“It’s right down here bro…trust me” the leader said, guiding his friends decisively down Fifth Avenue. One of the other two ‘Jersey Boys’ had a strange feeling they had passed this way already, but was silent and sheepishly followed his friend across this crazy war-zone of a New York intersection. They had come into the city early over the bridge (or through the tunnel), but now had to face the wrath of thousands of experienced pedestrians in the Friday rush hour (the one sport these boys hadn’t played in College), as they made their way to a mysterious ‘pre-clubbing’ pit-stop.
“I thought it was ‘just down the corner from Time Square’. You sure you know where your going?” one of them finally said, as the obvious became unavoidable.
“Dude!” the challenged leader barked, “I know the City” (he didn’t). However, as it was starting to get dark, he relented to asking for directions, justifying that “It might not even be here anymore.”
The quiet one, the one who hadn’t bothered to speak up, was, in fact, the one they forced to ask. Pointing to a hot-dog vendor who was closing up for the day, his friends insisted.
He approached the Arab man nervously, waiting for their eyes to naturally meet before talking. Then, thinking he had a brilliant idea; he bought bottled water from the man. His friends sighed impatiently, but he maintained his pace, waiting to put his change back into his pocket before speaking so that the question would seem spur-of-the-moment.
“Um…Do you know where” the young man stuttered, “Do you
know
where the
‘Museum of Sex’
is?” He
wanted to die.“Do you know where the ‘Museum of Sex’ is?” He wanted to die.
The Arab laughed, the humor of awkwardness being universal, and pointed down the street. “Two Blocks. Museum of Sex.”
“I knew it was right over here,” the leader said as they approached the small mysterious building. “Look at that”, he pointed to a sign on the front window that said, “No mounting the exhibits”. He laughed, “That’s funny”.
The museum’s windows were wallpapered with photographs and its doors were darkened, making it impossible to see what, if anything, was inside.
“I think they’re closed, man.”
“No, no, look”, the leader said pointing again to a sign: “Fetish Week, Dec 7-13. 4pm-Midnight”. “Midnight!” he remarked, again laughing.
“Dude, we got to go in. This is gonna be awesome!”
They all agreed, looking at the Maxim-ish photos adorning the outside.
“I wonder if any of it is ‘hands on’?” one said, doing a strange demonstrative pelvic thrust to the amusement of all.
“Alright, come on.” The leader opened the door. The quiet one quickly went to a trashcan in front of the museum and disposed of his bottled water.
They all went inside, where they were first greeted by a large woman with piercings in parts of her face they weren’t aware you could get piercings. The door shut behind them.
***
When they exited about ten minutes later, the leader, his face green, clearly did not want to be the leader anymore. Nor did his friend wish to take over, both of them thinking (quite smartly) that it would be best to leave the city now and never come back. The quiet one, however, had nothing to say. He was far too busy vomiting into the trashcan where he had just recently thrown his water. He would unfortunately throw up all over the new clothes he had bought for this exotic night of ‘clubbing’, but they were all far too happy just to go home.
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