Editor’s Note: The Last Hotel: A Novel in Suites by Sonia Pilcer. This is the 15th installment of her tales of the Upper West Side in the 1970s. Look for it every Friday. To read the 14th installment, with links to previous ones, click here. Of this work, the author Anne Roiphe writes: “Bittersweet, funny, human and humane, a movie surely waits.”
Suite 52
Amber sat down on her brass post bed to pull on her stockings. She leaned back against a pink satin pillow. A white fur was thrown over the headboard. A large mirror in a gilt frame dominated one wall.
She wriggled as she tucked her shirt into a black silk skirt, slit up the front leg, to reveal sheer black hose and fuck me high heels. Underneath her Henri Bendel beige gauze shirt, Amber wore a flesh lace brassiere adorned with lilac tulle. So girlie. Spraying a cloud of Parfum de Joy, she grabbed her Burberry trench and umbrella, in case.
Her chariot descended five floors. As she clip-clopped past Saul, who was sitting at his desk, she gave him a flirtatious wave of her head, her honey-dipped auburn hair spilling over her shoulders.
“How you doing, Saulie?”
As she waited for him to look up from his newspaper, she wondered whether he knew. The only one she’d ever told was Hana, who lived next door. She said, “I don’t care. You’re my girlfriend.”
“You don’t look so good,” she told him.
“The hotel.” He shook his head.
“What?”
Saul lowered his voice. “My partner passed on to his son his share. He‘s the big man, Viktor. So he moved down to Fort Lauderdale. And now the son’s buying the partners out.” He looked around the lobby. “They’re turning all this to garbage.”
“That’s terrible.”
“They want to buy me out. After all I’ve done.”
“What a crying shame,” Amber said. “I like it here. Everyone likes it here, Saul.”
“Look, for the time being, things are supposed to stay the same, but I wouldn’t count on it.”
She shook her head. “Can‘t we do anything?”
“You have weekly rentals. And no lease,” he said. “It’s a hotel.”
“There’s a man I know,” she began thoughtfully. “Lots of money. Kind of a sugar daddy type, not that he’s my sugar daddy.”
“Forget about it. It’s a done deal.”
“Well, I guess I have to start to look around, Saul. Thanks for the heads up.” She looked at him. “How sad. The Last Hotel is a lovely place. I’m really sorry.”
“That little stinker,” he said. “I was at his bar mitzvah.”
“The younger generation is lazy and shiftless,” Amber said as she walked out the door. “I know with the girls I manage at the store.”
“Have you talked to Duc yet?” he asked, following her out.
She shook her head. “I never see him.”
“He told me he works at a place called Studio 54. Have you ever heard of it?”
“Oh, it’s very famous. Mick Jagger goes there.”
“Who?”
“Andy Warhol.”
“The one who paints the soup cans?”
She nodded as she walked through the lobby.
Outside, a cab careened down 72nd Street. Amber hailed it. “Lord & Taylor, please.” As she sat back in the seat, she said to herself. “Studio 54, huh?”
Not in her wildest daydreams in Butte, the butt of her Montana childhood, had she ever imagined that her days would be spent in a pouf of gossamer lace, draping straps with pearly swans. So soft, so silky. Black lace bustiers with shimmery satin ribbons, hothouse-hued bikini panties that seemed to have a life of their own, fluttering before her eyes like antic butterflies. This was female heaven. The Intimate Apparel department of Lord & Taylor.
She used to work on the Main Floor in Fragrances, ambushing innocent women with showers of Shalimar, sprays of Tabu, My Sin and Madame La Roche. Carlo had manned the Brut counter. A lovely young gay boy, he wore tight muscle shirts, gold jewelry, sideburns like Tom Jones. He called her “Mi Bonita.” They dished for hours. Then he got a job at Chippendale’s, where suburban wives stuffed 20 dollar bills in his golden jockstrap. Adios, my sweet.
Her nose perked up. Amber was definitely olfactory by nature. Such a strange ugly word for that most acute and ancient sense. So many, too many scents surrounded her, but her favorite was still Joy. She was loyal. Parfum, of course. Never eau de toilette. What a horrible expression. She sniffed her wrist — the scent of white roses on a cool winter’s day.
With her flaming auburn tresses, her glittering emerald eyes, Amber was empress of the shop. There were salesgirls on the floor, who wore icky blue badges with their names and HOW CAN I HELP YOU? Not Ms. Amber, Manager of the department.
Some customers came especially to see her. They regarded Amber as a sorceress with magic powers and brought her their problems of the heart. She prescribed lingerie and fragrances to fan wandering lovers’ flames.
How strange life was when you were all female except in a few, but significant ways. What did it mean to be female? To be a circle with a cross rather than possessing the trajectory of an arrow? Amber was both, had been since she realized she wanted to go to her senior prom as a girl.
Now she was Cinderella awaiting The Transformation, but she didn’t have to go to a ball, get kissed by a prince, fit into a shoe. Doing it herself for her self. Just be the woman she had always been though everyone tried to convince, cajole, punish her for this fact of her life.
Dr. Tannenbaum once asked her if she ever worried that she might change her mind. Never! She was absolutely, positively sure that she had zero desire to live in a smelly, hairy, disgusting male body again. Just the thought of it was revolting. But that didn’t mean she would mind having one inside of her.
She knew how men were, having been one herself. The messy, chauvinistic beasts! Yet she couldn’t help loving them anyway. Not as a faggot, mind you, but as a passionate, loving woman!
She knew women through her heart and sympathies, even if her face had a late afternoon shadow if she didn’t shave. Electrolysis, depilatories, ugly, ugly, ugly. It wasn’t easy being a girl. Especially when you were born missing certain things, and endowed with too much of other things. Never mind that.
Thank God for reconstructive surgery. Amber checked the mirror, smiling at her reflection, then she re-hung a rose-colored nightgown with a matching robe, white rabbit fur on the hem.
Amber never understood why some TVs went through all the hormones, the injections, the operation -– only to become matronly drones, donning thick wool suits, chunky shoes, support hose, and pearls. You might as well be an ugly guy. That way you could at least shtupp your ugly wife.
Did clothes make the man or woman, as the case may be? She glanced over at the Lady Marlene counter, Bali, Lilyette, Maidenform, Olga, and the Oscar de la Renta sleepwear collection. “It is better to look good than feel good,” said Oscar Wilde. She wanted both.
The good doctor had asked her if she thought about having a child. Some transsexuals found themselves wanting to adopt. “Not me,” she told him. “I want to take care of my own feminine self for awhile.”
What did she really aspire to in her life — besides cutting off her dick? Though no one knew it, not even the shrink, Amber studied photography at the New School.
She has been documenting her alteration. Over the last nine months, once a week, Sunday mornings, at the same time her family went to St. Agatha’s Passion in Butte, Montana, she stood naked against a white wall as a Leica mounted on a tripod, snapped shots.
Once she had arranged several pillows on the floor so she seemed to rise out of the sea like Venus. It was all on film: the new curves, her breasts as they blossomed out of her chest (with a little help from the surgeon), her testicles as they receded. Like filming her own birth. She was her own creator and creation.
The hormones made her crazy, of course. Do you know how to make a whore moan? Don’t pay her. She used to be a gentle guy, now she was a femme fatale.
A dark-haired young woman in blue jeans strode past her. She reminded her of Hana, her next door neighbor at the hotel, who dressed like she was still in college. Now that was a case. She could be attractive if she did something like wear a bra. Floppy, floppy. Brassieres just give you a better line, she told Hana. It’s not like she had tight little buttons either. They were a C cup that dangled like loose sacks. Hana’s answer: breasts are meant to roam free. What’s wrong with a little bounce? That kind of attitude could put the Intimate Apparel department out of business.
Once Amber even brought Hana a flesh-toned Vanity Fair bra that hooked in the front. Hana thanked her, said she loved the gesture, but did she wear the bra? Not that Amber could see. Floppy, floppy. Ms. Natural with disgusting hairy pits. Luckily Hana shaved her legs because with her dark hair, she’d look like a gorilla.
Amber shook her head. Monica, the soap opera star from the fourth floor, bought out the shop the other day. A regular shopaholic. What was her story? She was a beautiful woman, but a lousy actress. Amber couldn’t stand her in Forgive Us Our Passions. She paced. She had to think about something as she stood there, looking gorgeous, trying to lure some unsuspecting gal into her lair of feminine fantasy. That’s when she spotted her next victim, swiftly approaching.
They’d been together all night! Faye was floating on a cloud of post-coital intoxication. She’d forgotten the power of eros. How was that possible? Faye felt like Sleeping Beauty arising from a long sleep, covered with brambles and thistles. Rapunzel, let down your hair! An aging romantic. That’s what she was. And how absurd was that?
“Excuse me,” she said breathlessly to Amber. “Can you help me?”
“Don’t I know you?” Amber asked.
“You live in the hotel, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes. What’s your suite number?”
“32. And yours?”
“52,” Amber answered.
Faye looked embarrassed. “I need a –- uh — an undergarment. But it’s been so long, I don’t know what to buy. Really, I don’t know who I am – in that way. Do you know what I mean?” She flustered. “Especially with my new –-“ She hesitated, then sighed with emotion. “My new lover!”
“Ooooh,” Amber crooned, surprised that this older woman was even having sex. “Lucky you. Anyone I know?”
Faye looked down mysteriously.
“Does he live in the hotel?” Amber guessed.
She nodded.
“Well?”
“Can you keep a secret?”
Amber grinned. “To my death, and beyond.”
“You’ve seen him.”
“Not the taxi driver!” Amber cried out.
“Lenny?” she said in disbelief. “God forbid.”
“Who?” Amber asked.
“Pincus,” she whispered his name. “Please don’t tell anyone.”
“You mean the old Yiddish guy?”
She exploded with a passion that could not be suppressed. “He’s a god! Sexier than men thirty years younger.”
“You take my breath away!” Amber said.
“And such a gentleman! My heart is full! I’ve been dying to tell someone. But please, swear to me, not a word to anyone.”
“My lips are sealed.”
“Pincus is a widower,” Faye continued confidentially. “His wife died eleven years ago, but he still mourns her.”
“How sweet is that.”
“I know. I was really touched.”
“What did you do? I mean, how’d you get together?”
“I brought him my beef brisket.”
“What?”
“I made a brisket and brought it to him. Single men don’t get home-cooked meals,” she added.
Once again, humanity astonished her. Who would’ve thought it? She looked at Faye’s cheap dye job, her creased face, over-ample ass. She could have been attractive in her youth, but now she was well past her first and second bloom. Yet, somehow, despite life’s cruel tricks, she was still out there, playing her best hand. It was inspiring, really!
Faye picked up a black chiffon camisole, fingering the straps.
“This is a popular style,” Amber said.
Faye checked the price tag.
“Sixty-five dollars! That’s too popular for me,” Faye said. “Besides what I need is a brassiere. Sexy, but not too. Not X-rated, if you know what I mean.”
Amber stared at her. Did she miss something? What movie was she talking about?
“One that hooks in the front,” Faye continued. “That maybe has lots of hooks?”
“Do you know your size?” Amber asked, taking a tape measure out of her pocket.
“38C.”
“An underwire?”
She nodded wryly. “I’m afraid so.”
“Here’s something for you,” Amber suggested, showing her a coffee-colored silk bra with beige lace trim. Faye looked at the price tag. “I don’t think so. Is anything on sale?”
“Sure. On the table in the corner. Why don’t you see if you like something. Then I’ll try to find it in your size.”
“Great.” That’s what rang her bell. Faye never met a SALE sign she could walk past. 50% off was an aphrodisiac. She walked off, swinging her large hips. Though she could afford to lose twenty pounds, Faye had an appealing sensuality.
Amber gave her a few minutes, then approached. “Did you find anything?”
“I love this one!” Faye exclaimed, handing it to Amber.
The brassiere was right out of The Story of O. A black lace push-up with six hooks in front and a red satin ribbon. “Pincus will like this one,” Faye whispered.
“Just don’t give the poor man a heart attack!” Amber teased.
Faye grinned sheepishly.
“Let me see if I can find it in your size.”
In a few moments, Amber returned. “You’re lucky. We have it.” She handed her a black brassiere with trailing purple ribbons. “Is purple all right?”
“Oooooh!” Faye shivered with delight.
“He will love it,” Amber said.
“So will I!” Then she looked down at the price tag and was stricken. Thirty-five dollars. “Oh,” she said. “I thought it was on sale.”
“It is,” answered Amber. “It was originally seventy-five dollars.”
“I can’t.” Faye shook her head.
“Why?”
“I’ve just never bought anything like this,” Faye said. “It’s such an extravagance.”
“I can’t do anything about the price,” Amber said. “Go on. Try it on.”
“What can I say?” She shrugged. “It’s not who I am to spend so much money on something like that. I wish I could.”
“You could ask yourself what’s it worth to you.”
“A bra?”
“A feeling.”
“Feeling, shmeeling. Thirty-five dollars? There are homeless people in the subway,” Faye declared.
What was anything worth? Amber could go through law school and then some with what she was spending on The Transformation. And it wasn’t covered by medical insurance. Elective surgery. Ha!
“Just try it on. See what it looks like,” Amber suggested.
She led Faye to a mirrored room and closed the curtain. Faye unhinged her white cotton brassiere, yellowed and stretched out from too many washings. She studied the black lace push-up with six hooks in front and a purple satin ribbon.
Slowly, she slipped the black lace over her pendulous breasts, hooking the back. She inhaled before opening her eyes. She stood in front of a full-length mirror. For a moment, she didn’t recognize her own breasts. The purple satin ribbons glowed and she had a lovely dipping cleavage.
“Oh, to be a sexual siren at 60…” she told her reflection. “The not being put out to pasture quite yet. Keeping it up, pulling it in, the body dancing.”
“Very nice, indeed,” Amber said when Faye opened the curtain.
“Amazing actually,” Faye said. ‘I don’t think I should.”
“Listen, why don’t you take the bra home with you? Show it to Pincus!” Amber proposed. “Model it for him.”
“I will!” Faye gasped with pleasure.
“If you don’t want to keep it, you can have your money back. Just hold on to the receipt.”
Faye’s face flushed with pleasure and a little shame as she passed the contraband black brassiere with trailing purple ribbons to PEGGY, a gum-chewing girl with black talons. She didn’t bother to notice her customer as she rang up a major purchase in Faye’s life.
“Enjoy,” Amber said.
Their eyes met. Faye raised her forefinger to her mouth. Amber nodded knowingly, sealing the zipper of her magenta lips.
She thought about Duc. She had noticed him on the elevator. How could she not? He was at least 6’6” with latte skin and black hair to his waist. What a total hunk of fine maleness!
____________
Sonia Pilcer is the author of six novels including The Holocaust Kid. The Last Hotel will be published in December by Heliotrope Books, available at Amazon.com. Visit Sonia Pilcer’s web site here.
