I'm hot, hungry, horny, and I'm crawling around on a roof in hundred-degree heat, with a guy who looks like his 401(k) got looted on the way to his mother's funeral. He's an architect named Happy Rotenberg, because of his happy personality--NOT!
I'm hot, because it is hot. I'm horny because I haven't got laid in a month and this month don't look too good either. I'm hungry because I'm an unpaid intern, and all the Rents are sending me is enough diñero for my share of the rent on the apartment and couple bricks of Ramen noodles. I share what the real estate agent called a two-bedroom with three other slobs, whose idea of housekeeping is to shovel the shit into black plastic bags when it piles too high.
Finally, I'm crawling on the roof because that's my assignment today, and it sucks.
I'd finished my third year architecture at State, and the Rents thought that a summer job in an architect's firm was just what I need. They were blissfully unaware that the economy was in the shitter, and graduate architects with twenty years' experience were glad to find work, any work. It was a joke in New York City this summer: "Y'wanna find an architect? Step off the curb, raise your hand, and yell 'Taxi!' If he don't have a beard and a turban, he's an architect--Hell, even if he does have a beard and a turban, he might be an architect!"
Mom called her Uncle Hubrecht. Uncle Hubrecht represents the German side of our family. He is always right; he says so his own self, so it must be true. Once he thought he made a mistake, but he was wrong. One time, when I told him I didn't like a story he liked, he said I was intolerant and trying to impose my views on everyone else. I must be wrong, even though I said I didn't care if anybody else agreed with me, because Uncle Hubrecht said I was wrong, and he is never wrong. But Uncle Hubrecht knew a fella who knew a fella--so there I was, at Whirlock & Weisberg, Architects, P.C., East 20th Street, New York, N.Y.
Whirlock was dead for a hundred years or so. Weisberg was last heard of in Miami Beach, living on the part of the bribes he was supposed to pay building inspectors but kept for himself. The inspectors were indicted anyway, so nobody knew, except some gentlemen who are looking for Weisberg and would pay plenty to know where he is. So right now, the firm was being run by Happy.
Whirlock & Weisberg, Architects, P.C., had an engagement from a bunch of tenants in a condominium to survey the roof to oppose a Major Capital Improvement. You don't know what that is. You're lucky. I had to read 200 pages of fiction, and then we had to go over every square foot of roof, most of it on our hands and knees.
At least Happy was getting paid for it.
One student from my architecture class at State got a real job. The Giraffe was not the girl you'd ask to the Prom; she was not the girl you'd ask anything. But she did have the best GPA, and she got the job at Kennedy Stuhldreyer. That was a real architectural firm, with a Park Avenue address and all.
The Giraffe was no looker. She was tall, thin as a soda straw, and nodded when she talked. Her straw-colored hair was always tangled and her face was full of freckles. I made up a song about her (but never sang it to anyone but me): "Six feet tall, no tits at all, why should I make that deal? Six feet tall, no tits at all, I can't believe she's real. Six feet tall, no tits at all, can't even cop a feel, six feet tall, no tits at all, why should I make that deal?" But she got the grades, the Department Chairman's recommendation, and the Struhldreyer nod.
Stuhldreyer was an alum and a big giver. He always took the top student from the third year class for the summer.
Now Stuhldreyer got the engagement to perform the Local Law facade inspection (you also shouldn't care what that is) on the same building we were inspecting. And so The Giraffe showed up on the roof at the same time Happy and I were crawling around. The first glimpse of me that The Giraffe got was my jeans giving a fine exhibit of Plumber's Butt.
So why do I care about The Giraffe? Because I am horny.
Now you'll say, why are you horny, you're a bachelor in NYC, you can claim you're an architect, and you live in hot happening Chelsea Manhattan fuckin' New York City. There's supposed to be hetero, homo, bi, les, trans and every other kind of sex just floatin' in the air, right? Just reach out and grab some, right?
Wrong.
Oh yeah, if you're a bachelor in hot happening Chelsea Manhattan et cetera, you can get pussy (and Ass, The Other Vagina) by the yard. There's only a few requirements. You have to be vaguely presentable (OK, I can do that), disease-and-drug-free (for sure), know the right bars to hang out in (ditto), and, last but definitely not least, have an annual income of three hundred fifty thousand dollars before bonus, and produce two consecutive years of transcripts of your tax returns from the IRS to prove it. Oh shit, fucked again.
My friend Wilson Chung told me all about it the third day I was in New York. I met Wilson Chung at State when he was there doing some kinda deal with the University for Golding Sechsauer. Golding Sechsauer, he told me, is the most successful and wealthiest investment bank you never heard of. Wilson Chung is only a couple years older than me, but his annual income is so far north of three hundred fifty thousand dollars that he needs the winning team from the Iditerod to get there.
He said look him up if I ever came to NYC. So I did.
Free cunt is easy, he told me, there's always the Boro bitches, in from Queens or Brooklyn for a good time. Mediocre sex, but who could argue with free? Might get lucky with a really nice girl, but then she wants you to meet Mother and check out Tiffany's. That's definitely on the "no fly" list, 'cause next stop's a life sentence, and the get-out-of-jail card could cost you a bundle.
For the good stuff, said Wilson, in his high-class British accent (his parents were from Hong Kong but he grew up and went to school in the UK), you need to pay. And Diane was the good stuff.
Diane got out of an Ivy League law school with a degree and one hundred fifty thousand dollars in debt. Student loan debt, the kind you can't get out of by going bankrupt. She passed the New York bar exam, but never got sworn in. That way, she said, they couldn't disbar her. She worked as a receptionist in a big law firm, but her real job is highest-class whore.
She paid off her loans in two years that way, and bought a thirty-fifth floor condo in Chelsea for cash, with her pussy and anus as her capital assets.
Diane spent her spare time in the gym. She was ripped to the max, not body-builder, but solid. She did kick boxing and Brazilian capoeira, lifted weights, but her real exercises were done at home.
Wilson told me that a weekend with Diane cost around five thousand dollars, plus the hotel room (Diane never worked at home), breakfasts and lunches from room service, and the four hundred dollar dinners at the best restaurants (wine extra). But it was worth it.
She showed Wilson her special exercises, in her condo, before they headed off to the Morgan for the weekend. She had cut a jump rope in half, tied the rope end of each half to a 25-pound weight, and carefully filed and sanded each handle end smooth. She showed Wilson how she lightly oiled one handle end with organic virgin olive oil from Umbria, just a drop or two, and squatted down and shoved it in her pussy. She tightened her muscles and stood up, lifting the weight with her kegels each time, and did 45 repetitions. She did the same with the other, only she shoved it into her ass.
Wilson said the first time he fucked her, she clamped down just as he was coming. He almost passed out, it was so tight. She got off two or three times by using her muscles to rub his dick head against her G-spot, and then suddenly released. He said he actually screamed and almost bit off part of his tongue, he came so hard.
"As for her arse, dear boy,
frag nisht,
as they say, don't throw grenades, or rather, don't ask," Wilson went on. "Y'know, with most-- male, female or whatever-- you go into their arses and it's great, but get past the rectal muscles and it's like fucking a bloody basketball hoop, you're in balls-deep and nothing for your poor dick head. But Diane--now she can hold you to your word, and no error.
"Of course, no glove, no love; you must bag it with dear Diane. Now with most of them, wear a bag and you might better wank yourself. But not with Diane, oh dearie me no, old lad. She can make you forget the bag, your mother's birthday, and the Star-Spangled fuckin' Banner!"
But of course this was TMI. I could never afford Diane. Wilson pointed her out to me one night at the Stars Club (he was buying, must have taken pity on me), but the guy she was with was wearing enough gold to buy out most of North Korea. She was model-girl pretty, with the tits and ass of a real woman, not a runway runaway. Not for me, dammit!
