I am still a virgin when I finish high school in June of 1961. In September I’ll be going off to college but until then I’ve got the summer to get through and I already feel hammered looking at that wasteland of time. But I plan on being a different person when I get to college, sharp edged, unforgettable. I have the next two months to become brand new and I want to get going on my transformation.
Without camp or art school I can spend my time wandering the city aimlessly, mostly by myself. My parents play golf and ignore me when they are home. They know I will soon be someone else’s problem.
One day I meet Louis, a Frenchified Haitian with a skinny mustache who follows me down West Fourth Street admiring my ass, he says. Who are you, I ask, and he tells me he is Haiti’s ambassador to the United Nations, flashes me papers to prove that he is not just an anonymous black man. Of course after we sleep together a few times he confesses that he isn’t really the ambassador and all he showed me was his passport, but by that time I am so enchanted I don’t care.
Louis is 32 and I am 16. I am radiant in his admiration.
Whenever we go out to eat, he sits with his back to the wall so he can spot the assassins he tells me Papa Doc will send to shoot him. He says he is an important man in his own country but on the outs with the dictator at the moment. We make love in front of a mirror, his dark skin beautiful against mine. We fuck in borrowed beds, on borrowed sheets, turns out he lives in a boarding house in the South Bronx, just temporarily.
How can I say this? Sex is disappointing. I figure out how to pretend to have an orgasm, just so it will be over, not sure how convincing I am but I guess good enough. I don’t blame Louis. I chalk it up to my own inexperience, or else maybe I am frigid. A frigid nymphomaniac.
“I want to do it every way,” Louis whispers to me when we make love. “Okay,” I say. I can’t wait till September.