“I thought Times Square was supposed to be gross or something,” she said, as she bummed a cigarette. We were standing on 8th Ave looking down 42nd St at the bright lights, the honking traffic, and the giant billboard advertising Jay-Z’s new album. I shrugged my shoulders and held out a match for her.
“Where are you from?” I asked, trying not to stare. She wasn’t wearing much, but what she did have on yelled tourist from about twelve blocks away.
“Ohio,” she told me. “But this is depressing. I mean, there’s only one sex show, hardly any pimps, and I can see the fucking Shake Shack from here. I’m going to have shit stories to tell when I get home.”
“Were you looking to get into trouble?” I asked, stepping closer.
“Obviously,” she said, smoking vigorously. “At least I was hoping for something I can’t get at home.”
“Well, let’s go find something,” I said, reaching out a hand. She paused for a moment before dropping her cigarette, crushing it out with a heel, and then stepping up beside me as I turned the corner and headed around the block.
Four shots of Jameson at Blue Ruin got us feeling okay, but the DVD’s at Vihan’s were less exciting than her “Tumblr dashboard at two in the morning.” When I suggested we pick up a pint of Jack and drink it in the basement of Port Authority she was on board, and by the time we stumbled back to the street for another smoke we were both drunk and dirty.
“What’s down there?” she asked, pointing under the old bus station and down 41st St.
“Not much anymore. Used to be a good dive, but it just closed in July.”
The neon sign for Tobacco Road was still lit, but the bar was shuttered for good and there was nothing but old trash bins and the fumes from the Greyhounds across the street.
“Let’s go,” she said, traipsing off down the darkened block. I followed along, trying not to get too distracted by the serious amount of undercarriage she was sporting with her barely existent jean shorts.
“It’s all fucking gone,” I said, stepping up beside her. “Sorry I couldn’t take you back in time, but look, it was shitty back then too. Maybe this is better.”
“And maybe you kiss me, so at least I can say that,” she said, stopping outside the shuttered bar. I didn’t need any more encouragement, and I’d be lying if I said that kiss wasn’t fucking fantastic. Her lips were soft and her tongue quick; my hands found her ass almost as quickly as her’s found my cock.
“This is better,” she said, unzipping my jeans as I looked over my shoulder for signs of onlookers. “It’s late, we’re drunk, and I don’t remember your name. It’s perfect.”
“Shit,” was all I said as she spit on her hand and started stroking me slowly. When I got my hand inside her shorts she was soft and wet and she bit my neck so hard I screamed. I could still hear sirens and cars honking, but somehow on that quiet block, it felt like another time and another world.
As we kissed and groped, the light changed and the noise of the city turned to a chatter I only half remembered. Out of the corner of my eye, the buildings grew lower, the buses smokier, and the sounds of a boombox busted through the night air. I heard someone scream about a shoe shine, and by the time her shorts were around her knees, I swore I saw a Cadillac drive by with horns on the hood and soft velvet seats inside.
“This is more like it,” she said, reaching between her legs as I rolled a condom down over my cock. She leaned forward and helped guide me inside her as all around us Times Square burst to life in vivid colors. And as we fucked there on 41st St, drunk and alive, someone clapped and someone else screamed. I kissed her neck as I pulled on her hips and she kept moaning a name that did not belong to me.
Five minutes later as we lay leaning back against the metal gate closing off the bar, she bummed another cigarette and looked up at the sky. I followed her gaze, and we stared up in awe as the world returned to itself, one skyscraper at a time. Hudson Yards appeared again, the scaffolding and cranes tall and new, and the neon lights faded around us until all that was left was the blinking sign hanging above us reading Tobacco Road.
“That’s what I was looking for,” she said, taking a long drag.
“Thanks for the reminder,” I said, looking down at my boots. She leaned in and kissed my cheek before turning towards 9th Avenue. I couldn’t look away as I watched her go, but not once did she look back. Smiling at her almost shorts, I took one last drag before turning left and heading to the subway.
“Fucking Times Square,” I muttered with a stupid smile. “Fucking Times Square.”