A/N- Sidewalks of New York was written in 1894 by James W. Blake and Charles B. Lawlor. Sidewalks of New York
The first night I met Spot Conlon, I knew there was something about him that I'd never seen before. It wasn't the confidence, for I'd seen great swaggering businessmen who's fortunes were everything they wanted, and all they cared for. It wasn't his way of looking at me, as I'd felt a man's appreciative gaze on me before. And it wasn't his eyes. When you've seen a pair of eyes, you've seen them all.
It was his mouth that shocked me. The gentle curve of his upper lip, how it rested on the slight pout of his lower. How, when he smirked, there was a hint of an honest smile in the way his lips parted slightly. It was the way they were rosy, and looked soft as a rose petal, not like the other boys who worked all hours of the day in the scalding sunshine.
I don't think I was anything special. Short, and quite petite, with breasts slightly too large for my size, and dark curly hair that reached to the middle of my back. I don't know if my eyes were brown or green that night, but I know that all the way to the show, my mind was on Spot Conlon, and not on my friend Sarah's endless stories.
I didn't know Spot, as I mentioned before. I'd never even heard him mentioned in passing, that I can recall. So I knew that something had to be going on when, as soon as the three of us had secured a table with a decent view of the stage, she spotted a friend, Jack, and darted off.
I'm not a shy person, as I've had my fair share of male interests in my life. But for some reason, I couldn't seem to find any words with which to begin a conversation with him. So when he started talking to me, I welcomed it.
Our conversation began slowly.
"How do you know Sarah?" he inquired, careful not to stare.
"We used to do a bible study together," came my reply. "And you?"
"We lived in the same town as kids." he examined my face, and I pretended to look for her casually. "She was going with a pal of mine, and we ran into each other again a few months ago."
I don't remember too much more specifically. He told me he had two younger brothers and a younger sister. That his nights consisted of drinking, poker, smokes, and music, not always in that order. And I knew, of course, that there would be women in there too, somewhere, and if not yet, then soon.
I told him of my many younger sisters, and older brother. Of my passion for ballet, and for piano, and he guessed, correctly, that I read romance novels when I could get them. And as if his guessing that hadn't shocked me enough, admitted to reading them aloud, to his mother when she'd been sick.
We didn't stop our talking when the singing began and the lights dimmed; rather, we bent our heads in and raised our voices so we could hear one another. A few times I caught sight of Sarah checking up on me with her eyes, and grinning mischievously as she moved around the room on the arm of her friend.
He told me jokes, and pointed out people around the room, telling me embarrassing stories and secrets that belonged to them, and I did my best to retain my composure and be elegant and lady-like, while laughing so hard I had to excuse myself twice to use the washroom. The second time, the feeling of his eyes on my back as I walked away left me with butterflies.
When we left, Sarah walking ahead with Jack, and Spot and I following slightly behind, he was humming the tune the singer had been belting out near the beginning of the night, and I listened, smiling to myself, and avoiding looking at him.
Spot hummed the tune, and after once through, grabbed my hand and stopped me walking, as up ahead Sarah and Jack turned the corner. Without skipping a beat, he sang the song the lady had, placing my hand on his shoulder, the other in his hand, and his hand on my waist. We swayed, a slow waltz.
"Things have changed since those times, some are up in "G"
Others they are wand'rers but they all feel just like me,"
His voice gentle, and close by my ear, I could only focus on the bit of his collarbone peaking out from beneath his plaid shirt, and hope that I wouldn't faint. He continued singing as slow as a lullaby in a dream.
"They'd part with all they've got, could they once more walk
With their best girl and have a twirl on the sidewalks of New York.."
Spot spun me once and then his hand was on my waist again, and we were no longer dancing. His eyes caught mine, piercing white-blue – how could I ever have thought his eyes were like any other pair – and then his perfect lips were moving, saying my name.
"Can I see you again?"
And with all the strength in me, all I could do was flush, and nod in silence, and let him kiss my hand before we resumed the quiet walk home. Jack and Sarah ahead of us, oblivious to our delay, and Spot and I following, closer now than before, though not touching. And both, smiling.
We saw each other every day for the next week. I'd find notes in the mail when I went to collect it, and when I left the house for whatever reason, I'd always find him close. He came with me to the grocer, and the butcher and baker. When I stopped at the bookstore for my sister, he held my things and waiting, though he whispered comments that made me flush and giggle.
On the last day in October, my sisters and I spent the day in the park. One of them was born with an ailment, and very tiny and weak, was struggling to make the long trek home. Spot whispered something in her ear, and when she nodded, let her jump on to his back. He carried her that way until we were just around the corner from home, then let her down, and smiled, before taking a seat on a crate.
My sisters scurried around the corner for home, each giggling with the excitement of the day out. And I stood, looking at him quietly, having nothing to say, but not needing anything.
A few moments of silence, and then I smiled at him, and turned to go.
"Wait." his voice cracked. "Are you coming tonight? To the dance at the hall?"
I did not turn to look at him. Instead, I waited, pretending to think. "I will see if I can slip out." And then he was in front of me, kissing my hand, and then my cheek, and before I could react in any way, he was gone again, behind me.
He did not know that my family had left us under the supervision of our neighbor, a cranky old woman who was passed out in her Bourbon by the time the sun set each night, and rarely woke until the sun was high in the sky. I would be there.
The night was of no consequence. Sarah met me down the block from my home, and together we set off for the hall. It was very much alive with music by the time of our arrival. There was laughter and alcohol abound, and the air was thick with the smoke of cigars and cigarettes. I do not know how quickly Sarah disappeared from my side, but it almost took too long for Spot to pull me from the throng of dancing bodies.
It was a good evening. We danced. He sang, my knees got weak. I sang, he kissed my cheek and quieted, and then we sang together, dancing. He had a drink, and I did too. Perhaps more than one, alright, so I had a few. We laughed even more, and joked and talked. He avoided people numerous times, always slipping with me quickly away when he spotted someone coming towards him. We danced more, and he kissed my cheek, a few times, so gently I was not sure he had, and we laughed and smiled. And I blushed, again and again.
I made my mind up early that I would not be going home. I knew Sarah would not, and I was not about to leave her on her own. So when the drunken men and boys began to meander home, and the music became monotonous, Spot and I found Sarah, and we began to walk.
We were going to stay in Manhattan, because it was closer. Although when we arrived, Jack and Sarah got the last bunk, which left a couch, hardly big enough for one person.
So Spot laid down, on the floor next to the couch, and patted the cushions to motion me over.
I took my place, laying with my head close to his on the edge of the couch. My right hand hung down to the floor, and Spot held it, inspecting it with those eyes of his, and then kissing it with those lips. And my eyes grew heavy.
I was nearly asleep, when I felt his lips upon my cheek again, gently, though they lingered longer this time then ever before. And I woke, just enough to open my eyes and ask him, "Why do you keep kissing my cheeks?"
And then he kissed me.
It was gentle, but surprising, as though he hadn't expected to do it either. And it ended, far too soon. By this time I was awake, and caught up in the taste of his lips on mine, in the lingering remnants of liquor and cigars, and I wanted another. So I leaned in, and he kissed me, again, and again.
I spent the night in his arms, and after that, many more nights. I would slip out of my home at night and steal away to meet him. Sometimes we would sit just down the block and just talk, or kiss. Others, when my parents were away, I would escape for as long as was possible.
It went on for weeks, us.
And not only in the night. Every chance I had was with him. In the park we laid on the grass, and he held my hand and we talked about the shapes of the clouds in the sky, and our dreams and desires.
We would take the longest walks and see where we would end up, and we'd dart into alleyways, and he would kiss me until I forgot to breath, and he'd need to bite down on my lip a little to help me remember.
I showed him how to dance. In secret of course, and he, laughing, let me criticize the way he held himself, or moved. And then he gave up and said he couldn't dance, because men don't dance and he didn't like it.
"But -" he told me, "I do like you. Just not dancing." So that was that.
He told me stories of him growing up, and showed me the key that hung around his neck. He laughed when I asked to touch it, and even let me cradle it in my palm for a moment before tucking it back inside his shirt.
I began to recognize people that I saw in the street as his friends. Some would approach him, and as time went on he was a little less secretive about me.
I wondered how, when he was spending so much time with me, he was able to live. To afford his sleeping arrangements, and food. Eventually I found out. He didn't.
He was no longer able to stay in Manhattan. They were sending him to Brooklyn to sleep because he wasn't paying, and that meant two things. One, I wouldn't get to see him nearly as often, as Brooklyn was a few hours walk from my home, and two, he'd need to start working again, so he could survive.
The first few days that I didn't see him were indescribable. It was as though I was living a dream. It didn't feel real. And then I realized how much I missed him, and needed to see him, and everything crashed down around me.
I couldn't eat. I was starving myself because eating was no longer of any interest. I stayed home, didn't go out, didn't shower, because he wasn't there to impress, and I didn't sleep, because when the sun set, I'd think about him being out having fun, and I would miss his lips and cry.
My family began to take outings more often. My sisters would go to the park with the maid, and my father and his lady spent more and more time by the sea, when he wasn't working. It often left the house empty, and fed my depression.
One such day, I was alone when I heard my name from out in the street. Thinking it a dream, I rolled over, burying my face in my pillows. But when it came again, I sat up slowly and looked out the window.
It only took a split second for me to realize who was calling for me, and even less for me to throw myself down the stairs and fling the door open.
I was shaking, perhaps from malnutrition, perhaps from sheer excitement and shock. But when I saw him there, my knees nearly gave out and he came in to catch me, closing the door.
"I'm home alone." I reassured him.
We spent the remainder of the morning in my bed, with his arms just around me, holding each other, and looking at each other. He kissed me, and I would touch his face, and hope that he was truly there, and not just a figment of my imagination.
Every kiss he gave, I would milk for all it was worth, hoping to somehow make it last forever in case, as I knew he would, he had to leave. And every long kiss left me yearning for more.
The longer our lips were pressed together, the harder it became to breath, and I found my hands were clinging to him for dear life, pressing him as close to me as I could. Being in such close proximity to each other had its reactions. Heat, and more kissing.
His hands roamed my hips, my waist, my back, and I felt my face growing red as they touched my breasts. The kisses grew shorter, more frantic, and the heat beneath my sheets began to grow, radiating from within me.
As his fingers slowly undid the buttons on my gown, mine hurried to remove his shirt and suspenders. While he lifted it over my head, my hands clutched him to me, feeling stiffness between my legs, and need from every part of me.
Soon enough, I found myself lying bare and vulnerable before him, and he before I.
I had no real qualms. My body was aching, and his touch continued to do things to me that I had no idea could be done.
"I – want – you." his voice, husky and hushed, reached softly for me.
For a moment I panicked. This was sacred, special. Important. Everything important to a first night after a wedding. What if he was not the one for me? Would I find somebody who would take me, knowing I was not pure?
But I knew, that I loved him. And I was so sure that he loved me. And I wanted to be loved physically, by one who loved me in all other ways.
So I took a deep breath.
"Okay."
I loved Spot Conlon. He was the first for me in many things, and the last in several as well. I hoped that I would be the one for him after that day, but as it would turn out, I was not.
I never saw him again, but if I stood close enough to the boys that worked on the corners, I would sometimes hear in passing about Spot from Brooklyn, who's list of whores was legend. And all I could think, was that I hoped nobody knew my name.