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Friday, October 8th, 2004
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12:09 pm
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| Friday, September 24th, 2004
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12:36 pm
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The dirty, squatter-covered floor of that dive with the tex-mex theme is where I looked, a young band playing murder ballads on the dark recess before us, the bass player a strawberry blonde with breasts peppy behind sleeveless nylon, catalyzing crushes all over the place, and the lead singer a histrionic waif with a Midwestern face in a long fedora drooping down almost over his eyes. Lucette sat next to me, picking at the cold debris of our fajitas and, the air awash with cigarette smoke (this was back when bars in this city allowed smokers), modeling much of her repertoire of nauseated faces. The place was packed to the hilt, and I forget the name of the Scottish prog-country act from that was next up, but those were the ones everyone waited for. I didn’t wait for anybody—I told Lucette, who long ago had lost interest in this, her birthday night-out, that we ought to leave while there was still enough time in the night to catch up on some email. She had stood up and put on her jacket, earmuffs and wool mittens before I even finished paying the hurried help.
I drove her home and resisted the tea offer. Life begins at 27, I said, so start living why don’t you, girl, g'night! Then I drove straight back to the bar, where any attempt to sneak back into my spot at the parking lot was foiled by the attendant, recognizing me enough to give a surprised look despite the mobile hissing between his ear and parka-bundled shoulder. He took my money, blowing hard into his fist, his red eyes hot on my back as I jogged into the bar across the street. Not surprisingly, the table I’d left minutes ago was now occupied, but the two I was after were still there, sitting on the ground in front of it, racing through DuMauriers.
The truth is, in the brief moments that I stayed at the back of the bar, taking turns feeding lines about the televised hockey to the jokey bartender and looking at the girl who turned out to be Katja, I only formulated two distinct thoughts. First that the sweep of her face reminded me a bit of Justine Frischmann, my longtime narcotic, whirling and screaming on stage like she were possessed of something delicious and exclusive. Second that she made me think of the grubby unisex bathroom behind me, and specifically one of its plaster walls, drenched with drunken scribbles, pressing against her back as her lips leapt against mine. I remember little about the other girl now, Katja’s competitor for my imminent moves. It was a close call when I first saw them sitting down, because all I had to differentiate them with were their respective backs and their hair, red and black. Now, with a frontal, it was no contest. Black hair wins.
Hey, the band is making a lot of bad noise, did she want to go talk to me in the back maybe? She's enjoying herself right here, thanks. Is there any drink I can buy to get her to reconsider? (Birdlike black eyes, raw skin, figure slight but as commanding as a shadow in a vacant room.) She was here with someone, she answered, so it would be a bit impolite. Plus she was enjoying the music. “Suit yourself, but I only asked for a few minutes,” is what I believe I said finally, before turning around and walking back toward the bar.
With Katja, I remember now, the strongest sensation is that of flesh everywhere, flush with intrinsic heat. On that occasion, it was the very first thing I noticed. As soon as we got to my apartment--not a half hour after she had made her way towards me at the back of the joint--she ignored me and removed all her clothes in a hurry. It was dark and I couldn’t see anything at all, but neither of us was inebriated. Next I only remember that Katja's lips, limbs and torso seemed to achieve full coverage of every part of me they touched. Her lower morsel (I called it a pussy once during the night, but the word didn't fit) was warm and gravitational.
It transpired that our movements were badly discontented—we never converged unto a single direction at once. Sex with Katja was like walking a tightrope on the brink of a fatal disequilibrium, we had to go on not just because of the tense thrill of the performance, but because we might die if we stopped. Exhausting and feverish, breasts colliding against each other and unsteady joints banging into soft spots. At one point, I became so frustrated with the lack of steadiness that I reached out and flipped on the bedside lamp, revealing the following: her heels cradling my neck, her muff propped up on my stomach, and her arms, stretched behind her, squeezing me at the ankles, and her hair, dusting the stretch of my thigh where she was sinking her teeth. "No, no stop, we'll figure it out!" she cried, a line of saliva linking her mouth and my skin.
For some reason, this scene is the only thing I think of now whenever I hear Take This Longing, which has always been my favorite song, and which just came on the stereo just now.
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| Tuesday, August 24th, 2004
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2:36 pm
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My second night in LA. In a video store, on a referral. I had asked my question timidly and the clerk hadn't answered, which was making me nervous. Finally, she began pointing at me, pointing like she just figured it all out.
- You fingered me in Mexico, she said finally.
- Hm?
- You fingered me in Mexico. You did, yes.
- Uh, come again?
- You wear those jean that was tight, you know? And this shirt that was sweaty in the back of it. A white shirt, open in the front, with a beeg spot of sweat in the back of it. You look like bery, bery American.
- I drove a lot in Mexico. My car didn't have air conditioning. Also I am not American.
- I wear skirt, so nice, so free, this skirt. And you finger me. In Cancun. On the beach, remember?
- I don't remember.
- Come on. I wear skirt with blue flowers? Remember? You stick it here and you say I was warm and then you laugh and you say but it's warm everywhere in Cancun. I tole you my name was Pear-la?
- Perla, I repeated. Rings a bell. Fat Tuesday's? Was that where this all took place?
- No! No Fat Tuesday. The beach. Near the hotel. People in boats in the sea. Some kids party even. Pear-la? Me? Look at me! Remember?
- I'm sorry but I just can't recall that. I have a very good memory too, I would remember you.
- You finger me and I slap you and run run run! I run far away! You were bery mad.
- That I definitely don't recall.
- Okay, mister. Here I prove you. You name Es. I know your name, you see? Because you tole me your name in Mexico! You were so mad after I left you! So mad! Now you come back!
- You know my name because I just gave you my credit card. It says my name on my credit card.
- Okay, know what? Whatever. What you say you want? Snuff film? Okay, this room.
- Is that where all your snuff films are?
- Yes, that is studio.
- Excuse me?
- You want snuff film, right? Knife or gun?
- Uhm? Knife I guess.
- Okay messy boy. Follow me. I go change naked. Or you want panties and bra? You hab story?
Perla was sobbing. She turned around quickly and passed through the curtain to the other room, wiggling out of her her top as she did so. I stayed where I was.
- You coming in? she yelled from inside.
I went in. It was a spare set. Klieg lights and a tripod in one corner. A boulder in the other in front of a beach background. Buckets with a pair of hancuffs, some condoms. Perla was in her panties, shabby tattoos scattered all along her back, her ass and her legs. There was a blue floral skirt hanging by the door, next to a white shirt missing buttons. Underneath was a pot filled with red liquid. Where are all the racks of videos, I asked. What are we about to do, exactly?
- You want snuff film, mean boy, we let you make your own. You don't want story, we don't hab to hab story. I just try to to be creatib. Now I cry for nothing. Stupid me. You just want sex, kill, video done? Fine. You put on condom, take blood, do whateber you want. Knife is in prop drawer. Pick your one. Then come and sex me. Camera is on. Stay in the lines and you tape everything. You sex me and I die. I bery good at dying. You want touch my titty, get you going?
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(6 comments | comment on this)
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| Tuesday, August 17th, 2004
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9:41 am
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There was a story in The New Yorker recently which I liked. It was a very brief piece, barely one and a half pages, and while Valerie is always a reluctant reader, she quickly agreed to abandon the kitchen to look at it when I offered her a bet. We agreed on the terms (starting time, site of penetration, allowed holds, etc.) and I placed the magazine on the bed, opened to the right page. Valerie undressed and plopped on the bed before it, fists on chin, elbows sunk into the mattress.
In the end, we had a bit of a controversy. She claimed that she had won because I was still in solid state within her by the time she read aloud the final line. I retorted, between huffs, that she has to demonstrate a comprehension of the text before she can be said to have read it. She said whatever, it's just one of those serious stories, these things don't mean anything, it's probably some fucked up metaphor. I said so you don't get it, then? She said no, now get off because you lost and I have a steak to marinate. I said, Valerie, think of the title, think of that word "Adams", and then, specifically, think of anagrams for the word "Adams."
Ohhh, she said.
I felt mutually.
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| Wednesday, July 28th, 2004
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4:17 pm
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Rosalyn,
To summarize, my end of it at least:
- No, sorry, I am not Marcus.
- Sure you can come in and see if you can call Marcus. I'm not really sure why you need to come in if you have a cell phone though.
- No, your outfit is not too slutty, especially for this time of night and this neighborhood. You know, earlier in the day, when the sun was nice and warm on the sidewalks, there was a dyky-looking girl in a bikini who carried above her head a sign that said "Topless Car Wash: $5". Two blocks away. So no, your outfit was not too slutty, not in this neighborhood.
- Oh, thanks a lot. You're making me blush. Yes, I am my own home decorator.
- Yes, my spice rack really is a thing to behold.
- Mmhmm, yeah, I do my own cooking.
- Did I know that? No. How would I just know that you're an interior designer on the side?
- Really? Decorating a restaurant! That's really great.
- Fascinating. Lots of textures, yes. Good idea.
- Fascinating.
- Yes, the fabric overhang concept of yours sounds like a very elegant way to cover up the exposed water pipe you refer to. You're very innovative, if I do say so myself. That Marcus is still not picking up, huh?
- My bedroom is not as nice as my living room I'm afraid. I wouldn't want you to downgrade your impression of my taste.
- Wow, really? Well, you certainly are very tall. I don't know if it shows necessarily, but now that you tell me that you're a model, I certainly have no reason to doubt you.
- London, even? Fantastic. Yes for sure I can see the catwalk in you. Pantheresque. Very glamorous.
- Oh I am absolutely aware that Brazilian girls can be as dark-skinned as you are. I can see how some guys don't believe it though--most people are so provincial. Well, sucks to be them. As far as I'm concerned, you're as Brazilian as you want to be.
- And then you're off to study law at Stanford right after that European gig! On a basketball scholarship! What don't you have going for you?
- Ah, I have my answer: Discreetness. Just barge through any old closed door, will you.
- Listen, I just made that bed up this morning. It took me half an hour to put it back in the shape Valerie leaves it. You will want to be careful not to disturb it with those long, pantheresque limbs of yours. Plus, I really can't see why you need to call Marcus from my bed? Wouldn't the living room be more comfortable? Or perhaps the hallway right outside my front door?
- Yes, yes, everyone says I'm a riot.
- Sorry, I never asked... you are? Rosalyn. Nice to meet you.
- I know it's a nice bedside lamp. I got it for $5 at a contents sale.
- No, you cannot buy it for 20.
- I guess I can lie on my own bed next to you, sure.
- Incidentally, your clothes? They are on the floor. Why is that?
- Do I think you lick my ear like a hooker? What a question.
- If you give me his telephone, I will call Marcus for you, since your hands seem otherwise occupied. Where's that Comfort Inn notepaper you were holding with his number on it?
- Nice. What a swivel that was.
- You've got a rugged turf leading up to your pussy. Your hair there is like a broken-in loofa.
- Do I mind? No, I don't mind, but I feel since you're in the business of taking liberties, I may do so as well. My arena is your ass button. Yours, evidently, is my dick.
- ...
- Okay, uh, thanks very much.
- No, Rosalyn. No way. $30 will not do it. I really like that lamp.
- No, I only chose the paint colors and gave them to the superintendent. He bought them and painted them for me.
- Go ahead. The bathroom is on your lefthand side out this bedroom door.
- A party on the 12th? Hm. Perhaps.
- No, at this point I have no idea what I have going on then. I might be able to make it. I don't really plan day-to-day items more than a week in advance.
- Well sure. Who wouldn't want to meet new really great designer friends.
- Oh, you don't have to. Oh... okay. Do you need a paper to write it down? No, you've got one?
- Okay, thanks. Looks good. Oh a hug. Oh wow. You are slutty. We met less than 45 minutes ago and now you're hugging and kissing me goodnight?
- No you're right. I am a total riot.
- Have a good night. Yes for sure I'll email. Okay, not the Queen_Bee address, the other one. Okay, great. Sure thing.
- Night!
That's when I shut the door and looked at the paper you had just given me. In bubble script: your name, Rosalyn Mayne, your phone number, your cell number, your home address and two email addresses.
I was still mystified.
A half hour later, around 1am, as I was about to chuck your address in the wastebasket (it's nothing personal: there's not enough colour contrast in your body for me), I flipped the paper over. There was that Comfort Inn logo, along with my own full name, address, phone number, cell phone number and even the buzz code. A mention of Marcus? Not a scrap.
So Ros, as they say in the movies: what the fuck?
Sincerely,
Es.
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(6 comments | comment on this)
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| Monday, July 26th, 2004
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12:33 pm
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Two nights ago at the Valley diamond, I was not the star of the game.
It was the 3rd consecutive game I was not the star of. Midway through the 7th inning, after another useless at-bat, I threw my cap down and plopped on the grass outside our dugout behind 1st base, pouting like a child. Mayda, who plays on my team, walked by, sucking on her water bottle. She looked at me and flung the last remaining drops at my face. She was in an 0-for-10 funk herself. She sat down beside me, stretching out her dirt-specked legs.
Her boyfriend Jace came up to bat. He is my age but much taller. He hit a double to centre field, as deliberate and smooth as an expert masseur. Mia cupped her mouth and hooted something at him; with one foot on second he gave an ironic bow in return.
"Do you want to go to the batting cages with me tomorrow?" she asked me, still looking at second base.
"I certainly need it."
"If we go, I will try harder to betray slugger over there."
"Fabulous."
"But you must be more forthcoming," she demanded.
"Non-negotiable," I said.
"That's why your nights will always be lonely, my friend."
"I will not so much as circle my arms around you tenderly when we try to correct that hitchy swing of yours. That's how non-negotiable it is."
"You've got such warm eyes for such a patent asshole," she snorted.
"My warm eyes are why my nights will never be lonely."
"And lashes too. I wish I had your eyelashes."
"Mmhmm," I said, interrupting a rhapsody I'd heard a few times before. "Listen, you know the conditions..."
"That's my non-negotiable," she said. Her non-negotiable made funny gestures at her from second. She hooted at him again.
"Well then, I congratulate you. If his face is any indication, his cock is probably gorgeous."
"Long and pliant, yes."
"And firms up the moment you take off your cleats, probably."
"As it should. I have the most beautiful toes too. Have you seen them?" Mayda reached for her laces as she looked at me, smiling. I didn't say anything.
She had one leg of her training pants liften up to her knee, and the cleat off. She tugged on the tip of her sock to reveal a wrinkled, muddied foot. She had on a mauve manciure that was at least a couple of days old, a bit chipped and faded. The arch on her foot took a hearbreaking contour.
"Sometimes," she said, "to kick things off, I wear nothing but his jock."
"It's probably very angelic though, isn't it?"
"What is?"
"His cock. Angelic and pristine."
"Yes."
"The sort of thing you'd like to show off, like a handbag. Lucky girl."
Our last batter struck out, stranding Jace on second. I got up. "Anyway. So that's great. If you're still up for the cages, I am too."
"Sure, yeah," she said. She was looking at the grass, pulling her laces tightly.
"Non-negotiables mutually respected, of course," I said, and rumbled off to right field.
current music: Succexy - Metric
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| Friday, July 9th, 2004
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2:03 pm
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When I remembered that we had abandoned the cameras, Valerie and I were sitting in a canoe, bobbing quietly atop Two Partridge Lake. We were shaded by a canopy of tree wreckage, moss-coated and cool. Several powerboats whirred and snorted in the distance, and every once in a while one of the wrinkly-toed skiiers they dragged behind them yelped as she fell off her plank with a splash. Val was sleeping; the way she hunched her back gave her a mild paunch that spilled over her bathing suit bottom. I sterned indifferently--unlike most writers, I'm rarely moved by nature.
The dregs of the conversation from the night before wafted up to me.
It had been about 1 am, inky dark and humid. Sarah was talking, not to me. She said, "A Canadian is someone who knows how to make love in a canoe. If we're to believe that, limey, then how would you like to take your naturalization exam right now?" With her eyebrow she pointed at her little boat, tied loosely to the dock in front of her cottage.
Paul smirked, uncrossed his legs and crossed them again in reverse. He reclined like a sultan next to the bonfire, leaning his sinewy back against a boulder.
"Looks like the soirée has improved," I said. "Now you're quoting beer commercials."
"Not at all. I'm quoting a distinguished author. It was Molson that cribbed him to sell their piss," Sarah replied, peering grimly at the bottled micturation in her hand.
Paul grunted and patted his crotch absently. "At any rate, Sar," he said. "I accept your invitation but I must warn you that I don't own a number 2 pencil to do the exam with. More like a number 7 and a hawf." The drink had by now shot to hell Paul's attempts at masking his accent, and so did the fact that Sarah had started removing her top.
"Thanks for that. Anyway, I have a feeling it won't matter as long as you show your work," I said. "Now then, I'll leave you two to your drunken fondling. See you later." I heard them try their hands at a few more puns as I stumbled through the woods back to the cottage next door, where my own sexless, valetudinarian Valerie had been sleeping since the time she finished putting away the dishes from our 6 o'clock dinner. I took off my clothes and slid next to her in the bed, my erection abrading against her back.
Early in the next morning I woke up to the sounds of raccoons coming from outside. I went to the window overlooking the back porch and found there was a whole legion of them, perhaps a dozen or so, congregated on the porch and emitting a sound that sounded like high-pitched gargling or a Gallic rolled R. A few minutes later Valerie was up too. She had slept in her underwear, but despite us being the only humans around for miles, found it crucial to wrap herself up in a robe before leaving the bedroom. When she was alert enough to realize what the situation was, she handed me a broomstick and pushed me outside. "Try to get to the water hose," she advised.
I waved the broom back and forth at the raccoons, but instead of running away, one of them ventured forward and lunged mouth-first at the shaft. He missed. I flailed the stick more violently and it hit him in the ample stomach, and he stepped back a little, screaming. There was a linden tree in just behind the porch, and upon hearing their mate scream, a few other raccoons slid down and joined the group. The hose, guarded as it was by this increasing squad, seemed very far away. I walked back in and closed the porch behind me.
"What about that gun you were talking about?" I said.
"What gun?" asked Valerie. She was filling a bucket of water at the kitchen sink, still not completely awake, but quick-minded and energetic in times like these.
"The gun, Val. The gun you were telling me about yesterday, the really old one, your grandfather's. The one your dad always kept in this cottage for warding off things."
"What do you think you're going to do with it?" Her face had a look that was equal parts disgust and astonishment.
"I'll fire a couple into the woods, and they'll disappear. You said it was in the attic, didn't you?"
"Don't be ridiculous. That gun's more liable to explode in your hand than it is to scare off some raccoons."
I was already climbing the ladder up to the attic. "Meh," I said. "We're on vacation, let's have some fun."
When I came down, I had the pistol in my hand. It was impressively shabby and historical. Valerie was outside with the bucket and the broom, inching closer to the hose with every fling and flail. The sweat dribbled down her neck in hot threads. I knew she would use this bit of early-morning stress as an excuse later on. I checked to see if there were any rounds in the pistol. I had never touched a weapon that was not made of plastic before, so I was not sure, but I believed there were four rounds in it. I put it on the table in the kitchenette.
Once Valerie reached the hose and turned on the water, all the raccoons scurried back into the woods, leaving behind them a cloud of dust and the scattered contents from the torn garbage bags we forgot outside the night before.
Later on that afternoon, Valerie sunned herself on the ramshackle dock. She lay on a towel, her rump facing the cloud-smattered sky. Every movement of hers caused the dock to sink momentarily into Two Partridge Lake and wet her feet and ankles. I sat on a lawn chair in front of her. We had just played a few turns of rummy; our running total for the weekend showed that I was being narrowly beaten. Deerflies and mosquitoes buzzed their menace in vague proximity.
We had two cameras nearby: mine a small thing usually classed in the "fun" category, and Valerie's an expensive high-ender with the kind of portly zoom cylinder that must be an aching temptation to the hearts and wallets of serious voyeurs everywhere. Both were flecked with water, sitting on the t-shirt I'd taken off.
That was when I had suggested we take a canoe ride.
By the time I had paddled myself and the sleeping Valerie back to shore, it was almost gloaming. I'd been panicked that someone may have filched our unattended cameras, but I found them right where we left them, safe on my t-shirt. I left Valerie in the boat and climbed out, taking the cameras with me.
Even in weekend's excursion into cottage country, I'm loathe to leave my essential gadgets behind in the city. So I pulled the laptop out of my bag and placed it on the table in the kitchenette. Right beside the ancient pistol from that morning. First I downloaded the pictures in my camera. The contents were predictable: Valerie smiling in a variety of stances, some posed, some candid; some shots of bland, woodsy scenery; even a few blurry, off-centre pictures of the raccoon invasion.
I removed my camera and hooked up Valerie's. After the reciprocal shots I expected (me smiling in a variety of stances, some posed, some candid; some shots of bland, woodsy scenery), there was a long series of shots that I did not expect. All of them were very dark, and most of them were closeups. They portrayed were a variety of sexual organs in the midst of interconnecting. A cock inserting into a ready slit, a mouth reaching for a thicket of hair. There was leafy greenery everywhere, as well as water. I noticed the pointy tip of a canoe in one of them, the freckled breasts of Sarah in another, and my own erect penis in yet another.
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(1 comment | comment on this)
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| Wednesday, June 30th, 2004
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12:32 am
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Sometimes I'm overcome by such serenity that I forget I have a sexual organ. Those are the moments in which I lack ambition the most.
Tomorrow I will regret those lines.
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(1 comment | comment on this)
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| Friday, June 25th, 2004
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3:21 pm
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At the end of the night, Eve insisted on my place and not hers. My tacit assumption was that this was out of necessity, because she couldn't have just anyone know where she lived. Otherwise what she'd have on her hands would be suitors and stalkers, not lays.
Unfortunately when we got there, neither of us had noticed the dusky, romantic look that the entrance hallway of my apartment uncharacteristically bore. Neither of us, therefore, had noticed that this mood was created by the rows of tawny-haloed tealights set at the very edges of the hardwood floor, giving the chipped paint of my walls the look of brown leather. Instead, within seconds of coming in and closing the door behind her, and before I could offer her a drink, Eve had liberated herself of her clothes, flinging them furiously in all directions as if they had been leeches sucking on her flesh all night long. Completely nude except for her high heels, even those slipped off when she jumped on and clung to me. In this way, within minutes of entering my apartment, Eve had started a fire.
It was already blazing by the time Eve and I, mid-maul, became hot enough to notice it. Dining on Eve's blouse, skirt and thong, the flames surged and flickered behind us in three places. One on the very edge of the front door, a second in the middle of the hallway, the third just a foot away from where we stood, leaping up almost enough to catch the edge of my faded Klimt print.
Eve screamed and clapped her hands, and I didn't know if she was scared or happy with the spectacle. Anyway, I unloaded her and scurried to the bedroom. Lipstick smeared on my nose and cheeks, I snatched a couple of blankets and a bathrobe. When I came back, Eve was yelling at the fledgling fire like it was a dog: "down, down! ouch! stop it!" I threw the blankets over two of the flares and handed her the robe. She flung that on the last of the fires, to my pleasant surprise. Then she hopped closer to it and bent to adjust the fabric so that it covered all the dying flames; as she stooped her rump alternately exposed a creamy anus and then hid it. Black smoke wafted between her legs. Before long, the fires were almost all out, but I could not stay and watch them die--I hurried into the living room and shut the divider behind me.
That's where I found Kirsten, just as I expected. She was wrapped up on the couch, snoring a bit, the pillow squished up in a ball under her chin. Her large legs were exposed over the arm of the couch--the bedsheet she clung to seemed not quite long enough. The television was on, volume low, a late night host jabbering. I walked over to her and lifted the sheet off; Kirsten was almost as unclothed in my living room as Eve was in my hallway. All she had on was a pair of string panties. Her body, lined with intersecting red impressions from the rough couch, heaved in rhythmically.
I tickled her foot. She woke up snout-first, eyelids unfurling in slow, piggish movements. "Kirsten, baby, you didn't tell me you would be here," I said.
"Did I fall asleep?" she asked. Her watermelon breasts toppled down lazily as she rubbed her eyes all the way open and sat up on her back.
People are always in denial about their sleep. "Yes you did fall asleep," I said. "And you almost killed me with those candles in the hall."
"I thought it would be nice," she said. "It is Wednesday, remember. My day."
She was not fully awake yet, but still alert enough to raise a palm and cup the crotch of my denim, her thumb working on an expanding outline above it.
I let her do it, but also let her know that Eve was there. Kirsten had never met Eve, and before tonight, I hadn't either. I said to Kirsten that I did not intend to send Eve away and, knowing what her next thought was, that I was also not really in the right frame of mind to try and manage two women, which is a job that I found difficult in the best of times.
"Can I watch, at least?" she asked.
"No. I really don't want to introduce you two right now. I don't feel like it."
"I can hide then," she said. "I can hide in the bathroom, for instance. It's right next to the bedroom, so I can watch through the crack in the door--she'll never notice me."
I was getting impatient; the thought of Eve battling the fire so cutely in the hallway was torture to me. I glanced at Kirsten, at all the copious, clumsy meat of her, and was not confident she could keep her promise. But I had already spent two or three minutes talking with her, and soon Eve will become suspicious, so I said fine. I told Kirsten that I'll steer Eve to the kitchen for a bit to give her time to get into the bathroom unsuspected.
Kirsten practically threw her hands up in joy.
"One thing though", I said.
"No problem, what's is it?"
"Until you hear us both on the bed, pretty well entrenched and moaning even, I want you to stay in the bathtub, with the shower curtain pulled tight. And then as soon as we're done, I want you to get back in the shower again. Got it?"
When I returned to Eve, she was sitting in the lotus position in my hallway, gazing at the last few strands of smoke left in the air. Her belly had streaks of charcoal all over it. One of her gorgeous white breasts had a stark, black imprint of four fingers and a thumb on it, obviously from where she had wiped her hand. Her red hair was crumply. I sat down next to her.
"Where's your smoke alarm?" she asked.
I nodded at the dining room table where it sat in a tangle of wires, right next to a hammer and a screwdriver. "I was cooking yesterday," I said. "It wouldn't stop, and I don't have a lot of patience."
She sighed and stared some more. Finally she said, "Well, I no longer have any clothes. I guess I'll have to ply you with sex tonight to get you to send me home with something on." Her eyes glimmered with mischief.
"Very wise," I said as I got up, extending my hand to lift her. "Now let me get you a drink and clean you up a bit."
I pulled a seat facing away from the door at the kitchen table and Eve sat down, grabbing a napkin and spreading it across her lap in an act of faux modesty. I put the kettle on the stove and then sat down on the table across from her. Outside, a light night rain was coming down, and the aroma from it came in waves from the open window. Neither Eve nor I said anything, we just stared at each other like the strangers we were. Her face was still a nice surprise to me, not yet familiar enough to be only beautiful. She asked me for a glass of water.
As I got up I caught in the corner of my eye a heavy blur dashing out of the living room, trailing behind it a swoop of thin dark hair like motion lines in cartoons. Eve sucked on the tall glass of water I gave her. Apparently the heat had made her thirsty because she asked for a refill, which she drained almost as soon as I provided it.
"Feel better?" I asked.
"Much," she said. "That was very exciting," she continued, "the frenzy of putting it out and all."
I didn't say anything but instead rocked back in my chair and looked at her. Her skin was gradually losing the flush our little workout had left her with, and was settling back into the soft, clam-white I so instantly craved when I first glimpsed her picture attachment in that email dated only five hours ago. I reached across and gestured for her to give me her hand. She submitted it to me and I pulled her across the table. I drew in close enough to touch lips. I smelled and could almost taste the soot on her cheeks. Suddenly she let go of my hand, tossed the towel off her lap and lifted one foot up onto the table. Her pussy, slightly blackened like the rest of her body, glistened with sweat and syrup. For the first time that night it seemed almost a pity that we had stipulated this would strictly be a one-night special.
The kettle was getting ready to whistle its impatience. I got up to look for a dishtowel. Finding none nearby, I took off my shirt and poured some hot water on it. I knelt down to where Eve was sitting. I started with her face, tracing lines of moisture around her eye sockets and chin, then wiping them off with the fingers of my dry hand. She looked over my face as I did so, not blinking once. Occasionally she wrinkled her nose. I progressed to her collarbones, lingered by her breasts, then slipped down to her navel. I added fresh warm water to the shirt and knelt down again.
She was still agape, still had one leg up on the table, but I meandered around the matter for a while. I moistened every last hairlet on her pubes that I could see in the weak light. Eve's fingers twitched. Sometimes she muttered. Finally, I balled up my shirt and pressed it against her vagina. I counted the crinkles on her forehead while I waited for her to breathe again. Her short arms flailed for my crotch, but it was out of her reach. When I slowly slid the wet shirt up and away from her, I saw a thin trickle of amber fluid escape, leaving little droplets momentarily dangling from the lip of the chair.
"Oh," she said. "Ohhh. Shit."
I smiled at Eve and panicked inside. I knew what was about to happen and I was convinced Kirsten was disobeying my instructions, perched on the closed john with her thighs squeezed pink beneath her, waiting patiently for the action to start. The thought burned as Eve cursed and apologized and muttered things about too many glasses of water, a minuscule bladder, etc.
"Liquid warmth in that spot always makes it happen too," she said. "Like, when I'm showering..." she said, and trailed off.
"Remind me not to take any baths with you then," I said, smiling.
"Very funny. Remember, I've got a weapon here," she shot back, jerking her sparkling pussy in my face. "Now, if you don't mind, I need to use to your bathroom now to avoid any more fiascos."
There was nothing to do except lead her to it, while finding reason to say "coming to the bathroom!" loudly a number of times. I hoped Kirsten would hear me. When we reached it, I opened the door first and the shower curtain pulsed briefly. I waited a second before allowing Eve in, and pulled the door behind me as I got out.
I waited by the door.
When the steady hiss dissipated into a string of soft tinkles, I burst in. I shot a glance at the shower curtain right away, but it looked like the beast behind it had behaved. Eve blushed and covered her privates. I strode towards her, tore off a piece of kleenex on my way, and wiped her vagina dry as we kissed.
The rest of the evening, and morning, went as can be expected. I'd proffer my penis, and Eve would take it. She'd proffer her pussy, and I'd take it. We drubbed at each other ecstatically. Every once in a while, I'd notice a spate of gasps and quick breaths emanating from the bathroom, and tried to conceal them with loud talk or laughter or moans of my own. It wasn't hard.
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| Monday, June 21st, 2004
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3:13 pm
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Recently I have been attending lessons at the studio again.
Unlike everyone else, I do not lug around the usual oversized pad or the assortment of drawing chalks. Instead, I've been in the habit of bringing a small, letter-size notebook and, aping the look of some sort of monomanic genius I am not, bear close to the paper as I spill away in feverish loops and hard slashes the red ink from my Bic. The instructors, such as they are, in general ignore me whenever they make their rounds around the studio, arching their eyebrows, looking down at a drawing, up to the life model then back to model then back down to the drawing, cooing and bestowing their "constructive criticism" on the skilled mediocrity of the other students.
They'd be hard-pressed to critique my work. I don't draw, after all. I write.
Nowadays, I save myself the headaches and just bring my laptop, which is the normal locus of my writing. So long as the secretary stationed at the door has received my signed contract and a per-session payment, I am free to do as I choose. On occasion, a few of the brilliant artistes around me have complained about my noisy typing and have received an appropriate dose of blank stares in return. Anyway, none of this is here nor there. The following are the full contents of nude_model_14.txt, or what I managed during the Friday class of two weeks ago.
This woman is driving my thing twist out of the boxers and and rub against the harsh boundary of the denim. I'm dying. This is so stupid. There is nothing stupider than trying to write while a beautiful woman is reclining in front of you in a picturesque pose, all her clothes neatly folded on the end table nearby. Her folded panties are interesting, they have a cute pattern of green shrubbery in all over them, but just a short while ago ago I realized that every minute I spend inspecting them is another minute wasted not ogling the labrose loins they are not currently concealing. She has gorgeous genitals, dark and conspicuous, like long slices of truffle. Who is she? There was a short, thin white string of some kind stuck in on her nether mane. I told her about it in the most professional fastidious tone I could manage. I said "Lauren, there's this thing on you, remove it please," and pointed. I am at the front of the class, so this it was not indiscreet--here's the real question: is her name really Lauren? I don't know, I may have misheard when the teacher introduced her as the new life model, but anyway, without looking at me Lauren gave her crotch the gentlest little dust-off with the back of her hand. The dark tresses followed her fingers for a second before springing back to their spots, freed of that pesky string. Now what do I do? I am on my 14th class, and so far I have spent them all with the sort of pointless blather this textfile is becoming. The idea of the muse is stupid. This is how any and all of these pieces end. The idea of the muse is stupid.
Last Friday, I went to the class for my 15th time. I signed the contract and was about to open my wallet when the secretary stopped me. Lauren had requested I not be permitted back into the class when she worked. I asked why, and the secretary, concentrating mainly on chewing her gum, clacked the following: "I think she doesn't like yer computer. And I think she said yer rude."
I decided to wait close by until the class was finished. The secretary's relayed message needed an explanation, I felt, from the model's mouth. There was a coffee shop two blocks away and I spent most of the intervening hour there, locked in a heroic standoff with the blinking cursor. I had a story on my hands, one full of shredded pride and vain revenge, gloriously eventful and verbose. Anyway, I liked it.
When I finally had the presence of mind to look at my watch, it was much too late. The class had been over for at least half an hour. I gathered up my things and headed for the door, which was where I bumped into Lauren, coming in as I was going out.
I invited her to sit down, and hesitated for a moment, but did. Oddly, she looked slimmer and even more attractive clothed, and she had her black hair tucked back with a tortoiseshell plastic headband. I wondered if she'd like to have anything to drink. She answered that this was not a date, that she can order for herself, thankyouverymuch. No problem. Now. Would she like to tell me what was so offensive about me that she had me banned from a class I had been going to longer than she has?
She said that I clearly was there just to oogle her, that I was very loud with all the tick-tick-ticks of my keyboard, which interfered with her "zen", and that, on top of all that, that I hurt her fragile feelings when I mentioned that her pussyhairs were unkempt. I defended myself by first mentioning that "ogle" is not pronounced like "google"; that I was furthermore not just an ogler, but also a writer, which is an artistic occupation only a smidgen less ancient than painter; that I would like her to transmit to her Zen my sincerest apologies about all the racket along with my promise that I will try to go easier on the keyboard in the future. And, finally, I told her that I was only trying to get her attention when I said what I said to her in class.
She said show me your stuff. I handed over my laptop and brought up what I wrote about her in the last class.
Her eyes scurried across the monitor for a few minutes. Finally, she grimaced and said, you're terrible. Her breasts bounced pleasantly when she away from the textfile.
I said, yes, that's what all the bad girls say. I smirked.
She clarified. No, you really are bad. You have little talent. My mother is a college English teacher, so I know. You're a terrible writer.
I looked at her. This was a new one. I was fascinated. Really, I said?
Yes, really. Pretty awful writing.
Well your qualifications are certainly beyond reproach, I replied. Can't argue with that fabulous maternal gene.
She shrugged. I told you the truth, she said.
Hm. Well anyway, thanks for the input. That's what I told her. Then I concluded by saying that it would be great if she was kind enough to lift the ban, because, much as I value her opinion, I still like going to the class and producing terrible literature.
She ignored me. Write a story for me, she said. If I like it I will sleep with you.
I gagged at the concept and the act, both.
I replied, I'll write a story that will make you ache to sleep with me, and then I will inform you that it's completely out of the question.
My genitals are so gorgeous though, I thought. That's what she said. You'll hardly be able to contain yourself. She said that too.
I'm used to such a line of attack. You can't be a writer and not expect people to perceive in your giddiness with life a weakness.
Yes you do, I said. You have some of the most gorgeous genitals I have seen.
---
Incidentally, until I submit to her the story that will bring her to her knees, I do not expect to be back at the class.
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| Sunday, May 16th, 2004
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10:43 pm
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Jenny Is----,
Okay. I can do that. This decision can still be reversed though, if the previous conditions are violated.
But yeah, the pictures you sent seem like proof enough you're acting in good faith. I wish I'd known your limbs were that sinuous back when I was killing my instinct to push them farther and farther out. We could've used the depth.
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| Wednesday, April 21st, 2004
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1:57 pm
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Dear Jenny,
Jenny Is-----. That's as much of your last name as I'll record here--for now. If you don't go any further, I won't go any further. I don't have a large audience for this web thing, but it's not nothing, and plus there are other ways of counteracting whatever "fun" you have in mind for me.
(Sorry about the rough start to this message. I'm prickly about my privacy, and I didn't exactly see a smiley face after your threat to "expose [my] perverted ass".)
My time in Berlin was largely forgettable. I disliked the air of the city, I thought the faces of its people were ugly in odd and sometimes groundbreaking ways, and one time while I had dinner in a restaurant with some colleagues, a grizzled hag, who between deliberate mouthfuls of fat sausages had been inspecting me like a coroner from two tables away, finally snapped and yelled Juuuuude three times in my direction before being hustled to the door by the maitre d' (which rankled even more because it wasn't true). In short, as far as I was concerned, Berlin was a fine city to be quite busy working indoors in.
Okay, let's get your questions out of the way now: 1) The only reason I extended my conversation with you that first day when I was checking in at the reception desk was because the odious Dr. Cruick from the UK was waiting behind me in the line and making sure his impatience was visible; naturally I would've done anything to inconvenience him even more. That's the truth. I'm not trying to offend you but I travel a lot, and so I see lots of attractive reception girls, and you were one of them, sure, but I don't like to waste my time or theirs with useless inquiries. But Cruik has always gotten on my nerves, and I wanted to get on his. That's why I asked you whether the hotel had electrical converters, then about the restaurants on site, then finally about what interesting nightclubs there were in the city. That last got you humming. You took out brochures, wondered what kind of music I like, made calls to your friends to ask where the action was tonight, took out maps, wondered if I preferred erotic clubs instead, etc.
I was surprised you suggested you call my room when it was your break time.
"But I'm very tired right now, I will probably be asleep" I was satisfied with how flustered Cruick had gotten and was about cooked from the 16 hrs in transit.
"But you will not see Berlin well without me," you countered. "I will tell you where all the good things are."
"But you know I'm here for a conference. You know, business. I will be working most of the time. Berlin will be an afterthought, honest."
"Well, I will call anyway. There is a silencer on the phone if you want to use it. Thank you very much we hope you enjoy your stay with us," you said, and nodded beyond me at Cruick, beckoning him toward you.
I did not use the silencer and the phone did not ring. I rememebered that the next morning, as I was sitting in a dark hall listening to a lecture that had long ago lost me in its details.
2) Yes, you are definitely smarter than I thought--you caught me perfectly. And you're right, I did miss not catching a single glimpse of you at the desk for the next four days. I did manage to prevent myself from contriving a reason to ask one of the other clerks about you though, so that's a small victory in my side of the ledger. When on my sixth and penultimate night in Berlin, while I was taking advantage of the wireless internet the hotel provides in the lobby, you finally showed up and seated yourself in the chair across from me, I was shocked. You said you'd seen me around Zoologischer Garten the night before, walking around aimlessly by myself and taking pictures of churches and street signs like a tourist. It was embarrassing, you said, for such a busy man.
You weren't in your uniform, and so your enormous chest was no longer bound by the button-up formal jacket. You wore a blue low-cut tee that your nipples poked hard against. I said you should've said hi so we could've had dinner or something. You were very merciful, and skipped the charade I expected from you, the one where you act wronged and reluctant and I try to persuade you.
Instead, you said: "Well, the past is the past. Let's go downtown again and we can have yesterday's dinner tonight. If we hurry, we can catch the 9pm S-Bahn at Sonnenallee station."
"Sounds great," I said, "but let me pop upstairs for a second, put away this laptop and put on some fresh clothes."
[to be continued...]
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| Friday, April 16th, 2004
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10:51 pm
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I was in Berlin recently. There was a bridge that overlooked my hotel, and if you got on the bridge, stood facing the hotel and snapped a photograph with your digital camera, this is what you would've downloaded to your hard drive later.
The myth somehow seems starker in neon lights.
. . . . .
A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.
(Yeats)
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| Monday, March 29th, 2004
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11:29 pm
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...
"And then I will push you onto the bed with my hand on the small of your back, but you will know to keep those long legs of yours straight even as your arms and torso collapse in front of you. Then I will take these very fingers you see right here, and I will run them firmly across your taut-stretched panties. What color are they, your panties? Green? I will run my fingers across your green panties, rubbing through the fabric and the hair underneath the fabric, rubbing your lips, your ass..."
"Hold up," she said. There was some sweat under her nose, and she drew a breath. She put her palm on my chest.
I didn't want to give her a chance. "My finger will wear your panties like a condom as it penetrates you, while I'm standing there, looking at this bent-over vision..."
"Stop it, hold up," she panted.
"What's the problem?" I asked.
"I'm sorry. This is just so amazing but where the fuck is it coming from?!"
"What do you mean? Can't you just enjoy it?"
"No, I want to know. It's like you've read my mind. It's exactly what I've always wanted, and yet we've hardly seen each other twice in the last two years, how is it that you know what I've always wanted out of you?"
"Seriously, Maddy, is this what you want me to tell you right now?"
"Yes, please. I'm dying to know."
I stepped away from her and pulled myself together. My zipper was half open, and a couple of my shirt buttons were undone. I decided to tell her the truth. "I've kept a file on you."
"A file?"
"Yes, I have a file on my computer. "Maddy.txt". Every time I've talked to you, I've updated it. It's over 10 pages long now. It contains nothing about you except what I thought you'd like in bed. All the ways and methods I've thought of fucking you. It's filthy."
"Oh my god that is so Rachel Papers."
"Shit, you like Amis too? I read that thing recently, I swear, way after I started the file. You know, every time I read a good book it deals a blow to my fantasy of ever finding something original to say or do."
"Forget that. What's in my file?"
"Ah," I smirked. "Now she's curious, is she?"
"Shut up and tell me if you know what's good for you." She pulled me closer, reached into my fly and grabbed my organs in a chokehold.
"Well, for one thing, this whole sequence. It occurred to me you'd like it if, on our very first time, I pinned you against a wall, both of us still fully clothed, and told you exactly what I will do to you and how. I thought you'd enjoy hearing it in explicit detail. And then after I had told you everything from start to finish, I would proceed to do exactly what I just described, down to the smallest detail."
"Oh dear fuck."
"Yes. So it's mostly elaborate set pieces like that, the file. Things your phone calls or emails intimated to me. Also practical things like, "don't touch her feet", "make sure her ears aren't lonely", etc."
"Yes, very important, that feet bit."
"mmhmm".
"So, be specific, tell me more of what in my file! Can you email it to me?"
"Ha. In your dreams."
"It was worth a shot. You were right about what I wanted for our first time though."
"Yes, except you ruined it."
She looked at the floor for a second in mock-dejection, then looked back up. She said she was sure we could salvage something out of this terrible situation. Then she approached the bed, knelt her torso down on it, with her legs very straight. Finally, she hiked up her skirt to reveal the green panties.
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| Friday, March 19th, 2004
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3:11 pm
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I had not communicated with her at all in almost five years, since I moved. Yesterday when I met her at Bar Italia on the heels of a surprise phone call only two hours before, she stood up, said hi and twirled around a bit to reaquaint my surprised face with her presence. She said she had straightened her mulatto's frizzy hair just for the occasion, a lie we both laughed out loud at. To get things rolling, she wondered what I thought the big differences were between Montreal and Toronto. I gave my standard remarks on this topic. Toronto is just an engorged version of Montreal, same charming streets, same sputtering sophisticates, except more. It's just that some of the nice muscle tone was lost with the extra weight. The streets are marred with litter here too, I said, but the litter is discarded with less soul. The women at the cafes and nightclubs make the same bedecked entrances, but their exposed chests heave with less panache.
What about this woman? She pointed at her own chest as she asked me. Do you prefer her in Montreal or Toronto?
I said I liked her better in Montreal, because the old surroundings might coax me into some of the old foolishness. She said she was attracted to fools regardless of location. I said obviously.
When I got home, pointedly alone, I made a pot of tea and fished out some of the old tapes of her. They had been in a box that I had long ago labelled "YOU SUCK IF YOU TOUCH THIS", a helpful message which now I struck out with a heavy marker.
I guess I had forgotten just how much actual conversations had been recorded on these audio cassettes. The screeching and yelping of her orgasms were still intact, but they were not as outrageous as I had remembered them. She had been loud, but not obscenely so. Nothing worth recording for proof (to her) and posterity (for me) like I did.
More startling were the many more moments when, beyond the crackle of the magnetized medium, our whispered flatteries and unmeasured declarations brimmed with earnestness. Neither of us seemed willing to spare a word in persuading each to the other's cause. It was mortifying. With every word, I could feel the long legs of her affection wrapped around and rubbing against my own effusive needs.
Later that evening we exchanged some emails. I was at my desk, she was in her hotel room. The last one of the series was from her. In response to a third consecutive refusal on my part, it read: "please, please come. i can't say i have ever craved you more than i do tonight."
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| Thursday, March 4th, 2004
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10:01 am
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Getting back into the swing of writing daily was the main impetus for this journal for me, a lifelong non-journalist. In a surprising development, it actually worked--and, minus the ones devoted to my day-job and following a terrible basketball team, much of my hours in the past couple of weeks have been devoted to my fiction. The inevitable irony, of course, is that I've had little time or energy left over to fill this space.
My characters, who can be quite selfish, suggest that I don't worry too much about that. They are starting to talk to me a little bit. This morning in the shower I had a brief exchange with Fawaz, who implored me to stop thinking of him in such hapless terms. He said he's sick of his girlfriend being the alpha all the time, and accused me of helping her perpetrate this on him. I told him that just the fact that he's telling it to me and not to his girl proves I shouldn't take his demands seriously because he doesn't deserve it.
Katja, who I've been conversing with for quite some time, rebuffed my attempts at pinning her down about what she thinks of her dead brother--because I think she sees him in me somewhat. She's tough. I never see her face either, I'm so confused. Many times I've used my hard disk to save jpegs of girls I found on the internet (usually of aggressive-looking porn starlets or stiff-lipped juvenile delinquents) that I thought might resemble her. When I eventually get around to showing them to her, hoping for a solid confirmation or negation of any sort, all she ever says is maybe.
current music: Miss Otis Regrets - Kirsty MacColl and the Pogues
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| Wednesday, February 25th, 2004
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11:04 am
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After chancing on a mention of it while tromping through AllMovie.com, I snagged Queen Video's copy of Cet obscur objet du désir on my way home a couple of days ago. It stayed in my carryall till yesterday night, when at about midnight, I felt some Buñuel might go down nicely with my living room's dim-lit loneliness.
I had a so-so experience. I found myself paying attention to all the subtle details in the story (for instance, the butler interrupting the transactional conversation between Conchita's mother and her suitor to gather up a used-up mousetrap, or the placement of all those terrorist explosions). This was a plus, and it occurs rarely because the medium is such that if there's a detail to be noted, chances are the biggest available marker will be used for the purpose. Unfortunately, in the end all those details amounted to nothing more than a cliched plot and equally cliched devices (e.g. two actresses employed to express the duality of Conchita's personality).
Not that I didn't empathize with Mathieu's failed attempts to bed his Conchita. I had a similar relationship with M., although I was far less agressive with her than Mathieu was with Conchita. The impenetrable, corset-like long panties that prevented him from accessing Conchita's pussy? My own brand of unconcerned detachedness at the merest resistence M. put against my attempts was at least as equivelant in its effectiveness, if not more so. You could at least imagine the innumerable straps of the panties being undone, with some patience. My pride was not as easy to overcome, given a setback.
The familiar cycle of reunion, sexual disappointment, outrage and finally breakup that Mathieu repeatedly put himself through in the movie was heavy. Even more glaring was the contrast of the unwavering No Entry sign figuratively plastered over Conchita's body for him, her sole confirmed "love", while free passes were given to seemingly everyone else. Are Conchita's sub rosa strip shows for paying customers or her "pretend fuck" with a homosexual guy right in front of Mathieu really any different from the confessional, remorseful emails M. sent me, fresh off a one-night-stand, when I, labeled "too precious" for such a thing, would've killed for a similar night?
I guess the reason I thought the movie was not very good is that I don't think that any piece that so bluntly mirrored reality (mine or otherwise) can really be considered artistic.
current music: Acrylic Afternoons - Pulp
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| Monday, February 23rd, 2004
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11:39 am - Boxing Idols
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After a month spent carrying around three books (a Nabokov, a Faulkner, a candidate for throwing with great force) that I seemed to move only incrementally on, I decided to purge them out over the weekend. I'm indifferent to Faulkner and short story collections are tough to ingest all at once: whenever an ounce of momentum is gathered, the ending, no matter how pleasantly cryptic, cuts it short and you have to start over.
Instead, I fished out a pristine copy of The Tesseract, by Alex Garland, from its spot in the gallery of untouched spines I have in my vanity, er, bookcase. Being a veteran of the ten-and-out school of book tryouts, I wasn't immediately perplexed when the first few pages seemed familiar. By page 175, when my ability to predict the plot started verging on the supernatural, I realized that I have perhaps been a bit too careful in handling my books.
Back when I lived in Montreal, when I used to read the newspaper every morning, I found an article one morning about this amazing author of the Beach, a marvelous talent whose first book was being transfigured into a relevant medium starring no less than Leo DiCaprio. And so young, was this author, barely 26 or something. The article came with a photo of an unshaven man with fine, cerebral features, completely enshrouded in shadows. I clipped the article and took it with me to work. I showed it to some friends, and said, ha, when they see what I have to write, this guy's stuff will look like he's been playing with crayons. Some even agreed as they delicately switched the subject to whether I could give them the source diskettes for the latest version of some application or other. On my way home, I stopped by the Atwater library and picked up his book.
Later that night, I stuck the article on my bulletin board. Some have Charles Atlas, I had Alex Garland. The novel I worked on back then, a juvenile thing about the sex lives of poets with lots of clever idiom and an unruly structure to it, began to flourish that very same night. I muted the telephone and ignored the unremitting buzzer of my door. An exasperated friend left a message saying she would like to come upstairs suckle various organs of mine if only I would let her in, but I didn't care. Alex Garland and I were in the ring, and while I gave up 8 or so years and a fuckload of crucial experience to him, I thought I had the upper hand. I'd print out a paragraph of my fresh writing, and put it next to a page of his best. I'd read them both over and over, marvelling at how this man was getting published in the first place. In the end the decision was always a TKO in my favour.
But then again, I had the judge in my pocket.
This continued for weeks. Eventually, I wore myself out by my own obsessive re-editing. The familiar hatred of my own work reenacted itself, and I abandoned what I was working on. One day, a friend of mine was visiting. While I made hummus and heated up pitas in the kitchen, she bored herself playing minesweeper on my computer. When I brought the food into the living room, she had Word open to my unfinished manuscript. She asked what the hell I meant before when I said I didn't have anything for the new local arts journal she was editing. I yelled at her and told her that's none of her business--I didn't want anything published, especially not that piece. She said fine. We ate and then she went home.
A few days later, I got an email from her saying she's sorry but she had emailed herself my piece from my own computer before I had come into the room. She said she's made some minor edits and that she thinks it'd be the best thing in her journal. Half out of flattery, half out of anger, I never replied to her. I also never talked to her again.
So I assume there is are some copies of this journal somewhere, stuffed in boxes labeled "old university crap" belonging a handful of ex-McGill students, that has the only work of mine published under my own name. I'm not sure if it's very good, although I still do have the original file somewhere on my hard drive. It can't be much worse than Alex Garland's stuff though, which is not even memorable enough for me to have recalled reading it even two or three years ago.
current music: So It Goes - Nick Lowe
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| Wednesday, February 18th, 2004
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2:39 pm
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Yesterday night I watched all the young contestants, one by one, go out to perform and then come back and ham for the camera with Ryan Seacrest. Five of them were female, and in all five I saw a likeness of M. One of them said little but a new emotion materialized on her face with the uttering of almost every word around her. Another anticipated all the criticisms by interrupting with an self-analysis before the judges could finish talking. The dyke presented obvious physical parallels: the short hair and the hard lines of the face.
I realized I missed her when I nicked my beard shaving this morning and thought that she would like it, the blood and tough hair and virility of it. The fresh scars of my battle for vanity, is maybe how I'd put it before she rolls her eyes and says okay let's not take it too far, General.
At work, I fired up Outlook and got five words into an email to her before I stopped being ridiculous and deleted it. Early in the afternoon I blew off a group coffee break and went down to an internet cafe two streets over and checked her web site from there to avoid the log records. Still no updates... a month since the last one.
She works on Queen Street, in a public place, nightly. I go home and curl on the couch with Valerie nightly. I could go try to catch a glimpse, but I would have to explain or lie.
current music: Song to the Siren - This Mortal Coil
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| Monday, February 16th, 2004
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3:37 pm
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It was memorable in that the delicate swells and sweeping violins of Damien Rice's music do not really match with what that encounter turned into: me standing up and her lying back, the only contact point being our convulsing genitals, abrading against the edge of the wooden kitchen table. It was also memorable in that the cup or so of lukewarm liquid that trickled from this busy intersection down onto the boxers around my ankles made me at first think that it was I who had come. And it was memorable in that, prior to everything, Fune's cute little boats circling the bar made me envious of the singles lifting their sushi orders off of them, instead of being happy that mine was one of the packed house of tables-for-two.
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