I met Amos Cohen through another Jewish kid named Dan Fine, who went to NYU with a couple of my boys and later became a junkie. Amos needed someone to help pay the rent on his Aunt’s rent control apartment in Chelsea and I needed a place, so I moved in. I basically slept in the kitchen; on a mattress in a small hallway where a dining room table would have gone. It was a studio apartment, and Amos had the other room to himself. There was a cramped, rust colored bathroom between us. The place was dingy, peeling and hadn’t been painted in twenty years, but the rent was only two hundred dollars a month and was in striking distance of NYU and the East Village, so it had its upside.
Another reason we connected was we were both going to Hunter College. The idea was that we would go to school, take the train together and share the place like a young collegiate Odd Couple. But I soon realized that school was more or less a ploy for Amos to get financial aid and grants. He had a natural aversion to work, and spent most of his waking hours idly trying to figure out how to do as little of it as possible and still live. There was a cat named Skeezer in the apartment and I often wondered how he stayed alive. I would buy him small packets of cat food when I was down at the deli buying beer, or coming home with cold sesame noodles from the Chinese on the corner, but there didn’t seem to be any real method. I was awoken by the sound of grating metal one morning with a deep hangover to see Amos cooking scrambled eggs a few feet away from me in the kitchen. He dumped the eggs on a plate and then scooped out some more into the cat’s bowl and tossed the pan into the stagnant pile in the sink. Cocking my head I asked, ‘He eats eggs?’
‘The cat eats when I eat’ was Amos’ reply.
Across 22nd Street there was a small loft building, and on the top floor was a family of artists with two teenage daughters; a blonde and a brunette. The blonde girl was near perfection to my beery, twenty year old eyes – a lithe and mythical creature that I only caught glimpses of through the dirty twisted blinds in Amos’ room. At random moments while watching the battered black and white TV I would notice a movement, a sensation really - like the sonar of a deer. I would spring up by the side of the window, quickly hitting the lights if it was night, hoping to see her prancing around the loft in a leotard, or if I was lucky, her underwear.
One afternoon I was taking a shower when I looked out of the tiny bathroom window to see her laying out a cot on the roof. It was a shimmering hot summer’s day and she was setting up to sunbathe. Cat-like, I crouched down in the splashing water, patiently awaiting her next move. She squirmed out of a pair of denim hip huggers, and almost in the same motion pulled off her slinky punk rock T-shirt, and revealed a small, perfect white bikini. Sitting down on the cot, she spread her long legs to either side while she rubbed oil on her shins and inner thighs. Then she looked around surreptitiously, and with a flippant wave of her shoulder length straw blonde locks, unsnapped the back of her bikini and lay back to sunbathe topless. Gulping, and moving closer to the window without surrendering my discreet angle, I noticed with feral excitement the adolescent perfection of her pert, tawny little breasts - topped obscenely with large puckered brown nipples that resembled chocolate covered strawberries.
Before long she was wiping away small rivulets of sweat that were spilling over from her belly button and down into the hem of her bikini bottom. All that sweat and cocoa butter - that bitches brew - must have made her swoon, and soon she turned her head slightly to one side (my side) and began to trace her tan line with a slender, multi-ringed finger. The shower had run cool now, but I kept it on in case anyone came home. I leered as she sent an exploratory fingertip to the white nylon tuft between her long bronzy legs; letting one slip off the side of the day bed while the other lay straight. Moving the elastic material to one side she began to massage herself, and bent one leg up as the other tensed and braced, her foot arched against the black tar roof. Heat waves rose visibly from under her cot, and she must have been baking. Slowly the gyrating motions of her fingers gained momentum and pace, finally moving in and out of her silken snatch in deft little motions until the lower leg shot out straight and she arched her back luxuriously…letting everything come down at the same time, tugging her drenched bikini bottom back into place.
I had long since ejaculated and was essentially sharing in the afterglow with her - my mystery muse - when I heard the click of Amos' key in the front door. There was another voice too. A female voice. As I listened, trying to make out who was with him, suddenly the bathroom door opened and there was Amos with his asymmetrical curly brown hair and a crooked grin, holding out his palm to me with six plasticine envelopes, each stamped 'Rock Box'. I thought, what time is it? is there some acceptable time, like five o'clock for a drink, when it's acceptable to snort heroin? Reaching for the dingy, mildew laden towel we shared, I shooed him out of the bathroom with a look of surprise, disgust and glee...this day was just getting started.
Another reason we connected was we were both going to Hunter College. The idea was that we would go to school, take the train together and share the place like a young collegiate Odd Couple. But I soon realized that school was more or less a ploy for Amos to get financial aid and grants. He had a natural aversion to work, and spent most of his waking hours idly trying to figure out how to do as little of it as possible and still live. There was a cat named Skeezer in the apartment and I often wondered how he stayed alive. I would buy him small packets of cat food when I was down at the deli buying beer, or coming home with cold sesame noodles from the Chinese on the corner, but there didn’t seem to be any real method. I was awoken by the sound of grating metal one morning with a deep hangover to see Amos cooking scrambled eggs a few feet away from me in the kitchen. He dumped the eggs on a plate and then scooped out some more into the cat’s bowl and tossed the pan into the stagnant pile in the sink. Cocking my head I asked, ‘He eats eggs?’
‘The cat eats when I eat’ was Amos’ reply.
Across 22nd Street there was a small loft building, and on the top floor was a family of artists with two teenage daughters; a blonde and a brunette. The blonde girl was near perfection to my beery, twenty year old eyes – a lithe and mythical creature that I only caught glimpses of through the dirty twisted blinds in Amos’ room. At random moments while watching the battered black and white TV I would notice a movement, a sensation really - like the sonar of a deer. I would spring up by the side of the window, quickly hitting the lights if it was night, hoping to see her prancing around the loft in a leotard, or if I was lucky, her underwear.
One afternoon I was taking a shower when I looked out of the tiny bathroom window to see her laying out a cot on the roof. It was a shimmering hot summer’s day and she was setting up to sunbathe. Cat-like, I crouched down in the splashing water, patiently awaiting her next move. She squirmed out of a pair of denim hip huggers, and almost in the same motion pulled off her slinky punk rock T-shirt, and revealed a small, perfect white bikini. Sitting down on the cot, she spread her long legs to either side while she rubbed oil on her shins and inner thighs. Then she looked around surreptitiously, and with a flippant wave of her shoulder length straw blonde locks, unsnapped the back of her bikini and lay back to sunbathe topless. Gulping, and moving closer to the window without surrendering my discreet angle, I noticed with feral excitement the adolescent perfection of her pert, tawny little breasts - topped obscenely with large puckered brown nipples that resembled chocolate covered strawberries.
Before long she was wiping away small rivulets of sweat that were spilling over from her belly button and down into the hem of her bikini bottom. All that sweat and cocoa butter - that bitches brew - must have made her swoon, and soon she turned her head slightly to one side (my side) and began to trace her tan line with a slender, multi-ringed finger. The shower had run cool now, but I kept it on in case anyone came home. I leered as she sent an exploratory fingertip to the white nylon tuft between her long bronzy legs; letting one slip off the side of the day bed while the other lay straight. Moving the elastic material to one side she began to massage herself, and bent one leg up as the other tensed and braced, her foot arched against the black tar roof. Heat waves rose visibly from under her cot, and she must have been baking. Slowly the gyrating motions of her fingers gained momentum and pace, finally moving in and out of her silken snatch in deft little motions until the lower leg shot out straight and she arched her back luxuriously…letting everything come down at the same time, tugging her drenched bikini bottom back into place.
I had long since ejaculated and was essentially sharing in the afterglow with her - my mystery muse - when I heard the click of Amos' key in the front door. There was another voice too. A female voice. As I listened, trying to make out who was with him, suddenly the bathroom door opened and there was Amos with his asymmetrical curly brown hair and a crooked grin, holding out his palm to me with six plasticine envelopes, each stamped 'Rock Box'. I thought, what time is it? is there some acceptable time, like five o'clock for a drink, when it's acceptable to snort heroin? Reaching for the dingy, mildew laden towel we shared, I shooed him out of the bathroom with a look of surprise, disgust and glee...this day was just getting started.
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