Sirens

The treadmill goes whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. It’s a hungry, terrifying sound.

My legs beat in step with the whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. I sink into the moment. Empty exercise bikes are scattered before me. A forest of weight machines stand frozen, mid-shrug.

The whoosh, whoosh, whoosh reverberates brutally in the empty gym. The conveyer belt whips me forward. I have 36 minutes to go when she appears.

She appears often, bending over to organize scattered magazines or to polish a weight bench. Her body is anatomically astonishing. I describe her to friends simply: as a life-size Barbie doll. When she bends to pick things up, she seems to move with deliberate slowness as if she wants me to notice the way the tight, sleeveless workout tops cling to her milky body like bright skin. Maybe she doesn’t bend over with deliberate slowness. But it seems like it. In my mind.

I have to ignore her. For 36 minutes, I have to ignore her. My legs scissor to the beat of 9.5 miles per hour. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. My sweat explodes on my singlet like grey inkblots.

Ignore her. Ignore her. Feel the moment. Ignore her.

She sways through the forest of weight machines. She angles her waist around the scattered exercise bikes. She waves and smiles, “Do you want a towel?”

“Sure,” I pant, trying to sound relaxed and full of oxygen. “That’d be awesome.”

I’m exhausted and distracted. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.

Ignore her. Ignore her. Feel the moment. Ignore her.

She picks up a hand towel and waves it like a white flag. I concentrate on the whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.

The sound becomes the crash of waves. I’m sailing on a Greek dingy in a story beyond time. I am Odysseus. My men have their ears plugged with beeswax. We sail by an island. The boat is so close to the island that I can count the leaves on the swaying trees.

Then, I hear it. Singing: The most beautifully seductive sound to enter man’s ears. The siren’s song tempts me off course, makes me want to jump overboard. Its pull is like gravity itself. Pulling me away from my purpose. Pulling at every fiber of my being.

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh goes the waves.

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh goes the treadmill.

She carries the towel, swaying her hips in a singsong motion.

Ignore her. Ignore her. Feel the moment. Ignore her.

That evening, S the ENLIGHTENED ONE points to five girls by the bar. We’re at a lounge on the top floor of a hotel. It feels like we’re at a lounge in a space station. The bar top glows blue. The open roof displays a vast, colorless night sky. White tables and chairs dot the balcony. The people that come here are eccentric, dressing as if they’re ready for space travel, as if they’re impatient for the future.

I walk to the girls and explode, “HEY GUYS!” My voice is strong. It cuts through them like radiation. It cuts through their stomachs, their bones, their vaginas.

I walk into the middle of the cluster and introduce myself. They don’t care, yet. My name falls like a piece of litter. It falls, flits around, and attaches itself to their ankles like a discarded sheet of newspaper on a windy day.

I keep talking. I don’t mind talking. I play with these girls like I once played with G.I. Joe action figures. I point to them and give them voices. I make up stories for them. I imitate them. I mimic their stiff facial expressions. I laugh at their coldness, mocking them for not enjoying the freedom of self-expression. Mock them for not feeling the moment.

They warm up. Now they like me. Now they want to play with me like they once played with Ken dolls. They pick at my clothing. They touch me and ask silly questions.

I throw my arm around one. She’s small and Asian and laughs in a bizarre way. Her body vibrates when I make a joke. It’s as if the laughter cannot escape through her mouth. Like it bounces around inside her, tickling her. She feels like the buzz of a refrigerator. I keep making her laugh because I’m amazed at this.

Then I excuse myself.

I lie to S the ENLIGHTENED ONE as I lie to myself, claiming none of the girls were cute enough for me. One of the might’ve been.

I grab another two girls. I ask them if they’ve seen my friend, he’s lost. They don’t respond so I add that my friend is the Hamburgler. Look out for him, I warn. One girl laughs so hard she doubles over. A squirt of drink may or may not have blasted from her nostril.

It’s on.

I spit words. I introduce S the ENLIGHTENED ONE. We become four people, on a hot summer evening, enjoying ourselves. I hear this sentence in my head: We are four people, on a hot summer evening, enjoying ourselves. I tell one of the girls she’s a Powerpuff Girl. I immediately want to put the words back in my mouth. The girl says someone else told her the same thing a week ago. I say, “See, it must be true” when I know it’s not true at all. Nothing about that statement had a shred of truth.

I’m reacting. I’m not escalating. I realize this. It makes me react more. One moment, I’m not putting my hands on my girl, but should’ve been. The next moment, I shouldn’t have been putting my hands on my girl, but did. My spirit shrivels inside my body.

The sweet shrill of the siren call pulls me away from my purpose. Pulls at every fiber of my being.

For a moment, I defy gravity and step back. I tell my girl I want to get a look at her. I command her to spin for me. I stare at her ass. I want to feel animal desire. I want to feel the flow of sexuality. Because I want to feel these feelings, I don’t. They’re there but I’ve buried them under words like ‘gentleman’, like ‘disqualification’, like ‘indirect’.

I’m not a man.

I’m a neutered talk show host.

I’m fun. I’m asking questions. I’m making lol-worthy jokes. But I’m not cutting to the core. I hear the whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.

And I jump to meet the waves: We eject.

This is third of fourth group of girls S the ENLIGHTENED ONE and I have walked away from. We’re behaving like castrated locusts: descending on women, eating their time and attention, but leaving fields of sexual desire untouched.

S the ENLIGHTENED ONE and I sit at a table, sip water. He’s an intellectual yet he can beam his personality without pretension. He’s achieved all society’s superficial standards, yet he never talks about these things. We clink our glasses and he laughs, frustrated I don’t make my targets obvious to him.

“How can I be a good wing,” he asks, “if I don’t know who to distract?”

I tell him I don’t care. I tell him if I open a set and he ends up with the cuter girl, consider it an early Christmas present.

He reminds me he’s Jewish.

He has admirable integrity. He insists: if I open, I pick the girl I want.

I smile. I assure him: if I open and really want one of the girls, he’ll know. I wander if that’s true. I hope so.