The French Boy
West Village, New York City, November 2003
After a long Sunday afternoon barhopping around the East Village, I staggered up the stairs to my apartment, where I found a tall slender boy just about to knock on my door. Probably a friend of my roommate, I thought.
I smiled at him and produced my keys. "Here, let me open the door for you."
The boy shrank back from me in horror. "You? You do not look like zee picture of Gabrielle!" he sputtered in a thick French accent.
"Gabrielle? I hope NOT! You must be on the wrong floor, " I said.
"You are forty? Yes?"
"I beg your pardon? OH....yes, I'm apartment 4-D, yes."
French Boy showed me a slip of paper: "Gabriel, Apt. 4-D."
Only then did I remember that my dizzy roommate used "Gabriel" as his fake internet hook-up name.
"Oh, you're here to see my roommate, Gabriel."
French Boy looked very relieved, but I was too tired to take offense. "Gabriel" came to the door just as I was opening it and whisked French Boy into the living room. I went into my room, shut the door, collapsed on the bed and fell asleep instantly.
About an hour later, I was awakened by French Boy's voice, coming from the living room.
"Suck zee head. Suck it. Suck zee head. Ooh baby, suck zee head . Suck zee head."
This went on for about an hour, no lie. I could hear porn playing softly too, but mostly what came drifting under the closed door was French Boy's droning voice. He'd stop occasionally, for a minute or two, and then just when I thought I'd be able to fall back asleep, he'd start again.
"Suck zee head. Yes! Suck zee head. Suck zee head. Suck zee head!"
Finally, I couldn't stand it anymore and pulled my bedroom door open and bellowed down the hall.
"God DAMN it, Gabriel! Would you please suck zee fucking head!"
French Boy responded cheerfully, "Merci!"