Up on the Roof

I'm hot, hungry, horny, and I'm crawling around on a roof in hundred-degree heat, with a guy who looks like his 401(k) got looted on the way to his mother's funeral. He's an architect named Happy Rotenberg, because of his happy personality--NOT!

I'm hot, because it is hot. I'm horny because I haven't got laid in a month and this month don't look too good either. I'm hungry because I'm an unpaid intern, and all the Rents are sending me is enough diñero for my share of the rent on the apartment and couple bricks of Ramen noodles. I share what the real estate agent called a two-bedroom with three other slobs, whose idea of housekeeping is to shovel the shit into black plastic bags when it piles too high.

Finally, I'm crawling on the roof because that's my assignment today, and it sucks.

I'd finished my third year architecture at State, and the Rents thought that a summer job in an architect's firm was just what I need. They were blissfully unaware that the economy was in the shitter, and graduate architects with twenty years' experience were glad to find work, any work. It was a joke in New York City this summer: "Y'wanna find an architect? Step off the curb, raise your hand, and yell 'Taxi!' If he don't have a beard and a turban, he's an architect--Hell, even if he does have a beard and a turban, he might be an architect!"

Mom called her Uncle Hubrecht. Uncle Hubrecht represents the German side of our family. He is always right; he says so his own self, so it must be true. Once he thought he made a mistake, but he was wrong. One time, when I told him I didn't like a story he liked, he said I was intolerant and trying to impose my views on everyone else. I must be wrong, even though I said I didn't care if anybody else agreed with me, because Uncle Hubrecht said I was wrong, and he is never wrong. But Uncle Hubrecht knew a fella who knew a fella--so there I was, at Whirlock & Weisberg, Architects, P.C., East 20th Street, New York, N.Y.

Whirlock was dead for a hundred years or so. Weisberg was last heard of in Miami Beach, living on the part of the bribes he was supposed to pay building inspectors but kept for himself. The inspectors were indicted anyway, so nobody knew, except some gentlemen who are looking for Weisberg and would pay plenty to know where he is. So right now, the firm was being run by Happy.

Whirlock & Weisberg, Architects, P.C., had an engagement from a bunch of tenants in a condominium to survey the roof to oppose a Major Capital Improvement. You don't know what that is. You're lucky. I had to read 200 pages of fiction, and then we had to go over every square foot of roof, most of it on our hands and knees.

At least Happy was getting paid for it.

One student from my architecture class at State got a real job. The Giraffe was not the girl you'd ask to the Prom; she was not the girl you'd ask anything. But she did have the best GPA, and she got the job at Kennedy Stuhldreyer. That was a real architectural firm, with a Park Avenue address and all.

The Giraffe was no looker. She was tall, thin as a soda straw, and nodded when she talked. Her straw-colored hair was always tangled and her face was full of freckles. I made up a song about her (but never sang it to anyone but me): "Six feet tall, no tits at all, why should I make that deal? Six feet tall, no tits at all, I can't believe she's real. Six feet tall, no tits at all, can't even cop a feel, six feet tall, no tits at all, why should I make that deal?" But she got the grades, the Department Chairman's recommendation, and the Struhldreyer nod.

Stuhldreyer was an alum and a big giver. He always took the top student from the third year class for the summer.

Now Stuhldreyer got the engagement to perform the Local Law facade inspection (you also shouldn't care what that is) on the same building we were inspecting. And so The Giraffe showed up on the roof at the same time Happy and I were crawling around. The first glimpse of me that The Giraffe got was my jeans giving a fine exhibit of Plumber's Butt.

So why do I care about The Giraffe? Because I am horny.

Now you'll say, why are you horny, you're a bachelor in NYC, you can claim you're an architect, and you live in hot happening Chelsea Manhattan fuckin' New York City. There's supposed to be hetero, homo, bi, les, trans and every other kind of sex just floatin' in the air, right? Just reach out and grab some, right?

Wrong.

Oh yeah, if you're a bachelor in hot happening Chelsea Manhattan et cetera, you can get pussy (and Ass, The Other Vagina) by the yard. There's only a few requirements. You have to be vaguely presentable (OK, I can do that), disease-and-drug-free (for sure), know the right bars to hang out in (ditto), and, last but definitely not least, have an annual income of three hundred fifty thousand dollars before bonus, and produce two consecutive years of transcripts of your tax returns from the IRS to prove it. Oh shit, fucked again.

My friend Wilson Chung told me all about it the third day I was in New York. I met Wilson Chung at State when he was there doing some kinda deal with the University for Golding Sechsauer. Golding Sechsauer, he told me, is the most successful and wealthiest investment bank you never heard of. Wilson Chung is only a couple years older than me, but his annual income is so far north of three hundred fifty thousand dollars that he needs the winning team from the Iditerod to get there.

He said look him up if I ever came to NYC. So I did.

Free cunt is easy, he told me, there's always the Boro bitches, in from Queens or Brooklyn for a good time. Mediocre sex, but who could argue with free? Might get lucky with a really nice girl, but then she wants you to meet Mother and check out Tiffany's. That's definitely on the "no fly" list, 'cause next stop's a life sentence, and the get-out-of-jail card could cost you a bundle.

For the good stuff, said Wilson, in his high-class British accent (his parents were from Hong Kong but he grew up and went to school in the UK), you need to pay. And Diane was the good stuff.

Diane got out of an Ivy League law school with a degree and one hundred fifty thousand dollars in debt. Student loan debt, the kind you can't get out of by going bankrupt. She passed the New York bar exam, but never got sworn in. That way, she said, they couldn't disbar her. She worked as a receptionist in a big law firm, but her real job is highest-class whore.

She paid off her loans in two years that way, and bought a thirty-fifth floor condo in Chelsea for cash, with her pussy and anus as her capital assets.

Diane spent her spare time in the gym. She was ripped to the max, not body-builder, but solid. She did kick boxing and Brazilian capoeira, lifted weights, but her real exercises were done at home.

Wilson told me that a weekend with Diane cost around five thousand dollars, plus the hotel room (Diane never worked at home), breakfasts and lunches from room service, and the four hundred dollar dinners at the best restaurants (wine extra). But it was worth it.

She showed Wilson her special exercises, in her condo, before they headed off to the Morgan for the weekend. She had cut a jump rope in half, tied the rope end of each half to a 25-pound weight, and carefully filed and sanded each handle end smooth. She showed Wilson how she lightly oiled one handle end with organic virgin olive oil from Umbria, just a drop or two, and squatted down and shoved it in her pussy. She tightened her muscles and stood up, lifting the weight with her kegels each time, and did 45 repetitions. She did the same with the other, only she shoved it into her ass.

Wilson said the first time he fucked her, she clamped down just as he was coming. He almost passed out, it was so tight. She got off two or three times by using her muscles to rub his dick head against her G-spot, and then suddenly released. He said he actually screamed and almost bit off part of his tongue, he came so hard.

"As for her arse, dear boy, frag nisht, as they say, don't throw grenades, or rather, don't ask," Wilson went on. "Y'know, with most-- male, female or whatever-- you go into their arses and it's great, but get past the rectal muscles and it's like fucking a bloody basketball hoop, you're in balls-deep and nothing for your poor dick head. But Diane--now she can hold you to your word, and no error.

"Of course, no glove, no love; you must bag it with dear Diane. Now with most of them, wear a bag and you might better wank yourself. But not with Diane, oh dearie me no, old lad. She can make you forget the bag, your mother's birthday, and the Star-Spangled fuckin' Banner!"

But of course this was TMI. I could never afford Diane. Wilson pointed her out to me one night at the Stars Club (he was buying, must have taken pity on me), but the guy she was with was wearing enough gold to buy out most of North Korea. She was model-girl pretty, with the tits and ass of a real woman, not a runway runaway. Not for me, dammit!

So here I am, hot, horny, hungry (I mean how much appetite can you have for Ramen noodles?) and crawling around on a roof.

"Excuse me," said a female voice, "we need to get over here--oh, Gerard, how are you?"

People who call me Gerard send a murderous impulse through my brain; it's "Gerry". I gave serious consideration to throwing The Giraffe off the roof. No, the Rents wouldn't like it, and might not pay for my lawyer.

"Hi, Isabelle," I replied, "how're y'all?"

"Great, Gerard, just doing the parapets as part of the Eleven. And you?"

"Some tenants asked us to take a look at the roof." I got a nasty look from Happy. "Oh, this is Mr Rotenberg, my boss. This is Isabelle Gridley. We go to school together."

Happy stood up. "Delighted," he moaned. Happy carefully curbed his enthusiastic impulses.

"Pleased t' meetchu, Mr Rotenberg," Isabelle said. "This is Mr. Sydenham, my boss."

"Hi there," said Sydenham, dismissively. He knew Rotenberg was small potatoes, grubbing for tenant work and cheap storefront installations, not big stuff like Stuhldreyer.

"Let's get together," said The Giraffe --I mean, Isabelle, "two hometown kids in the Big City. Give me your cell." And she put her number in my contacts. Like I might ever call her.

We went off to work, our respective bosses glowering at each other, while trying not to acknowledge each other's existence.

Would you believe Isabelle called me on Thursday?

"Y'wanna get tuh-getha t'morra night? This can be a lonely town, ya know."

"Isabelle, sure, but I don't get paid on this job and I'm only an intern. We can't go anyplace nice." I would never admit this to any girl, but The Giraffe doesn't count.

"That's OK, I get paid t'morra. My treat, OK?"

"That's real neighborly of ya, Isabelle," I replied. "Where should I meet up with ya?" I would never agree to be treated by any girl, but The Giraffe doesn't count.

"Th' Olive Garden on 24th and Eighth. Seven p.m. OK?"

"Sure, sounds great, really I mean it thanks a lot." I wouldn't talk like this to any girl, but--you get the picture.

So there it is. I can sit in a chain restaurant with The Giraffe, which will be like watching my dick wilt, or I can be in my high-priced bedroom, with the three stooges in the living room getting obflusticated on Miller Light watching baseball on the tube. None of them can afford to get laid either. Great start to the week-end, right?

So I'm wearing my last clean shirt and my decent jeans (a concession to The Giraffe's generosity) and sitting in the Olive Garden eating garlic bread and salad. I can't handle pasta, not after all those Ramen noodles. But Coke, real Coke, even that Yankee stuff--y'bet I'll drink that!

The Giraffe must think this is a big deal. She knows movie stars don't hang out in the Olive Garden, but still and all, this is New York City. She put on a nice dress and strappy shoes, and actually combed out her hair. Hell, I bet she even washed it.

"Where are ya livin' this summer?" I ask. I can't just sit there munching lettuce and tomato.

"I got a half-share of an apartment on 27th Street for the summer. My roommate, her reg'lar roommate got to go to Europe this summer. And this roommate went to Connecticut to her folks' place for the week-end. Y'wanna see the place?"

"Yeah, well I guess it beats what I got, a fourth-share with three clowns who can't keep anythin' clean." I should'a suggested a movie or somethin', but then I would have to pay at least my share, and that would mean at least four lunchless days--too many.

Sometimes when you're hot, hungry and horny, you don't think straight. Fuck it, most-a the time I don't think straight. Well, after the third trip to the salad bar and the second full loaf of garlic bread, I wasn't hungry, but that's no excuse.

So she paid and we left.

It was a much nicer apartment than my quarter of a dump. It actually had a terrace, and looked out at something beside dirty brick and dirtier windows. And her AC made less noise than mine, which sounded like the Iraq War.

She showed me around, and opened the fridge. There was about a case and a half of Stella, some milk and OJ and some diet bread (like she needed to lose weight, right?). "Y'want one?" she asked, in the same tone you might ask about Benedict's catholicity.

"No," I said, "He's really Nigerian and Jewish," and took the bottle, grinning.

"Not bad," she said, grinning right back, "for a broke and horny loser."

"What the fuck d'ya mean?" I said, seriously considering whacking her nodding Giraffe head with the bottle, even though I hadn't had a swallow yet.

"There's a mirror over there in the bathroom. Take a look."

"Go to Hell," I replied, walking to the door but taking the beer with me. Hell, she gave it to me, but I won't put up with some bitch insulting me.

She casually grabbed my right wrist and almost broke it. "Relax, stud," she said. "I would be remiss in my duties as an Alpha Fee if I didn't see that you was fed and fucked before sun-up t'morra."

Oh yeah, she was a sister of Alpha Phi sorority (that's pronounced Alfa Fee for you rednecks), known as Phi Piggy Piggy to us GDIs (God Dam Independents, which is people too poor to join a fraternity). At State, most of 'em looked like pigs, but fucked like bunnies. I'd had one or two. What they lacked in looks, skill or charm, they more than made up for with a can-do attitude.

"OK OK," I said, "chill!"

"Got a bag?" she asked.

"No," I said, hoping to escape by lying.

"Good, because if ya did and it was like most, it'd been in your wallet since Noah grounded the Ark, and would break faster than a politician's promise. I been there, and RU-486 is not my choice of pill. Now here," she went on, reaching into a drawer, "is a fresh ribbed job, my kind of condo. Strip and fetch it while I do my exercises."

I asserted my male dominance by finishing my beer, leaving the empty bottle on the counter, belching loudly, and rapidly taking off my clothes and throwing them on the floor. I took the condom from the counter where she left it, gave Old Cholly a quick rub (didn't need much, like riding a bicycle, it comes right back every time) and unwrapped and installed per instructions.

In the meantime, Isabelle was buck-mother-nekkid, with a barbell marked "35 lbs" in her left hand, grinning at me. "Bet you never saw this before."

There was the jumprope, with the rope end with a shackle to hold the barbell, and the handle filed smooth. She used store-brand extra virgin olive oil, though; Turkish, not Umbrian--should I ask for my money back? Hell, she was a fuck of a lot cheaper than Diane. But did The Giraffe--I mean Isabelle--have the right stuff?

She squatted down, slid in the handle (I swear I heard a gasp from her pussy as it went in), and began.

Holy Saint Catherine of Alexandria and the Blessed Hermits! as my Irish Grandma (Grandaddy's World War II war bride) would say.

Fifty reps and she wasn't even breathing hard. That barbell never touched the floor. Each time it hovered less than an eighth-inch above and then went climbing back up. At seventy-five reps, she stopped, sliding the handle out and giving it to me to lick as she did. Until you've tasted extra virgin olive oil flavored with sweat and pussy juice, you haven't lived.

Then she explained.

"When I was little, my cunt muscles were weak. If I sneezed, I pissed. If I coughed, I pissed. I wet my bed so often I needed a lifeguard. But then a doctor gave me some exercises. I enjoyed them. I'd put a thing in down there, and tighten up. It took me two years, but I could hold in a quart and run a mile, and never spill a drop.

"I figgered, if I could do that, what the Hell, the sky's the limit. So I started with a pound weight and worked my way up. I popped my own cherry with the first thing I put down there. When I decided to fuck guys, I took it easy, only tightened a little.

"But when I got to Lonergan, or Feldwebel," naming two architecture professors who were the toughest graders in the Department, "well, after all, for the honor of Alpha Fee I had to give my best."

The fucking bitch! Sure, she had the best GPA--the best Giving Pussy Average. She fucked her way to the top. Oh, that cunt! Well, she had met her match. Stand back! Seconds out of the ring! It's the World Championship Bout, The Giraffe versus Gerry the Cowboy Stud.

Wrong. It wasn't even a sparring match.

She grabbed me, kissed me, pulled my mouth onto what she called a nipple but was more like a mosquito bite, grunted a few times and pulled me into her.

She was kinda tight, nothing special. But then she slowly started applying the pressure. I really was feeling good, getting ready to squirt a good hot load, when she applied The Stranglehold.

Everything was rushing up, but going nowhere. She ground the whole front of my cock, rasping her muscles over me. My balls felt like they were exploding, my whole body was twitching, and finally I was screaming. I tried to slap her face to make her let go, but she head-butted me over my right eye and I screamed again. All the pain from my dick to my eyebrow was one great pain.

She screamed and came. She ground and twisted and almost pulled my dick off and came again. "The fucking condom can't take any more," I thought, "and I can't for dam sure."

Then she released. I screamed and my mouth snapped shut like an alligator, and I screamed again as I tasted the blood where I had bitten my tongue.

I never came like that in my life. It was like I shot every drop in my body from somewhere behind my right ear and it all came out through my dick.

She pushed me off her and pulled me out of her, grasping the condom to keep it from spilling. She put it in a plastic bag and threw it in the refrigerator.

"You keep souvenirs?" I asked.

"Yeah," she said. "I specially save the best ones, like Lonergan and Feldwebel. Just in case."

In case they get a case of conscience and stop giving her A's. The DNA and its location might provide great divorce court material.

"You weren't bad," she said, "except trying to hit me. That means you won't be getting any more, you rambunctious boy. Now you get one more beer, and then put on your pants and get out of here."

I never talked to her again. But I did give her number to Wilson Chung. Always good to let a friend in on a local bargain.