HUSH (BRANDON TIETZ)
An excerpt from Brandon Tietz’s novel, OUT OF TOUCH.
Derek Beals (Absolute Imagery)
June 17th.
A Saturday.
I toss my Ferrari key to a Mexican or Puerto Rican (is there really a difference?) valet while the three girls behind me stumble along the cement walkway in designer heels. To Hush. They’re giggling and coked out of their minds, trying to catch up as I sift through the queue of people. Toward the black velvet rope and I meet eyes with Derrick or Brad or Oliver (whatever the doorman’s name is) who shoots me the look of recognition. Of acknowledgment. Barely nodding. It’s a little past 11:00 p.m. and I’m always flanked. Untouchable but completely available. Free. It’s a Barbie conference in front of the black velvet rope, and the girls play the part so well that sometimes I fool myself into believing they’ll anatomically follow in suit; a crackless ass. A blank crotch and stolid breasts. Standard shades of tan. Of hair and make-up. And their eyes never blink. Ever. They bat. Because a woman can be an object if that’s her objective. She can be a product, and I spot a couple of blondes tastefully begging to get in. Leaning and squeezing and flirting, and when the doorman unhinges the rope I whisper to the one nearest me that they can join my table for drinks. They (of course) accept (because they’d be dumb not to), and I slide the doorman a crisp fifty for no good reason, being led inside now by a hostess whom I’ve fucked a couple times on speed-laced X and French champagne two and five weeks ago after a couple rare nights of nonsuccess with other patrons, but I look her over and recall it unflinchingly. Feeling nothing except indifference. Mild callousness. And then the lights hit. Of magenta. Of teal and yellow and orange and jade that flash and wave over the wood and steal, and I put on black Versace sunglasses because my pupils are the size of dinner plates as side effect and growing. Because I’m making an impression walking in here with five Barbie clones in designer clothing by Burberry and Guess and D&G. But mostly because I can. Every facet of this place is cold and indifferent and expensive. And the girls are still giggling and chatting when we’re seated in our tan suede leather sectional, talking about my car with the air-conditioned seats. About how un-stepped on my coke is. About nothing. Still playing the part, moving their shoulders, their hips, to the music. I blow out the pearl votive candles on the table. It’s 11:27 and the Asian girl across the table from me has bronze skin and bleached blonde hair. A glossy little advertisement of a mouth. I think she works at BeBe. Bottle service is delivered to our table consisting of two bottles of vodka (one Belvedere, one Grey Goose), a bucket of ice, stirring devices, glasses, mixers (cranberry and orange juice, tonic water), eight Red Bulls, a bottle of Voss water, and I have only a vague idea of how much it costs but that doesn’t matter. At all. The DJ gives me a nod from the steal and glass booth across the room and my hands are shaking a little. The blonde to my left asks me what I do and I tell her I’m a doctor. A surgeon. She touches my leg and I don’t get excited. Club lights pulse from above. I look away. There are three blondes planted on the suede couch across the way giving me the eye. I wave them over and they pop up a little too eagerly for my tastes. We have just reached full table capacity. They introduce themselves as Hannah, Nikki, and Fallon, but all I hear is whore, whore, and coke-whore since I already know their reputation and I’m pretty much all-knowing and all-powerful here. At Hush. I ask for three more glasses even though they already have drinks. I consciously act a gentleman, noticing the queue at the bar is three-deep when I sneak a glance. The dance floor has already spilled over to the seating areas and it’s not even midnight yet. Everybody is shoulder-to-shoulder. Wall-to-wall. I light a cigarette (a Parliament) and blow smoke in one of the girls’ faces (maybe on purpose). It doesn’t bother her so I put it out after a couple drags and my mouth tastes like ashy garbage now. I make myself a drink with no mixer and lots of ice. Take four large swallows. It’s gone. Then a manicured hand belonging to a future rape victim lands softly on my shoulder and I flinch. She wants to know if I have any X so I give her a flunitrazepan (a roofie) and she goes away. Satisfied. Her legs hard and tan. They remind me of polished wood. Like oak layered on bone. I set my cell phone to go off in 15 minutes and she’s wearing a red low-cut dress, taking the pill with a swallow of cranberry juice. The DJ bends over but I can’t tell if it’s to mix songs or to do a line. A moment passes and the song remains unchanged. I take a Xanax and feel a foot in my crotch. There are three girls sitting across from me so I apply an ice cube to the foot to identify which one it is. The blonde in the black Gucci top flinches then smiles, but this is nothing to me. She’s nothing. The manager of the club comes up to me and shakes my hand, and just like the hostess and all those gatekeepers that seem so much the same, I don’t remember his name, either, but he informs me that the four gentlemen across the way would like to invite me over for a drink. I glance over and it’s four guys in designer suits but with no women. Lawyers, I’m thinking, and now I know it’s not necessarily me they want to meet, but rather, the girls I’m with, which is a fairly logical play on their part. The Hush trickle down effect. Club Reaganomics. I tell the manager to let them know I politely decline, and send them a bottle of Cristal to keep them at bay. At Hush, or at any other club for that matter, this is informally known as a “restraining order.” Another blonde at the far end of the table is wearing a black top with a silver A|X set tastefully on her right breast. I think about chopping her skull in half with an ax and wait for the Xanax to kick in. The blonde Asian girl that might or might not work at BeBe says something in gook-speak and I tell her to never do that again even though I liked it. She smiles unhappily. I make another vodka straight and wait for my Xanax. The lawyers get their bottle of Cristal and give me a wave. An appreciative set of smiles and nods. I return the gesture and take two large swallows of vodka, looking away. The song changes. Some remix of some popular song that’s being played too much. I’m not sure what it is. My cell phone buzzes in my pocket and I turn to look at the girl in the red dress I roofied earlier. She looks sleepy and less tan. Less Barbie. More human. Weaker and vulnerable, and therefore, accessible to me and my immediate needs. The group eyes me when I move to stand, and I announce my quick return, though I have no idea how long this departure will last, escorting the red dress to the men’s restroom. Downstairs. She’s wobbly and out of it but still able to walk. Her hands clutch weakly to my shoulders. To my waist. Inside are two well-dressed Middle Eastern guys who don’t seem to think a woman inside the men’s restroom is out of the ordinary. One of them apologizes for not calling me back and I tell him it’s okay even though I don’t know what he’s talking about. They’re both doing coke off the marble countertop and I’m waiting for my Xanax to kick in. Inside the stall, I sit the girl on the toilet and unfasten my pants. I don’t put on a condom. I have one, but I don’t put it on, and her legs are smooth and polished. Like wood. Expensive wood you see in catalogues and brochures and high-end store windows. I slide her dress from under her ass and prop her legs on my shoulders, smelling vanilla shave lotion mixed with Curve. She’s wearing a black thong. Dark lacy floss. I move the crotch of her underwear to one side and start fucking her. That perfect cunt. The Middle Eastern guys are snorting outside the stall and listening. Chortling. I fuck her for about ten minutes but can’t come. Can’t stay hard because my Xanax is kicking in. Relaxing me. Every part of me, and when I leave her on the toilet with those hard legs and soft center exposed, I don’t wonder why the Middle Eastern guys eye what’s in the stall inquisitively. Hungrily, even. I don’t question it. Everything makes sense when you don’t care, and after exiting the restroom and sifting through the crowd, I return to the table and find to my displeasure that the lawyers have taken the liberty of seating themselves. One of them is in my spot, and when I point that fact out to him, he apologizes and promptly stands, mentioning something about him hoping I don’t mind that they joined my table. I tell him aside from the fact that it’s incredibly rude, no, I don’t mind at all. He forces a chuckle, but I really don’t care because my cock is wet and this Xanax feels good. One of the blondes at the table asks me where I went all doe-eyed and slutty. Desperate. So I tell her what I did (what I almost did) and she laughs her little head off, assuming it’s a joke or chic. I lean in close enough to taste her and ask if she’d like to be next. She smiles mischievously and tells me you can’t rape the willing. Touché. I lie and tell her I’m taking her home with me tonight while dawning a rare smile. The DJ mixes tracks. I’ve heard these all before. Have had these conversations many times. The lawyer that was in my seat asks me if he can do anything to return the favor. For the Cristal you sent, he specifies, so I ask him if he’s got any coke even though I have some of my own. He does. I’ve also got some X if you want some, he tells me. I take one from him and examine it to make sure it’s not a roofie. It isn’t. I swallow it down with the vodka that’s left in my glass, and suddenly, I don’t detest this guy as much. The girl I told I was going to take home is wearing a sleek silver top with a black skirt and stiletto heels. She smells expensive and wants to know when we’re going home. The two of us. To my place. I run my hand between her legs and she doesn’t stop me. There’s no hesitation or regard for what surrounds us: the crowd and the noise, the shapeless mass that comprises Hush where people are bought and sold as an act of privilege. Her face relaxes when I ease my fingers inside her. Sampling her. Teasing. They emerge wet and oily, and taste sweet when I suck the ends. I tell her soon. She sits and the lawyer I’m standing with shrugs his eyebrows impressed, something I actually enjoy more than what he’s shrugging about. He asks me what I do for a living and I tell him I’m a broker. A stockbroker, to be exact. We’re lawyers, he tells me while motioning to his three counterparts. I try to pretend I didn’t already know that and tell him some coke sounds pretty good right about now. He nods, empties his flute of Cristal, and I begin sifting through the crowd for a third time. The girls at my table are all looking at me, even the ones talking to lawyers. It’s all about me and it’s well past midnight. When we enter the bathroom there’s a line. Not for the urinals, because those are completely vacant. The line is for the stall. There are three well-dressed guys standing outside of it, each looking eager yet uncomfortable. I look at the space at the bottom of the stall and see legs that remind of smooth polished wood, and then another set in between those. A black thong sits on the floor surrounded by condom wrappers. Three Trojans. A Durex. One Lifestyles (ribbed). Heavy breathing heaves from within. The lawyer chuckles and I do the same so he doesn’t think I’m a fag. He takes out the bag and starts racking up lines on the counter with an AmEx card. Big ones. I roll up a hundred and take the first one. Sniff. He asks me how it is and I tell him it’s good even though my stuff is definitely better. Less cut. The guy inside the stall comes which evokes a mild jealousy. I take another line and try not to feel stretched from all this shit I’m doing. The next guy enters the stall and I’m not sure what happens next. Not sure I want to. I do another line. My Rolex tells me it’s 12:47 at night when the sound of another condom unwrapping crinkles in acoustic. I think about fucking the Asian girl tonight. I’m about 67% sure she works a BeBe. Not that that matters. I do another line. Another well-dressed guy comes into the restroom and asks us if we’re in line for the fuck-doll. He actually says this. Fuck-doll. I shake my head. The lawyer chuckles, asks me about the girl. The fuck-doll. Wasn’t she sitting at your table earlier? I shrug and do another line, tell him I’m no one’s keeper. Gotta look out for #1, he concurs. I’m so fucking bored. This is my sixth or seventh line. I do a gummer to get this nasty taste out of my mouth. It sort of works and I think my Xanax has just been defeated. After the lawyer re-bags his shit, we both go back out to the table for a drink. He flags the waitress down and gets us a couple Heinekens. One of his buddies thumbs his nose at him and he smirks in return. The track playing is something by some group, but I can’t remember if it’s the one song or the other one. Regardless, it’s very deep couch and appropriate for the make-out session that’s happening between the two girls at the table. It makes sense. The three lawyers are all seated and watching as the rest of the girls look on in either boredom or jealousy. A tingle ripples through my neck. The ecstasy, I think, is coming. Our Heinekens are brought to us. Lawyer drops a $50 on the waitress. We clink necks and swig hard. Tastes good. The expensive smelling blonde that I gave the run-through to earlier gives me her best I-wanna-fuck-you-now look and I turn my gaze to the two blondes making out instead. Kinda hot, the lawyer says. I nod in agreement since being bi is in this summer and take another drink. They stop kissing and both look at me. At me. They are looking at me in hopes that I enjoyed the show, and I walk over and squat between the two of them, take another swig. They’re both blonde, both wearing black skirts. One of them a mini-mini. I can see her cunt and she knows it. She wants me to see it. It’s waxed and brilliantly pink. Egg-smooth. Silky. My middle finger enters and she grinds her pelvis into it. I take it out and put it in the other girl’s mouth. She sucks. I resume standing position and take another drink. The one not wearing the mini-mini grazes my cock with her hand. Then squeezes, and it’s not hard because this is nothing to me. They’re nothing to me. Completely expendable. Disposable. In a place like this, like Hush, that’s all you’ll find, but this is my life right now. Right then. An act. A magazine. An advertisement. These are girls who fuck for tables. For coke and drinks and three hours of glamour. Girls who publicly degrade themselves for pills. For a shot at a lawyer or doctor or whatever my profession is that night, because at Hush you’re not your name or your dreams. You’re an income bracket and self-promoting socialite. We’re all pretending to be more than what we are. Something we’re not. It’s the trend, and every night I’m doing this. Living this persona. An existence based on surfaces. On face value, and tomorrow it changes forever.
Tomorrow I’ll be out of touch.