The Courtyard

Autumn of 1990…I was just back from Seattle, where I had bought these thigh high, high heeled, black leather fuck-me boots. I was test driving them in the East Village. I made the rounds: Scrapbar, King Tut’s Wah Wah Hut, and Alcatraz after 1am, where I met up with some people I knew.

I was buying 2 pitchers of beer at the bar when I first noticed him. He was sitting in the corner, head bowed, arms on the bar surrounding his beer. His face was covered by long dark hair, angle and shadow. I grazed his shoulder with mine. When he lifted his head I held up one of the pitchers.

“Refill?” Hey, no one should be sitting alone in the corner of Alcatraz.

He pulled his arms back away from the bar, revealing his almost empty mug of beer. I poured. He said, “Thanks” trying not to lift his head. I looked at him quickly, grinned and made my way back my table.

Something was wrong with his face.

He was a large guy, very broad shoulders, white t-shirt underneath a worn leather motorcycle jacket. Black hair, stringy, hiding him.

My table was winding out, ready to move to an afterhours party. I said my good nights. I made my way back to the bar, and sat down beside him.

It took him a little while before he finally lifted his hunched shoulders enough to remove most shadow. As if he had to prepare first. As if he had to build up to this. And with courage summoned he made the move.

He turned his face deliberately toward me. “Are you lost?”

I got a good look at him. He was letting me. He wanted me to see.

“Nope. I'm not lost. Are you?” I tapped my beer with my nails. I held eye contact. I grinned.

He looked surprised that I wasn't scared away.

His face was badly scarred. His eyes were untouched; deadly deep, penetrating, dark and gorgeous. But the lower part of his face, his mouth, nose and cheeks... covered in thick jagged scars. Badly disfigured. Badly. To this day I haven't seen any one in the flesh who was scarred so badly. If he had said he was thrown face-first through a windshield, I would have believed him. If he said he had been knifed, I’d have believed that too.
He said neither.
He said nothing.

“Yeah, I’m lost.” He let his vision drop until it hit my boots. He let out a quiet moan and closed his eyes. The deep animal compliment in that is almost indescribable.

The sexual tension was thick.

I didn’t set out that night to find this. I set out that night in a black mini skirt and my fuck-me boots to hang with some friends, have too much to drink, and get laid.

He wasn’t sure what to make of me. My obviousness. My non-reaction to his face. My not asking what happened. He must deal with that too many times a day. He turned his body toward mine, turning the barstool, and looked at the empty table. “Your friends have gone.”

“So they have.” I twisted around on my stool to face him. We were facing each other.

He looked me up and down slowly. I could feel his eyes. Unapologetically staring. Probably something he's used to. I uncrossed my legs. As his eyes came up my thighs, I parted my legs slightly. Then a little more. He stopped. He paused. Then he lifted his eyes to mine.

It was understood. It works like that.

He was lean, but muscular. Tall. He had large deep eyes, that looked truly wounded. He wasn't just scarred on the outside. He didn't look completely trustable. He looked like he could really hurt me. I'd be lying if I said I felt safe.

I can't explain my attraction. But there it was.

He opened his jacket and pulled out his wallet. I saw a ticket, like a plane ticket, but wider and shorter. Maybe it was a train ticket. I've never seen one of those. I really don't know what it was. He tossed money down on the bar for his tab and he stood.

I stood up after him.

“You coming?”

I nodded.

He didn't ask where we were going. He just let me lead the way. We walked a few blocks to a courtyard I knew of, in silence.

We came through the walkway, between the buildings, and down the stairs. He looked suspicious as we sat down on a bench in the dark. He took deep breaths and kept looking around.

It's a small area, outside, but under no street lights. It's behind an apartment building, in the courtyard that meets the building behind it. I knew someone who lived in that building once. The gate had a broken lock. Still.


We sat still for a good while. He spoke three times.

1 - “You could have left with any guy in that bar.”

“Thank you.” Nothing to say to that except to be gracious for the compliment.

2 - “If your friends are here somewhere, and this is a joke, you’re gonna regret it.” He looked serious. Actually he looked deadly.

“No one is here. Just us.”

And 3 - I moved myself to face him, straddled him, sitting in his lap. Ready. I could feel through his jeans that he was rock hard. I slid my skirt up. I began to unzip his jeans. He put his hands up, as if to show he wasn't touching me.

“Get off me.”

I froze. Something about him was intoxicating. But something about him was scary. Very scary. "Why?"

I could see his chest heaving with deeper breaths. "This is your last chance. You have 3 seconds to get off me, or else."

I could feel him throbbing in his jeans. I searched his eyes for an answer. "Or else what?"

His voice dropped. The restrained politeness, kindness, and control was almost gone.

"Or I'm gonna nail you to this fucking bench."

I didn't get off. I pressed my body down onto him, and put my hands in his.

Nothing about him was gentle. He ripped my panties off with one yank, and slammed me down on my back. I clung to him, I pushed his hair back. I touched every scar on his face with my cheeks and my mouth. He plowed into me. He grunted, and pawed me. He hollered as he came. Out loud.

And then he buried his face in me, into the nape of my neck, his hands gripping me, squeezing me close. And he cried. He just cried. And I just
held on,
and let him.