Christina Oxenberg

September 28, 2009

My conduit to the world of, uh, exotic sex, is a fairly disgusting friend of mine. I say disgusting on account of his determination to disrobe me. I say friend, loosely.

It?s been a while but I tracked down ?Marko?. I explained I hoped next time he was in New York City, he would take me with him, when he?s next hunting for his octane-sex-fix. I propose a night out at the pleasure and expense of Takimag.

?I?ll take you anywhere you want to go.? Marko said. ?I?ll take your clothes off everywhere we go. Heh.?

I was mildly sickened at the thought.

Months later the day arrived when Marko did, indeed, make it to town. Gradually we shaped a plan around his eating schedule. We?d meet in the middle of the afternoon, at a noodle shop near 4th Avenue and 10th Street. From there we would proceed to the W hotel, sip on drinks, and fiddle on the internet. We?d look up Marko?s swingers club websites. He went so far as to entrust me with his secret code to enter the site, in case, ?I liked anything I saw.?

It was going to be a long-ass day. My commitment to the task of investigating the seamy side of life flagged.

As the hour of our appointment drew near Marko left a spray of messages. Each one rawer, dirtier than the last.  He somehow managed to inject a visible leer into his tone. Chilling.

Almost too late I saw the imploding obstacle to an evening with a ?domi-mondaine?. While Marko was an authentic gateway opportunity, he was also too authentic, too awful, to be around.

The time for us to meet came and passed, and I never picked up the phone or returned messages of any kind from Marko. He went bananas. Left hundreds of entreaties for days solid, right up until the moment he departed, headed whence he sprung.

His pleas were a rainbow of emotions. I was unmoved.

I think, for an Ess, he will grudgingly appreciate being ?Emmed?.