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Virgin Memory Loss

Drew Marshall

    Mike and I had several hours to kill until we could watch the big ball drop from Times Square. It was goodbye nineteen seventy five, and hello to nineteen seventy six. I was a few weeks past my twenty-first birthday.
    My friend had recently enlisted in the peace time Army. An action he took to get away from his parents. Mike had to catch the two o’clock bus to Fort Dix in New Jersey.
    A chill was in the air as a light snow began to fall. We strolled along Seventh Avenue. Not an easy thing to do. This district was lined with streetwalkers. Mike was wearing his army cap and uniform.
    A short pudgy black woman appeared out of nowhere and latched onto Mike. She whisked him away and headed down a dark stairway. At first glance it looked like a subway entrance. I stopped in my tracks and called his name. He had already disappeared. I proceeded with caution.
    I descended into the lower depths and entered a huge room. A worn-out sofa was in one corner, along with a few fold up chairs and a coffee table. A woman tended the cash register atop the bar. The shelves behind her were empty. There were about a dozen small rooms on the far end of this pit.
    I saw Mike enter one the rooms. His hooker closed the door behind them. I sat on the sofa and waited for him to return. There was not a soul, lost or otherwise, in sight. It was a dark, dank, depressing, pauper’s palace of pleasure.
    A vision of loveliness appeared before me. A rare beauty endowed with perfectly chiseled features. She stared down at me from heaven and smiled. Aphrodite and Venus combined into one ravishing creature.
    This light skinned black woman wore a tan skirt that touched the top of her knees. Her boots matched the shade of her skirt. The blouse was see-through, a beige floral design.
    A black bra masked her hidden treasures.
    She wore a hint of a sensuous perfume. Since the ancient times of Cleopatra, mankind has known that scent, is the most powerful aphrodisiac. The stench of dried semen evaporated.
    The woman was an oasis, in a barren landscape. One glance at her beautiful brown eyes, and you laid down your defenses and surrendered.
    This feminine creature engaged me in small talk. She was obviously intelligent and articulate. The lady was very soft-spoken. The soothing sound of her voice was music to any man’s ears. She seemed quite out of place in this den of inequity.
    She finished dressing before I did. I sat on the bed, putting my socks and shoes on.
    The angel stood by the door watching me. I told her that it was my first time. This enchantress nodded knowingly, and smiled. Her gentle warmth permeated the claustrophobic room.
    The goddess held the door open for me as I left. She touched my arm for a moment and told me to come back soon. I stared at the mocha colored nail polish she wore. She glided over to the cashier. I lingered on my last glance at the face that launched a thousand ships. No doubt in my mind that she was Helen of Troy, in her previous life.
    I noticed Mike pacing back and forth by the sofa. He was pissed. He took one look at me and then flew up the stairs and kept walking. I had to run to catch up to him. We headed towards Times Square. He told me that he had shot his wad during foreplay. The prostitute would not let him continue unless he paid to start again. House rules. He didn’t like that deal, so he left. The cashier told him I was in one of the other rooms.
    We spotted a USO center and decided to go in for a visit. After looking around for twenty minutes or so, we left to usher in the New Year. We were lost in the swirl of a crowd that size. You start off in one direction and are pushed along in the opposite direction. It took us two hours to inch our way back to the bus terminal.
    Mike took off after the bus, as we saw it pulling out. He never asked about my experience. It didn’t matter. I was floating on a perfumed cloud all night. Her scent lingered on my hands. Her essence engulfed my imagination.
    I couldn’t stop obsessing about that ethereal beauty since our first dreamlike encounter. I returned two weeks later to the cesspool of ill repute. The cavern was closed down. The entrance, boarded up.
    As time passed I found I couldn’t remember one single detail of the sex that night. I can only see the mystery woman standing over me, smiling, when it was finished. I’m told it’s not unusual.
    It may be for the best. When you look at your favorite painting, you admire the beauty of the end result. Your first thought is not to imagine what it looked like in the beginning, when it was first sketched out.

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