The Boy on Bike Nine Part I

Part I

It was a Thursday evening in July, and the room was packed. Summer nights in the city during the week were always busy because everyone liked to get a good workout before spending the weekend on the beach. Even though the AC was blasting, the mirrors in the studio would turn foggy with sweat, like after a hot, steamy shower. Breathless, I chugged my water bottle and started high-fiving all the participants for their hard work. 

Julian was a regular at my spin class, and we became "friends" a few months after his weekly appearance in my class. I use the term friends loosely. We would exchange a few words here and there. He was tall, tan, and objectively handsome. He had a pearly white smile and knew how to shmooze in the small time frame before and after each workout. I never saw him out in the real world. I wondered if he was equally as suave. Julian always sat in the same spot, bike nine, on the side. He was incredibly competitive and would always come in first place. The spin class had a leaderboard, so there was an incentive to win. Being at the top of the leaderboard was like winning one of those games at a carnival where you're the first to fill up the balloon with a water gun; it's a giant race, and the entire class participated. 

"Nice work, Julian," I said, giving him a sweaty high five. Most of my riders liked it when I called their names out because it made them feel special in a room of fifty. It kept them coming back to ride with me. 

"Great class," he replied as he wiped the sweat off his forehead using his fourth towel to push his long hair out of his face. "What are you doing this weekend?" I noticed he was looking down at my sports bra.

I was used to people looking at my chest instead of in the eyes. Although my choice of sexy athletic wear was intentional, my skimpy outfits and friendly demeanor were often mistaken for flirtation. A part of me asked for it, I think. When I got the attention I was after, my brain would flood with serotonin and dopamine, giving me a happy and rewarding feeling. When the momentary high wore off, I'd feel empty and insecure, so I'd continue to show off my body at work and on online platforms, like Instagram. The very thing that built me up, briefly, was detrimental to my self-esteem, but I didn't know how – nor did I want – to break the cycle. I didn't know how I would present myself to the world if I didn't continue to play this role. Being the 'sexy spin instructor' became part of my identity, and I was in so deep I didn't know who I was without it. The more sign-ups I had, the higher my paycheck was at the end of every two weeks, and since I didn't work on salary, retaining riders was key for optimal income. 

"No plans," I answered, crossing my arms. July 4th was approaching, and I was stuck in the city. I had failed to make other plans because I assumed I would be teaching classes. Silly me. Because of the holiday weekend, no one signed up. My Saturday and Sunday rides had been canceled. 

"You should come out to the Hamptons. My buddies and I rented a place in Montauk. It's gonna be sick."

A particular type of person summers in the Hamptons, mainly rich. The type that wore suits to work and graduated from top-tier schools. The type that treated themselves and others to nice dinners at restaurants with three or more dollar signs and handed their credit cards to servers without glancing at the bills. Because I grew up around these people in Scarsdale, I could sniff them out. Julian most likely came from a well-off family and was bred from a young age to be a moneymaker. 

Although it's technically in Long Island, the Hamptons feel like another country. It's a place where a lobster salad will cost you $88, and corporate animals flock after escaping from their Midtown cages, trading in their business suits for bathing suits and days of debauchery. 

I had been to the Hamptons before because I had a few friends with houses—well, whose parents had houses 'Out East,' but being with a group of thirty-something-year-old men would be different. My friends and I would hang the beach or go to the local bars together and spend time with their families during our stay. We drank but didn’t touch anything else. Julian looked like the kind who did more hard stuff.  

Julian assured me he had room and that I would be a fun addition to the group. Something about how he said "fun" clued me in on his undertone, which lit me up inside. His flattery was surface, but I chose not to internalize it because a free stay in the Hamptons on a holiday weekend saved me $400 a night. That money could be spent on groceries and rent. I'd be foolish to pass up on that kind of an offer, especially when most of my friends were already going to the Hamptons, too, and I had no alternative but to spend the weekend home. It must be nice, I thought, to be able to afford all of this without help. If I wanted to, I could get a job like Julian had, or my friends had – a steady, salaried corporate job. I didn't want that life, even though I was accustomed to what it could buy me. 

Summers in New York City are brutal. In July, the scent of melted garbage rises from the street corners and swirls its way into your nostrils. Stepping outside felt like stepping into a curated sauna at Equinox….so I said yes. He would probably rescind the offer if I told him I wasn't interested in him, so I let him stare at my chest and kept quiet. Maybe we were using each other, but I could find a way to keep my pants on. Although I was terrible at setting some boundaries, I had mastered the art of making out without it leading to sex. I decided that kissing him or one of his friends would be worth it. 

Penn Station was a place I avoided at all costs, but the Jitney —an airconditioned bus with an unopened plastic water bottle in every seat dedicated for Hamptons travel and usually books up quickly, especially on summer holiday weekends— was full. So I took the train.

The only redeemable thing about Penn Station is Krispy Kreme. I love the way the buttery glazed donuts melt on my tongue. I decided to treat myself to a two-pack because, although they are decedent, one simply wasn't enough. 

Aside from the donuts, the place was a dump, overcrowded with derelicts, garbage, and vermin. As well as being filthy and underground, Penn Station was the opposite of organized. The conductors announced the assigned track minutes before departure, which caused crowds to savagely scurry to secure a seat. So there I was, huddled among the other city dwellers also fleeing for the weekend. I took a bite of one of my Krispy Kremes to counteract the chaos; eating donuts was a form of meditation. 

Once the track number was posted on the screen, the passengers shoved themselves and their suitcases in a mad rush to the platform. I moved quickly, too, but the first train wasn't where I planned to get situated. The 'regular Hamptons-goers' know to stand by the door, so they can run across the platform at Jamaica, Queens, and *hopefully* get a seat on the next leg of the trip, the part that takes almost three hours. I watched everyone around me scramble for seats. Rookies, I thought. I relaxed and started on my second donut once seated on the next one. 

"Do you think I packed enough?" I overheard a girl ask her friend. She wore giant Dior sunglasses that took up half of her tiny face, making her look more like a beetle than a person. She had a suitcase fit for a month’s travel abroad, along with a large duffle bag, but her tone lacked sarcasm. She was only going for the weekend. 

"No, trust me, you want options. Everyone's gonna be there," her friend with bouncy curls assured her. Her blowout looked fresh, as if she had stepped out of the salon and onto the train. 

Every seat on the train was filled, if not by passengers, by luggage, causing the unlucky ones, probably the same ones who had found seats on the first train, to sit on the floor. I tried to snooze, but everyone around me was already drinking – you can do that on the LIRR.

Three long hours later, Julian picked me up from the station, shirtless, and handed me a White Claw after looking me up and down. He wore sunglasses, but I watched his head move to check me out. "Catch up," he winked. The sharehouse was a short ride away, only five minutes from the station. I offered to drive, but he refused. He told me he hadn't "really" started drinking. I wondered what that meant. I was nervous about getting in the car with a possibly intoxicated individual, but I hopped in his Benz with my weekend bag and hoped he was sober enough to make it back without being pulled over.

We pulled up to the "cottage" on Balfour Road, a small street off the main Hampton's highway. The house was enormous— big enough for fifteen people, comfortably, but they squeezed in an extra ten. I was used to seeing homes this size, but I was still impressed. The landscape was very Hamptons-esque. The front yard was covered in perfectly pruned blue and violet hydrangeas. Plenty of couches and air mattresses were occupying the hardwood floors, all with people's stuff on top. Everyone was ready to party. 

I handed him a bottle of rosé as a thank you, which he placed on the counter as there wasn't any more room in the fridge for another bottle of alcohol. He took me upstairs to the master suite, which happened to be his bedroom, so I could put my stuff down. I told him I wasn't comfortable with the idea of sharing a bed. He told me we would figure out sleeping arrangements later and that I should "relax."

Downstairs in the kitchen, the fridge was fully stocked with Fiji water and all of the Gatorade flavors: Fruit Punch, Lemon-Lime, Cool-Blue, Blue Frost, Icy Charge Frost… 

“We need those electrolytes, trust me,” said the man who was five drinks deep when he picked me up. I didn’t trust him, but he was right – we would need electrolytes for the entire weekend filled with day-to-nighttime partying. I walked outside to the patio and was greeted by other shirtless men sipping on their White Claws, his friends from Business school. Harvard Business School. 

"Julian and I went to Harvard together," one of them said, projecting his voice to make sure I heard him say his alma mater. "Remember that time at Harvard," he said to Julian minutes later. I decided to play a drinking game with myself: I took a shot whenever I heard the word 'Harvard.' But then decided not to, for, after ten minutes, I'd surely end up in the ER. Ivy leaguers always try to slip into casual conversation where they went to school. It would be less ostentatious to tattoo an "H" on their foreheads. I wasn't impressed by it, though. Most of the kids I grew up with attended Ivy League schools. They didn't know where I grew up – Julian knew me as his instructor, and the less he knew about me, the better. I nodded along, acting impressed, even though I wasn't. 

The coolers on the outside porch were stocked with spiked seltzers: Trulys, Mermaids, White Claws, take your pick. Never had a naughty seltzer? Three of them will have you feeling buzzed, and the best part is you can barely taste the alcohol. They don't bloat you, so you can feel great wearing little to nothing on the beach – in a pool, on a boat, or at a local bar with a cover charge the size of my then-weekly paycheck. This was normal for the self-proclaimed New York City elite. 

They had a reservation at the Surf Lodge, one of the most popular spots in Montauk. A table for eight people costs five thousand dollars for bottle service, easy. The "deck" at Surf, its epicenter, cost more. I quickly ran upstairs, touched up my makeup, and slipped into a flattering summer dress that hugged me in the right places. I had been there before because of my extended social circle summers in the Hamptons. I wondered who I would run into.

When we arrived at Surf, we were placed at a table in the sand on the outskirts of the establishment. Julian, outraged, shoved a Benjamin into someone's pocket and asked to be upgraded to the deck. I eyed the bottle of Casamigos and poured myself a glass on the rocks. The rest of the Harvards were topping off their glasses like the pricey premium bottle was a pitcher of tap water. Teaching a week's worth of spin classes would cover the cost of an hour's worth of drinks for these people. I envied how their high-paying salaries allowed for this type of frivolous spending. Moreso, I envied that they could afford these luxuries without help. I knew I wasn't cut out for desk jobs, so I had used my sex appeal to land me an invite. For the Harvards, this was just another typical weekend. 

The place was crowded with other New Yorkers and C-list celebrities like those on not-so-popular reality TV shows. Everyone was dressed to impress with the latest summer fashion trends on point from Revolve and Reformation. At the table over, I eyed the infamous tower of chicken fingers and fries, a Surf Lodge special. Julian told me we had our own tower on its way. 

"Let's fucking go!" He screamed, raising a shot of tequila high in the air. "To the weekend!"

"To the weekend," the rest of us cheered in unison. 

I scanned the crowd for another friendly face, but as the sun began to set and the effects of the alcohol began to start, I found it hard to recognize anyone around me. I walked away from the table to sit by the water, Julian trailing close behind. 

"Do you know why I sit on bike nine?" he asked me with a wry grin spread across his face, flashing his veneers. Everyone has their seating preferences, and human beings tend to be creatures of habit. I raised my eyebrows. "Because I like watching you bounce up and down on the bike," he said.

His words took me off-guard. It was one thing to flirt, here and there, but his perverted confession confirmed my deepest insecurities. I wondered if I was even any good at teaching or if people just came to watch my body in the spotlight. What was intended, I assumed, as a compliment, filled me with contempt – not just for Julian, but for myself. I took a large gulp of my watered-down tequila. The ice had melted, but the cup was filled with liquor, nonetheless. I forced myself to swallow the substance rather than spit it out in his face. I thought about throwing my cup and splashing his eyes with alcohol. Maybe that would catch him off guard, and he would fall off the ledge into the bay. But that would be a waste of money, even if it wasn't my own. I decided I needed to be more intoxicated, so I sipped again. He put his arm around me, and despite the July summer heat, I felt a chill. Before I could utter a word, although his piggish comment rendered me speechless, his lips pressed against mine, his tongue prying my mouth open. He tasted like Casamigos and french fries. I pulled away. 

"You said you wanted to have fun this weekend."

I laughed a nervous chuckle, unsure of what else to say. Yes, those exact words did come out of my mouth; however, my definition of fun meant I wanted to go out, drink, dance, and meet new people. Julian, as I suspected, assumed I was interested in him. I didn't expect him to just jam his tongue down my throat. 

"I am having fun," I answered, raising my glass for another ‘cheers.’ The fireworks crackled in the distance. Saved by the boom. 

We stayed at Surf until after midnight, dancing and drinking. My eyes burned with tiredness from the long day of teaching and travel and begged to be closed, but the party continued when we got back to the house. Red solo cups were scattered atop the oak table in the kitchen alongside thick lines of cocaine. One of the Harvards asked me if I wanted a bump as he was divvying up the pile of white powder with his Platinum card in one hand and a tightly rolled crisp Benjamin in the other. I politely declined and headed upstairs to shower. 

The facilities in the house were spa-like. I let myself enjoy the pressure from the shower head as it trickled down my face and all over my body. I put on my PJs and climbed under the covers of the California King, the sheets a step away from satin. Classy. Although my eyes were shut, I could feel the speakers' bass pulsing on the floor below, radiating through my body. Minutes later, Julian walked in shirtless, once again stripped down to his boxer briefs, his long hair pulled back into a ponytail. He beat his chest like Tarzan and jumped on the bed beside me. I told him it had been a long day of teaching and traveling and that I needed to get some sleep. 

"Whatever," he said as he ran downstairs to join the rest of his degenerate friends. My brain refused to turn itself off. I'll deal with this tomorrow.

***

Tune in tomorrow for Part II