To Look At
By Gene Aronowitz
In a Manhattan building housing rehearsal studios, I squeezed into a small elevator, a Lilliputian in the center of six stunning models.
Twisting, I surveyed a forest of fashionable jeans, the highest two inches beneath any of their navels. I also saw one long, pleated, tartan skirt, slightly flared, wound around a tiny waist.
As we descended, I slowly scanned the skirted one whose left leg had invaded my space. A sheer white blouse covered a braless chest. I chanced a glance at her full lips, high cheekbones, and wide eyes. Gorgeous, I thought, but then, embarrassed at being caught, my eyes dropped quickly toward the floor.
As the elevator stopped at the second floor, I closed my eyes in contrived contemplation, not supposed to look or even listen, which is difficult in New York City, where conversations fill the air like suddenly brightened caves of bats. “I don’t need that shit,” the woman in the skirt said and then described the sexualities she anticipated would be shouted by the construction workers who had been noisily occupying the street the last few days.
When the elevator reached the lobby floor, the women walked out. But as they did, I regretted not saying anything to the skirted one. I thought she looked great and very sexy. But I said nothing, settling for the superior feeling of not being identified as the voyeuristic and lecherous young stud who stood among them.