Secret Sex

A non-autobiographical short story

Photo by Monika Kozub on Unsplash

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Secret Sex

Jacob sat back in the metal foldable chair, a man on each side of him—thinking about the woman he was going to secretly see right after the meeting ended—talking about how the 12 steps had saved his life, about his Higher Power, about how “letting go and letting God” had changed his life forever, and how it “still worked.”  

He was back home, in Oakland, California, at his favorite men’s AA meeting. The Wednesday, 7:00-8:00 PM, the oldest in Oakland supposedly, though he’d never had confirmation of that legend. The room was packed, 40 men in a circle sitting in those metallic gray chairs, arms folded across chests, bodies leaning back, eyes half closed, mugs of coffee and tea in hand—sipping and slurping—and each man speaking in turn.

“I just know that when I’m reading the Big Book, when I’m on my knees praying, when I’m working with new guys, then I’m doing God’s will and I’m going to stay sober,” Jacob said, finishing his share. He nodded and said, “That’s all I got.” The man next to him began speaking.

Jacob pictured the woman, who he’d found on Craigslist. Blond, apple cheeked, big blue eyes, delicious neck, legs for miles. Then he’d messaged her and she’d told him to meet her at 10:15 PM Wednesday night at 315 Ellis Street at the corner of Jones in the Tenderloin. There was no money involved. A thrill had jumped up his spine at their messaging. His fiancé, Loni, was “cool” with it. They’d had an arrangement, for as long as they’d been together, over four years now. He was allowed to sleep with random women if it was only for one night. She was allowed to sleep with men but never took the opportunity. The question always assaulted his consciousness: Was he a bastard? Was this wrong?

As the men kept sharing, one by one, about their idea of God or Higher Power or about how to stay sober a day at a time or about their personal trials and tribulations, Jacob thought of many things. The jazz gig he’d played a few nights prior, at Bird and Beckett in San Francisco. The darkness and low red light, the books in shadowed shelves, his three AA friends who’d driven out from the East Bay to see him play. For the past two years he’d lived in New York City—Inwood, North Manhattan—and during that time he’d created enough songs to establish his own quartet. He played tenor saxophone. There’d been something that night, at Bird and Beckett, about the old couples in the front row, about the darkness surrounding all those books, about the Coltrane poster in the bathroom on the wall, the taped-up French newspaper with an article about Albert Camus.

Dennis, a writer buddy of his, part of AA, glanced over and caught eyes with Jacob. He grinned, and Jacob thought of a line from White Noise by Don DeLillo, a novel he’d recently read: An Advertisement for death. Was that an omen for tonight? A portent? Should he not go to the city? Should he tell Dennis about his impending plans? Should he tell Aaron, his other sober buddy? He gazed at Aaron, from behind, seeing his friend’s shiny bald dome, his arched back. Aaron was 38, a 6th grade English teacher, had been with his partner for 12 years, and had three kids under five in a one-bedroom apartment in a fancy part of Oakland. Rent control. Good schools.

“I think for me,” Will was saying, a dark-haired, handsome, early forties actor, across from Jacob in the circle now, “It’s always about my spiritual condition. If I’m not working a program, actually doing steps, if I’m not praying and meditating every single day, if I’m not asking my Higher Power for help, if I’m not writing down my faults, doing amends, being grateful for what I have…then there’s no way I’m going to stay sober.”

Jacob had recently returned from 10 days in Amsterdam. He had a hundred and seventy dollars cash in his wallet, almost all in twenties, and almost a hundred Euros. He hadn’t had time to clear his wallet out. Too busy. He’d gone to Europe for a jazz workshop, played music with several masters, explored the city, including getting some flesh in the Red Light District, spent far too much dough, returned to New York, rested one day, and then flew to Oakland to stay with his folks for three weeks while he hit AA meetings, met up with old buddies, played jazz gigs, and made potentially poor choices like meeting the woman, Carolyn.

The meeting ended with everyone, as usual, standing around in the circle, hands at their sides or in their pockets, the post-Serenity-Prayer explosion of noise and clapping and yelling chaotic, like some sonic jungle. Jacob took air into his lungs, prepared to book it without issue, and started walking. Not ten feet from the door, he felt a cold hand on his shoulder. It was Dennis, the writer. They were the same height, 5’7, the same age, 34, had been with their partners the same amount of time, four-plus years, and were both artists but on different sides of the fence. He liked this. No competition. He played sax, Dennis wrote.

“What’s going on, man?” Dennis said, that gleam in his pale green eyes, like he wanted to catch up.

Jacob shrugged. “Not much. I have to jet, man.”

“What you up to this late on a Wednesday?”

Jacob thought, Fuck. Again, that unabashed shame, that annoying, cloying guilt surged through him. “Just tired. Going home.”

“Hey man,” Aaron said, breaking into the ring. He reached his hand out. Jacob, irritated shook the hand. “What’s up?”

“Jacob says he’s tired. He’s going home,” Dennis said.

Aaron arrowed his eyes at Jacob like laser beams. He jutted his chin. “Home? Fuck that. Stay out a while and talk, brother.”

Jacob felt that coiling, insipient rage beginning to percolate like coffee from the pit of his stomach. His heart, very faintly, started to beat one note harder, as if the organ were investigating, seeing what it would have to do in order to break free from the prison bars of his ribcage.

“I’m tired,” Jacob said. “Long day. Meeting someone tomorrow morning, early.” The lies were piling up so fast he was already losing count. He hated doing this, going to an AA meeting, acting like he had everything so “together,” and then lying to his friends. Not to mention what he was heading to.

Dennis rested his hand on Jacob’s shoulder. Jacob, aggressively, wanted to shake the meat off but didn’t.

“I’ll be back,” Jacob said. “Bathroom.”

He felt four eyes burrowing into his back as he turned and walked away, down the hall. He stopped after a while, flipped around, retreated, spied the two men talking, not paying attention, smiled to himself, and jetted out the front door.

###

He parked his 2004 Saturn Ion, royal blue, along the curb on Ellis Street. It had taken him about twenty-five minutes to get from the meeting, onto I-80, over the Bay Bridge, past the shining city lights—blue and red and yellow and gold—and into the Tenderloin, to 315 Ellis.

The apartment complex, as he’d expected, was a shithole. It was The Loin. He’d been born and raised in Oakland so he knew the city well. It had changed drastically over the past three decades, sure, but The Loin had in many ways remained the same. Dope-sick junkies wandering the streets looking for a fix. Homeless winos. Whores. Pimps. Hustlers. He’d never fallen far enough to be on the streets—especially not in The Loin—but he’d been pretty close. Stealing cars, breaking and entering, dealing cocaine, blackout alcoholism. Even in the “good” times, when he’d been a jazz musician touring the world on luxury cruise ships, even then he’d snorted so much blow off so many customers’ flabby tits, had drunk so much hard liquor, had woken up in so many strange beds in foreign countries, had felt like a young white James Baldwin in Another Country.

With his pointer finger he flicked the hanging crucified Christ which hung from his rearview mirror. He was Jewish, yes, but he had this thing because it seemed to keep him safe somehow, if only emotionally. Or maybe it was spiritually. He gazed at Christ’s body attached to the cross, the bent head crowned with thorns, the nailed wrists and ankles, the blood trailing down his face. He felt crucified sometimes, by the jazz industry, by Julliard, where he’d been rejected three times over the past two years, by his fiancé, by his parents, by New York, Oakland, AA, society, the culture, the world. He couldn’t help it. Another one of those “things.”

Jacob swung his door open, locked the car, dropped his keys into his front pocket.

He glanced skyward and saw stars, bright and white, in the smog-filled, darkened dome. When he faced the apartment building a black man wheeling a shopping cart, the wheels ruggedly scraping on asphalt, almost crashed into him.

“Shit, bitch,” the man said. He scowled at Jacob. Bared his mangled, yellowed teeth, zigzagging and chipped. He wore black and gray torn rags, ancient basketball shoes ripped up and beaten, no laces, the tongues popping out, and had sores all over his legs, puss slowly oozing. Disgusted, Jacob marched past the man. Behind him he heard the man mutter, “Sucka ass bitch.”

Jacob walked up the granite steps, scrolled, found the number, and pressed the buzzer.

“Yeah?” Then static buzzing.

He hesitated. “It’s me. Jacob.”

No response. Just the sound of the door latch releasing. He shoved his arm straight at the door, held it open, turned, looked around behind him, didn’t see the raggedy man or anyone else, heard only a random car’s tire running over a loose manhole cover, heard his heart pumping abnormally, as it always did in these secret situations, and let the door drop, with him inside. He heard the door latch. He was in. In. No one knew about this. Not one soul. Just him. Not his folks. Not his friends. Not his sponsor. Not Loni. No one. Not a goddamn soul.

Jacob trudged up the creaky wooden stairs, one by one, each one seeming to be creakier than the previous. Four floors up—she was on the fourth floor, apartment 4D—he suddenly stopped and felt as if he’d pass out. He realized, with virgin clarity, that he had no weapon. No knife. What if she had a gun? What if some sketchy dude was up there, waiting for him? No, he scoffed, smiling to himself. Why would she do that? No money was involved. Just two people mutually interested in anonymous, secret sex.

He looked up and saw the staircase, twisting and rising, floor upon floor upon floor.

Soon he arrived on the fourth floor. He passed apartment A, the gold letter old and faded bronze against the equally faded door. Apartment B. The “C” on the next one was tilted halfway, falling. Every B Hollywood film he’d ever seen with a junkie hotel flashed into his mind. No sounds. Dust motes swirled. There was a distinct smell which seemed to be some mixture of stale piss, alcohol and rancid body odor.

He stood in front of apartment 4D. He raised his balled hand, breathed slow, and brought it down on the wood. Knock, knock, knock.