Amanda Filipacchi - Vapor

Our next most attractive option was to go to a hotel, but since we estimated that no hotel would welcome a naked man, I decided that we should go to an often deserted little park by the river, supposedly to think of what to do next, but actually I was secretly hoping that Damon would get cold enough to agree to wear the raincoat long enough for us to check into a hotel.

But he didn’t. We stayed in the park for a while. Damon was sitting next to me on the bench, naked and shivering, his teeth chattering, and sometimes crying. Finally, even I was getting cold, and I couldn’t bear to see him frozen, so I thought of another plan.

I decided to take him to Stress Less Step, a massage parlor close by, which I learned, after a quick phone call, stayed open until 10:30 P.M.

The staff at Stress Less Step didn’t make a huge deal out of seeing a naked man walk in, perhaps because anyone walking in would end up naked anyway.

While Damon and I warmed ourselves in the sauna before our massages, we lamented the fact that he had not worn a mitten instead of a glove at the dinner; it would have made so much more sense, on every level, even with regards to the birth defect excuse. I then tried to soothe him, stroking his hair and speaking comforting words, in the heat, while my teeth burned.

After our massages, my masseuse came out and told Damon, in front of me, that I had been very tense. Then his masseuse, who overheard her, said “You don’t know what tense is unless you’ve done him. I wasn’t able to loosen a single knot.”

I was sorry to hear this, because I had hoped that Damon might now be relaxed enough to wear the raincoat to a hotel. I asked him, just in case, and the answer was no. But then he nudged me, looking at the reception desk. He was motioning toward the curtain that hung behind the desk and that covered the window looking out on the street. It was made of white lace. It was ample.

“Lace?” I said. “It’s not exactly the same.”

“It’ll do,” he whispered. “It has holes everywhere. It’s like being naked.”

I went up to the receptionist and asked him if we could buy or rent his curtain; that it was of utmost importance, and that we were willing to pay any price and to return it tomorrow or even later this evening. The man eyed Damon, and then agreed, as if understanding the purpose of my request. He asked for a large deposit, three-fourths of which he would give back to us upon the return of the curtain. The withheld portion would be used to dry clean the curtain, he said.

As he was unhooking it, I asked him where the nearest hotel was. He told us it was the Regency, around the corner.

Damon wrapped himself in the curtain and we walked down the street in this fashion to the Regency Hotel. We never got to find out if the Regency would allow us to check in, for the doorman wouldn’t let us through. So we kept walking, hoping to come upon another hotel. We did: the Pierre. This time we would be sly.

Damon stayed outside, out of sight, while I went inside and checked us in. Then I fetched him, and we were able to get in without anything worse than glares.

It was a relief to finally be alone in a room with his impractical nudity. We sat on the bed and hugged and commiserated. We went to bed early.

The next morning, while Damon waited in our hotel room for what was supposed to be only a short time, I went to my apartment building to fetch his transparent clothes. To my surprise, my parents were there, keeping watch outside my building, with real, lethal antique swords at their waists.

“How long have you been waiting here?” I asked them.

“Since yesterday,” said my mother.

“Don’t you have anything better to do with your lives?” I walked into the building, and they followed me.

“No,” answered my father, climbing the stairs after me. “We have nothing better to do than to save our daughter, who has lost her mind. We want an explanation. Why did you bring your own kidnapper to dinner?”

“I love him.”

“You love him? But he kidnapped you!”

“Well, now I love him.”

“Why?” asked my mother.

“Because he’s great.”

“But he kidnapped you!” repeated my father.

“Well, I kidnapped him too,” I said, unlocking the door to my apartment. “So now we’re even. I kept him in a cage and I fell in love with him. I got to see him living. And I got to find out about his tragic past.”

My father forced his way into my apartment, and said, “No past can justify what he did to you. And how remarkable can one’s way of living be, in a cage?”

“Not remarkable. He was human and enchanting.”

I took Damon’s transparent outfits out of the closet: his shirt and pants, and the gown he had made for himself. My mother grabbed them from me, said to my father, “Look, it’s his clothes,” and held the shirt by its shoulders, letting it hang in front of her. My father took his sword out of its holder and slashed the shirt to shreds, and then held the pants while my mother did the same to them and then to the gown.

This was a problem and a drag. There was only one thing left for me to do. I left my apartment and walked to the nearby fabric shop. It was a bridal fabric shop, which I entered with my parents at my heels, their hands on their swords, like guards.

For a variety of reasons, ranging from the fact that there was a generous selection of lace, that the translucent silk there was not very thin nor very translucent, and that Damon had seemed to enjoy the holes in the curtain tremendously, I decided to buy lace instead of silk. I was attracted to one roll of lace in particular, called “embroidered tulle scallop lace.” I read the label: $13.50 per yard, imported, made of polyester and rayon. It was off-white, supple, satiny, and very see-through due to the fact that much of it consisted of tulle and not of embroidery. The little embroidery there was formed a pattern of birds.

I asked the salesperson if there happened to be an employee in the shop who might be interested in immediately sewing a rough, basic outfit for a six-foot-three male. The person I was talking to was willing to do it for a good deal of money and said it could be ready in an hour.

I was relieved that my parents didn’t grab the whole roll of lace and slash it to bits. I went to a pay phone outside with the intention of calling Damon and telling him why I was taking so long, but after I dialed the first three digits of the Pierre Hotel, I realized my parents were on either side of me, watching me like hawks, ready to pounce on the opportunity to find out where Damon was. I hung up the receiver, feeling sad that he would be wondering, all naked and fragile, where I was.

I had to take more drastic measures or my parents would follow me to the Pierre. I went back to my apartment, still followed by my parents, and grabbed my pepper spray. I also took my antique sword — the present from Damon — which had allowed me to escape from him and would now allow me to rejoin him safely.

Just as I was about to leave, the phone rang. It was Damon, wondering what was taking me so long. I was ecstatic to hear from him.

“My parents slashed your clothes,” I explained. “I had to go and have an outfit made for you, and now they won’t leave me alone, so I came back home to get weapons. I won’t be much longer.”

My parents grabbed the phone from me and insulted Damon and tried to find out where he was. I threatened them with my spray and got the receiver back. I told him I’d see him as soon as I managed to ditch them. When I hung up, my mother tried to trace the call, but without success.

I left my apartment. They followed me.

I had half an hour to kill before Damon’s costume would be ready, so I sat in a café. My parents pulled up chairs and sat at my table. I didn’t bother using the weapons on them quite yet, since they knew I was headed back to the fabric store anyway.