Seven Hundred Feet to Sin

Seven Hundred Feet to Sin

From It's Sinfully Delicious, Until It Isn't

It’s 9 pm as the cab pulls in front of the unmarked red door. The entrance to the devil’s lair is situated in the center of the Bowery. An inconspicuous three-story, grey apartment building with a flat facade, sharing the same street name as the notorious New York City location.

Decades prior, this was a rough Lower Manhattan neighborhood. Thanks to yuppies, hipsters, and gentrification, anyone, including middle-aged sex fiends such as ourselves, now feels safe walking the streets. “Skid Row,” as it was formerly known, is the seventh most expensive, inhabitable hotspot in the City.

The red entryway has no identifying marks, except for graffiti-covered walls, surrounded by warehouses, apartments, and businesses closed for the day.

Mike’s “Wait!” halts us as his arm extends for the door. “We need to bring our own bottles.” Exhaling in relief. I am grateful for any delay, which for me is a Godsend.

“I think we are drunk enough,” I mumble in resistance.

“I am not sure I can go through with this without more alcohol,” he confesses.

With sober clarity, I answer, “Then maybe we shouldn’t.”

Insistent, “I read on the site that they only provide mixers and snacks. It is a BYOB establishment.”

“Classy. So, let me get this straight…open sex is OK, but they don’t possess a liquor license? Debauchery at its finest.”

Mike laughs, “We will get some small bottles to take in. Search your phone for the closest liquor store, please.”

This man trusts me to find a liquor store. After, I summoned an Uber courier to drive us here mere minutes ago. He has drunk his fill. However, my tipsy self acquiesces and locates one 700 feet away.

We stumble into a Mom-and-Pop spirits store, complete with lotto, scratch-offs, and of course, libations. Ever the frugal husband I have grown to love and trust, Mike decides the bigger bottles of wine and vodka are the most cost-effective.

Finding our banter comical, Mom asks, “Are you married?” as Pops scans.

“Yes,” I giggle because I am about to do something very bad. It’s as if I am standing in front of my mother, preparing the lie of a lifetime.

“How long?” asks Pop, scanning the second bottle.

Mike responds with a quick “29 years,” despising ever revealing too much. They both twist their grins in surprise. Why is a lengthy marriage considered an anomaly?

I hope we don’t destroy it in the next few hours.

Bottles at the ready. Nerves numbed to incognizance. No discussion of boundaries or expectations. Yes, let’s march to the battlefield of naked bodies, unarmed.

Seven hundred feet west of the safety of Mom and Pop selling us liquor. I wish I could notify them what we are about to do so they knock some sense into our imbibed brains. But, something tells me they already know and probably approve.

We slow our gait as we approach the den of iniquity. Anxiety, adrenaline, or both are releasing the buzz, and suddenly, within one city block, we are sober. Well, I guess Mike was correct. We required more alcohol. A fact that will never escape my lips.

Gingerly, he opens the red door for me, always the gentleman. Even when about to publicly pound his wife.

We emerge into the scent of a vanilla candle, marking the beginning of sensory overload. But there is nothing to see here. No, really, nothing about our current view looms nefarious.

An innocent, empty staircase to the second floor awaits. And if you are a New York City clubber, this is not an uncommon sight.

Memories of the doomed Happy Land after-hours club fire from decades prior sear my brain. The recollection forces my eyes to scan the narrow stairwell for nonexistent windows or emergency exits. Safety first, even when committing numerous sins.

Filthy, black rubber secures each step, flanked by dark gray walls and a chrome handrail to support the intoxicated high-heeled. Quivering, we make our ascent. The temperature is comfortable, but my fight-or-flight reaction is in overdrive. Mike senses my trepidation and wraps his arm around me.

Yet, my toes curl.

XOXO,

Coco

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