We managed to support each other in our effort to reach the street and find a cab, each of us leaning against the other, my right arm around her waist and her left arm over my shoulder, both of us feeling the body warmth that an evening of alcohol had produced. By luck we found a cab in just a few minutes, and I opened the back door and fell into the seat closest to the curb, as she walked around to the driver's side and spoke through his window, telling him where to go. My head rested back against the seat, and I paid no attention at all to where we were headed, content to be led and taken to whatever location she had in mind. She slumped against me, her head lolling over against my shoulder, her breath hot against my chest. She rested a hand high up on my thigh, her fingers making little wave-like movements, and I started to get hard, despite the night of booze.
We stopped in front of a non-descript six floor walkup building, and we continued to walk side by side, as she unlocked the front door. She must have paid the driver at some point, but I was drifting in and out, assuming little responsibility and less control as things progressed. We walked down the hallway, through a door, and down a short flight of stairs. At this point my antenna went up and I started to be a bit concerned. As a born and bred New Yorker, I knew that the only thing you might find in the basement of a walkup building was the boiler, and I felt that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, the "I'm not in control and I don't know where this is going" feeling.
She unlocked the door and pushed me into a tiny dark space, a subterranean studio apartment barely large enough to hold the mattress on the floor. There was a waist high bookcase next to the mattress, and a pullman kitchen against one wall. There was one doorway that I could see, probably for the bathroom, and if there was a closet it wasn't obvious to me.
But the surprise, in this tiny space, was the wall facing the door.