People say that New York is over.  The city has lost whatever edge it once had.  The last hip downtown scene, the one from the early 80s, has finally been replaced by standardized Japanese chain stores serving  frozen yogurt.  A name like “Pinkberry” does not belong in The Bowery.  Street art by Basquiat and Harring has been long replaced by the work of an overpaid designer who came up with the “Bank of America” logo and the extensive group of bankers who probably changed that poor fellow’s original design hundreds of times to make it sanitary, corporate, standard.

But hope can still be found, where else but… down under.

Only a few newyorkers know that there’s certain midtown subway station on the N-R line that has the perfect layout to accommodate late-night lovers, voyeurs and exhibitionists.  This particular station has a central platform that extends longer than it should, with a room that serves as a trash deposit blocking most of the view of whatever happens at the end of it.

Late one night, after working all day, I was waiting for the train to take me back home when I sensed some strange activity.  A tall woman wearing a long winter coat walked all the way to the end and disappeared on the other side of the small room.  Immediately, I noticed a man come out and stay vigilant on the side facing the rest of the platform. He looked at me, nodding his head in an inviting way. Hesitant, yet very curious, I took a couple of steps towards him but then casually backed, trying to disguise my curiosity.  A tall man in a suit arrived and received the same kind of nod from the vigilant guy.  It looked like some sort of code, and the man in the suit obviously knew what it was all about.

So, living in a city like New York, where we are used to buildings with doormen, clubs with bouncers and even schools with security guards making sure every toddler going in has an ID and is part of the group, I was suddenly granted access to something, I had no idea what, but being a Newyorker, I had to take advantage of this one chance. I had  been given access, to what, I was about to find out…

So as I  approached the guy, he moved to one side, allowing me to pass to the far end of the platform.  There, among the filthy traces of the trash that was taken in and out of the small room everyday, the constant dripping of dirty water from the surface, and among the occasional rat zooming past us, I saw the tall woman leaning against the slimy tile wall, having sex with a total stranger, his pants all the way down to his knees. She was encased by a very expensive Burberry’s raincoat, all naked under that.  He had a very shiny white ass and silk boxers. They were having sex in a rushed, passionate, forbidden way. Two other men were watching: The man in a suit I had seen before and somebody who seemed to be a deli delivery man. I was welcomed into the scene by a quick look of the woman who smiled and went on with her business.

As we sensed the train approach, we all slowly moved back to the center of the platform. Coats were closed, zippers up and discrete smiles were exchanged.

The man who was having sex got on the train with me. Besides his wrinkled tie and a sweaty forehead, he looked completely normal. He sat and began reading the New York Times.  As the train left the station, I saw the woman walking up the stairs back into the city, in need of some fresh air and a good shower, I assume.

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