Gary McMahon: In the Skin

There’s a well-groomed man in a tight-fitting blue suit waiting for me when I emerge into the terminal. He is holding up a little cardboard placard with INSCENT written on it in lengthy strokes. It is the name of the company I work for; we manufacture body scents and other toiletry products. I am in charge of foreign sales.

I approach the man with my hand held up in the air. He smiles. Nods his head and blinks his large, wet brown eyes. Turns about-face, lickety-split, and leads me outside to a waiting limo. He does not speak to me during the journey, which unnerves me more than it should; even when I attempt to start a conversation, he nods or grunts or simply stares straight ahead through the windscreen. When we reach the hotel I thank him as he hands me my bags, but still he does not speak: he smiles, nods, and climbs back inside the car. Perhaps he is mute; I never find out because I never see him again. His eyes were huge, like fisheye lenses on a camera. Logging every tiny detail; missing nothing.

It is my first time in New York — I usually send a delegate; one of my small Foreign Sales team — and the heady atmosphere disturbs me. Everyone is rushing to be somewhere with no time for pause. Unknown destinations loom on imaginary horizons, forever out of sight.

The plastic young woman who checks me into my room shows me a smile that looks painted onto her ghastly too-smooth face. Her eyes glitter, but not with anything approaching vitality. She hands me a key and I am afraid to touch her perfect fingers. They are too long, too thin , and the nails are utterly transparent, slips of rigid polythene wedged into the fingertips.

My room is on the fifth floor; it is large and there are fresh flowers on the bed, scattered across the clean white bed linen. The pillows are fluffed and I find a packet of condoms tucked discreetly into the top of the sheets, under the immaculate fold. I place them in a bedside drawer and try to forget about them. I haven’t had sex in months, perhaps even as long as a year. Adi’s newly-honed body has become a no-go zone, and whenever I approach her I feel like a trespasser.

I look at the clock and am surprised to find that it is just 10:30am. Adjusting my wristwatch to local time, I wonder what to do with the rest of my day. My first meeting is not until tomorrow. I lied to my wife, just to get away a day early. I could easily have sent one of my able sales staff, but I decided to come here personally. There was no need for this kind of special attention; this is just another business trip, and the meetings involve yet another group of medium-sized U.S. retailers with wet smiles and eager handshakes.

I wince at the pressure of the truth: I wanted to be away from my wife.

Moving to the side of the bed, I pick up the telephone. The receiver is warm in my hands, as if someone has just put it down. Only when I sit do I notice the bedclothes are slightly creased, like a body has just vacated the space. The air smells of jasmine but my nostrils still hold the repugnant tang of fish. I can hear no dial tone, only dead air.

I replace the receiver in its cradle and put my head in my hands, but I do not cry. I cannot summon a single tear. There is no reason to weep, but I feel as if I should, even if it is nothing more than an act, an illusion. It would at least be something to fill the time.

When at last I am able to move again, it is almost noon.

I take a long shower but do not look at my naked body in the bathroom mirror. I examine my testicles for lumps with my eyes closed. They feel too soft, like uncooked dough balls. Resisting the urge to vomit, I put on my casual clothes and then I leave the room.

It is now 1:30pm; time has once more become fluid. I am hungry but unsure whether I can actually stomach solid food.

When I leave the room it feels as if someone is still in there, hiding, waiting until I am gone before emerging from under the bed or behind the curtains.

I eat alone in the hotel restaurant and drink several large whiskies with my club sandwich. The waiters eye me with suspicion, hovering at my side like giant bluebottle flies. The food tastes of nothing in my mouth, like dust. Like plastic. Like the rumour of sustenance. I imagine that I am eating air.

After lunch I drift into the hotel bar. Business is slow this late in the afternoon, catching the lull between the daytime and evening crowds. A couple of men in suits talk animatedly in one corner. An old man in cream slacks and a plain black T-shirt eats stuffed green olives from a white bowl at the end of the long mahogany bar, his hand pulling out two or three at a time. A striking older woman looks dressed for a party — she is wearing the classic little black dress, narrow stilettos, those black stockings with the seam that describes a line along the length of the calf and the back of the thigh. Her sun-kissed blonde hair is long but pulled up into a kind of billowy nest on top of her head. Her lips are painted red and there is a subtle layer of make-up dusted around her pale blue eyes, doing its best to hide the shallow wrinkles carved into her skin.

I move to the bar and order another whisky. My head is spinning; I am drunk already.

The barman smiles at me and I return his gesture. He scratches his head and then turns away, watching me in the shiny glass tiles covering the back wall, creating a mirror-mosaic.

Someone slides onto the stool next to me. It is the woman in the black dress. She crosses her legs and I hear the whisper of silk on silk.

“Buy a lonely girl a drink?” her voice is deep, almost husky, and slightly masculine. She licks her lips after every second word, her pointed tongue poking out at me as if testing the atmosphere in the room, or tasting me.

“What’ll you have?”

“Vodka. Ice.”

I nod at the barman, who has already picked up a glass. He knows the score: the two of them exchange a brief glance and I realise that I am being set up, but I don’t care. I am not concerned. The woman is beautiful. She might help me get rid of the headache that eats my brain from the inside; she might make me forget myself for a while.

“What’s your name?

“Dan. I’m here on business.”

“Aren’t they all?” she asks, and laughs. Her teeth are pointed and very white. I imagine that she is a vampire and I am confused to discover I rather like the idea of being bled dry.

“You?” I point at her with a nod of my head and attempt to take another sip of whisky, but my glass is empty. Another one appears in front of me, courtesy of the friendly barman pimp.

“My name… my name is Destiny .” She laughs again, and I do too, but I’m not quite sure why. Our laughter has the shrill, brittle quality of a scream.

Minutes or hours later, we are upstairs in my room. There is a sheaf of bank notes on the bed and she is taking off her clothes with the bored, practiced air of a stripper. The air is dusty; the lights are turned off. Her chest is blatantly prosthetic; I can see the white surgery scars along the underside of those weirdly rigid breasts. She has a lean, muscular build, as if she works out a lot, and a deep fake tan. I am suddenly ashamed of my small beer belly and my skinny white arms and legs.

“Come on, baby. I’ll get you in the mood.” Her voice has changed, become less sultry, and taken on a higher pitch. I notice for the first time that she has a Brooklyn accent. Everything about this scenario is false, and I wonder if it is just part of a long, weird dream.

In another beat I am lying naked on the bed, staring down between my legs. Her hand works like a piston, pumping the flesh machine. Her head goes down and her lips feel cold against the sides of my slow-rising cock; when she lifts her head again I see that she has rolled on a condom with her teeth. The sheer professionalism of the procedure makes me go soft again, but she teases me back into action with her spiny fingers.