Me and My Doormen

Instead of having the men I go out with come inside my building to pick me up, I meet them outside, next to my building?out of my doormen's sight.

I never had a doorman before. I lived in a dilapidated tenement on E. 10th St. for years, so there was no man in a gold-trimmed blue suit opening doors for me or monitoring my life. I had friends who were drag queens, punk rockers and kooky East Village girls stopping by at all hours. Aside from my Puerto Rican neighbors who sat on my front stoop in fold-up lawn chairs, no one really knew my business. I liked it that way.

My life has calmed down a bit since then. The drag queens, punkers and kooky girls still come to visit, but now it's at a reasonable hour.

I love my doormen. They are real guy guys, in the good way. Hell, they open doors for me left and right. They pay attention to who dropped what by and seem to care if I actually receive the packages that are left for me. I buy them Cokes from the deli sometimes. They are gentlemanly and sweet. We joke around about stuff and talk about sports or current events.

I'm not all that secretive, but I wonder how much my doormen know about each of us in the building. They see a lot, and since their job is probably boring at times, they might actually invest in finding out what goes on in the tenants' apartments. Then again, maybe they don't care at all. Maybe they couldn't give a shit. But if I were a doorman, I would take great pride in also being a private dick. Even if I wouldn't remember who dropped off what for whom, I'd find out who the drug addicts are, who stays out until the wee hours, who is cheating on his spouse, who's a slut.

In my case, I know they have seen many different men come and go already. The reason I now meet guys outside the building is that I don't want my doormen to suspect I am some kind of self-employed, entrepreneurial...prostitute. They could have me kicked out of the co-op. They know I don't work regular hours, I am often a wreck in the morning and I own a lot of high platform shoes, so my worry isn't all that far-fetched. It is frustrating, though, because I'm not even having sex with any of the men who visit. Many are gay or just straight guy friends I hang out with. Some are men I write for or work with in some way. A few have been first dates that just didn't work out. It would be downright humiliating to get a bad reputation without even earning it.

In my freshman year high-school biology class, Sister Jean Ann told all the girls to carry pins with them in their purses. She was teaching reproduction at the time. While pointing to a drawing on a chalkboard of an erect penis, Sister Jean Ann explained that if a boy gets an erection, all you have to do is prick him with a pin and it will go right down. She demonstrated by pulling out an elongated balloon from her lectern. She said that she got it from a party at the convent the previous night. After pointing the balloon upward, she pricked it with a pin and it popped. Every boy in our class convulsed. And some of the girls. Sister Jean Ann laughed maniacally. Sometimes when I hear a gunshot, I convulse. It reminds me of that balloon.

She never taught us what to do if the man didn't get an erection. That wasn't important to Sister Jean Ann. No, she just wanted to show us how to turn it off. Which is probably why at a nun party she would take the time to pick out a balloon that was shaped like a phallus and bring it to class.

Why this memory has been dredged up in relation to my doormen, I'm not sure. I haven't seen any balloons shaped like penises lately, and I believe that over the years I have exorcised the nun nightmares from my consciousness. Why do I care what my doormen think? Perhaps I should just sit them down and explain my situation to them. Tell them how I enjoy male companionship, even if it is gay. Explain that I have a lot of different guy friends and coworkers. That for some reason, I care what they think and want to make sure they know that I am a Good Girl.

Or maybe, if I catch them giving me dirty looks, I should start carrying a pin in my purse.