You sex me.  I watch others watching you, watch their puzzlement and their awe; the confusion.  I especially like it when your hair, that splendid mane of darkness, is piled up atop your head.  Stray strands straggle down that long, white neck.  The kohl that rings your eyes gives you that look which places you firmly in another world.  When I first laid eyes on you, I knew:  you are not one of us.

Men look but an alluring creature is all they can see, her makeup flawless, her beauty ageless.  I see them try to catch your eye not comprehending that you have eyes only for me.  How amusing their bewilderment when they observe you lean towards me and snake out that questing, pointed tongue to bathe my cheek or taste my lips.  Their eyes harden with suspicion then as they glimpse the male in you.  Women look deeper.  We understand the intriguing possibilities, accept more easily that lines are not always so clearly drawn.   Magnificent creature: whether male, unafraid of the female inside him or female, who has not rejected her side that is male.  Either way, they wish their mouths the target of that intimate touch. 

And me.  Undeserving.  I had no name until you gave me one or if I did it's of no importance now.  You say your life is mine.  I don't believe you.  You could never belong to one such as me.  It is more correct to say that I am yours completely.  I will always be.  From the very start, sinking under the dreariness of day to day existence, I had no choice.
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A mid-Autumn rain fell steadily on New York's Lower East Side.  Long past its heyday of youthful chic, the days of being the East Village so long ago as to hardly being common knowledge now, the old buildings huddled  and crumbled together crying out their misery with a voice echoed by the few souls poor enough, crazy enough or lazy enough to call this bit of Manhattan home.

I was crazy enough.

I can remember, just, a slightly different time.  The East Village was up and coming then, supposedly the next neighborhood in New York City to suffer gentrification; raised in one master stroke from slum to acceptable ground for the fast talking, fast moving, money making set of Wall Street.  Those heady days of plentiful money seem to vanish as quickly as they appeared.  The Wall Street crowd played and played hard in this old neighborhood, the clubs and bars packed nightly to capacity, but they would never call these streets home.  They retreated, as they do now, to the well ordered, secure sections of the Upper Eastside.  Those who can, those who are left, attempt to barricade themselves behind their money, seeking to obstruct the flow of dissatisfaction, decay and hopelessness.

I came here after my children had grown and left; after my man had disappeared, believing his duty to us fulfilled.  Something old, something remembered, something pointing to a time when I was young and independent drew me here.  I came back to the Lower East Side and declared:  No regrets.

The first thing I did was find work.  Almost anything would do.  At my age, I'd done nearly all there was to do anyway.  I was no stranger to living hand to mouth and now, to do so would almost be a relief.  Perhaps I could tell myself this because I knew it would not come to that.  A modest roof over my head:  a space I could truly call my own, where my books and clutter would annoy no one but myself; this was all I required.  My tolerance for disorder was high.  But a touch of colour at the windows, the soothing green of creeping plants to anchor me to the world of living, growing things; cut flowers to remind me how transitory earthly beauty is, these things gave my poor space character and helped me keep the past at bay.

 Cosy, if nothing else and clean and dry during a season of damp and filth; my small apartment almost made me think that I stood at the beginning of things instead of near the ending.  It was not my personal ending, though I was conscious of the little signs of age I was beginning to suffer.  It was the coming of winter for our way of life.  I could feel it without being able to completely articulate it - like those September evenings when the waning light still suggests summer but autumn's chill is in the air, its shadow upon the trees.

I could not be here and not tread the familiar paths, everything so different and yet so disconcertingly the same.  As expected, many clubs no longer existed.  Sometimes, I'd find new ones had sprung up in place of the old ones.  I would pass by;  looking, watching, remembering.  I believed myself too old, of course, to ever venture in.  I could not imagine doing so.  But the fascination was there;  slim young things milled about claiming the pavement outside busy clubs for their own.  Most ignored someone like me.  The energy they threw off was akin to the cosmic explosions of stars as they pass through the phases of their stellar lives.  Too much, too jarring; had I ever been that way?

The quiet bars that catered to the young sophisticates were more to my liking.  Of the young folk here, some had graduated from the club scene, others sought temporary respite from it.  Still others saw these well turned out establishments as a natural starting point for a night that would get progressively wilder as the hours hurried towards morning.  For the most part, I was unnoticed in these places.  My attire, usually the first thing I grabbed in the morning, marked me as not one of them.  Some would glance my way and I would imagine a sketch of what they saw:  chestnut brown face, modestly made up to emphasis large brown eyes and a mouth some said should be kissed often;  hair shorn off, like a boy's, making the woman handsome in some indescribable way.  They would guess me to be in my thirties, if they were honest, late twenties if they thought to flatter, my touch of grey conveniently ignored.  I was surprised at the interest occasionally displayed by beautiful boys.  I was so unsexed, so unprepared for this game I'd long forgotten how to play.  Every now and then, as I sat alone at the bar, cocooned in the comfortable buzz of conversation all around me, a young man, slender-hipped, fluidity of motion, would slide into the seat beside me.  My reaction was nearly always the same.  Chatting to him, buying one another drinks, I fiercely resisted the urge to murmur in his ear, in my most seductive tone, that I was old enough to be his mother. 

Some vain part of me was pleased that I could still turn some heads, still interest some people.  But I would tell them all if I could.  Ah, poor boy, it is not your fault that there is something in me that can no longer be reached.  I am poisoned, in the grip of a deadly sleep that allows me to feel precious little.

Despite the rain that evening, I felt the need for company and the company of strangers would do.  A man's Fedora on my head, the collar of my leather jacket turned up against the steady rainfall, I trudged along First Avenue to the corner of Seventh Street and the tiny, dim and smoke filled bar.

The bartender did not wait for me to speak but placed before me the expensive vodka, my one indulgence, served neat.  One was suppose to drink it in one gulp but I was in the mood to nurse it and sipped slowly, savouring each swallow.  I thought with relief that tonight would be a solitary night.  There was just the right amount of people around me, mostly couples or groups engrossed in one another, and I planned to be gone before the evening really settled in and this little bar would be filled to overflowing.  I amused myself by watching the passers-by through the slats of the lowered venetian blinds.

His face was so pale, it seemed to glow.  Was it the wetness that gave this illusion or the reflection thrown up from street lamps and the passing traffic?  I stared and in that instance, explanations did not matter.  His dark eyes, like ink spots on his face, were impossibly upon me and I shuddered.  Turning away, I reached for my drink and without thinking, threw back my head and drained the glass.  A rise in the level of traffic clamour signalled the opening of the door and I did not need to look up to know who it was.

I could smell the rain on him when he came up to the bar beside me.  He ordered a beer in a soft voice that left a ringing in my ears.  The bartender did not blink as he turned to fulfil his request and left alone with this stranger, my heart beat hard against my ribs.  Something wild and untamed, disguised by human flesh and bone, I thought and when the bartender returned, I pushed my glass forward.

"Give the lady whatever she's drinking."

 No, no, I wanted to scream but instead I calmly said, "Thank you, no."

"But you must."

I dared to look up. His eyes were dark blue, like velvet, like the sky just before it is claimed by the blackness of night.  His coat was suede and long, buttoned completely against the evening's weather.  I could see his hair was long but it disappeared inside his coat down his back.  When he turned to pay for our drinks, I felt momentarily like prey, released from the hypnotic stare of its predator.  I watched fingers that were just that little bit too long nudge soiled bills towards the bartender.  He turned back to me.  He smiled.  My reality shifted and I think I knew then.  Something stirred inside me.  That smile was a woman's smile.

I returned it with trepidation, my every instinct urging caution.  He took a sip of his beer, then unbuttoned and discarded his heavy coat.  Of course he was dressed in black; black cotton, round collared shirt, black denim jeans.  If I could be bothered to check, I would certainly find a designer's name on those jeans.  My cynicism gave way to sudden comprehension:  what he wore was his camouflage.  It gave him easy passage through the world of men.  In the light of this tiny bar, indeed in the dim lighting of any bar or club he might frequent, it would be difficult to get a glimpse of his true nature; unless of course, that were his intention.  I wondered what he wanted with me.

He shook out his long thick locks, ruffling them carelessly with his long hands.  Momentarily ignored, I tried not to stare.  I thought perhaps it was the vodka that had fogged my brain and made my knees weak.  The stranger, comfortable now, looked at me and smiled knowingly.  I was suddenly much too hot but didn't dare move.

He chuckled softly and reached towards my shoulders, helped me shrug out of my jacket, a gesture as natural as if we'd known each other for years.  He turned back to his beer and I knew it was to give me time to recover.

"I am Auriel."

I nodded.  I could tell he was waiting for me to give him my name.  I had never been a superstitious person but at that moment, the only thing I could think about was that a name carelessly given could give someone tremendous power over the one bearing that name.  Auriel noted my hesitation.  As clear as my own thought, a voice in my head gently chided, *I don't need your name to work my spell upon you.*

"Ish," I gave him half a name.

"Ah.  Imaginative parents.  Or a name you've chosen for yourself?"

 I laughed.  "Maybe a little of both since my parents never called me Ish.  They did like biblical names however."

It was a corruption of my name that came to me on the spot as I stood there, feeling as if a chasm were opening before me. I didn't tell him that no one called me Ish.  I knew I did not have to.

I continued, "You can't tell me that you were born with such an intriguing name."

Gods help me.  Was I flirting with him?  I was amazed at my audacity, the familiarity of the question that would only encourage him to get closer.  Was that what I wanted?

*Yes.*

 He said aloud, "It doesn't really matter, does it?"

I shrugged and said nothing, reached for my vodka to give nervous hands something to do.

"Do you live in the neighborhood?"  Auriel asked.

 I nodded.  "I'm often in this bar...."  I bit my lip.

"But early,"  he finished, "before the crush."

There was a roaring in my ears.  My entire body jumped.  I did not think I had the strength to fight the panic, to appear totally unconcerned.

"Yeah.  Before the crush."

He moved towards me, like liquid, rippling, his movements so female.

 "One day, I will take you out into that crush.  It will be good for you."

I laughed, "Not me.  I'm much too old and tired for all that carrying on."

But I thought, the arrogance!  The presumption!  He moved only a faction closer, brought his arms up and gathered all his hair over one shoulder.  There began a throbbing, starting in my belly moving swiftly throughout my body to lodge achingly in my breasts.  I tore my eyes away from his long fingers, tangled seductively in his hair.

*Yes.*

"Thanks for the drink, Auriel," I somehow managed.  I had to go.

I turned away and it was like waking from a dream.  During our brief exchange, we could have been on our own planet for all the notice I took of what was happening around me.  The bar was busy now, another incentive for a quick getaway.   I was reaching for my jacket when a pale hand seized my wrist.

*Stay.  Just a little longer.*

Overwhelmed.  I was overwhelmed.  I closed my eyes and whimpered and hoped he would not hear the pitiful sound.  Of course he did.  He released me, tossed his hair and moved away.  I sensed him distancing himself and let go the breath I did not know I held.  The bartender, as if by magic, was before us with another beer and more vodka for me.  As if I needed it!

"You do, you know," he said to me with a laugh and swigged his beer.

Why wasn't I annoyed?  Why did I sit here still?  Ridiculous questions;  I'd just shown that I couldn't leave even if I wanted to.  Ridiculous situation.  I looked at Auriel and tried to remember that hard old woman who was never moved by beautiful boys.  Until this beautiful boy, with female gestures, female grace, who possessed that indescribable hardness that is so completely male; I drained my glass in one go. 

"Where do you live, Auriel?"

"Hell's Kitchen, I believe it's called."

 I sucked my teeth.  But he only cocked his head in amusement.

"It's no worse than parts of the Lower East Side.  Isn't it just a case of what you're used to?"

 "I suppose.  But there are slums and there are slums."

"And my slum is somehow more unworthy than yours because it was never considered for gentrification."

"How old are you?  You do not look old enough to remember those days!"  I tried to keep the shock off my face and could tell by his twitching mouth that I was not successful.

"Old enough."

I made a non-committal noise designed to let him know I was not fooled.  Truthfully, I was uncertain how to gauge his age.  I looked at him.  He seemed easily younger than many of the young men who practised their flirting with me.  I almost laughed aloud at my mundane preoccupation.  Since Auriel walked through that door, nothing this evening was what it seemed.

"Hell's Kitchen *was* once considered for gentrification," I continued.

"Seems everywhere in Manhattan once was.  Big trend back then that sort of fizzled and died.  None of these old tenement neighborhoods ever really took off with the high-powered crowd."

I tried to bury deeply my bitterness.  Auriel gave me a sympathetic look and I felt he knew my thoughts without intruding this time, my disdain for the privileged who sought to indulge their curiosity or their liberalism by rubbing elbows with the less fortunate.

"Unfair, don't you think?" he finally murmured.  "There is always the chance that something will be learned."

"I don't believe that and neither do you."

He shrugged.  This was too much, too soon.  I did not want to have this sort of conversation with someone I didn't even know.  Who the hell was he?  Where did he come from?  I asked him.

"Some day soon, I'll tell you all about me.  Right now, I'm much more interested in you."

"What a line!" I laughed and was secretly pleased when he laughed too.

 "I know," he confessed.  "But it happens to be the truth."

"Auriel, there's nothing to tell.  My story is so excruciatingly common as to be embarrassing."

I waved a hand as if dismissing all my life prior to this evening.  He ducked his head, seemed to study the beer bottle in his hand.

"Yet without your story," he began, "mine would be impossible."

The seriousness of his gaze knocked the breath out of me.  I trembled, a cold stealing over me.  Auriel suddenly had my jacket in his hands.

"Come.  It's too crowded and noisy for you now."  He flashed a smile that proclaimed his knowledge of me.  "I'll walk you home."

"It's out of your way, Auriel.  Don't bother.  Really..."

I was still protesting as he lead me out the door.  I was also vaguely aware of the most peculiar look the bartender threw our way, wonder and amusement vying for supremacy.  He knew I always left alone.

"I know you can certainly get to your apartment without my help.  But I want to walk with you."

*Humour me.*

I did.

The rain was still falling.  I pulled my hat down against it and began to fret that Auriel's head was bare.  He did not seem to mind.  I moved slightly away from him; to give him space, I told myself.  Long arms reached out and folded me against damp suede.  I knew he was warm and dry inside that coat and the aching returned, intense now that we were swallowed by the anonymity of busy Manhattan streets.  I desperately reached for some shred of control and Auriel's arm tightened, his strength reminding me that he was male.

*Surrender.*

I couldn't.  Not yet.  Too soon, too terrifying.  At the well secured doors of my building, I bid him good night.  If he was disappointed, he did not let me know.  He touched my face, squeezed my hand but permitted my escape.

I somehow found myself in my apartment, my little fortress that I now knew to be completely inadequate.  I sagged against my bolted door and realised:  I was under siege.
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