Ariel Gore - Santa Fe Noir

“I’ve seen you before,” the stranger said.

I smiled.

“You don’t say much, do you?”

I pulled my bag closer to my side. The howl of the train came closer. I tilted my head to the left — no pop. I tilted my head to the right — two pops. I tilted my head to the left once more, rubbing the sore muscle between my neck and right shoulder. I winced.

“I’m guessing you didn’t sleep well either?”

The R train squealed to a stop.

“Well, that’s us,” he said.

I stood, noticing the ache in my knees, and groaned. I stepped into the train and the door closed behind me. I took the first available seat.

My bench neighbor smiled from across the car, then surveyed the other passengers curiously.

Weekday trains were always stuffed with passengers heading into Manhattan from Brooklyn. For two years, I’d been erroring my way around this city, hoping to one day be able to navigate without the fear of getting lost. That day hadn’t come. I still lost myself in the strangeness of New York. Sometimes I pondered why I left the desert — the harshness of the Southwest had nothing on the harshness of New York City. And the desert was my home. The desert knew me better than anyone else. I missed the desert now. I missed my home.

Here, I’d trained myself to keep my eyes down, to move steadily. I kept my cell phone fully charged and my earphones in my bag, so I’d have a soundtrack for my ride to Harlem. Sometimes I listened to music, sometimes to podcasts about finding true love or refocusing on the laws of attraction to center myself and gain a better understanding of the universe. Sometimes, too, I sat quietly and just watched the characters enter and leave the stage until the next intermission, which came every few blocks, but too often the voices began to speak inside me.

Alone in the throng of bodies, it felt as if I were the star of my own show. I was cast as the main character of this episode of The New York City Subway , baggage sponsored by Coach, who also supported the cast, which included the man with the blue eyes, the man with his hat out begging for money, the woman who talked to the empty seat beside her, and a car filled with extras.

I closed my eyes to the sounds of FKA Twigs. The voice of the woman soothed me. I loved this song — “Two Weeks.”

The stranger’s blue eyes hardened on me.

My last clinical placement before graduating from Smith College in Massachusetts was Santa Fe. That desert town had been my second choice, but I couldn’t complain. Santa Fe was a reminder of my childhood — when my mom and dad packed us all up for family trips and we headed to Albuquerque, then Santa Fe, then Taos — that odd triangular circle through the northwestern part of New Mexico. I grew up in the Four Corners region, so this was home to me, but not quite home. Just close enough to feel at home.

From my apartment, I heard the occupants of the Arroyo de los Chamisos howl. After work, my ritual became a bottle of wine and a pack of American Spirits — the blue box. On my third-floor balcony, I faced west and took in the summer sunset. As darkness became tipped with orange, the wind nipped softly on my skin. Yes, I was home.

I hid my sexuality from my friends and family.

But, feeling frisky after the second glass of wine, I crept into the kitchen and read Craigslist ads on my laptop. At first, it was missed connections that I loved reading, but then my curiosity led me to casual encounters, then to men seeking men. I scrolled through the ads and only clicked posts that promised photos. In my darkened kitchen, I scanned dick pics from all sorts of men: cut, uncut, hairy, smooth, hung, bottoms. It was all there, online, and I was intrigued. I was horny. I was alone.

The train jumped and squealed to a halt, scraping metal against metal, forcing me to open my eyes to the new set of characters that filled the car while the old characters scurried off. The music vibrated thirst into my ears during this brief intermission. I was lonely in this city, and scared. I thought of those who might want me, but also might want to hurt me.

I was no one to this city. I was nothing to anyone near me.

Across the carriage, my bench neighbor squinted a smile with his turquoise eyes. The blondish stubble on his chin glimmered with age. He winked in my direction.

A part of me wanted to smile back, but I didn’t. Instead, I shut my eyes and avoided a response. I fell into the music, and the darkness of the tunnel consumed me — “Child I Will Hurt You.”

Down-to-Earth Guy — m4m 28 (Rodeo Road). Sane white guy here. Great smile, short black hair, moderately hairy, blue eyes, athletic, looking for more than just a hookup. Love to hike, run, bike, and soak in the New Mexico hot springs. New to the area. Would like to explore the city different as well as the desert. Get back at me. Versatile, if it goes there.

With an alias and fake e-mail account, I e-mailed Down-to-Earth Guy. He responded quickly. His name was Jordan and it was past twelve when we began exchanging e-mails. With words, I flirted the best I could. He replied handsomely, in full sentences. It was well past one before I noticed the time and responded with one last e-mail. He sent a phone number. Without thinking, I texted him good night as my high wore down to a faint hum of sleepiness. I wasn’t even sure if I was texting a landline or a cell phone, but my phone lit and rang. I was startled by the loudness, the brightness of Jordan’s number flashing on the screen. The phone rang for a moment before I accepted the call — silence. Moments passed as I listened to the breathing on the other end, until finally, a raspy voice broke the awkwardness: “Hello?”

I lay in bed listening to Jordan talk. It took a few moments before I felt comfortable enough to speak. The night breeze brushed the curtains and swept across me.

“What are you doing?” his deep voice asked.

I replied shyly, describing the motion of my hand. Each finger surveyed the landscape of my body. His breath hardened on the phone as he exhaled deeper. My thumb pressed into the waistband of my boxers, exposing the hardness of my dick that throbbed with precum. His voice deepened as he continued to talk and described his own movements. I inched my way out of my boxers, kicking them to the edge of the bed, exposing my body wholly to the night. I lay upon the ghost sheets of his hands and wrapped myself within him. Satin licked my skin — my fingers crept down, touching the hairs of my thigh and pubic area. I let a gasp of excitement escape me.

“I want to fuck you,” he said.

We talked in whispers, as if we were next to each other, our bodies melded harmoniously. I imagined his tongue deep in my mouth, pressed against my tongue, deep inside his mouth. The coyotes sang in the arroyo below. The hum of tires filled my room with light and the wind touched me.

I listened to his breaths. The excitement forced itself into his receiver — deeper, deeper, he moaned into the phone, into my earlobe, into my mind — until he groaned, and his voice quivered to a pause. “Oh. My. God.”

For an hour, I lay naked with my cell phone pressed against the pillow, then the phone beeped. Now silence occurred in death — the death of my phone that needed charging. In my quiet room, I watched the shadows pass. The hum of St. Francis Drive and the laughter of the arroyo proceeded, and the Sangre de Cristos crested with white.

I had been up the whole night talking with Jordan. I thought about his silky body pressed against mine.

I held my breath as the train barreled under the East River. I often thought of the river swallowing the subway. It’s been a fear of mine since childhood — the water — Tééhoołtsódii lived inside.