Priests of Time: Ten Short Novels

By J. Hayes Hurley

The Priests of Time contains ten short novels. The first five are located in Manhattan, and include settings in Washington Square, the Chelsea Hotel, Times Square during the 1960's, the East Village, and Battery Park. The second five are located "Elsewhere." The novels are to do with artists, poets, actors, novelists, an

• Language: English
• Publisher: Palmetto Publishing
• Release date: Mar 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781638370505

J. Hayes Hurley

J. Hayes Hurley is the author of 69 novels, including Those Brownsville Blues, Dawkins and Daughter, and The Turtle Bay Novels. As well, he holds a Ph.D. in philosophy from Yale University.

Book preview

IN MANHATTAN

Heat Loss in Washington Square

A novel by

J. Hayes Hurley

M

y name is Cassidy Bing. I was born on January 1st, 1997. Today is October, 1st, 2020. If you have half a brain you can figure out my age for yourself. If you want to know more about me, let me give you two magical words to serve as your clue. Girl Power. That's the principle they told me to live by when I was growing up back in Gahanna, Ohio. That's what it said on the front of every pink tee shirt I owned. They said, stick with that principle, Cassidy, and you will be sure to get to where you want to go. Who were they? They were the feminists, I presumed. I never read the feminists, though some of my friends had friends who claimed they read the feminists. But regardless of whomever or whatever, this Girl Power movement was happening down at my level. The further question was: where did I want to go? I had no idea. I did not daydream about having a career; I thought mostly about boys and their ugly things, big or small. Meanwhile, I kept busy coming to grips with my looks. And since my looks are important to me, I will get to them first.

I smile a lot, and my two front teeth are prominent. They are not only big; they are wider than they are long. They look like molars, not incisors. When I first meet people, and hit them with my knockout smile, their eyes are automatically drawn to my two front teeth. This disconcerts them just long enough for me to use that to my advantage. If I am going to charm anyone, it is going to happen then and there. Backing up my smile are my glowing green eyes. l am told that my eyes are naughty. This in turn assures me that my rebellious spirit is active. Putting my two eyes and my two front teeth together into one fearsome foursome, I am one sassy young lady.

As for the rest, I have thick, auburn hair that is almost impossible to comb, so I keep it cut short. I have a broad, smooth forehead, a moon face, and large cheekbones. My nose is small, so my face flattens out when seen in profile. My lips are dark and naturally swollen. They are, I think, quite sensuous, and have a liquid quality about them. In fact, they look like I have had stuff injected into them to make them look sexy, but I have not. Am I pretty? I would say no. Am I sexy? I would say yes, definitely yes, damn it all, yes. Does any of this looks business help me sort out the big picture in life for me? No.

If I did not know where I wanted to go in the future, then what did I want to do with myself in the present? Girls, today, can do whatever they want. I was told that over and over again staring back then; I am still being told that today. Good. Now what? Once I got to Lincoln High School, I got a tattoo inked just above my left ankle. It was of a middle finger giving everyone, well, the finger. My parents, my teachers, even my friends, thought this was too aggressive. I agreed to cover it up with bandages. Then I overreacted. I got a second tattoo, this one being that commonplace, sweet female expression, a tiny red rose. I had the guy ink it just above my left breast. My parents said nothing this time. My teachers pretended not to notice. But my friends pounced, telling me it was icky and sentimental. They said I didn’t get it, that my mood swings were too radical. I was not to merge with the crowd like some wimpy miss, nor was I to insult the crowd to the point where I could not make it back amongst them when societal obligations called. What then? They said I was to figure out for myself how to stand out from everyone else. How would that work? Was I to, kind of like, hover? I asked that question. And the answer they gave me was to use my Girl Power. How circular was that?

I stuck a silver nose ring in my nostrils. Five minutes after I inserted it, I caught a glimpse of myself in a side mirror. It looked like I had snot coming out of my nose. It was not dropping snot; it was hovering, shimmering, but never dropping snot. I took out the ring, thinking, What now? I was the most impatient person in the whole of Gahanna, and I soon grew sick of the pack of girls I ran with in high school. They all planned on going to Ohio State when we graduated. Their grades were OK. My grades were much better than theirs. I didn’t ask for better grades, much less try for them. I am smart; end of story. I did not value being smart back then, and you couldn’t tell that I had brains from observing my behavior, much less from the language I employed then, and still use now for that matter. Nor could you have gotten a glimpse of another side of me by tapping into my hidden value system. I valued nothing intellectual. I was just another waste-of-time teenager wearing Girl Power pink tee shirts and thinking about boy's things.

Finally, my parents, along with my school counselor, and some other people who said they were interested in my future even if I was not, told me to start applying to uppity colleges. I lacked the ambition to do anything of the sort. I blamed my grades for forcing a destiny on me that was uncalled for; though I kept that one to myself. See, I have like a near photographic memory for school stuff. There were no challenges given me in my classrooms; I turned homework stuff in the way you’d toss dirty towels into a washing machine, and my teachers drooled over it. Not that it was doing me any good in Gahanna where my ex-friends were not talking to me now that I was not talking to them. Worse, my dad was rich compared to all my friend's fathers, and he insisted that it was damn time I started to grow up. Fuck that, I said to him. Oh, God. How Mom cried when I disrespected Dad. She wanted me to be good. Like, right.

Anyway, I applied to ten schools. Mom filled out the applications following Dad's guidance. And, damn it all, I got into all ten schools. My parents were excited; every institution offered me a full scholarship. Dad pressed me for an answer as to where I wanted to go. I told him I don’t give a shit. He was really pissed now. He told me that I just had to stop being crude now that I was going off to college. And Mom was crying again. Finally, Dad chose for me. I was to go to New York University, or NYU. That school cost a fortune, but there was a boss scholarship offered me. Matter of fact it was going to cost less for me to go to NYU with that full scholarship then it would my going to Ohio State at the instate rate without one. My parents loved that. Finally, I went along with it, but only because it got me out of the house.

I moved to New York City. I had never had a single thought about that city. I knew it was different from Columbus, if only in size. But when I got here, I got this delightful jolt. I blurted out: I like this place. I did like it, very much. I liked the entire neighborhood around Washington Square. You know those streets: MacDougal, Sullivan, Thompson, and LaGuardia Place. It is a whole world unto itself. It is a neighborhood seemed made just for me.

What about my fellow coeds? I have to say, I liked them not so much. They were mostly snooty bitches from places like La Jolla, California, or Brookline, Massachusetts. I was a wiseass girl from Gahanna, Ohio. Plus, they were not rebellious like me. Quite the opposite, they were uniformly conservative, ever focused on where they wanted to be, culturally. That was a code word for getting into a good law school or a good medical school in most cases. As for me, I made no plans. I was not thinking of running for president, or of breaking any glass ceilings. I am trying to be honest here. I had not grown up emotionally when I first got to New York; in fact, I became even more audacious once I got my first taste of the big city. If you asked me, I would have said, without any hesitation, that I had busted loose from Gahanna and was ready for some badass experiences in the Big Apple.

To do that, I had to make friends with girls who were like me. That was not easy to do while hanging out in coffee houses below Washington Square with a preponderance of snooty bitches sitting their soon-to-be fat butts down on the stools. Though by the time I finished my sophomore year, staying in the city in the summers to intern for firms I had no intention of ever working for, but serving the purpose of keeping me away from Gahanna, Ohio and my inquisitive parents, I did manage to acquire friends. In fact, I made two very different sets of friends.

I kept both sets totally apart, so that, when I was not there with one group, they never suspected that I was spending time hanging out with the other group, and vice versa. To excuse my absences, I told members of both groups that I needed time alone to study. Everyone bought it. And it helped that I had my own dorm room. But the fact of the matter was that I never spent an excessive amount of time studying, either in my room or at the library. A bit of cramming before exams was all I needed. My grades at NYU were straight A's, just as they were in high school. I still had no idea what I wanted to major in, but when pressed at the start of my junior year, I finally signed on for American Studies. That really irked Dad, who kept hammering away at me about preparing for law school, but I was still tuning him out. Life after college seemed unimaginable, something for old folks to sort out. But, wait, I was going to talk about my two types of friends. They were both middle finger types, though very, different from one another. I am not understating things when I say they came from different persuasions.

My first and largest group of friends either belonged to, or hung out with an all-female punk rock band called, We Don’t Suck. Its lead singer and songwriter, was Sherril Forde. Have you heard of her? Maybe not, though you can find her on Google when you get about three pages along into all girl bands. Sherril graduated from NYU ten years before I got here, which made her thirty-three years old. She was always a hardass lady. She wrote songs that were way over the top. She took Girl Power more literally than most. It is what her followers wanted to hear. She never disappointed—them. Sherril would never admit to this in public, but I know it to be true because she whispered it in my ear one night.

I make up virtually all the horrible incidents that go into my song lyrics.

Yet, whenever she spoke on the record, she proclaimed, with a straight face and with a sustained tone of rage, that all these horrors she sang about did happen to her, or to women dear to her. This is, I suppose, a strategy a lot of people use to make themselves into what are called public persons. They make up their own legends, acquire their own myths, and construct their ideological profiles to suit their alternative set of facts. This is old stuff, I am told. And didn’t Nietzsche claim that he was a Polish Count? Anyway, I had no trouble with Sherril's strategy. Sherril, her band, and her posse, composed one of my two friend sets.

My other set of friends were three girls who were like me in that we all came from boring places in the mid-west like Gahanna, Ohio. We all got good grades without trying. We all had at least one tattoo that did not often show and, here is the fun part, we were all into seducing, manipulating, dazzling, loving and leaving in the lurch, both men and boys just for the lust of it.

Let me expand on that last point. Girls reactions to boys, and women's reactions to men fall along two basic lines. Men, always the instigators, behave in certain, naughty ways, and women only have two ways to react to it. They can condemn the action, taking on the puritanical route, and thus denying such behavior to both sexes, or they can emulate male behavior, turn it around, and adopt the goose and gander route. Sherril put forth the puritanical reaction; my other set of girlfriends took the goose, gander route. They tried to turn every guy with a thing into a victim with a thing. Both ways of acting out can be a lot of fun. But, anyway, let me tell you more about Sherril.

Sherril Forde's band We Don’t Suck still kept its home base in the Washington Square, Greenwich Village neighborhood. Sherril was the sole vocalist, or screamer. The guitar she held onstage was mostly for show, for she could only manage a couple of basic chords. She only sang songs she has written, or that some other angry woman she was friends with had written; she never once sang a song written by a man. Her voice was not melodious, but she did not give a shit, and neither did her tiny following. Sherril was known as the Robert Browning of punk rock lyricists; she overwhelmed her listeners with a plethora of words that did not even try to be musical. Her likeness to the English poet stopped there. She yelled out her words in a non-stop, violent manner, and there was nothing in it resembling rhyme or rhythm. Her songs were out and and out assault upon the male of the species. I would say that on a given performance night no less than two hundred men are trampled to death and their bodies left to rot—in her lyrics. She had, when the band was formed, an electric guitarist, a bass guitarist, and a drummer, all of whom were NYU students. They dyed their hair jet black, and kept it short, spiky, and shimmering wet. The other band members dropped out one by one until, at the time I speak of, Sherril was the only original band member. With her, now are a new guitarist, Sassy, a new bass guitarist, Florence, and a new drummer, Mitzi. None of these three ladies went to NYU, though they dress the same and play the same accompaniments as the originals, something that dates them in a world where one passing decade seems like a century. Over the past dozen years their punk rock band format has not changed, though the lyrics have become more strident, if that is possible, and Sherril's outlook has hardened to the point where, as she says, God help any man who is foolish enough to offer me advice on how to get ahead in the music business. The band We Don’t Suck has its loyal following, its passionate groupies, and its own, identifiable, hostile verve. Though, and as you would expect, they are few in number. And don’t ask Sherril about revenue streams. She is a purist.

Quite by chance I attended one of her concerts down in SoHo in the summer between my sophomore year and my junior year. I liked Sherril's energy, which never flagged. I liked her rebelliousness, which I took to be akin to my own, even though my refractoriness was directed elsewhere, though don’t ask me where that could be. Then there was this.

I was coming out of the ladies-room during a band break and there was Sherril waiting to go into it. The hallway was dark and narrow, we had to squeeze by one another so that I could get back to the venue and Sherril could get to the toilet. I gave her my wide-toothed smile as we were making the pass and, to my utter shock, Sherril, quick as a cat, shoved her tongue into my mouth. It darted between my two rows of teeth onto my tongue, where—I don’t know—either it explored my mouth for a second or two, or else it lashed out in some aggressive but practiced manner. Immediately after that, Sherril was gone into the toilet and the door slammed behind her.

I felt dizzy. My heart was pounding. Was it a delightful experience I just had? I was not sure. But I was curious, as they say. I went back to my seat, having a good deal of trouble with my balance. At one point I bent over at the waist, felt along my left calf, and when my fingers reached just above my ankle, I rubbed the spot where there is my middle finger tattoo. I swore it was tingling. I asked myself: is this something you want to do, get involved with this rocker and her posse? I wasn’t sure what I said back then to myself. Part of me said yes, that this was just another form of rebellion; part of me was the soul of caution, telling me that if I were to go ahead and play this sort of game then I had to make sure I stayed above the fray, as my former friends back in high school once cautioned. I interpreted that warning this way: I could be a tourist anywhere, though settling down in any new country was something else again. That last thought gave me courage. Sherril might be the big player here, but I was a manipulator in my own right, was I not? After the concert ended, one of Sherril's groupies, a girl with all her hair shaved off, with a great deal of purple eye shadow, and with huge hoop earrings tearing at her lobes, came up to me and said, in what was a surprisingly deferential tone of voice,

Sherril has invited a few of us out for drinks up in Hudson Yards. She is extending that invitation to you. Want to come or not?

I do.

K. Wait in front by the door.

I waited. Ten minutes later Sherril slipped her arm around my waist as she guided me to a waiting taxi. More on that night later.

For now, let me say something about my second set of girlfriends. They were called Jane, Suzi, and Michelle. Like I said, I told them nothing about Sherril and her pack. They would not get it. They were from another world altogether and, when I was with them, I was from that other world, too It is not that we four were simply man crazy, it is that we were like cougar kittens; we meant to do to men what we were told men usually did to women, that is have them. The last thing we wanted was to be without men, or to be independent of men, or in a world where women substituted for men with other women. And, remember, we were only twenty years old, and hell-bent on having fun.

What we did is this. Having recently read a lot of biographical materials, that is to say ideological materials about men and their conquests of women, and how they would afterwards meet at their clubs to brag about it, Robert Burns style, we four decided to adopt that sort of behavior for ourselves. We didn’t have a clubhouse, we met in bars in Soho or here in the Washington Square neighborhood, and we bragged about what men, usually NYU students, we had had. We provided excruciatingly exact details of men's things, and we laughed so loud that heads turned towards us in these public places. You want numbers? At that juncture, I had three, Jane had three, Suzi four, and Michelle two. We forced a lot of cynicism into our bragging sessions, but, as we insist, it is all good fun.

Now I will tell you a secret. I lied to my NYU friends. I was still a virgin. I did date a lot of guys, and I almost went all the way a couple of times, but I pulled back at the last second. OK? Look at it this way. I was rebelling against my own rebellion.

My little secret set aside, let me tell you about what went down during one of our club meetings. It was Jane had the idea. She started out on the oblique, saying how we girls found it funny, I guess that is the right word for it, how much negative power we girls wielded on the NYU campus, let alone in board rooms and in government offices. That was, often enough, all that Girl Power amounted to, setting men back on their heels. And in academia these days a male teacher would have to be insane to make a move on one of his female students. And even if he did not make a move, what was there to protect him if some girl said that he did? This was both delicious and ridiculous all at once. This was a high stakes, zero sum game playing. But it also irritated the four of us. Anyway, Jane's idea was this.

Let's we four take up a challenge. Let us see which one of us can seduce one of our male professors. The first one to do so this semester is the winner.

We were stunned. Then we were giggling. Jane pressed on.

The four of us have three different male professors this term. In all, there are four girls, and twelve professors. So, good hunting, and may the best girl win.

We agreed to give this game a try, consequences be damned. And once more, in agreeing to play the same, I added a second secret to my main secret. I vowed to win this game and to lose my virginity at the same time. I was pumped.

I never had such a night in my life as I did after meeting Sherril Forde at that concert. Our group piled into six different taxis and were driven to a newly opened watering hole in Hudson Yards. But the place was so packed we could not find seats. So, and at Sherril's suggestion, we moved on to a loft party down in TriBeCa hosted by an older woman sculptor named Miss Caledonia. There was a half-dozen women already in the place when Sherril's crowd arrived, all of them looking like older versions of the We Don’t Suck posse. Miss Caledonia, on the other hand, looked like Sylvester Stallone. Her sculptures were displayed on the wide-board floor at the far end of her vast loft and they appeared, to me, though I will confess that I have no eye for art, like a bunch of plain boulders. I said this to Sherril, who was quick to explain,

"The rocks are huge but the details carved into them are tiny and delicate. They are subtly hidden like, you know, vaginas? You must look very, very closely at each rock, then feel each rock, in order to appreciate the art. Miss Caledonia possesses of many secrets like that. Once you get to know her, you will understand much, Cassidy."

We girls mingled with the older women, forming a great circle on the floor. We smoked pot and we laughed a lot. Of course, I was enthralled. I was not sure at that moment if I was a rebel, or a liberal, or a progressive, or someone into identity politics, or whatever. All I could say was that, this is all right. This is what is happening.

Chinese food was brought in and we devoured in minutes. After a time, Sherril came over and sat next to me. I stole some sideways glances at her. Sherril was tall, thin, and sinewy. She had no breasts to speak of; her face was hard and handsome. She was actually attractive in that way. I said I could mesmerize people, if only for a second or two, when I flashed them my toothy smile. Sherril had something more mysterious, more electric going for her, a kind of sexual energy that kept on firing once she left the stage. Anyway, she put one sinewy arm around me, and spoke in a low voice, and very close to my ear.

Do you love my music, dear?

Growing up in Gahanna I preferred the Rolling Stones. They have talent. But I have to add in now, and I got this from one of Sherril's groupies, that the music I liked back then was only what she called Cock Rock. I got the illusion, but I was dumb enough to ask why it was that so many women were screaming their heads off at Rolling Stone concerts? The groupie made a face. I thought, What? What did I say?

My granddad told me a story once. He went to a show at the Brooklyn Paramount back in the fifties. There was this singer performing there named Jackie Wilson. When he was onstage singing, dozens of girls hunched down in their seats, moaned, and masturbated to his singing and his gyrating. In any case, I did not want to bring that up with Sherril's arm reaching all the way to my far shoulder. So, I lied.

I like your music.

Then I will put you under my wing.

She drew her arm tighter around me to indicate that I was, already, under her wing. We both giggled. I did nothing more than giggle. But then I always giggle when I smoke pot. I think Sherril got the message. She did not move quick as a cat, this time. In fact, she withdrew her arm and asked me,

"Can you sing, Cassidy?

It sounds like glass breaking when I sing.

Sherril's voice grew very soft now. She was speaking directly into my ear. No one else at the gathering could hear a word said. Not that they were trying to listen, though they were uniformly attentive to our presence. Now and then one of them would look over and smile at me, in what I took to be a welcoming fashion. Sherril said things like,

It is not the voice so much that counts in punk rock. It is the lyrics. And then there are other things to be done … I don’t just mean carrying equipment and such … though that is important. I do have my posse, my groupies. My followers. But … have you ever banged on a tambourine, Cassidy?

I … could try.

Do you believe in yourself?

Oh, yes.

That is good. That is very good.

Thanks to the pot, and to the closeness of Sherril Forde to me, and to the fact that I was being singled out by this punk rock lady while sitting around with her and her posse, and with Miss Caledonia and the other older women being there, too, not to mention the kiss I had received so unexpectantly at the start of this long evening, I felt as if I was floating down a river on my way to eternity. Did I like the punk rock music business? Could I be serious about it? I had no idea. Sherril asked me this, suddenly.

How are you professors?

What could I say? That I was out to seduce one of them? I said this.

They are there to teach me, I guess.

We both laughed at this. It seemed so damn funny of a sudden.

Though she did not try to kiss me again, Sherril wiggled her skinny fanny until our hips touched. She was quiet for a minute. Then she said this.

Tell you what, dear. You will come see me at my place soon. Would you like that?

I was not sure. Plus, I felt dizzy again. I blurted out,

Well, I am, you know, quite busy at school. I have to study.

Sherril reached over with her free hand and gave my thigh a squeeze. She said, and with her lips brushing my ear so that it tickled,

I understand. I will not rush you.

She withdrew her arm. But she did not move her body. Speaking next in a neutral voice, she said she would call me in a couple of weeks, and right after her next tour was completed. We exchanged cell phone numbers. And then, after calling out to some of the other women in the circle, she spoke to me again, using that same neutral voice.

Tell me about you, Cassidy.

I did so. I told her about growing up in Gahanna, Ohio. I got onto how I was good in school. As I droned on, I was painfully aware of how mundane it all sounded. Life in Gahanna did not sound breathtaking when spoken of in a loft setting in TriBeCa, and with women young and old all sitting around in a circle. Yet I went doggedly ahead, filling Sherril in on details of me, right up till the moment. It sounded so boring to my own ears. I mean, I had never given two shits about my studies in high school, or at NYU for that matter, and now here I was speaking to this older punk rocker about my studying things, and mastering things like English literature and mathematics. I even mentioned a business course I was going to take that fall semester, and at Dad's insistence, just in case I might need it one day. Sherril said nothing but, whenever my voice lagged, she said,

Go on.

I told her the dreary details about my junior and senior high school proms. Sherril's only comment, and I do not think she was being cynical, was,

I think you are well rounded.

I felt, what is that old-fashioned word? Square. Finally, I told Sherril I had a bicycle and that I rode all around Manhattan on it. I couldn’t think of anything else to say about me. But I kept on trying. I told her I liked drinking cappuccino. And I added, stupidly,

And things like that.

The gathering at the loft owned by Miss Caledonia, a woman who scarcely looked at me all evening, thank the Lord, broke up at two in the morning. By now, Sherril had her arm draped around the shoulder of her drummer, Mitzi. As the taxis came towards us, I told Sherril I would walk back to my dorm by myself. She did not protest. In fact, she shot me a dismissive look. I gave a wave to the others, thinking that was that, but it was not. There was, I suppose, a ritual to take place. Some eight or nine members of the posse came over to me and kissed me goodbye on the lips. They made it seem so natural. Meanwhile, I characterized it as a special case of rebelling.

Walking home through those deserted Manhattan streets I felt as if I was floating. I had never met anyone like Sherril Forde, never mind the rest of those women. For sure I was not going to say a word about them to Jane, Suzi, and Michelle. They would have stared at me, open-mouthed. They were always making cracks about women like Sherril, not to mention women like Miss Caledonia.

In the days following that night out I continued my routine at NYU. Going to classes, riding my bike, hanging out with my other girlfriends. Yet my fascination with the We Don’t Suck band and posse did not abate. There seemed nothing particularly dangerous about those women; in fact, it fit in nicely with a certain Girl Power pattern considered quite acceptable in most circles at NYU. Students there were almost universally tolerant of any number of lifestyles. I kept assuring myself that,

All is innocent.‘

Then, early one Friday morning, as I was bicycling to class, this thought struck me and I nearly lost control of the wheel.

Am I gay?

I had no idea. Or, wait. Get real. I did not think I was gay. I was straight. Yet I was the rebel, too. So, I put it all off to being a typical NYU student. I was allowing myself to have a little fun. But I added this.

Don’t take it any further than that. Don’t take it … intimately.

Sherril and the band went on tour. They did not play big venues; they were lucky to be given half of a supermarket parking lot in which to hold their concerts. Sometimes a thousand people showed up to hear the band play along with a dozen other alternative bands, most of them getting in free, and sometimes only a handful of women were in attendance while the band looked out at them from a short alleyway. I did not call Sherril during this period and she did not call me. I was, then, running exclusively with my three straight girlfriends. We were keeping one another up to date on our seduction game. That was not going well. Jane has been twice rebuffed, both times with cold stares. Suzi was frightened when her English professor threatened to write a letter to the dean. As for Michelle, well, this was funny. Her old history professor, and I mean he was really old, gave her a fatherly hug and told her to be a good girl. Jesus.

What did I tell the girls about my luck in this seduction game? We were, by the way sitting in a workman's bar on Tenth Avenue when this report was made, and we were bloated from drinking one pitcher of warm beer after another, and while eating pizza with thick, soft, half-cooked dough, runny tomato sauce, and fake cheese.

"Two of my male profs are dorks. I want to toss my cookies just thinking about going to bed with them. I mean we are not whores, here, girls. It has to be fun. Right? Anyway, the last guy is like, I don’t know, Jesus! He is like Jesus, come to think of it. I mean … I don’t mean he is religious or anything like that. I mean he is way up there in the lofty sky. He is …"

Jane, Suzi, and Michelle leaned in, waiting to hear who this lofty fellow was. I blurted it out.

He's my intro to philosophy professor.

And from the three came the collective,

So?

Well, I mean … he is British.

Their laughter cascaded down on my head and shoulders the way Gatorade does when ball players pour it over the head of their winning football coach. Right away I got a lot of throwback criticism beginning with,

Cassidy?

You know the sound. The last syllable is spoken on the rise, and in an accusatory tone. I had to admit that I was not playing this game right.

OK. OK. I will hit on him. Promise.

Michelle wasn’t having it. She pressed me.

When?

Soon.

How soon?

Tomorrow for Christ's sake. OK?

Dr. Hobart is a lofty one. We students don’t dare even say his first name, which is Malcolm. He is so smart and intellectual and, yes, he is British. He is, and I looked this stuff up on Google, thirty-six years old. Face it. I couldn’t seduce him. I mean I couldn’t even try to seduce an important guy like that. Besides, I liked him. He was my favorite teacher. Not that I gave a shit about philosophy but still, he was classy in ways that my other teachers could never be. On the other hand, I was not going to bail out on my girlfriends. And there was the matter of my virginity to lose. I hadn’t forgotten about that.

How to do it. There was no hope of chatting Professor Malcolm Hobart up after class. Students crowded around his desk. He answered questions patiently until, having had enough, he bounded up out of his chair and hightailed it out of the building, thus effectively cutting himself off from having to endure any more of the student's bullshit. They were all just looking for A's anyway. And for that matter, what was new?

I needed a better start. And I got it. I spotted Malcolm (I decided to think of him as Malcolm if I had any hopes of carrying this game out successfully) sitting on a bench in Washington Square the very next morning, talking to two students in our intro class, a boy and a girl. They were just leaving, and the boy was handing over a sheaf of papers to Malcolm. I waited for them to be gone and then made straight for the bench. I sat down with a plop where the young man had been seated a moment earlier. Malcolm, who was getting ready to leave the bench himself, but was still busy stuffing the boy's papers into his briefcase, was startled. But since I was down already, he made a quick adjustment. He put on his English smile and said,

So … you need a bit of guidance on our next paper, too. All right. Miss Bing is it?

Cassidy.

All right, Cassidy Bing. What can I do for you?

God. Jesus. Lord. What was I doing? I felt frightened, perhaps for the first time in my life. Then I remembered Girl Power. But I did not know how to start with it. Meanwhile Malcolm was doing his best to keep up that phony English smile of his. When I still did not begin, my professor lost his smile and stared at me, uncomprehendingly. I had to get on with this. But how? For some reason I began to giggle. And this was not a pot-smoking giggle. Damn it. Not only had I never been this frightened before, I had never felt this embarrassed. But then I remembered my finger tattoo, and I thought, honesty is the best policy.

That made me giggle all the harder. It was a delicious bit of irony if ever there was one. Nevertheless, I decided to plunge right in and to begin my seduction of my professor without adding any frills. I said,

Malcolm … I want to …ah.

I got tongue-tied and went silent again. I turned red. My moon face, when it turns red, is quite fetching, quite classically female, I think. And listen to this! I had forgotten to mesmerize the man with my smile. My sensuous upper lip covered my two extra-wide front teeth. And what about Malcolm? Would he laugh at me? Would he threaten to tell the dean? God forbid if he ended up patronizing me as we sat together on that bench. Well, as it turned out, he did none of the above. What he did do, as I was about to find out, was continue to misinterpret the reason for my visit. He said this.

I didn’t think you were into philosophy. That is why I did not bother to … but are you interested in, you know, all the weighty thinkers, Cassidy?

I lied, saying,

Oh, yes.

Malcolm, who felt apprised of the situation now, nodded his head vigorously. He spoke rapidly, in his crisp, British accent.

Then I do extend my invitation to you. And do pardon me for excluding you earlier.

What the hell was he talking about? He went on to make it clear. Malcolm had invited a half dozen students who were interested in exploring a major in philosophy to a function at his faculty housing apartment a week from this coming Friday. It included supper. What could I do but go along with it? I accepted. Malcolm gave me the particulars, and then he gave me a curt goodbye, and then he was up and gone. Sitting there alone on a bench in Washington Square I felt like a fool, but then, thinking it over some more, I decided it was better this way. I could get on with this seduction business a lot easier once we got to know one another, indoors. Until a week from Friday then.

Wouldn’t you know it, Sherril's tour was cut short. But that was not unusual. Most all girl punk rock bands have disappointing runs. I found out about this when Sherril called me later on, on that same day I first spoke to Malcolm. She said, after our hellos,

I am throwing a party at my place on Barrow Street. This evening. Do come, Cassidy.

She made it sound more like a command than an invitation. I blurted this out.

You have your own place on Barrow Street?

Sherril laughed.

My dad bought it for me. Years ago. He is an angel. Coming?

Yes.

Make it at six.

I got there at six. I was impressed with the layout. Sherril owned a two-bedroom condo with a large, fenced-in back yard. It was so vintage Greenwich Village. The rocker greeted me, not with a soul kiss, but with a brief hug. She seemed to be consciously keeping a bit of distance between us, though I did see that as being a phony pose. Furthermore, and after looking around, and seeing no one else present, I was worried about my being the only invited guest. Well, that turned out not to be the case. All of Sherril's fellow band members and quite a few members of her posse dropped in within minutes of my arrival. Even Miss Caledonia made an appearance, wearing a cut off tee shirt and showing her slack-skinned arms.

I settled in, just as I had at the loft in TriBeCa. But I was on the alert regardless. I got the idea, call it my female intuition for laughs, that Sherril Forde was conducting a grand seduction scheme, and that I was her intended target, and that everyone in her posse was in on it. How did I come to intuit this last bit? Whenever one or more of the girls came over to speak to me, they fussed over me while showering me with kisses. They let their fingers feel my clothes and they pinched my arms, murmuring generous words of approval while doing so. I was like—the goods! Then I had this further thought, and it made me laugh out loud.

I am busy trying to seduce Professor Malcolm Hobart, while punk rocker Sherril Forde is busy trying to seduce me.

What a night! The weather was cooperating, so we had our cocktails in the yard. I kept looking around, and for what? There were no men present. Oh, yeah. Men were to be stamped out like cockroaches. That was one of Sherril's favorite lines, one she repeated in several of her songs. She even had this chorus going, which went, Stamp, stamp, stamp, and she invited the woman in the audience to sing along, or rather shout along while stamping their feet. But then what about Daddy Angel, who had bought this condo for her? Oh, yeah. I remembered. Sherril had told me that her lyrics applied only onstage.

The dinner party went on until after midnight. I continued getting the impression that I was the goods, and that I was being looked over for size. And as far as my smile went, they looked at my teeth, yes, doing so like horse traders do. When we all got ready to leave, Sherril did not see me out personally. I got a group sendoff. Though the rocker did shout at me, as I went through the door,

I’ll get back to you, Cassidy, hon.

I guess that made me feel flattered.

The setting for the student dinner party at Professor Malcolm Hobart's two-bedroom, faculty housing apartment could not have been any different from the Sherril Forde dinner party on Barrow Street. Or was it? Let me concentrate on the likenesses first. Sherril had a two-bedroom place; Malcolm had a two-bedroom place. Sherril had a fenced in back yard; Malcolm had a large balcony offering a partial view of the Washington Square arch. Sherril's entire condo was a bit larger than Malcolm's; Malcolm had the larger kitchen. Sherril's crowd was at ease; Malcolm's students were pretending to be at ease.

Now for the differences. Sherril had no men at her gathering. Malcolm did. But that was no big deal. What was a big deal was the dominant presence of Malcolm's wife, who was introduced to me as Herminie Myerscough. Can you believe that name? I had never thought of Professor Hobart as having a wife, let alone an imperial British presence one like Hermine obviously was. I was nonplussed. Herminie was a plain woman in the looks department. She was plainly dressed as well, covered up in an old-fashioned dress from some long-gone era. It was as if she was coming to life out of a 19th century, black and white photograph. But when I took a second look at Herminie's outfit, when I finally took in the finery of the threads, and the cut of the cloth, I just knew that Malcolm's wife was higher up the scale of English society than he was. Plus, she was clearly older than Malcolm and, rather than my being able to mesmerize her for a second or two with my smile while Malcolm was introducing us, I was the one immediately affected instead. The woman's deadpan stare chilled me. I stammered,

Nice to meet you, Mrs. ah … Myerscough.

She did not help me out with names. She did not ask me to call her Herminie. What she did say was, and she said it with the most cutting and chilling British voice I have ever heard in my life, on television or in person,

Help yourself to the hors d’oeuvres. But know that they have nothing to do with me. The philosophy department gets them from the university cafeteria. It is a budget allotment thing."

I was dismissed. Herminie was a force. I decided then and there not to go ahead with my game playing. Someone would get hurt for sure. But as the evening wore on, and with Malcolm working the room, doing his departmental duty to seek out new philosophy majors, we students got split into three groups. Those already given the pitch drifted into the kitchen, where Herminie served them more university food. Those waiting to be pitched waited in the small living room. Those getting the pitch were taken out onto the balcony one at a time, and there Malcolm's words washed over them. I was the last invited, and as such I was the last one taken out onto the balcony. It was a balmy night. The good fall weather was continuing and, once we were outside, the both of us leaning up against the railing and gazing out on what we could see of the arch, I thought,

Now or never.

Here was the situation in a nutshell. I was no longer a teenager. Yet I was still playing the rebel. More specifically, I was playing a game of seduction along with my three girlfriends. I was as well the virgin who—but never mind all that. Malcolm, standing a foot away from me, but being totally into his recruitment mode, and gazing out over Washington Square, was going and on about what philosophy majors do when, and with my heart beating wildly, and with a quick glance back into the apartment to make sure no one was coming, I touched Malcom's arm for a moment. He stopped talking at once and looked over at me with that same look of incomprehensibility he had given me on that park bench. I swallowed and got this out before I fainted dead away.

I have to tell you how much I like you, Professor … Malcolm. I want to know you better."

Malcolm remained open-mouthed. He had listened to countless warnings about situations like this I am sure, and he certainly knew what he was about. So, I figured, and I half-hoped this would happen to tell you the truth, that he would do the right thing and end this nonsense at once. Imagine! A student saying this to him on the balcony of his own apartment! And with his formidable wife Herminie close by. But he did not. He just stared at me for what seemed like forever. It was my play. And I gave it to him, my best square-tooth smile. He pulled his shoulder away from me a bit, though we were both still leaning into the balcony rail. And then he said, and I could not believe what he said.

I like you too, Cassidy.

He hastened to add, in that clipped British accent of his that just struck me as not quite as posh as the one possessed by Herminie,

But I am wise, and mature, and, yes, scared enough not to be flattered. I cannot act out on what you said to me.

I was what? Was I relieved? Screw that. I was the rebel, still.

Oh, Malcolm, bother that.

The man visibly crumbled then and there. My girlfriends were right. Men are men. They are led by their little ugly things. And I knew in that moment that I had him. But I let him trot out the remainder of the company line regardless. And I proceeded to counter every one of his dodges.

We cannot be doing or even thinking of this, young lady. University regulations and all.

Well, if no one knows, what is the harm? I won’t say anything if you won’t. That is, if we both like one another.

I am older than you. I am … over thirty.

I don’t care.

I am overweight.

You are a beautiful man.

I am your teacher.

You are my favorite teacher.

Cassidy, I am married.

So, what?

To Herminie.

This last bit gave me pause. This was out of my ken. Clearly, Herminie was no pushover. All I wanted to do was play this seduction game with my second girl group, not cause some sort of international incident. But here we were. I spoke carefully now.

I don’t want to … to cause you any trouble, Malcolm. Can’t we …

What?

My impatience flared.

I mean, Jesus. Don’t men figure out these difficult things out on their own? That is not the girl's job.

I could not believe I had just said that and in such a cutting tone. Meantime, Malcolm was busy clearing his throat. He was thinking of how to figure it out logistically! Can you believe that? For a moment I got sick of the game I was playing. I almost lashed out again. I almost shouted,

I don’t believe you, Malcom Hobart. Here you are, and with your wife less than fifty feet away, letting a silly student lead you on like this? Men are hopeless.

But of course, I said nothing like that. I knew this. Sherril Forde played the game of seduction a lot better than I did. Of a sudden Malcolm said this in a choked voice.

All right, young lady. Cassidy. I will ask you out. Is that what you want?

It is.

I thought we were onto it, but once again the professor hesitated. His face took on a blank look. I could tell that he was wrestling with the immediate reality of our situation now. That was what men did. He seemed overwhelmed, however. I was sure he was new at this. He seemed like a teenage boy of a sudden. He blurted this out.

Where can we go?

You are asking me? You’re the man.

We cannot appear together on or near the campus.

I agree.

Even meeting on a bench is … you understand?

A bench? Jesus. What about uptown? Couldn’t you take me to lunch on Madison Avenue, or someplace like that?

Malcolm shook his head.

Manhattan is big, but not that big. I couldn’t risk it.

Are you kidding?

No. People from here do go uptown.

"I want to see you."

You live in student housing. I couldn’t possibly be seen entering there.

You are right. It would be a disaster you’re coming to my dorm.

And I cannot take you to my place. My wife …

No need to emphasize that.

We were both silent. Then I had an idea.

Take me away for a weekend. Tell her that you have a conference or something. Don’t you guys go to conferences all the time?

Malcolm gave me a sheepish smile."

I can’t do that, either.

Why not?

Malcolm looked glum. I could not believe it. Then he asked me this.

You want me to let you in on a banal secret?

Be my guest.

"There are two reasons why I cannot take you to a conference with me. First, I cannot afford it. They don’t pay me that much to work at NYU, and this would put a dent in my personal budget."

But I heard that you … have money.

Who told you that?

Well at school.

That is just a rumor.

But …

What?

You are British.

Malcolm laughed bitterly.

That is the second half of my secret. Herminie is the one has money. And she keeps track of every penny.

Of a sudden I felt offended. I smiled at him again and said, coyly,

Am I not worth it … Malcolm?

The philosopher blanched. And then he further confessed to this.

Herminie does the bills at my house. I cannot get away with it.

I now understood and I accepted what this harassed man was telling me. His wife ran the show. Yet I was now more determined than ever to win this seduction game. I said, in a firm voice,

All right, Malcolm. I will take it from here. I will set up a time and place that is safe. It won’t cost you a cent.

I thought I had gone too far with my last thrust. I thought I had just insulted my philosophy professor. But, no. He said this.

Good. I will leave it in your hands.

In the next moment a flood of students joined us on the balcony.

The time came for Sherril Forde to make her move on me. It was carefully planned and coordinated, and her entire posse was in on the hunt. The only thing was, the plan unfolded like one of those aluminum card tables that you pull out of storage but have to wipe down carefully before use to make sure there are no insect eggs caked on it.

The girls booked a weekend retreat at a hotel and spa in Montauk. It was off season, so that meant no crowds. I was invited of course. I accepted my invite, telling my other girlfriends that I was going home to Gahanna for some family thing. I met up with Sherril and her group in midtown on Saturday morning and we climbed onto a Hamptons Jitney. Along the way I was told that Sherril and her posse had rented out two entire floors of a hotel right on the wharf. We would, virtually, have the whole place to ourselves.

Upon arrival we spent the balance of Saturday afternoon at the beach, covered up with sweaters and wool caps, and with the wind tearing at us. It was really chilly, but the fresh air was invigorating. Next, we piled into one of those cavernous seafood restaurants right next to the hotel, and gorged on fried clams. We got back to our separate rooms, showered and dressed in outfits Sherril had laid out for us, and then we rejoined one another in a vast common room Sherril had convinced management to seal off for our exclusive use. I was told that, as a newcomer to the posse, that they would show me what it meant to let it all out. I felt uneasy now.

The dresses Sherril had lent us were early 20th century period costumes she had rented from a theatrical clothing store in mid-town. The one I got, a white dress, came with a black headband and dark-colored wool stockings. But everyone had more or less the same accessories. Plus, we were given these extra-long cigarette holders to wave around, and we put on lots and lots of heavy makeup. Once we all assembled in the big room, the doors were locked. Music from that era played on the loudspeakers. We girls got up to dance. We danced alone at first, and then we did so with ever changing partners, and then we came together en masse. As this point the kisses started coming. While all this was happening, I asked herself if I felt that floating affect again. I could not say that I did. Yet I was down to it, for sure. I was OK with different lifestyles unfolding in the new Girl Power world, or as a part of that world, but the question still lingered as to my level of participation such a lifestyle.

After the kissing games the costume dresses came off. Then went our bras. Then went our panties. I went along with all this, but I felt wrong now. And when Sherril leaned forward to stick her tongue into my mouth, I moved away as deftly as I could, given the restrictions of the mass. At once the posse changed tactics. Without a word said they split up into couples. The doors were unlocked, each couple drifting off to an individual room in the hotel. Soon enough Sherryl and I were the only ones left in the common area. The rocker took me by the hand and led me to her bedroom. There, she gave my body the onceover, doing in quite a matter-of-fact manner I must say.

We lay down on the bed together. Sherril, skinny and sinewy, and with a belly that seemed to have been sucked in by some sort of surgical procedure, fumbled with my full breasts. I let her do so for some seconds, and then, and firmly, and decidedly, I pushed her hands away. Sherril, undaunted, managed to wrap both of us up in the bedsheet and press her body to mine. I managed, with some greater effort, to unwind the sheet and to move away from the rocker's body. I said, as nicely as I could,

This is really fun, Sherril. But it has been a long day. I had better go to my own room now. I do need to sleep.

Sherril did not insist. I may be the most impatient person in the world, but she is the most patient person in the world. Yet I knew everything now. I had made my choice. Or, better yet, I had just tossed aside all that gender bender free choice bullshit, and had listened to and obeyed my biological body instructions instead. Right away, I was thinking of the other half of his seduction game. I was thinking of poor Malcolm. He was such a little boy after all. And I, in turn, was in charge of me.

I reported