by Gideon Leek
It’s a Saturday night and I’m still living in Philadelphia. I’m surrounded by people, groups of friends—happy, chatting, full of life. “Any of these people would unplug my life support to charge a cell phone,” I mutter, drunkenly, hopelessly.
A hand is on my shoulder. A woman’s hand with red acrylic nails.
“Excuse me,” says the woman. “We saw you from down the bar.” Behind her, a man waves. “Can we buy you a drink?”
***
The table in front of us littered with empty glasses. My eyes are hazy. My mind is also hazy. Sean, the man, is telling a story: “It’s our wedding night and I’m completely drunk. I’m stumbling along the dance floor looking for Annie. Suddenly, the music goes all wonky. Songs are cutting back and forth.
What the hell, I’m thinking. This isn’t DJ Tim. Then I see Annie: She’s scratching the records herself.”
“And DJ Tim,” says Annie, interrupting, “he’s tied up with an aux cord under the table.”
“Did you get a refund?” I ask, laughing, enjoying these new people.
“We paid extra,” says Sean.
“Just not with cash,” says Annie. They both laugh.
***
We move bars. This bar is also an Ethiopian restaurant and I’m drunkenly eating an Ethiopian steak dinner—slow-cooked sirloin, tomatoes, lentils, mopping it all up with injera. Annie and Sean are smoking hookah, mint flavor, blowing big smoke rings into the air.
“Are you seeing anyone special?” asks Annie, touching my leg.
“I just got dumped,” I say. “It’s terrible. My life’s over.”
Sean picks up the hookah. He speaks to me through a cloud of minty smoke:
“Happens to everyone,” he says. “You’ll meet someone else.”
“You’ll meet lots of other people,” says Annie.
“Tons,” says Sean.
***
We’re back at Sean and Annie’s for a nightcap. Their place is nice. Redone.
The three of us sit on a green velvet couch. Annie’s head is on my lap. Sean is laid back, feet up on the coffee table. I’m hunched over, sipping whiskey, sobering up. I wonder what to say. Nothing seems appropriate. Nothing seems polite.
Sean puts his hand on my leg. Annie puts her hand on my leg.
Sean says, “Relax.”
Annie says, “Lean back.”
Maybe, I think, this isn’t a boundary of mine.
***
I’m at a party in a small unventilated apartment, standing with my head in the freezer—pretending to look for ice.
“We went to Oberlin together,” says someone outside the freezer.
I pull my head out. A spaced-out toad stares back at me. We did go to Oberlin together. His name is Alex.
“John Bernard,” says Alex, pointing at me.
“You live here too,” I say. I need to move, I think.
“Yeah man, isn’t it great? Frisbee in the park every afternoon. House shows every weekend. Volunteer at Books through Bars every month.”
“I’m leaving,” I lie. “I’m going to New York.”
“Oh right, your girlfriend lives up there, doesn’t she?”
“We broke up,” I say. “I’m moving to New York for other reasons.”
“New job?” he asks.
“Other reasons,” I say.
I put my head back in the freezer.
***
There is one pretty girl at this party. She is, to my knowledge, the only pretty girl in Philadelphia. We drink beer on the porch.
“What are you doing in Philly?” I ask.
“Grad school,” she says. “Math,” she says.
“Do you like it?” I ask.
“No one likes math,” she says. “Even mathematicians.”
“What careers do people like?”
“Gynecologist,” she says.
“Mortician,” I say.
“John!” says Alex, approaching again. He’s swaying, visibly drunk. “Freshman year you scared the shit out of me.”
“Really? I don’t think we knew each other.”
“You remember the Easter Keg Hunt?”
“I remember,” I say to Alex.
“The seniors would hide a keg in the woods,” I say to the prettiest girl in Philadelphia.
“It was pitch dark and you came crashing out of the trees like Bigfoot. My friend Ryan, you remember Ryan, he turns to me and says, ‘If I had a gun, I would have shot him. I would have shot John Bernard.’”
“I don’t remember Ryan,” I say. “I’m glad he didn’t shoot me.”
“And then for the rest of the year, you became this big joke. Every time we saw you Ryan would say ‘John Bernard, I nearly killed him.’ It became this great bit for us, Ryan murdering you in the woods. We outlined all the specifics—cutting up your body, breaking your teeth down with hammers, tearing the skin from your face.”
“A joke,” I say. “Thanks for telling me.”
The prettiest girl in Philadelphia is gone.
***
Annie and Sean want to take me to the Poconos. They are meeting a big group of swingers. I ask if it will be like Eyes Wide Shut. Sean says it will be even better. I don’t find that answer comforting. I go anyway.
***
We are the first to arrive at the orgy. On the countertop is a woven basket filled with lube and sex toys. A red bow is tied around a dildo.
“It’s perfect,” says Annie.
“Is there anything to eat?” I ask Sean. He throws the dildo at me.
***
The swingers arrive at midnight: They come in vans, in trucks, on motorbikes; They wear jewels, beads, shades of beige. They smell of excess. Sean opens the window and, with his phone, clicks on a string of lights outside. The lights say “Orgy.” Everyone cheers.
***
For an hour, I am a sexual Olympian, then I am breathless, cramped, in pain. I believe there is a spur in my pubic bone.
***
A snack table has been set up in the kitchen—organ meat, raw oysters, pretzels. I eat quickly, without breathing. I choke. Hands wrap around my sternum, saving me. I gasp for air. I turn to thank my protector.
“It’s you,” I say. “The prettiest girl in Philadelphia.”
“We aren’t in Philadelphia,” she says.
“I don’t like orgies,” I say.
“I don’t even like sex,” she says.
______
Gideon Leek has published stories in ExPat, Animal Blood Magazine, and the Oxford Review of Books. He was a finalist for the 2025 Robert and Adele Schiff Award for Fiction from The Cincinnati Review. He lives in Brooklyn and is at work on a novel.
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