a complete loss for my study progress.

He seemed happy enough to talk. His face was jolly, round. The bushy gray hair raise up like two swan wings curling up. Looking up at that (remember I'm short) was always a bit bizarre, like I had stepped into Narnia's closet and ended up in some fairy tale. Yet, he kept being distracted. He kept switching up variable cost and fixed cost in a way that a microeconomics 101 student should have known better. Then, his face distorted with a pleading look. "Can I introduce you to Mr. Smith? I'd really like to get his funding. And maybe if he meets one of my students, he's more inclined."

Oh boy, I thought to myself. Professor Bertrecht is trying to pimp me out like a hottie student, but some old people can't tell the difference between us twenty something. They don't know the hot ones from the not ones because youth is so distant to them that any youthful face looks the fountain of youth itself. But I was going to help science anyway I could. So I followed his lead in between the gaggles of people having cocktail discussions and wait staff in completely black uniforms pushing their way with plates of drinks in between.

The would-be-donor was some kind of midlevel finance guy at JP Morgan. He looked like the kind that bikes 50 miles on a skinny speed bike over the weekend. He wore rectangular glasses that were supposed to be fashionable. He looked at me. I looked at him. As I said, I was wearing Teva sandals with white socks, a knee long skirt of muted colors, and a comfortable checkered sweatshirt on top. Comfortable means that you couldn't tell my body shape. I was wearing thick rimmed black plastic glasses because they had been on sale at Warby Parker. My hair was a curly mess that I had twisted around once and pinned with a few pins to the top of my head. There was no makeup on my face. I gave the finance guy a blank face. The finance guy knew what he was getting. Professor Betrecth was clueless and made head shrugs like he expected some magic of flirting to start and open the checkbook.

"Nice paintings," I opened.

"Yeah," replied the finance guy.

There was a long moment of silence.

"It's kind of too loud to talk," I offered as a fig leaf of an excuse. It was so loud from all the other people talking.

"Yeah, right! Nice meeting you!" said the finance guy and hurriedly disappeared.

That's when I felt a tuck on my sweater sleeve from behind. Natiya stood there, legs wide, knees together, one hand pressing on her mouth, and the other hand feeling her forehead. She looked pale. Her lip stick had melted. The mascara had started running down her eyes. She was swaying around wildly. That's why her feet were so wide apart to steady herself.

"Help me!" she blurted out begging and quickly pressed her hand on her mouth again with so much force that the outline on her face was white.

I put my arms around her in a gentle hug that firmed up as more and more of her weight dropped onto me. She was such a bimbo with her long skinny limbs. I yelled "Coming through" to make it a little easier to use her as a battering ram to push an aisle through the crowd. If you are a barely five-foot tall women, then those backs of people, especially guys become tall mountains. It's living down in the valley where people don't even notice you. Elbows and butts moving in at you without any concern. Natiya had lost her magnetism on people. The sight of her made them turn their backs, except for the few people who were laughing unveiled as they watched the train wreck with glee.

The double door for the bathroom swung open as I shoved my butt against it. At least, we were at a noble, upscale place. The bathroom had marble floors, meticulous cleaning, and intensely bright, white light. I helped Natiya through the stall door. She collapsed over the toilet before I could get the latch down. She was hugging the toilet full on. Oh dear, she's really out of it if she cares so little. I quickly grabbed her sleek, long, black hair before it could fall into the water of the toilet bowl. She was on her knees with her heels falling off her feet. I swung her raven hair in circles and pierce it with on a pin from my hair to make it stick. She had spent three hundred dollars on a keratin treatment to get her hair that pretty. We didn't want to lose that luster to the toilet water.

She started heaving with her whole body. I hugged her from behind to comfort her. The sounds out of her throat were deeply visceral. Her stomach was pumping so hard. The float in the water was mainly spit bubbles and colored, thick slime, nothing solid. She had been drinking hard on an empty stomach. Her heaving kept fighting much more than wanted to come out. I let myself relax, holding her clam body and waiting for her to do her thing, while I listened to the sighing from the stall next door.

The rhythmic sighing had started softly, like a painting -- an escaped gasp. And then a higher pitched roar had added into the sound. My ears followed the sound landscape of the sighs molding in different pitches. While the initial sighs had been easy to miss, a thundering burst had entered the sound like someone was grunting at the top of her lungs. I of course knew who it was. It was Bree -- one of us girls. She was getting banged by a guy. The slapping of flesh on sweaty flesh was unmistakable. She was the dirty one of us. She had an insatiable man hunger, and the city kept serving her dish after dish.

"I think I'm all done," said Natiya. Her voice sounded somber. Part of an empty stomach is also that the blood alcohol drops back down very quickly. She started getting up. I wrapped a few rolls of toilet paper around my hand to start cleaning her face up off vomit. I patted a stray piece off her cleavage. She walked out of the stall barefoot with her heels in hand.

She pressed against the stall door next to us. The door gave no resistance. Bree hadn't locked the stall, but the door stopped at the calves of the guy. So Natiya moved her head in between the door slit to get a peek. She giggled and pulled her had back. She made me watch. The guy had his butt right against the door with the pants around his ankles. Bree was standing in front of the toilet bowl. She was leaning forward with a near flat back so that her hands could rest against the wall behind the toilet. He was ramming her from behind with his hands holding onto her hips like handles to pull her onto her.

"Take a photo," ordered Natiya.

I got my phone out and took a photo. Bree was aware of what's happening. She tilted her head down so that her face was upside down beneath her hanging boobs with a v-sign gesture of her fingers next to her face. Her eyes had a wicked look. The velvet purple lipstick had a richness to it that stood out especially when she was biting on her lip. The guy didn't stop a beat. He seemed like he was locked into his passion and was going to only get off if a caterpillar would run over him.

Natiya and I went to the wonderfully lit up vanity mirror. We had to do a full face washing because there was no rescuing her melted and half washed off makeup. The nice thing about nice places is that they provide so many goodies in the bathroom. There were cleaning wipes and all kinds of useful things. When we got back to the gala, Natiya grabbed a champagne glass from a passing waiter and hollered: "Let's get level two started!"

As I found a bench to sit on in a side room, I was getting pissed. The girls were having too much fun. All I wanted to do was get home so that I could wake up fresh, early, and rested to hit the books. To make matters worse, this guy walked up to me. "Dance with me!" he said. He looked like a wild guy. He had half of his head shaved to one millimeter long hair. The other half was a long, floppy comb over haircut. The long hair was probably at least ten inches long. Sweat had wetted his hair to the point of looking oily. He was wearing ripped jeans, combat boots without any laces, and a sports jacket with elbow patches over it. The jacket and red tie fulfilled the dress code, but he looked like he had walked in from a punk rebellion.

His eyes had a wild look with which he was eyeing me. His movements were sleek and tiger like as if on a powerful prowl. And I was going to be the grandest ball to dance with. The sparks in his eyes, the winks, the free roaming nature of them, and the dart like focus at the same time made me feel faint. I sensed danger. He seemed so out of control.

"Dance with me," he intoned. I hadn't realized how close he had gotten. I was so hypnotized by him. His nose was an inch away from him. I could breathe in his sour smell of sweat. He must have been covered slick wet with it. My eyes went cross eyed looking so closely into his eyes. I got real dizzy. He had such a strong presence. He was so close to me, but didn't touch me. In a strange way the possibility of being touched felt so much more intimate than actually being touched.

"I don't dance," I told him and pushed him off of me with both hands.

Gallantly and with the dexterity of a cat, he moved out of my personal space and made a deep bow with one knee on the ground. He held his hand out in some giant gesture. I felt embarrassed about causing such a commotion and drawing so much attention. I felt heat rising up in my body. I didn't like being in the center of attention. I worried that people were going to see us. He simply held his posture taking a knee in front of me with his head held down and arms up.

"Come back up, please," I begged him.

"You do know how to dance," he told me with a kind of grandfatherly knowing. "There is a beautiful dancer locked inside of here." He placed his hands on my chest above my breasts. He didn't simply point, but he placed his palm gently onto my sternum and intently felt as if he was trying to form an energetic connection to my inner dancer. I felt confused. Nobody believed that I could dance. He was probably just a drunk guy messing with my self-esteem.

I had gotten a bit lost in my head because the next thing I realized that I was walking arm in arm with him to the dancefloor. He had snuck his arm into the crook of my elbow. And in some automatic reaction, my mind had clicked into walking arm and arm. But as soon as I realized, I pulled my arm back and started walking away from him. Yet he fluidly got a hold of my other hand and lifted it up into the air. The arm was suddenly in my way to get away from him, I had to move that way, and suddenly I was spinning.

That's when I saw Natiya. I quickly made a beeline to her. The guy followed me like a puppy. Natiya was with the other gals. "You've got to rescue me," I called out breathless. I felt a little bit proud because I had never needed rescuing before. I felt a bit like a real woman. With the happy face of a puppy, I stood in front of Natiya, waiting for her to do the magic. Instead, she said, "I'm going to rescue you from yourself!"

She spun me around and pushed me into the arms of the guy. I was stunned. "But, but, but" I protested, "I've rescued you so often!" The guy had his arms already around me. He was pulling me into a close hug like they do in crowded clubs. Our body fronts were full on touching. I wasn't prepared for that. A minute earlier, I had been making my study plan in my head. Suddenly, my nose was poking into a red tie.

"Listen random dude," said Natiya to the guy, "If she says no, she means yes. Now, make sure that she has a good time!"

Natiya spun the guy around and gave him a slap on his firm ass cheek to send him off. He only took me a couple steps into crowd that was dancing. He was moving me to the rhythm. There was something pacifying to my resistance about the rhythm that he held so well in his body. The beat, lights, and vocals, all went so well with our body movements. My mind got lost in the four beat kick and the female singer together with my body's swaying to the direction of the guy.

"Who's that guy?" I heard Bree asking the other girls.

Adaliya answered, "He's one of the literature grad students. Literature grad students are either totally boring bookworms or totally crazy. The crazy ones take all the human expression, sex, and emotion too deeply. He's crazy even on the crazy scale."