I met Jeremy at a research and development lab when we were both at Syracuse University. We were huge computer nerds, though Jeremy was practically born to it – his dad was the CTO of a famous investment firm back before anyone knew what a CTO was. He went on to do very well in tech, to the point that work eventually became more or less optional, but he remained the same fun, charming, gregarious, and sorta humble guy I’d always known.
We also shared a love of food and wine, particularly Japanese food. Some of the best eating and drinking experiences I’ve had have been with Jeremy, both in New York and in Japan, where we once met up with friends to eat our way through Tokyo.
And in almost 30 years of friendship, there has never been anything remotely sexual between us. We’ve never even kissed. Nothing.
Jeremy got married pretty young, though I remember him being – at best – lukewarm on the girl. No one was particularly surprised when they called it a day a few years in. Then he met Kiki, who everyone adored and I had a pretty serious girl-crush on. They were together for a long time before deciding to take a break a couple of years ago, which ended up being permanent.
It was during this break that this weird night happened.
We met at this restaurant in the Flatiron District at a very fancy kaiseki dinner – one of those elaborate Japanese tasting menus with a million tiny courses. We caught up over a lot of food and a lot of wine. We were at the restaurant’s last seating, so when the meal was over, the restaurant basically kicked us out.
We weren’t ready to go home. When we emerged from the restaurant, I noticed there was a strip club across the street. It was called Wonderland.
Jeremy, a cheeky grin on his still-boyish face, suggested we go in.
“Sure,” I said, living up to my reputation of gamely going along with wild goose chases, plot twists and half-baked ideas. In truth, I’d been to plenty of strip clubs with another close male friend before, so this didn’t seem especially weird to me.
The club was nearly empty. There might have been one other customer in this enormous place. True to form, Jeremy ordered a fairly pricey bottle of champagne, and they took us to a private room with three dancers.
At this point, we’d consumed several glasses of wine at dinner and were now drinking champagne. I don’t remember feeling particularly drunk, but I realize I have said this immediately before many a night took a hard, booze-fueled left turn.
Jeremy and I had kept it tight, but the three girls were clearly a lot younger than us – all mid-twenties and, as you might expect for a Manhattan strip joint, hard-bodied and sexy. They were all wearing the kind of perfume you only ever smell on strippers, which I found at least as intoxicating as the champagne.
Things were getting increasingly loose in the room, but from this point on, details get hazy. I definitely remember making out with at least two of the three girls while trying to block out the fact that by the time they were born, Jeremy and I had already been friends for years.
After several minutes of hardcore making out, I looked over to see that Jeremy had smooshed his face between the ass cheeks of the third stripper. This guy is like my brother, remember. One of the girls I was making out with provided commentary.
“Really, he wants to be doing that to you,” she purred in my ear.
“No way!” I said, my lipstick now all over my face.
“Oh yes, he does.”
Over the pumping music and around the gyrating hips and tits, I tried explaining that we’d been friends for almost 30 years. That I knew his girlfriend. That I’d known his wife. That he knew my boyfriends.
There had never been anything remotely sexual between us.
She was not persuaded. “Watch this,” she said. While her colleague brushed my lips with her nipples, I felt her put both hands up my skirt, hook the sides of my underwear with her thumbs and pull them down over my hip bones until they dropped around my ankles. She pushed my back so I was bent over, then lifted my skirt, exposing my bare ass.
I had a big pair of party tits in my face, so I couldn’t tell whether she beckoned Jeremy over or he came over without prompting. What was certain was that his hot, stiffened tongue was now deep in my asshole.
The girls relieved me of the rest of my clothes until, like them, I was down to my heels and a smile.
I don’t remember agreeing to any particular next step. I just remember being on all fours with one of my oldest platonic friends’ face between my ass cheeks.
I finally remember thinking, Wait. What the fuck is happening right now?
Not in an alarmed way. More in the way you might suddenly wonder why you’re eating a second piece of cake.
We’d never kissed. For some reason, that fact kept occurring to me. I think I may have even said it to the girls.
I don’t really remember how the debauchery escalated from there, nor do I recall how the monkey business wound down. I just remember being back on the street, makeup smeared, short of breath, and Jeremy putting me in an Uber.
I felt a little like Bruce Banner coming to after a stint as the Incredible Hulk – disheveled, confused and not entirely sure what the other version of me had just been up to.
The strangest part is that Jeremy and I never talked about it. Not the next day. Not later. Not ever. We just sort of…carried on.
Jeremy and Kiki eventually broke up. Jeremy and I remain friends. Our relationship returned immediately to exactly what it had been for the previous three decades.
We have dinners. We drink very good wine. We talk about our lives.
Just not that.
And, to this day, we have never kissed.
