III: Curtis
Content warning: Explicit descriptions of sex; r*pe.
—
One.
A couple weeks later, I decided to download the dating apps — actual ones, not Grindr — for the first time. After answering 100 survey questions on OkCupid, which they said would help me match with people, I found someone with a beautiful smile.
“Awwww!” I said to myself, feeling warmth travel down my spine.
His name was Curtis, and he was a very cute, Black man, whose profile was sincere and detailed, but it also gave me a bit of sad puppy vibes — a little too vulnerable, a little bit too depressed.
At the time, I didn’t realize this, because I was enamored — he seemed so unique, and interesting.
I messaged him:
“I love your smile. How you doing, handsome?”
We talked for a while, about our upbringing, our astrological signs — a lot of things. It felt good.
“You’re like a diamond in the rough,” he said.
I screenshotted that, and sent it to 10 friends, feeling seen — completely.
“Thank you! As are you.”
I asked him if he’d like to go on a date, before I left for London and Paris in a couple days, on a trip I had planned for a year, with my ex, José, and two of his friends.
“Sure!”
—
A couple days later, Curtis texted me.
“Can I actually meet you tonight?”
I hesitated, because that was the day that I worked on lesson plans for a class I was teaching, on financial literacy, at a local community center.
“I’ll get back to you.”
After getting out of work, I walked to a bar, and started writing the lesson, while turning his proposal back and forth — I didn’t want to compromise my passion, but at the same time, he intrigued me, and it’d be nice to meet before a 10-day trip.
“Let’s meet — come to the Starbucks at 31st and 6th.”
“You got it.”
I waited in Starbucks, obsessively checking the door every five seconds. After 15 minutes, he heaved the door open, and stared at me, eyes full of moon.
“Come ‘ere,” I said, laughing.
Curtis smiled, and sat next to me, continuing to stare. I stared back for what felt like several minutes.
—
“It’s late — wanna head out? We could take the train back together.”
“Sure,” he said, smiling, eyes still fixed on me.
Curtis had told me that he lived in Washington Heights, but in actuality, he lived in Fort George, which was farther north. It had less name recognition, and was seen as less “prestigious,” but it was also, in my opinion, more beautiful than other neighborhoods.
—
We walked in silence for a bit, through Herald Square, and past the flagship Macy’s store.
“How was your day?” I asked.
“Oh, you know. Good.”
I nodded.
We boarded the 1, and crammed next to each other. The train was packed, even though it was 9 at night. I rested my leg against his. It felt surreal — one of those storybook, New York moments.
“I noticed you have an iPhone X,” he said.
“Yeah!”
“I have an iPhone 6S,” he said, his voice slanting downward. “I’m debating getting an XS for Christmas.”
“What’s holding you back?”
“It costs a lot.”
“I think it’s worth it.”
“Maybe,” he said, smiling.
The train lurched, and I felt calm, which was unusual.
—
Soon, our car emptied, as we slowly progressed toward the far reaches of upper Manhattan. I spread my legs a bit, and he did the same.
“Can I walk you home?” he asked.
“Oh…sure! That’d be great!”
We got off at 145th Street and Broadway, clambering up the steep steps, onto the dark street above.
“So, how much do you pay for your apartment?
I laughed. “I pay $1,700 a month.”
“I was gonna rent in this neighborhood, but it costs too much.”
“I’m definitely part of the problem.”
Curtis smiled, but said nothing. I sensed some resentment.
“Have you always lived in the city?”
“No, I grew up on Long Island. My parents emigrated here, from Jamaica.”
“When did you move to the city?”
“After graduating from Stony Brook College, I worked at Micro Center, on Long Island. I decided that I wanted to pursue a career in IT, so I got certifications while I worked. Eventually, I was able to get a job at an IT firm in the city, and moved here.”
“So you’re basically self-made.”
He shrugged — “I guess.”
“How much do you pay for your apartment?”
“$1,500, but it’s a studio. I want a one-bedroom, like yours.”
“It’ll happen.”
He smiled — “We’ll see.”
I smiled, and took his hand in mine.
—
Five minutes later, I stopped, motioning to the building next to us — “This is me.”
“Well, it was great getting to know you, Aaron.”
“Yeah! Can I kiss you?”
“Yes.”
We kissed, but Curtis didn’t part his lips. A few seconds later, he pulled my head in, and started to hold it there, as he puckered his lips forcefully on mine. I had no idea what was going on. I went along with it, then gave him a hug.
“Text me when you get back,” I said.
“Will do.”
Two.
I closed my apartment door, and flipped on the kitchen lights, which felt brighter than usual. My head was swimming — I liked Curtis, but we barely talked, and his kiss had made me feel weird. I wanted to give him a chance, though.
“Thanks for meeting me tonight 😊”, I texted.
“Of course 🙂” he replied, using the smiley that I always associate with psychopaths. I know it’s ridiculous to judge someone based on an emoji, but something felt off.
—
The next evening, we went on our “official” first date — the one we had planned before he convinced me to take the train with him the night before — at a Venezuelan tapas restaurant. I got there 15 minutes early, and as I was waiting, I felt an intense, kinetic energy in my body — the same sort of sensation that you feel when you push two magnets together, and they repel.
“Hey,” Curtis said, as he came in, grinning sheepishly.
“Hey,” I said, smiling, as he sat down across from me.
“So, what kind of food do they serve?”
“It’s tapas — small plates that you share — which I figured might be good for a date.”
“Ah, ok.”
Curtis studied the menu, scanning from top to bottom multiple times. I waited a couple minutes.
“Do you see anything you’d like?”
“Yeah,” Curtis said, hesitatingly.
“I have some suggestions, if that’d help.”
“Sure.”
The server came by, and I ordered for both of us, praying that Curtis would enjoy at least one thing.
—
“So…” he said.
I smiled and stared, and then my vision blurred, and for some reason, I kept picturing a car crash — the blinding light of oncoming high beams; the impact; my body turning over; and finally…blacking out.
—
Curtis smiled blankly for what felt like eons, and then his features started sinking.
”Here, I wanna show you something,” he said.
“Ok.”
He pulled up a video from Fox News, complaining about labor laws that favored unions.
“I like to get both sides, you know?” he said, smiling again, and then pausing for my reaction — except I just continued to stare at him, now no longer smiling.
I couldn’t figure out how to say that Fox News is bullshit without alienating him, so instead I started stammering, and then held my head in my hands.
Curtis put his arm on mine.
“Come over here,” he said.
“Ok.”
Now in his arms, I felt the turbulence subside a bit. Curtis pulled up another video, of him playing “Let It Be,” by The Beatles, on a keyboard. My eyes widened as I watched his hands dart back and forth, transforming what’s usually a slow, introspective song, into a jaunty march.
“This is genius,” I said.
He smiled, this time widely — “Nah, I wouldn’t say that.”
I rested my head on his shoulders.
Three.
After leaving the restaurant, we walked together to Curtis’ subway stop, which was a couple blocks south, in silence.
“Is everything ok?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“Really?”
“You didn’t ask me anything the entire night.”
“I’m sorry. What have you been up to recently?”
“I went on vacation with my mom, to Jamaica.”
“Wow, that’s great! Did you get a lot of sun?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you wear sunscreen?”
Curtis paused.
“So, I’m Black, and pretty dark-skinned. I usually…don’t need it.”
I felt a sharp pain in my chest. It was a stupid question to ask.
By that point we were almost at his stop.
“Well, I hope you had a good time tonight.”
“I did!” Curtis said, with an empty tone.
“I’ll be thinking about you, on my trip. Would you wanna FaceTime, while I’m there?”
Suddenly, he brightened.
“Yes! That’d be great!”
“Good,” I said, smiling. “See ya around.”
“See you later, Aaron.”
I walked back home, feeling happy, but unsettled, again — for what reason, I couldn’t say, and that scared me.
Four.
It was the night before my trip to London and Paris, and the air felt electric.
I greeted José and his friends, Karen and Tracy, at Grand Central Station, at 12:30 in the morning, and they dragged gigantic suitcases on wheels, up the long, Metro North platform, smiling from ear to ear.
—
After getting back to my apartment, José relentlessly chased my cat, Baby, all over. He had always wanted a pet, but two things stopped him — he still lived with his parents, and any contact with animal fur flooded his sinuses. I felt bad, seeing him sneeze every 30 seconds, but there was nothing I could do.
After everyone went to bed, I heard my text tone coming from the kitchen. It was Eli.
“I miss lying next to you”
I stared at the text for what felt like five minutes. I really missed Eli, but didn’t like what he had said — if you miss someone, you don’t just miss lying next to them, you miss them.
Five.
At 3:30 a.m. sharp, I nudged each of my friends on the shoulder, so that we could prepare for the two-hour train ride to JFK, followed by my three-hour time cushion for flying internationally. I was determined not to feel rushed, but they kept sleeping, so I raised my voice:
“Guys…”
—
The next 12 and a half hours felt like two, as I sat on my suitcase in the packed A train to JFK, sliding back and forth as the car lurched; transferred to the airport’s AirTrain, which glided across the terminals in a sunny, all-glass enclosure; bought pretzel dogs at Auntie Anne’s, once we got past TSA, as is custom; and doggedly figured out a way to share paid WiFi with José and the rest of the crew, once we boarded the 777.
After touching down at a deserted London Heathrow, we headed to Customs, where the staff person grilled us about why we were traveling to the UK (presumably because one of us was brown).
Ambling out of the building and into the parking deck, I booked us an Uber X, and as the Mercedes sedan pulled up, I realized I had fucked up, as we struggled to pack the four of us, and our 10 days of luggage, into it, behind a fuming driver.
Six.
After touring London for a couple days, we met up with my old friend Lindsay, who’d worked with me at JPMorgan virtually, and lived south of the city, near Wimbledon. I had originally planned on staying with her, but that fell through when José and his friends joined.
—
Lindsay whisked us from bar to bar, talking excitedly with José, Karen, and Tracy, about politics, local culture, and other topics, while I sat silently, sipping on a lager. Later on, we went to one of her favorite pubs, and she beseeched us.
“Ask me anything, guys.”
“Anything?” I asked. “Like the subreddit — AMA?”
“Yes.”
Everyone glanced at each other.
“I’m not sure what to ask. Can I start with José?”
“Sure,” Lindsay said.
“José — you had told me a while ago that it was hard when you moved here from Peru, and that other kids made fun of you in class, because you didn’t speak English. Can you tell us more about that?”
“No, Chicknz.”
“Great.”
“Ok, I’ll tell you guys something,” Lindsay said. “My best friend raped me.”
In the two years I’d know her, Lindsay had never talked about herself, so all I could do was stare.
“Yeah. We had gone to the practice fields at Wimbledon and played a couple matches, and then came back to my flat. I was leaving my room after changing, and he opened the door, and stood there silently.
I asked him what he was doing. He didn’t reply, and then started advancing.
‘What’s going on?!’ I shouted.
The next thing I knew, we were sitting on the bed. And then, it happened.”
—
Lindsay began to cry, and I squinted — her face was swirling, as was the rest of the room. It was my fifth beer, but it might have well been my 20th.
I got up without saying anything, walked to the bar, and waited to signal the bartender, swaying. Lindsay soon followed.
“I think…I think…”
“Yes?” Lindsay asked.
“I think I’m gonna throw up.”
“Here,” she said, and drew me toward the front of the bar, which was empty. I puked as we got there — it covered my clothes, and the floor.
Seven.
Lindsay got some paper towels from the bartender, and tried as best she could to wipe down the floor, and me.
Afterward, our whole entourage headed for the train, and then sat in silence as it progressed toward our stop, which was a few before Lindsay’s.
I kept staring at my clothes, mortified.
—
The next night, the group went out with Lindsay again, while I stayed behind and talked with Curtis over FaceTime.
“You’re so cute,” I said.
“Thanks” he said, glowing. “Do you like my undershirt? I love that it’s black.”
“Yes, definitel— oh my god!”
“What?”
“There’s a fox across the street, just chilling!”
“Aw, flip the camera so I can see.”
“That’s so cool!” he continued.
“I miss you, Curtis.”
“I miss you too.”
“Hey,” I said.
“Yes?”
“Do I look better with glasses, or without?”
I took my glasses off.
“I mean, either way you look great.”
“No, but really — everyone says that, but I feel like they’re lying.”
“It’s true though.”
“C’mon.”
A couple seconds passed.
“You look better without.”
I felt chills.
“THANK YOU!”
Eight.
The rest of the trip went well — we traveled under the Channel to Paris, and took Ubers to some landmarks. All I could think about, though, was Curtis. José scolded me for it, while I was texting at Notre-Dame.
“Chicknz, why don’t you enjoy the moment.”
“I know.”
—
Once I got back to the States, he texted me excitedly.
“You’re back?? Can you come see me?!”
“I feel sick — I think I caught what the rest of the group had” (everyone had caught a cold, starting with José, in Paris).
“Please?”
I paused, and stared blankly at the MacBook screen.
“Ok,” I said.
—
We met up at Fort Tryon Park, which was one of my favorites — a strip of land, right on the Hudson, maybe 10 blocks long, its entrance flanked by flowers.
We walked together, catching up, and then sat on an elevated bench, facing the Hudson, as the sun was setting. I was in disbelief at how perfect the moment was.
“Can I kiss you?” I asked.
Curtis just smiled.
—
“Where do you wanna go for dinner?”
“Not sure.”
“Ok, I’ll look up a place.”
We ended up Ubering to a middling Italian spot in Washington Heights, and the anxiety I had last time finally came back.
Every time I felt slightly disconnected from Curtis — whether it was because of a lull in conversation, or because we were sitting across each other, and couldn’t hold hands easily — I felt terrified.
After dinner, we got on the 1 train headed downtown, without knowing where we’d get off. A half hour later, as it lurched to a halt at the 23rd Street station, I took Curtis’ hand and leapt out of the train car, laughing.
—
We walked to the High Line, which was a block from our stop, and ascended its stairs, until we were among flowers again (for those who don’t know, the High Line is an old, elevated train track that the city converted into a highly popular walkway, overgrown with trees, and other flora).
“I know what we can do — let’s go to the roof of the Standard Hotel,” I said.
“Ok.”
We waited in line for 15 minutes, then took the packed, direct elevator up 70 floors. The only light came from the ceiling, which had a screen that displayed swirling constellations. I contorted myself, to avoid people angling their phones to capture the vibe.
—
Eventually, we emerged into a crowded lounge, with 50-foot, floor-to-ceiling windows, wrapping all the way around. Its low lighting was supplanted by an endless, multitextural skyline, sprawling in every direction.
I bought Curtis and myself a drink, and then we settled on opposite ends of a long, crimson, Rococo sofa. Curtis gazed into my eyes.
“I love how empathetic you are,” he said.
“Aww!”
“No, really. It’s an attractive quality.”
“Thank you.”
I scooted closer, made out with him for a couple minutes, and then backed away.
“Can I spend the night?” I asked.
“Of course.”
—
After emerging onto the brick streets of Chelsea, Curtis summoned a Lyft. A black Mercedes sedan pulled up, similar to the one I had gotten in London.
As the driver sped through the snaking West Side Highway at 2 a.m., I reached for Curtis’ hand.
“Do you get to charge more on Lyft, if you drive a Mercedes?” Curtis asked the driver.
“Yes — any of the upper-middle-tier cars, like Mercedes, BMW, or Acura, qualify.”
“Interesting.”
I couldn’t look away from Curtis, as he continued the conversation. He had done the same thing earlier that night — while we were walking the High Line, a homeless person approached us; Curtis asked the man about his life, and what came before falling into that situation.
—
As he and the driver hit a lull, “no tears left to cry” came on the radio. The car pitched and yawed, as we passed by the projects on our right, and the still water of the Hudson on the left.
Normally, the swaying would have aggravated my tipsiness, but I felt at peace, as I leaned to give Curtis a peck.
“This song is happy, but it’s also sad,” he said.
I looked at him, and shook my head, smiling.
Nine.
When we entered his apartment and Curtis turned on some lamps, my eyes widened. It was a pre-war unit, on the fifth floor, full of intricate woodwork — little rails separating the tiny breakfast nook and sleeping area, parquet floors, etc.
“I hate this place,” he said.
“Why?! I think it’s beautiful!”
“It’s tiny, and a studio.”
“But you only pay $1500 a month!”
“Still.”
Curtis collapsed on the sofa, and I sat on his lap, gazing forward. He smiled as I slowly lifted off his sweater, and then did the same to mine.
—
I kissed him, then asked if we could move to the bed.
“Sure.”
We fully undressed — Curtis had a hairy chest and a little bit of a pudge, but he looked handsome, with a traditionally masculine, mesomorphic frame.
—
At this point, I was dissociating from the alcohol, my cold, how long the date had been, and how much things had accelerated, but I tried to act normal.
Curtis gave me head, and started pulling me in, like he expected me to face-fuck him — but I just looked at him, and remained still.
He paused, and untensed his muscles.
—
We woke around 10 a.m., and I collected my things. Curtis gave me another one of his awkward kisses goodbye, and then I headed for the station, feeling the light breeze of an overcast day. For once, my mind was empty, but my body felt totally, completely full.
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