Amiga ISO Collection/AmigaDemoCD2.iso/ASCII/TEXTE/SEX/ADULTSHARE/A/ASS14689.TXT

Text File | 1994-03-26 | 618.2 KB | 12,904 lines

@BEGIN_FILE_ID.DIZ
Listen, gang.  I just moved to California.
Got a new job.  New apt. Connection to the
net is weak, but stay tuned. In the
meantime, here's a little something I dug
up.  Thanks to the person who compiled all
this for me.

Note:  a.s.s. junkies.  just grep this file
for keywords like "mantool" or
"vast sulphurous pit" if you're not
interested in anything else.
@END_FILE_ID.DIZ

-------------------------------------
                    WHAT ALFREDO LIKES

Alfredo likes a woman who knows what she wants. Alfredo likes a
woman with a  good head on her shoulders; with two shoulders, and
a head; with two small  heads and one big shoulder, right in the
middle;  with Head and Shoulders in  her bathroom; with numerous
shoulders, both external and internal; with  absolutely no
shoulders whatsoever--only knees--lacking shoulders I must have
knees; with large, broad, burly shoulders that can bear my weight
after I have  inhaled more than my share of nitrous oxide. Alfredo
is not unreasonable.  Alfredo likes a woman who wears a tennis
skirt to a funeral, just because.  Alfredo likes a woman with fire,
she must have fire.  And not just any fire,  but rather one started
by a wayward, errant, yes we can say it now, slaphappy  cow in
Chicago:  I believe you know the fire of which Alfredo speaks.
Alfredo likes very few women.

                         MORE ALFREDO

Alfredo is not a man to use a woman simply to satisfy his own lusty
and  unspeakable desires.  No, it is not for his own pleasure that
he makes them  submit to the most tortuous and distressing
humiliations.  Rather it is for the greater glory of everyone that
Alfredo must relentlessly pursue this agenda of  self-
gratification. Confused you are?  Why does Alfredo sound like Yoda
from  time to time?  These are all valid questions, none of which
I will answer. I prefer to talk about Alfredo. Alfred is a man who
crosses his t's twice.  Why, you ask?  Alfredo would rather not
say. I hope this gives everyone a better understanding of Alfredo.

                 STILL MORE ALFREDO
     Alfredo is a man who has seen many things.
     Through his *eyes*.
     Yes, Alfredo did that.  Why, you ask, should *I* care
about Alfredo??  What, you say, does Alfredo mean to *me*?  I
choose not to say.  I prefer to talk about Alfredo.  Alfredo is a
man who wears chaps to a tubal ligation, because he *can*.  Alfredo
is the man who, without even realizing it, changed the dietary
habits of a nation.
     When Alfredo walks, he *walks*!
     Alfredo once built a hovercraft using only a vacuum cleaner
motor and some paper plates.  It did not work.
     Alfredo, as you may have suspected, is cosmopolitan.  He is
also fluent in all of the romance languages, *including* jive.
Alfredo is a lover, yes, a bon vivant, true, but he also is a
world-class GO player.  He has been known to travel thousands of
miles for a high-stakes game of Go-Moku, or quoits.
     Alfredo has a dark complexion and dark habits.  He has been
known to drop a large piece of dry ice into a toilet in a public
lavatory, groan loudly, then leave laughing.  Alfredo is famous for
his wit.
     And his victory garden.
     Alfredo prefers Monaco to Vatican City, Corfu to crystal meth,
and Mohammed to runny omelettes.
     I think we all of us know an Alfredo.

                         ONE-ACT
(Setting.  A living room.  On a small card table are numerous beer
cans, an overflowing ashtray, a large, complicated-looking bong, a
candle, a bent spoon, and numerous other unidentifiable drug
paraphernalia.  At the table is seated a young man, early twenties,
in t-shirt and jeans, obviously hung over, with an electric guitar
on his lap.  Downstairs comes an older man, obviously his father,
shaking his head at the sorry scene before him.)

F:  (Speaks with a heavy Jewish accent.) Son, tell me, why do you
drink the beer?  To get high?

S:  No Dad, I smoke the pot to get high;  I drink the beer to get
drunk.

F:  Acch, you are certainly no son of my seldom-visited loins.

S:  You know, Dad, you are truly a moron.

F:  Yes, I guess that is true.

(Downstairs walks the daughter, also in early twenties, with large
bouncy boobs which are in no way important to the play, but will
make it fun to cast.)

D:  Acchh, you two, always with the fighting.  When are you both
going to wake up and realize that this is 1980?!  Don't you know
there are people starving to death in West Germany?!!

S: (Stops father as if to say, "Allow me." Places guitar on table
very deliberately, rises slowly, and raises his hand as if about to
strike his sister.)  First of all, this is 1990 and second of all
there is no one starving in West Germany!

D:  (Turns to her father.  During her speech the son becomes
disgusted and returns to his seat.)  Oh Daddy, tell me again about
growing up in the Old Country.  Remember how I would dance and play
and sing, and muddy my lacy drawers to the delight of the lecherous
onlookers?  And the servants would come and take me to the field of
wildflowers, and you would take me on your shoulders and drop drop
drop me on my girlish head; and the jum-jum trees would dance their
merry dance.  God, I love the twilight at night.  I love. . .

F:  What is this talk of Old Countries, dancing, and such?  First
of all, there is no Old Country.  In fact, there never was.  When
we lived there, it wasn't old.  Now that it is old, we call it the
Old Country.  But, we never lived there.  Toilets?

D:  Oh, Daddy, you really are old and shitty, aren't you?  You are
a dried-up, prune-smelling-like, dust-farting, no-son-of-mine
father.

F:  Yeah, I guess you got me pegged.

D:  But Daddy, I am in love.

F:  Love?!  Acchh.  What can a little girl like my--, yourself,
possibly know of love?  True, you have big bouncy bubbies, but
love. . .

D:  Oh Daddy, haven't you ever been in love?  Haven't you ever
wanted to see the unblossomed kernel of your heart go up like the
smoke from a dying Indian's pipe?

S:  (He and Father exchange puzzled, exasperated looks.)

D:  I have so much in my heart.  My heart is filled. . .

F:  And so is your sweater, girlie.

D:  Oh, I hate you.  How could expect someone as old and shittied-
up as you to understand something as all-encompassing as the
emotion of love?  You only understand the superficial, fleeting
pleasures of the flesh, not the timeless, infinite joy that can
only be reaped by swirling the spittle of your soul in an old mason
jar, you know the kind from that box in the attic--

S:  (Can take it no longer.  Rises and strikes her.  Then is
seated.)

F:  Love, girlie.  Love is a very special, beautiful feeling. .

D:  (Seeing that her father really does understand, she rises as if
on the end of a magic winch.  She hugs her father as he speaks,
crushing her firm, pouty breasts against his funky forest of chest
hair.)

F:. . .Love, as I recall, is best when it occurs at home, with your
mother out of earshot, perhaps on the toilet, in the PRIVACY OF
YOUR OWN HAND!!!

D:  (Slumps to the floor, crushed.  Father and son exchange high
fives)  Oh oh oh, why, why???

F:  What is her genuine beefstick?

S:  Perhaps that you Dad, are a slime-turd, a heartless, soulless,
stupid, foul-smelling ignoramus.

F:  That may be true, but at least I don't masturbate atop Milli
Vanilli albums.

D:  (Her sobs increase in volume.)

S:  Oh, girl, you know it's true.

D:  (Still louder)

F:  But why does she sob so?

S:  She is upset with many things.

D:  (Moans)

S:  She is upset with the destruction of the rain forests.

F:  (Mocking)  Oooooh.

S:  The insincerity and hypocrisy she encounters daily.

D:  Awwwww, poor baby.

S:  The pain of going into labor.

F:  (To daughter)  I remember when your mother went into labor.

D:  (Looks up, wipes her eyes)

F:  I of course, went into management.  I mean after all, we had to
eat.

D:  (Resumes her sobbing.)

F:  Now son, about this novel of yours.  How is it coming?

S:  Not so great, Dad.  In fact--

F:  Acchhh.  I don't want to hear it.  Don't you know it's the
worst thing in the world for a writer to get discouraged?

S:  Dad--global thermonuclear war, pestilence, famine.  All of
these things are far worse than a writer getting discouraged.

D:  I wish I was dead.

F:  Were.

D:  What?

F:  I wish I WERE dead.  It's the subjunctive.  Common mistake.  Of
course, I wouldn't expect any--

D:  Oh, you don't care, no one cares.
F:  No, I don't care.  Honestly, girlie--look at yourself, no
brains, no talents.  All you've got are a set of hooters that you
let all the schoolboys paw with their sloppy untutored hands.  And
Godammit, all my life I dated flat-chested women and let me tell
you something girlie: *that* is no day at the beach.

S:  (Stands next to dad and addresses audience)  My father, ladies
and gentlemen, an asshole.

D:  I wanna be dead.

F:  Oh girlie, there many things worse than death, far worse. . .

S:  (Nods head in agreement)

F:  Making love to an extremely fat woman, to name an obvious one.

S:  *And* how.

D:  Daddy, I've been doing a lot of reading lately--

F:  And masturbating.

D:  No, you don't understand what I'm trying to say, "Have you ever
read Chekhov, drunk vodka in the square until a crazy time,
wenched, caroused, come home and shaved off your wife's mustache
with a belt sander, and laughed--oh how we laughed.  Don't you
understand, Daddy, Chekhov, CHEKHOV!!

F:  Sulu, Captain James T. Kirk, what?...

D:  Oh Daddy, why can't you be like other men and fill my heart
with that wisdom which only a long, wasted life can produce.

F:  Ah, Girlie.  I am but a simple peasant man whose needs are few
and generally quite nauseating.  However, this I do know:  If you
ever have the chance to get two Cub Scouts, a case of Jolt, and a
stepladder together in the same room as you, don't let them go.
Ever. . .

D:  Oh Daddy, I can't believe how shitty you are.

F: No, you can't.  Let me tell you something about your mother,
Girlie.

D:  (Crouches by father to listen.)

F:  She had this way of relaxing the muscles in her throat. . .

D:  (Covers her ears with her hands and screams.  A young man in a
puke-green leisure suit comes downstairs.  He joins the daughter by
her side.)

F:  Who is this piece of pishy?
D:  Daddy, I want you to meet Herbie, my boyfriend.

H:  (Offers hand to father.)  Hi there Mr. Lowenbrau.

F:  Why does he call me beer?

D:  That's his way, Daddy.  He's an individual, unlike you, who are
often a group.

F:  (Exchanges puzzled look with son.)

H:  Mr. Lowenbrau, I've heard so much about you.

F:  I've heard so much about *you*.

H:  I've heard very much about YOU.

F:  And I have heard a very great deal about you.

H:  I've heard far more about you simply because you're old.

D:  And shitty.

F:  Yes, I guess that's true.

                       CARPENTERS
     It was a terrible day.
     My dad wanted to build a deck as an addition to the house. So
he looked in the phone book under carpenters. Problem was, he hired
The Carpenters.  And  they sucked.  But they were cheap.  All
Richard wanted for pay was a tuna fish  sandwich on whole wheat
toast with a little mayo for Karen.  Sounded like a  good idea, but
when she saw it Karen flew into a rage, running around on the
porch and screaming "fat bitch fat bitch." Then she started
hammering  three-penny nails into her stomach to "let the fat out."

Never did get that deck built.




                         WILDSIDE
Well, '91's just about over and it's time to talk about one person
who meant a lot to me this past year--Mark "Marky Mark" Wahlberg.
From his humble beginnings in a well-to-do Boston neighborhood to
his current status as "Vanilla Ice's favorite rapper", Mark did it
all in '91.  I think the best way to explore Mark's character is
through his own words, those delicious, vital, vibrant words which
are at the very core of Mark Wahlberg.


   "Wildside", by Marky Mark and the funky bunch.

The words that follow are his.  My thoughts will appear in
these thingees:  <>, camera shots in parentheses.

                  Act 1:  Annie
Aw yih
(cut to burning American flag) home of the free, HA <oh, that sneer
of his--what it does to me.>
(walking down a dark street with four black guys[The Funky Bunch.]
<That sneer of his, you just know that Mark *knows* these streets
inside and out.  It's clear.  The boy is *DOWN*!!> behind)
Lemme introduce y'all to the Wildside.  <Please do, you stupid
fuck.>
(sitting atop bleachers, no shirt, white towel<?!> draped over
shoulder, legs spread in a come-hither fashion, watching four
cheerleaders practicing)
Annie was a high school cheerleader <all right>
Pom-poms and bobby-sox no girl was sweeter <Jesse Jaymes gets the
credit for this rhyme in "Shake it like a white girl">
Come prom time everybody was on the line <naturally>
All the fellas singing nickel and dime <This line, I don't know, it
just works for me.  Call me crazy, but it does.>
Tales about love and lust and trust <internal rhyme, a bit
o'assonance.  Go for it, Mark, wow us all.> (rises, begins walk
down bleacher steps)
But annie took it all in stride <And a healthy stride at that.>
Cause deep inside <here comes a nasty couple of lines>
Annie had aspirations
Besides that, she had ex pec tations <With this rhyme(?), Mark
makes it pretty clear that he is no Donnie.>
(cut to Annie, peering under bleachers.  Outstretched hand dumps
into hers a few vials of crack and a pair of dice.(<!! Wonder if
<Marky directed the video as well?>)
Wanted to be a chemiCAL engineer <And why not?!  780-Verbal 800-
Math>
making 50 to 55 thousand a year <Chump change to the Markster.> her
first year of college was a SUCcess. <If a word just doesn't want
to fit, Mark will stomp on it till it does.>
But along comes Billy, possessed and obsessed <More internal
rhymes.  Think Mark reads Dylan Thomas?  Do not go gentle--into:
the WildSide.  Huh!>
He took Annie on a fatal date (cut to smoky beaker of chemicals)
and showed her things that made heartbeats accelerate
<Mapplethorpe photos, visions of the future in which Mark Wahlberg
is studied in 11th grade English classes, What?  You gotta be more
specific, Mark.  God is in these details.  But hey, like I need to
tell *you* that.>
Annie took a hit--read two short breaths<interesting construction
for a twit--let's call it a fluke> (beaker topples over, breaks!!)
One for life the last for death<Damn!  She did her hits in the
wrong order!  Poor kid.>
Now she's gone from a valedictorian <!!!! sets up a nifty rhyme,
reminiscent of noone so much as Lord Byron's Don Juan.>
Ended up becoming a topic for a story in <See?>
Washed-up dreams, shattered pride
All because Annie chose to walk on the Wildside.<That'll teach her.
Leave walks on the Wildside to people that *know* the Wildside--
read, the Wahlbergs>      Ha!
(cut to Marky Mark and his bunch walking through cemetery to place
flowers on Annie's grave.) <And he *cares*>
(colored girls sing)
(wailing sax solo)
(the rain it falls)

                   Act 2:  Ron
Ron had enough of being broke every day <who wouldn't?>
Saying to himself there's gotta be a better way <Shoulda learned to
play them drums>
Cause 9 to 5 wasn't worth the headaches <He's right.  There's no
reason to watch this movie more than once, although that scene
where they're all stoned holds up pretty well.> (cut to a
frustrated Ron in car, wiping his frustrated brow)
So run figured out a faster way to make
Money<Is he gonna cut an album?> (cut to a hand placing gun into
money-filled briefcase)
Before you know it he's a rich man <It's just *that* easy.  Onna
Wildside.  Huh!>
Gold on every finger of his hand. <If you got it...>
A brand new BMW, a condo, <Watch the economy of these two lines>
Ron ended up a john doe.<See?  Just that easily, Ron's dead.> A
body was found but never claimed, <It's a hardknock life...> Full
of bulletholes with nothing to blame <My guess would be that those
bulletholes had *something* to do with it.>
Ron became another victim of homicide (cut to flat line on the
heart monitor)
Because he chose to walk on the Wildside. (cut to Marky Mark, now
with that sneer.) HA!
(colored girls sing...)
(Mark and friends walk through cemetery, ambulance drives off)

                         Act 3:  Charles
Charles had everything going for him <He's a New Kid on the
Block??>
A top-paying job, a good wife, a baby boy on the way<Oh, I see
now.> (Charles places hand on pregnant wife's abdomen) any day A
gentleman attitude was all he displayed<??!! Mark can do what he
likes with the language.  He's an artist, dig?>
Carol was the wife he loved and adored <Watch this next rhyme> Her
family and friends treated him like an ambassador <ouch, that one
hurt.>
One night on the other side of town <The WildSide.  Huh!>
A police dispatcher picked up a weird sound <Weird?>
Charles on the car phone asking for help <A guy on 911 asking for
help.  Go figure.  That's just weird.  Too weird.  Ain't no way to
'splain it but weird.  It's just weird.>
Claiming a burglar shot his wife AND himself. <Watch this next
rhyme>
Charles' wife lay slumped Over
Dreams corrupt and a young life over <A perfect match!  5 points.>
Extensive searches throughout the projects <Watch this bit.> Put a
lot of people through misery and wreck<Huh??!!>
Everyone a suspect till someone was found <Except Mark.  He had an
alibi.  He was in the library, reading Blake:  O Rose, you lookin'
sick. Onna Wildside.  Huh!>
Interrogated cause his skin was brown <All right, so "Questioned"
might have worked better, leave the kid be:  I like
"interrogated".> Then there was Bennet, guilty until proven so <Odd
construction that.>
But soon as the case started moving slow (cut to Mark behind bars
!!?? Mark is down, inside.  And, onna Wildside.  Huh!)
Whaddayaknow--sure as the seagull is web-toed <Excuse me.  Metaphor
police.  Yeah, you got a permit for that simile?  Thought so.  I'm
gonna have to see your poetic license, you stupid fuck>
Charles was the culprit <Who woulda guessed?>
The whole thing was an insurance scam <The bastard!>
Charles and his brother came up with a plan <My favorite rhyme of
the year coming up, watch for it>
Kill Carol, collect the big checks<Next line>
Blame it on a black man.  What the heck?! <See the guard dog, do he
bite?! C I L L Kill my landlord.>
Just before the story was known
Charles had a feeling his cover was blown. (cut to man falling from
bridge)
So he jumped off a bridge--committed suicide <My guess is he heard
"Good Vibrations" on MTV>
And this is how it ends, on the Wildside. <Yup.>
(Mark and friends move through cemetery.  Colored girls sing.  Rain
falls. Sax wails. Mark tosses flowers on Carol's grave)

                             Act 4:  Tiffany, saddest of all Little
Tiffany, only thirteen (cut to boy on tire-swing)
Came to the city--place of big dreams<Well, it kinda sorta works>
(Girl plays hopscotch)
Visit her family and friends for the summertime
Sitting on a mailbox watching the boys climb
Trees, and the girls play hopscotch
So far, her vacation was TOPnotch
Out of the blue--a Mercedes at top speed
Gangbangers chasing
robins on a stampede (cut to guns being fired from a moving car)
Quick as a blink shots rang out <Hooray--the simile holds up> And
a hail of bullets zipped through the crowd (little girl falls over
backwards) <Watch this next bit>
One hit Tiffany--and instantly she died
Innocently, on the Wildside. <Instantly, innocently!  Half-rhymes,
slant-rhymes, Dylan Thomas don't mean shit now!>
(flowers for Tiff.  Girls still sing.  Sax still plays.  Mark is
back on the streets.)


                        RASSLIN'

     Rich, tell us about when you were just a grade-schooler
     Oh please please please please please. . .
     Oh all right then.

     I was about 12 years old.  Our gym teacher's name was Mr.
Nelok (pronounced knee-lock).   Actually,  the story revolves
around Mr.  Nelok.  Now, most gym teachers vary their activities
with the seasons(you know, baseball, then basketball, then
football).  Well, not old Nelok.  All he ever wanted us to do was
wrestle(he  pronounced it 'rassle')  He'd sit there in his chair
with a windbreaker on his lap (funny, he always kept it there, even
during the long, sticky summer months when it was uncomfortably
hot) and look over his gym-full of writhing, twisted-up twelve-
year-olds and say,  "Rassle, boys.  That's it, rassle.  Just
rassle.  Good.  Now let's all hit the  showers."
     "But you can't shower, too," we'd always say, playing the game
he so enjoyed, "you're a grownup."
     "Am not," he'd say.  "I'm just a little boy.  And I've been
very naughty."

     Ah, glory days.

                       THANKSGIVING

(Seated are me, my parents, my grandmother, cousins Alvin, Sarah
Louis and Harry.  Before us is the Thanksgiving spread.)

Cousin Sarah:  (In an annoying singsong voice) Who wants the
wishbone?

Louis and Harry and Alvin:  I do.

Me:  Everyone wants the danged thing, but what's the point?  You
know you won't get it.  It's like when you were a kid and you put
a quarter in the machine for the plastic spy camera, but you never
get it, you always get one of those stupid puzzle things instead.
You know, where you have to put the numbers in order, but I can't
do it--is it six seven or seven six?  Shit, I don't know.  So I end
up breaking it.  And I'm happy for a while, I really am.  But it
doesn't last.  That's the problem with the world, nothing lasts.
Like sex, or, or dishwashing liquid.  And not the cheap stuff
either.  I'm talking Dove, Ivory, Palmolive. . .

Sarah:  You're soaking in it.

Rich:  Huh?

Sarah:  You're soaking in it.  I'm soaking in it.  We're all
soaking in it.  Together.

Grandma:  Shithead.

Mom:  Loser.

Dad:  You understand you'll be finding your own way home again.


          THE SONG OF THE LONG DISTANCE TRUCKER

     So I'm drinking coffee in this truck stop off I-80 in upstate
New York when this guy comes up to me and says "Hey Rich.  How come
there is no body of literature dedicated to the trucker?"
     "Huh?"
     "I mean, other professions have gobs of it.  Like whores.  You
got your 'Maggie, A Girl of the Streets'--"
     "Stephen Crane?"
     "Uh huh.  You got your 'Pretty Woman', your 'Best Little
Whorehouse in Texas---"
     "Sure, but aren't you forgetting C.W. McCall, 'Over the Top',
'B.J. and the Bear'??  Be fair now."
     "All right.  But it's all trash.  Where is our poetry?"
"Got me there."
     He handed me a pencil and paper.   "Rich, do you think, maybe,
you could just write me a little something?  You know, I could keep
it in my wallet, like a prayer."
     "Oh all right, you big lug you.  Gimme that."
     Five minutes later I gave him this:




                            SQUINT

Squint:  It will be light soon,

I hope it's soon.

The heat is rippling
Off the road

And the water

I see

On the horizon

Is water

I can never

Own.


"Rich" he says.  "I don't know poetry, but I know what I like.
Thanks." "Not a prob."


                        CRINGE DRIPPINGS
    The steamy walls dripped wet ooze.  The patient, master of his
own pus, lay spread out on the table.  The doctor, hovering over
the patient like a cloud of acid on Venus, made the first long
incision, and the bodsteam hit him in the face like a hot SBD. Not,
he noted, an unpleasant sensation. The doctor did his best to save
the patient, thinking, "Spleen, spleen, I'd like to squish  this
friggin' spleen. I could do it too, hee hee hee, so squishy."
"Oh Doctor", said buxom Nurse Tommyknocker, unable to take her eyes
from the doctor's  manhood, "now there's a piece that's primed for
a-juttin' and a-jauntin'.
     "Ah Nurse, you be a-watchin' what comes out of that pretty
little mouth  o'yours or you'll be a-tastin' the sweetin' pleasures
o'me cod-whip by the  first a-gleamin' o'the moon, me fecklin'
milassie."
    And still the walls dripped ooze.


     The astute reader will note the use here of a rare dialect--
Punkin' me-Gaelic.  The effect is much greater than by gleaning any
of the Cattish Dig-crees or the Norse Bel-Climes.


              THE PARANORMAL IN MY DAILY LIFE

     I used to be a non-believer.  Crystals, Ramtha, magic
pyramids, Nostradamus, crop circles, self-fellatio:  to all these
I would say, "Bah, bunk!."  But lately, irrefutable evidence of the
paranormal has been creeping into my daily life.  So attention all
ye naysayers:  read on and believe!

1.  There was this song going through my head.  A song they never,
*ever* play anymore.  "Afternoon Delight" it was.  "--rubbing
sticks and stones together makes the sparks ignite, and the thought
of loving you is getting so exciting.  Skyrockets in flight..."
Well, anyhow, I flipped on the radio and THEY WERE PLAYING THAT
SONG!!

2.  I was trying to undo the twist tie from a bag of Wonder Bread.
I saw that I was twisting it the wrong way because it was getting
tighter.  So I stopped, and started twisting it the other way.  AND
IT KEPT GETTING TIGHTER!!!!

3.  So I'm walking across campus and I see someone I think I know.
Only as I get closer I see it really wasn't the person I thought it
was.  So I keep walking.  And then all of a sudden, out of the
blue, who do I see but THE AFOREMENTIONED FRIEND!!!

Coincidences, you say.  Easily-explained phenomena.  Yeah, and I
suppose bending keys is just a trick, too.  Right.


                   FUN ON A BUDGET #1

      There's this annoying ad for Staples office supply store on
tv.  I call up  directory assistance, get their number, and give
'em a buzz.

     "Hello, is this Staples?"
     "Yes it is.  How may I help you."
     Too eager to please.
     "I was just wondering how you came up with the name of the
store.  I mean, you sell staples, right?"
     "Yes we do.  We're the one-stop off--"
     "Yes, I'm sure you are, but tell me.  John Wanamaker's.  Do
they sell wanamakers?"
     "Well, I--"
     "Do you even know what a wanamaker is?"
     "I think--"
     "No, of course you don't.  What do you make?  Minimum?  Less?
Christ, you sound young, had your first period yet?"
     "Exc--"
     "Use tampons or pads?  You know if you use tampons, no guy'll
believe you're a virgin.  Then you'll get a reputation and you'll
never get married.  And--"
     "I don't--"
     "Excuse me.  I digressed. Now tell me, you sell file cabinets,

right?"
     "Yes we do."
     "And you sell those little mail trays you put on your desk
that say 'In'  and 'Out', right?"
     "Yes we do.  We're the one-stop--"
     But you don't call yourself 'File cabinets', right?  I mean,
that's a  pretty stupid name.  And you sure as hell don't call
yourself 'Those little  mail trays you put on your desk that say
"In" and "Out"', right?  I mean, that name really sucks."
     "Why, why are--"
     "All right, follow me here.  What does a supermarket sell?"
     "F-food."
     "Good.  Shit, you should earn more than minimum.  Christ, I
could have my  old man put you on the payroll down here. . .Shit,
what was I--oh yeah, food,  right?  But does the supermarket call
itself 'Food'?  Noooo.  It's called a  supermarket."
     "I-I didn't--"
     "Listen, I'd love to stay and talk to you longer, but I gotta
go do something to my dog.  You understand."
     "Waaahhhhh. . ."
     So it wasn't such a bad day after all.

                    FUN ON A BUDGET #2

      All right, so I'm in that video store on Locust Street, the
Video Library, and I start wandering around.  Well in the back
they've got this TCBY place, which ostensibly stands for The
Country's Best Yogurt.  So right away, I'm  pissed.  I mean, how
hip can yogurt be that they need initials?  BK, KFC,  Mickey-D's,
these are relatively cool, but TCBY?  Excuse me, I don't think so.
There is nothing more pathetic than when something truly unhip
struggles futilely to capture a bit of what they feel they're
missing out on.  I mean,  what's next?  N.K.O.T.B??  I'm gonna
scream.
     So I walk over to the counter and I ask the girl how many
calories could I expect to find in one of these here "Super Butt-
Jammin' Colon-distendin' Yogurt cookie sandwiches."  Now this is
basically just a wad of high-cal "premium" yogurt sandwiched
between two chocolate-covered  cookies.  Yup, just like those
movies I like.  She says she doesn't know.
     At this point I had the whole store to myself but rather than
take advantage of the situation, I noticed something out of the
corner of my eye.  It was a phone number--1-800-688-TCBY.  They
have their own info. hotline.  Wonderful.  So I bought a yogurt
sandwich, slipped the girl half a five with my phone number on
it(sometimes I am too slick) and got the hell out.  Had a call to
make.
     First, I put on this insanely fake hillbilly accent, for no
apparent reason.
     "Hello, TCBY"
     "Yeah, I've got this here problem."
     "Yes"
     "Well, it's kind of hard for me to talk about.  You see, it's
my wife.  She had her change of life not long ago and ever since,
she been getting these  here yeasty infections."
     "I see. I don't see how--"
     "Well, Dr. Macy, he's the local G.P., he told her that yogurt
was good  for yeast infections. . ."
     "Actually, he's correct.  You see, the cultures in the yog--"
    Great.  She's reading out of some pamphlet and thinks I'll just
listen to her spiel then hang up.  She's wrong.  Dead wrong.
"Yeah, I know, he told me all that.  Only problem is, the yogurt
tastes so damned bad afterwards, you can't hardly eat it.  And you
sure as hell don't  want to be serving it to company.  Y'oughta see
'em, pickin' little hairs out  the bowl, out their teeth.  Me and
the wife, we just sit back and laugh.  Well, I laugh.  The wife
can't laugh too hard or she lose her undergarments.  Walking ain't
something she real good at, neither.  But you know, I ain't had so
much  fun under the covers since, well, well, since I don't know
when.  Yeah, she some kind a woman.  Hello?  Hello??"
     "Bluurrt-snorrrt-glurrgle"
     Yeah, it was shaping up to be a good day.

                    FUN ON A BUDGET #3

     As luck would have it, there's that commercial on tv that I
hate, where the guy is debating on whether or not to buy an
engagement ring for his girlfriend.  At the end they allude to a
"Diamond Council of America" and some mysterious "two month salary
guideline".  I look in the yellow pages and find the number for
Robbin's Eighth and Walnut, who have their own annoying commercials
("Robbin's Eighth and Walnut.  Our name is our address.")  Some guy
answers the phone and he's way too cheery.  I am sickened; so
sickened now.
     "Robbin's Eighth and Walnut.  May I help you?"
     "Yeah, I was wondering.  I've been hearing about this 'two
month salary guideline'.  The commercial said you could explain it
to me."
     "It's actually just what it says.  Calculate how much you
would earn in two months and that's a good guideline to use in
deciding how much you want to spend on a ring."
     "That's it?"
     "That's all there is to it."
     "No.  There's gotta be more to it than that.  Why would they
tell me to ask you to explain it to me, if that's all there is to
it?"
     "It's only a commercial."
     "It's fucking patronizing, you fuck.  So waitaminute, I'm
making 3.50 an hour--that's 140 a week, four weeks in a month.
Yeah, some months I get three paychecks.  What do you know about
that, MR DIAMOND COUNCIL OF A-FUCKING-MERI-FUCKING-CA??!!
     "It's only a guide--"
     "No.  This is starting to really bother me.  Now February only
has 28 days.  Shit, I forgot leap years.  Fuck.  Well, screw it.
In a normal year I'd get paid 4 times in February.  That's 140 a
week times 4--that's 560 a month--times that by 2 and that's 1120.
Eleven hundred and twenty dollars to buy my girl a ring.  But if I
take two Julys--I got 5 paychecks this July--that's 5 times 140 is
700 times that by 2 is 1400 that's 280 more than the first way.
Now what do you have to say to that, Mr. Diamond Council of America
smarty fucking pants?!"
     "I don't have to take this abuse."
     "No, I think you *do*.  Now you, you probably make a lot more
money than me.  Hey, that's cool.  I got no beef with that.  But
that means that when you times *your* salary by two months you're
gonna be buying *your* girl a way better ring than me.  Now I don't
fucking think I like that too much.  Do *I* love my girl less than
you?  I don't think so.  So how come *my* girl has to walk around
with some piece of shit 11 hundred 14 in a leap year ring when
*your* girl has some big ole rock on her finger?!  How do you think
that's gonna make my girl feel?!  Well!!?  Well??!!  Answer me, you
fuck!!"
     "I-I'll let you talk to my manager."
     "Hello, what seems to be the trouble?"
     "I just didn't like the tone of voice that other guy was
using."      "Of course, sir.  We've had problems with him in the
past.  It will be taken care of, I promise you."
     "Thanks."
     Click.




            FUN ON A BUDGET--ANIME DIVISION

     I went into the Video Library(40th & Locust) and asked the guy
if he had any tapes of Japanese anime bloopers.
     He looked puzzled for a few seconds, the flustered, then very
disturbed.  He said, "W-wait here.  Lemme ask the manager."
They both came out from the back.  The manager said, "Anime
*bloopers*??!!  Are you sure??  That's about the darndest thing I
ever heard."
     "Really.  My brother told me about it.  The title was 'The
Best of J.A.B'"
     "Yeah," said one of the employees there, a tall, skinny guy
with black hair and bad skin.  "I think I heard of that..."
"It's supposed to have stuff from like 'The Wandering Kid', and
'Akira'."
     "Yeah, yeah, yeah.  Don't we have that?"
     "You can order it, right?  I heard there's this out-take from
'The Wandering Kid' where this girl is being raped by some huge,
tentacled thing.  And you can very clearly see her stop screaming
and take out her gum and out it behind her ear."
     The tall guy laughed and said, "Yeah, yeah.  I heard about
that one."
     Someone said, "That's the dumbest thing I ever heard.
Bloopers?  Anime??  Akira???  Don't you realize--"
     I interrupted, "Yeah, but they're still *characters*, don't
you see?"
     "Well, I--"
     I said to the tall guy, "Could you put it on hold for me,
then?  Thanks."
     He started writing on a slip of paper.  "'Best of J.A.B.,
right?  I *know* I've seen that.  Maybe at the TLA."
     "Well, in any case, I gotta run.  You got any new amateur
porn?"


                   MIMI & MARLENA SUMMER
"...this is not a locker room
and that's a surfboard --- not a yacht
the arrangement's not --- quite --- quite there..."
                                  Jane Siberry, "Mimi on the Beach"

     The summer between my sophomore and junior years I stayed on
campus, working a couple of jobs.  One involved sitting
in the computer room in Upson Hall, explaining to pre-
frosh(Cornell's summer start-up program) how to print from their
Macintoshes.  The other job was delivering pizzas and things for
Pudgie's.  I bought a '72 Duster for a coupla hundred bucks and I
would tool through Ithaca from about 4 in the afternoon to 2 in the
morning, usually getting tipped with bong hits and cans of beer.
   This was also the summer that "Mimi on the Beach" was getting
played a lot on college radio stations.  Also Suzanne Vega's
"Marlena on the Wall."  It seemed to me that all the girls on
campus that summer were either 'Marlena on the wall' girls or 'Mimi
on the beach' girls.  I was hopelessly infatuated with a 'Marlena'
girl:  raven-haired, big, round, proud hooters, a very straight
back, and a very fast walk.  She'd been in one of my lit classes
and an acting class (We kissed during a scene we had to do from
'Key Exchange' and I was certain that she'd lingered.  Or was that
me?)  We saw each other on campus a lot and always exchanged
pleasantries but I desperately wanted to make myself a part of her
life.  So I started doing all the goofy things:  memorizing her
schedule, eating where and when *she* did, reading the same books
*she* read(Boy, did I ever feel silly reading "The Idiot" in
Russian, which I still don't know.), the whole nine yards.
     In the meantime there was this pre-freshman girl from Wyoming,
flat-chested, pelican-legged, small-nosed(in short, the kind of
girl that makes my heart do flip-flops today), who, it turns out,
had memorized *my* schedule, was following *me* around.  My
freshman-year roommate, who was a summer resident advisor for these
high schoolers, had in fact told me this, and cautioned me about
getting her pregnant:  they'd had six pregnancies already, and it
made them look really bad.
     I got up the nerve to ask the Marlena-girl to the movies one
day while we were both eating lunch in the Big Red Barn, which was
the only place on campus that I could find horseradish for my roast
beef sandwiches(Yeah, but Oliver's is in *Collegetown*).  At the
precise instant I stood up and began walking towards the Marlena
girl, she also stood up and sat down across from the Mimi girl.  I
sat back down.  Next thing I know, these two are *everywhere*, that
summer's most ubiquitous couple.

     No, none of us, we *or* they, ever learn.

                          PIZZA
     At the pizza place I delivered for we earned minimum plus tips
and a commission on everything we delivered.  So there was an
incentive to drive quickly, to be 'top driver' for the night.  Now
it gets cold in Ithaca during the long winters.  And when you're
driving with a seat-full of pizzas, there's gonna be a lot of
steam.  When the steam hits the windshield, it turns to ice.  And
then you're driving inside a deathbox, as quickly as you can.  Only
you're leaning way out the driver's side window so you can see, and
you're trying to keep a cigarette lit too.  Now, if someone orders
a sheet pizza(Pudgie's huge, rectangular, 32-slice deal), it's
pretty much a given that they're stoned.  And they're more than
willing to tip you with a hit.
     Or they're Carl Sagan, who has a really cool house cut into
the side of a gorge up on University avenue, across from the
Rockledge fraternity.  I took the order when he called it in and it
was all I could do to keep a straight face while he asked me for
"Oh, about four or five of, of those subs of yours--"
     "Anything on them?"
     "Oh...everything, only no hot peppers on one of them."
"Will that be all?"
     "Oh...and some of those wing things you make.  Some of them,
too."
     "It'll be there in about half an hour."
     "...and if it takes longer we get it free, right?"
     Cheap git.  "No, I'm afraid that is someone else's offer."
  "Fine, fine."
     "Thanks.  Bye."
     Well I wouldn't show that slip of paper with his order on it
to anyone and insisted on putting it together myself.  In what I
thought was record time.
     Fifteen minutes later I skidded to a stop at the professor's
house, knocked twice, and waited.
     "Hello.  Wow, that was quick.  Come in, come in, you're
freezing out there."
     It was late, I was already buzzed, and his house was even
cooler on the inside than out.
     "Can I get you anything?  Coffee, hot chocolate..."
     I looked over and saw a well-stocked bar.
     "Scotch?"
     "Dewar's?"
     I'd just discovered the pleasures of good Scotch.  "Any single
malt?"
     His face lit up and he walked hurriedly behind his bar and
began pulling out bottles.  "Glenfittig, glenlivet, glen--"
Shit.  He'd offered me the Dewar's first.  Shit.
     "Fittig.  Neat.  Thanks."
     He poured both of us healthy shots.  The Scotch was smooth and
smokey and went down easy.  He tipped me five bucks and I was outta
there.  I didn't get into my car right away, though.  I leaned back
against the car, lit up a cigarette and took a drag.  Another car
pulled in next to mine. Two young women got out, saw my 'Pudgie's'
hat, said "Cool, the food's here", and walked right in to the
professor's house.  I shook my head, got into my car, pulled out,
and headed for base, the warmth of the Scotch my nightlong
companion.



                      MANGOS & GRAPES

     I was in Border's Bookstore(17th & Walnut, Philadelphia),
upstairs, in the gay/lesbian/sm section when this woman comes up to
me.  She's wearing a black racing jacket, bluejeans, boots, and a
pair of Vuarnets.
     "You're not supposed to be reading *that*," she says.  "You'll
learn all our secrets."
     I'd been sitting there, flipping through 'Macho Sluts'.
 "Actually," she says,  "If you don't mind, I'm curious.  I've
always wondered what guys think of Pat.  You straight?"
     "Sure, I can be."
     "Well?"
     "Well what?"
     She looked down to see which story I had the book opened to.
"Surprise Party.  Figures.  Well, what do you think?  Of the book.
You read 'Doc and Fluff'?"
     I nodded and said, "I don't think she'll ever be taught in
English classes but I'd give my left nut for just *one* of her
balls."
      She realized what I had said before I did because she began
to laugh.  I joined her shortly.  Border's has an espresso bar
upstairs so we grabbed some coffee and sat down. She extended a
hand and said, "Beth.  Dyke."
     "Rich.  Not."
     "You ever go by 'Dick'?"
     "No, I always stop and say hello."
     "Ha.  So what did you mean "not taught in English classes"?
You don't think she's hot?  I thought guys liked--Maybe you're
not--"
     "I wouldn't be reading it if it wasn't hot.  What I meant was,
well, nah, it's not anything, just nitpicky--
     "No.  Go on."
      "Have you ever read any Anais Nin?  Henry Miller?  D.H.
Lawrence?"
     "I read 'Women in Love' in college."
     "Lady Chatterly's Lover?"
     "Nope."
     "Well, you must see a difference between the way, let's say,
Lawrence writes--"
     "Like a fag."
     "All right.  Well, Califia's prose is workmanlike at best--"
    "Huh?"
     "It's just good enough to get the job done.  Which is odd,
because I've read some of her poetry and most poets, when they
write in prose, write with a lot more, oh--"
     "Elegance?"
     "Grace, yeah. So you know what I'm saying, then?  But it's
stupid, really, to criticize her for not being Jane Austen or
Virginia Woolf.  No one reads 'Doc and Fluff' the same way they
read 'Mrs. Dalloway' or 'Northanger Abbey'."
     "With one hand."
     "Heh.  Exactly.  But it's no really a fair criticism.  It's
like comparing mangos and grapes. What's the point?"
     "Yup.  So tell me something, Dick.  What's the big prize in
your world?"
     I really liked how she talked.  "Well, Elizabeth--"
     "Watch that."
     "Big prize, huh?  In reality or in my head?"
     "Both."
     "In my head it would have to be consensual sex with a real
honest-to-god dyke or a straight man.  In the real world it would
have to be, oh, a soprano."
     "A soprano?"
     "Yup.  Opera singers."
     "They just had someone on 60 Minutes--"
     "Jessye Norman."
     "Yup."
     "Like in 'Diva'."
     "Exactly."
     "I could see that.  You get high?"
     "Here?"
     "I do all the time.  Follow me, boy."  She rose and headed to
the bathroom.  Border's has two bathrooms upstairs, both unisex and
both large and roomy.  And they lock too.
     "She called me boy", I said, just loud enough for her to hear.
"She called me boy!"
     "Don't <perfectly-timed pause> even *think* it."
     We slipped into the rest room on the right and locked the
door.  From an inside pocket she pulled out a little round tin that
once held cherry drops.  'Les cerises' it said on top.  Inside were
a few roaches.  She put one into a pair of hemostats and lit it.
   Soon we were back at the espresso bar.
     "What really blows me away, though, are the men in her books."
    "The men?" she said.
     "Yeah.  No one creates men as interesting, as multi-faceted as
Pat Califia."
     "Go on."
     "Like in 'Doc n Fluff', the President was such an alive, vital
character, I hated--"
     "But what he did to, oh,--"
     "Tina?"
     "Yeah, it was horrible."
    "I always thought that was kind of cheap.  That always felt,
you know, "forced".  Like she was making him do something he
wouldn't have really done, I guess in order to justify killing him
at the end.  Now, I can tell what you're thinking--don't get me
wrong--she writes some great women, too, as you would expect.  I
mean, Doc, that one who owned the Calyx of Isis--they're all great,
but it's her men that completely blow me away.  Anderson, Michaels-
-"
     "The spoiler."
     "Oh God, yes, him.  The cops in the Surprise Party,  you just
don't find men with the depth that these guys have.  In real life.
Or as sexy.  Except, of course, the drummer for INXS."
     "Ha."
     "And Keanu Reeves.  You watch L.A. Law?"
     "Of course.  It's the rules.  C J, oh Jesus, that accent."
  "When she kissed Abby.  That had to have been the second-hottest
moment on tv all year."
     "Second?  What was the first?"
     "You tell me."
     She didn't even have to think.  "Let's see...in *your* world,
when Audrey tied that cherry stem into a knot on 'Twin Peaks.'"
     "Bingo."
     We finished our coffee and went our separate ways.



                           DANGEROUS

     So I'm watching MTV and they're showing a Mariah Carey video
and I'm thinking, "Jeez, this girl needs some *help*."  So I gather
up some fake credentials and id's, hop in my ride and tool on over
to Kalamazoo or Wichita Falls or East Bumfuck or wherever the hell
it is she grew up.  And I stop by her high school.  I go to the
yearbook office, make a few pencil sketches of Mariah as she looked
in high school and then start asking her old teachers questions
about her.  They're only too happy to talk about her.
     "What kind of boys did Mariah date?" I ask.
     "Date?  Oh no, not Mariah.  All she ever used to do was sing.
Yep, just sing."
     "But surely there must have been someone?  She's hardly an
unnattra--"
     "Mariah didn't really um, fill out, until late in her senior
year.  I always remember her as skinny and awkward.  She spent a
lot of time with those kids from the school musical.  You might
want to talk to Mr. Browning--he runs the--"
     "That's fine, thanks.
     They were absolutely no help so I went straight to Mariah's
house where she grew up, an aluminum-sided split-level suburban
kind of nightmare with a station wagon in the drive.  With
simulated wood on the doors.
     "Mrs. Carey--"
     "Please, call me Pookie."
     "Pookie, did Mariah have many friends in town here?  What were
they like?  Every girl has a best friend.  Who was Mariah's?"
Mr. Carey entered the room and sat in the recliner by the piano.
"Anyone could tell you that Pookie was Mariah's only friend back
then.  Kind of worried us for a while.  But she seemed so happy
just to sit in here and sing while Pookie played the piano. Pookie,
play something for our guest--"
     "No, I couldn't.  Really."

     So I left East Bumfuck armed with a few pencil sketches and
the knowledge that Mariah was not the most social kid in high
school.  I caught up with her in Philadelphia, where she was in a
a friend of mine's studio working on her next album, "Emotional
Bliss."  A duet with Michael Bolton, "Deep sincere love gunk", was
slated to be the first single.  Well since Mariah was on *my* turf
here in Philly it was a simple matter to arrange a chance meeting
with her at a bar near the studio.
     I saw her in a booth at the back of the bar, her hair all up
and under a hat.  I walked over to the jukebox, put in a buck, and
played "Vision of Love" three times in a row.  A woman at the bar
who *had* kind of been looking my way promptly scowled and left the
place.  Ah well. . .  The next thing I knew Mariah was on the stool
next to me at the bar(I had asked the producer, who owed me a
favor, to steer her my way).  She ordered a ginger ale and asked me
if I liked that song.
     "It's all right.  But there's something about the woman who
sings it. . .I don't know, maybe I'm nuts but I swear. . .ah I
don't know.  You?"  I looked right at her and made it clear that I
did not know who she was.  She felt safe talking to me.
     "I like the song a lot, yes."
     "She's new, isn't she?" I asked.
     She nodded.
     "Do you dance," I asked, knowing full well from watching her
videos that she didn't.
     The smoky atmosphere of the bar and three watered-down ginger
ales had made Mariah bold.  "Yes.  Okay."
     On the dance floor I confirmed what I had long suspected.
Maria was, in fact, a virgin, and quite uncomfortable with her own
body and bodies in general.  I guessed that it was the result of
her fairly strict Catholic upbringing.
    I asked her what she did.  She said she hoped to be a singer.
I told her that I play a little piano and would she sing a song for
me in the back?
     "Okay."
     I started in on "Time, Love and Tenderness" and she sang.  She
covered every inch of twelve-octave range. She sang for hours.  She
sang until the bar was packed.  She sang until the dogs outside
stopped howling and just listened.  She sang like she wanted to be
with me that night.  And she was.
     Back at my place she saw my pencil sketches that I had drawn
out of her high school yearbook.  Trembling, she asked me what they
were all about.
     "This girl has been haunting my dreams for about five years.
It had gotten to the point where I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep,
couldn't work, could hardly exist.  So my shrink thought it would
be good therapy for me to draw this girl, since I *am* an artist.
Anyway, that's her." I put my hands around Mariah's biceps. "You're
shaking.  What's wrong?"
     "She buried her face in my chest.  "Rich, I--I--"
     I stroked her hair.  "I know," I whispered.  "I know."

     After she finished the album we moved in together in a little
apartment out in L.A.  Our nights were spent wrapped in the
envelope of each other's flesh and our days were spent in the
living room and the kitchen, teaching Mariah to dance.  Which was
*not* easy.  I played Samantha Fox and Sheena Easton and Prince
videos over and over on the vcr, explaining to her exactly what
'sexy' was.  Finally, she seemed to catch on.  "Rolling Stone" did
a cover story on "the new Mariah".  "People" did something lame
entitled "They call the wind Mariah".  But she was still not
complete.
     One day she came home to find Christina Applegate, naked but
for a long wig, lip-syncing lewdly to "Emotion" while I watched,
also naked.  She ran from the apartment, her heart broken.  But
finally complete.  I quickly left that city and moved back to
Philly and started doing some research on Debbie Gibson.

     The next year Mariah nearly swept the Grammys and won
tremendous acclaim for her portrayal of Nora in "A Doll's House"
opposite Jeremy Irons.



        THE FUTILITY OF LOVE IN LATE 20TH CENTURY AMERICA

     The day starts out all right.  Barbara Dare, porn star, is
appearing at a local video store.  I arrive just a few hours early
and help the guy open the store.  After lunch, Ms. Dare arrived.
Her skin was very clear and her hair smelled really good.  I was in
love and felt queasy when I looked at all the lechers ogling her.
But worse still, at the end of the day, she retreated to a back
room and emerged with her panties in her hand.  They were to be
auctioned off.
     Oh the humanity.
     I got the panties and headed back home.  On TV Johnny
Cougar's(Yeah, I don't give a fuck what he calls himself, he'll
always be Johnny Cougar to me) new video ("Get a leg up") is on and
in it, he's dancing with this model (Elaine Irwin?  Nancy Irwin?
Ashley Montana?) and there's something about the way she smiles as
she dances that makes the whole Barbara Dare thing seem cheap, and
leave a bad taste in my mouth.
     So I take the panties from my mouth and later that evening
head out to a local comedy club.  The manager is a guy I went to
high school with and after the show I go out with him for coffee.
Joining us is the woman who had just performed(to a standing
ovation), mousey, deadpan comedienne Margaret Smith.  She and the
manager are buzzed because the show went so great and I'm buzzed
because as we drink our coffee, smoke our cigarettes down to the
filter and talk, I come to realize that her onstage persona(the
first lady of angst) is no sham--she *is* just like that.  Her
despair is voluptuous; her entropy goes straight to the bone.
     Mine.
     Her skin is pasty; she is flat-chested; her ass(as she puts
it) is two Saltines; she smells like stale cigarettes and I want
her desperately.  Our calves touch under the table and she doesn't
pull hers back.  I lose my breath and when my manager-friend goes
to the bathroom I ask her out.
     A few hours later, as I'm whacking off into Barbara Dare's
panties, I laugh so hard I burst a blood vessel in my neck and I
die.
Oh, I die.


                       DON'T KNOW MUCH

     Terence Trent d'Arby(Terence Trent of roast beef sandwich) was
on Letterman(an A&E rerun) and he was singing that Sam Cooke song,
'Wonderful World'.  But I had just downed about 16 ounces of
Robitussin and I swear this is what he sang:

    "Don't know much about history,
     Don't know much biology,
     Don't know no science book,
     Don't know much about the French I took

    "But I do know that I love you,
     And I know that if you love me too,
     What a wonderful, wonderful world this could be--"

    "Don't know much about deconstruction, except of course
     Derrida's famous phrase, "Il n'y a pas dehors du texte,"
     which means "There is nothing outside of the text," but, and
     this is important--he is not simply restating the project of
     the New Critics, reducing, let's say, a poem, to the words of
     the poem, and *only* that, but rather, I take it to mean that
     Derrida is textualizing *everything*, history, the author's
     biography, all of it, and opening the text up to the free play

     of meaning.

     But I do know--(Chorus)

    "Don't know much about Soren Kierkegaard, the founder of
     religious epistemology, having never even finished his
     _Concluding Unscientific Postscript_.
     Don't know much about transformational epistemology.
     Don't know the difference between a pithy maxim and an
     apothegm."

    "Don't know much about nothing at all...(Chorus)

    "Don't know much about the Protestant Reformation and
     certainly nothing about Martin Luther's role in it, aside
     from the 95 theses he tacked to the wall of that church in
     Wittenburg.  But that's all.
     And I don't know how to make a souffle, at least not what to
     do after you separate your eggs, make your cream sauce, melt
     your cheese in the sauce, beat the whites until stiff but not,

     not dry, fold them in, careful, careful, move the bowl as you
     do this or you're stirring and not folding, and then bake the
    whole thing for about half an hour. That's it.  You can eat it
     now, go ahead, it's good.

     "And I don't know much about superstring theory, n-dimensional

      algebras, or non-Euclidian geometries."

     (Chorus)

     And I *swear* he ended by saying, "Fine.  So call me stupid."


                       JUST FOR ONE DAY

     Found myself in the airport the other day, seeing off a friend
who's attending film school at USC.  Hate airports.  Hate planes.
Would only fly to up my purity test score.  Only sensible thing to
do in an airport is drink.
    From inside one of the bars there, washing down Darvocets with
Jack and Coke, we saw a young girl of maybe eight or nine stand up
on her tippy toes and put two quarters into a candy machine.  She
thought about it awhile, then carefully pressed the button for a
pack of Now & Laters(cherry).  But it was one of those machines
where the candy is separated by what looks like a long Slinky,
which, as it turns, pushes the candy forward.  Well, the girl
apparently picked a bum row, because we saw the candy rotate itself
to the front, then stop, hesitate there, but refuse to fall.  She
ran back to her dad who, grumbling, gave her two more quarters.
She was still naive in the ways of candy machines and must have
thought the first row unlucky because we saw her stand up, put in
her quarters, and press the button for a completely different row
of Now & Laters(all grape).  It just wasn't this kid's day because
the candy again rotated ever-so-close but still wouldn't fall.  She
stared at it, incredulous, and pressed her face to the glass.  Once
more she ran back to her father.
     "That's it for her, ain't it?" said the film student, emptying
her shot.
     "Sure looks that way."  We saw her father shake his head no
and the girl dissolved into tears.  Even in the bar we could hear
him mutter something to his wife like "Kid's gotta learn the value
of money--"
     "Shit," said my friend.  "What a dick that guy is. That candy
would fall if he just sneezed at the machine."
     The film friend and I looked at each other.  She said, "We
really shouldn't, you know."
     "I know.  Let's go."
     "I hate you I hate you," said the girl to her father, and she
pounded her fists against him.
     We fed a dollar into the machine and pressed the buttons for
one row of Now & Laters.  Two fell.  We fed the change from that
one back in and got two more Now & Laters.
     "Here," we said and gave the girl three of them.  We were
rewarded with huge hugs.
     We tossed the last pack to the girl's mother.  She deftly
snatched it out of the air and we headed to my friend's gate,
leaving the fuming father in our wake.

                 ALWAYS USED TO HATE HARPS...

     I stayed up in Ithaca the summer after my sophomore year
because I wanted to pick up some more language credits.  Took a six
credit French class.  There was a coed in the class--a Jewish,
sorority girl whom I'd heard vague rumors about.  They said she'd
scored 1600 on her SAT's; that she was an exhibitionist who would
compete in contests at fraternity parties to see which girl would
raise her skirt the highest; that she would X an then go through
guys like potato chips; that she had a big collection of sex toys
that she would loan out to her sorority sisters on occasion; that
sort of thing.
     After about the first week or so of classes, we ended up
sitting next to each other.  There were about 15 students in the
class and we all sat around one large rectangular table.  The girl,
Molly, almost always wore short denim skirts and, if it wasn't too
hot, white stockings.  She was a slender, waif-like brunette,
nearly flat-chested, and sexy as all hell.
     Class met twice a day--before and after lunch, and it was
brutally enervating.  One day, during the second week, Molly wrote
"I'm sooo bored" in her notebook and slid it over until it nudged
mine.  I wrote "Ditto" and then she leaned her leg against mine.
I rested my hand just above her knee.  She wrote, "Higher."  I
moved it up just past her stocking and pinch the soft, bare skin
there.  "Keep going," she wrote.  I cupped my hand right over her
panties and pressed into the cleft.  She wrote, "Gasp."  So I
settled into a rhythm rubbing back and forth over her pubic bone,
and on each downstroke trying to work more and more material into
her.  She kept writing--in pencil--her handwriting getting more and
more erratic; degenerating from words to pictures to arrows finally
to symbols which could only have been some sort of private code.
She parted her legs wider and wrote "There!  There!  I'm, I'm--"
then she broke the point of her pencil against her notebook.
And so the summer went.  Twice a day we would do this.  One
afternoon, as we started she wrote "Take my panties off.  I have a
surprise."  She pressed her hands down against her chair and raised
herself up a few inches.  I slid her panties down past her knees.
She pulled one foot through and then spread her thighs.  As soon as
I touched her, her breathing changed and she wrote, "It won't take
long now.  Feel inside."  She was already very wet and soft.  I
slid in my middle finger as far as I could and I hit something hard
and round and felt a "clink".  She wrote "Ben Wa balls.  I've been
juicy all day."  I kept my finger pressed up against the one ball
and started spinning it while my thumb strummed over her clit.
"Wicked" she wrote.  "Wicked."  She came after at most two minutes
and then wrote, "Come by my sorority tonight.  I've got another
surprise."
     I showed up just after dinner.  There were only about fifteen
girls staying there over the summer and Molly met me and quickly
dragged me up to her room.
     "Get undressed," she said.
     "What's the surprise?"
     "You'll see," she said, "Just take off your clothes.  I'll be
right back."  And she ran out of her room and headed down the hall.
I stripped down to my underwear and started poking through her
clothes.  She had two drawers of lingerie, each with about ten
potpourris in them.  When I heard her footsteps coming back I
closed the drawers up and sat on the bed.
     "All right, Mol, what's the plan?"
     She started stepping out of her shoes and took off her shirt
right away.  She wasn't completely flat-chested, and her nipples
stood out prominently.
     She slipped out of her skirt and let her panties drop to the
floor and stepped out of them.  "Well," she said.  "Ready?"      I
stood up and pulled off my underwear as well.
     "I take it that means yes," she said and went into her closet.
I could hear her open up a trunk.  She returned in a few seconds.
     "All right.  Get down on your hands and knees."
     "What's in your hand?"
     "You'll see.  Trust me."
     "Lemme see it."
     She opened up her hand to reveal what looked like two Ben Wa
balls connected by about a foot of wire.
     "Great," I said, rubbing my neck.  "A garrote.  Great.  I can
hardly wait."
     She walked over and put one hand around my wrists and her fist
between my shoulderblades.  "C'mon, hands and knees.  And it's
called a butt-harp.  You'll like it.  I promise."
     I complied and soon I felt her pushing one of the balls up
into me.
     "No lube?"
     "It dampens it.  Just relax,"  Then she dropped to all fours
as well, slide the other ball into her and crawled away from me
until the wire was taut.  She reached back and gave the wire a
little pluck.  I started to laugh.
     "What's so funny?"
     "Look at us."
     "Wait.  It gets better."
     As I reached back and started plucking at the wire
myself, Molly yelled, "Kelly..."     I
heard someone run to Molly's door.  I looked back;  the door opened
and in walked one of Molly's sorority sisters, a buxom Irish
redhead with freckles all over her shoulders and upper arms.  She
was carrying a violin bow.
     "Hi.  You're Rich?" she asked.
     "Um, yup."
     "I was in your Shakespeare class.  I've never quite seen you
like this before..."
     "Very funny, very funny."
     "Do it," said Molly.
     Kelly knelt between us and started drawing the bow back and
forth across the wire.  I started laughing again but it felt really
good.
     "Faster, ooh," said Molly.  "Play some Paganinni."
     "No.  No caprices.  We don't want Rich to have a messy
accident.  Maybe the Bach violin concerto..."
     I was moaning and my breathing was short and choppy.
     Molly said.  "Wow.  I wish I had a prostate."
     "Turn over," said Kelly.
     We both did and the wire was an inch or two off the ground,
her thighs over mine.
     As Kelly ran the bow over the wire with her left hand, she
stuck two fingers in her mouth then ran them over Molly's clit.
 "Oooh, so hard," said Kelly.  "Feels like a marble."
     I had never felt anything so excruciatingly pleasurable and I
curled my fingers into the rug.
     "You're going to come aren't you, Rich?" said Kelly, who then
slipped her thumb way into Molly and pinched at her clit with her
first two fingers.
     "Ooooh," said Molly.  "I'm gonna come.  Ooooh. Nice..."
Kelly increased her finger activity and I pushed my penis forward,
until it pointed away from me.
     "Prepare for splashdown, Mol," said Kelly, who stopped with
the bow for a second and scooped a drop of precum off of me and
tasted it.  "Mmmm, salty."
     That did it.  I heard it land on Molly's stomach.  Kelly slid
it down and rubbed it into Molly.
     I sat up, butt-harp still in place and said, "Where the hell
did you get *that*?!"
     "My brother brought it back from Singapore.  He's in the
army."
     "Man."
                  SPECIAL *WHAT*??!!

     After the harp episode, Molly and I began to see each other
more and more.  She really was quite the exhibitionist, and loved
nothing more than doing it with her door open a crack, or by the
window, or best of all, in public.  Earlier that year, her sorority
had compiled some kind of scoring system for the various places the
sisters might have sex in(For example, the Sigma Chi pool was worth
one point[too easy] while the Straight Reading Room in the
undergrad library was somewhere around 50).  Molly was extremely
inventive and would sometimes call at four in the morning and say
nothing more than "statue of Ezra Cornell in 20", or "Bell Tower.
I got a key.  Hurry."
     After the summer session ended there was a gap of a week or so
until the fall term.  I had to pick up some stuff at my house so I
replaced a flat on my '72 Duster and Molly came back with me.  It
was a four-hour drive or so and we had no radio so Molly put her
feet up on the dash and amused herself as we drove, ignoring the
truckers who honked their horns as I passed.  About an hour from
Philly, Molly took off her skirt altogether, laid it in her lap,
pulled a tiny scissors out of her purse, and starting cutting into
it.
     "What are you doing?"
     "Oh, nothing.  How much longer?"
     "An hour."
     "Let's stop and get something to eat before we hit your house,
okay?"
     "There's a Mc'Donald's..."
     "Perfect."
     "Drive-thru?"
     "Nah.  I want to get out of the car.  All sticky in here."
   No comment.
     We'd started out way early, and the McDonald's we pulled into
had just opened for the day.
     "You gonna get dressed?"
     She pulled her skirt back on, then arched up and slid off her
panties and put them in the glove.
     "Look," she said, "there's a slit on each hip, and one
in back.  She moved around to show me and I slid in my right hand
to
test.
     "Ok, how many points is a McDonald's worth?"
     "In the bathroom, 10.  At a table, 100.  In line it's off the
chart."
     It was clear which one she was going for.
     "How much money do you have?"
     "I pulled a hundred out of the machine last night."
     She opened up the wallet in her bag.  "Cool, I got fifty.
Ready?" she asked, and slid a hand up my jeans leg.  "Yup, let's
go."
     Inside, the place was near-empty, except for the three, acne-
marked high school guys and the two girls behind the counter.  The
guys stopped what they were doing and came around to check out
Molly.  She walked up to the register on the far right and said,
"We've got a pretty big order, okay?"
     "Uh, sure."
     "25 Egg McMuffins, 25 Bacon egg and cheese, no bacon on 12 of
them, ketchup on the others--"
     "You can put on your own ketch--"
     "Oh, but I want you to."  I slid my left hand in through the
left hip opening.  "Please?"
     "Uh, okay.  It'll take awhile."
     "Can we have a couple of coffees now?"
     "Sure."
     He showed the order to the others and they snapped into
action.  The coffees arrived and we both burned our tongues.
 "Go ahead," said Molly, "Put it in."
     "Gimme a sec," I said and started kissing the back of her
neck.
     "Mmmm," she said, and arched and pushed back against me.  "Do
it."
     I unbuttoned and slid in easily.  Her modified skirt was
working.  The two girls in the back had noticed that we had started
kissing and were whispering to each other.  They giggled and the
boys went over and huddled with them.
     "Ooooh," whispered Molly, and started fishing through her bag.
I upped the tempo.  She pulled out a pen and slid it up under her
t-shirt which she pulled taut, and wrote a little mark over each
nipple.
     Odd, I thought.  But even more odd was when one of the kids
came out from the back and just *had* to replace all the trashcan
bags at seven in the morning, even though they were all clearly
empty.
     "Slow down," whispered Molly, "this is fun.  Slow down."
So I just pushed up behind her and stopped, and put my hands on the
counter.
     The trashbag kid had reported back to his friends and they
were all laughing and turning red.
     "Excuse me, said Molly, somehow locating her voice, to the
geekiest-looking of the boys there,  "could you give me a hand with
something?"
     "Uh, sure."  He geeked his way over.  "What do you need?"
 She pulled her shirt taut and motioned with her chin.
I've got these awful marks on my shirt.  Could you bring a cup of
icewater and a few napkins?"
     "Comin' right up."
     "Thanks.  You're sweet."
     He swallowed and we saw his adam's-apple jiggle noticeably,
cartoon-like, and he geeked away.  He came back with the cup and
said, "Here y'go."
     Molly said, Do you think you could help?"  She dipped a napkin
into the icewater and started rubbing hard over her right nipple.
It didn't seem to affect the stain at all.
     "You do the other one, okay Sugar?"
     The girls were giggling fiercely over by the microwave and the
other boys were trying to concentrate on our order but kept looking
up.
     "C'mon," said Molly, as I started moving again, "rub the stain
out."
     He dipped a napkin into the water and gave the mark over her
left nipple three very quick, cursory rubs.  Then, he breathed.
  "I see the problem," I said, taking Molly's napkin and rubbing it
on the inside of her shirt, "The mark's on the *inside*.  Try like
this.  See, it's coming right out."
     "I--I--" the boy said, shaking noticeably.
     "Oh, all right," said Molly, "gimme that thing."  And she took
his napkin and wiped it on the pen mark herself.  We heard the boy
who was making the McMuffins say, "What're you, nuts, man?  You had
it.  It was right there."
     Molly let go of her shirt and when it settled itself there was
a big blue blur over each of her nipples, which were clearly
visible, the material of the shirt being almost transparent when
wet.  Two men walked into the store, and I stopped moving and
pushed up right behind Molly again.  They were thirtyish,
good-looking, outfitted in denim, an earring in each of their right
ears.  They looked over at us and moved into the register on the
far left.
     "Sorry, said the geeky boy, "this register isn't open."  The
men walked to the middle one.  It was closed too.  So they headed
towards us.  We did this ridiculous hop-shimmy to move as far to
the right as we could.
     "Breeders," said the one to the other, as they got their food
and headed out.
     "And I thought *we* were bad..."
     "We *are*," said the first one, and they left in hysterics.
   "Order's up!" called out one of the girls in the back.      "It
*is* to go, right?" said the best-looking boy.
     "Yeah," said Molly, but can I have one of the Egg McMuffins
*now*?  Please?"
     "Sure," and he handed her one.
     She unwrapped it and pulled it below the counter, out of sight
of all the kids, who were now openly staring.
     "Oh," said Molly, and shivered slightly.  Half a minute or so
later, she brought the sandwich back up to her mouth and took a
bite.  I stepped back and buttoned my pants back up.
     "Hey," said Molly, licking the corners of her mouth, "Good
sandwich.  You guys eat em."  And we left money and headed out to
the car.  Molly ran back in by herself, grabbed a handful of
napkins from a dispenser and came back to the car.
     The first thing my mom said was, "What's so funny?"

                      FATHER'S DAY

     My dad has been in poor health all his life.  Cataracts,
hearing aids, bypass surgery.  He could never be a real physical
father to us because of that, which I guess is why I so need to be
touched and held now.
     He also never made much money, and I know this bothered him a
great deal, because all of my parents' close friends and relatives
seemed to enjoy higher standards of living.  We were always short
of cash and never had the new cars, or vacations that they had.
    My dad has also always been a big "coin" guy.  He looks through
the change in his pockets every day, hoping to find a coin that is
worth something: a silver half dollar, an "error" penny, a Buffalo
nickel, something like that.  He also plays the lottery and
religiously enters contests in the mail.  Never wins anything.
  One year, when my brother and I were in high school, we both
worked after school delivering papers, washing cars, that sort of
thing, and when we pooled our money we had something like $600.  I
went to a coin store and bought a 1955 "double die" penny, a famous
mis-struck coin.  It took all the money we'd saved.  The night
before Father's Day I sneaked upstairs and put it on his bureau,
knowing he'd look through all his change the next morning.  My
brother and I were downstairs eating breakfast with my mom when she
asked us if we'd forgotten it was Father's Day again this year. We
just shrugged. Then, she gave us a card to sign.  While we were
signing it, my dad let out a huge yelp and came flying down the
stairs. "Sarah, Richard, Howard!  Look, look, look at this!!" he
said, and lay the coin on the table, along with a coin pricing
guide.  My mom realized what the coin meant and beamed.  She looked
at me and my brother. I winked, she started to cry, and that was
the first time I remember our family truly being happy.

                        BEING SO GOOD

     My dad got married late in life; he was 45, my mom 38.  I
think they were both surprised that they weren't going to be single
forever, and they wasted no time in starting the family.  I
appeared on the scene exactly eight months and thirty days after
their wedding, and my brother arrived not much later.
     My dad was living with his sister back then, whom he adored
and worshipped.  She was really his only friend growing up in the
small Ohio town where he was born, and they were inseparable until
he met my mom.
     My dad is a good, decent man.  He learned early on that, in
the workplace, it is essential not to make waves.  He is a writer--
a journalist, and he lost one of his very first jobs for writing
a story, not in the usual sports-page style, but in a wildly
outlandish, creative style that he had picked up from one of his
college English classes(Joyce, Lawrence, Woolf, etc.)  After that,
he wrote exactly as he was supposed to, expected to, and he has
kept his next job(on a local magazine) to this day.
     I know it hurt him to see other, younger, more flamboyant
writers(some of whom he'd actually interviewed and hired) pass him
by, especially when he handed out checks on payday and saw that
many of theirs were larger.  But any gripes or frustrations he may
have had disappeared when he sat down at his desk and looked at
that picture of my mom and her two boys that stood right next to
his IBM Selectric.
     He ended up writing stories about unsung local heroes,
personalities, and eccentrics, and his stories are always voted the
most-read items in the magazine each year during the annual
reader's poll.  Once, he wrote a story about a local kid who had
somehow beaten childhood leukemia(through bone marrow transplants
from a sibling), and had gone on to represent the country in the
steeplechase at the Olympics that year.  For that piece, he placed
an honorable mention in the Pulitzer awards for magazine
journalism, and that certificate still hangs, dusty, proud in the
den, alongside all my scholastic awards and my brother's athletic
ones.  And my mom's trophy, which she won for being on the
championship bowling team at our local synagogue.

     But what I want to tell you about now is what happened one day
when I was in junior high school, my brother still in elementary.
My dad's sister lay in a hospital bed--throat cancer.  We visited
her almost daily and my dad was always shaken when we left.
     I remember we were in the waiting room because a nurse was
giving my aunt a sponge-bath when we saw a woman and her young
daughter.  The mother's face was pretty, but at the moment it was
contorted into a scowl, and the fact that her daughter was bopping
around noisily, playing 'Got your nose' with me and my brother
wasn't helping.  Finally, the girl's mother rose and yanked her
hard by the arm, dragging her away.
     "But I'm being good, Mommy.  I'm being *good*."
     "No.  You.  Are.  Not.  We're leaving."  And we heard the girl
scream as they left the hospital.
     They allowed us to go up to my aunt's room.  My mother had
stayed at home.  She'd lost her own father to cancer two years
before, and the memories of that were still too fresh and painful
for her to join us.
     I remember vividly that hospital room:  The ever-present beeps
and IV bag.  The awful smell.  My aunt's voice, raspy and hoarse
from the cancer that had ravaged her larynx.  Her hair thin and
crackly from the massive doses of chemo. It seemed incredible to my
brother and myself that such a horrid whisper could come from
someone whose face was still soft and beautiful.  She was too weak
to even raise her arms and my dad sat on the edge of the bed and
held her hand between his on his lap and leaned close so he could
hear her.  My brother and I were in charge of rubbing her feet and
legs.  They always hurt.
     The visits were very hard for my dad, who is one of the last
of the great optimists.  Though my aunt could have refused those
huge doses of chemotherapy, both she and my father agreed
that where there was life there was hope.  But when the cancer
spread to her lungs and she would cough so hard that we were
constantly buzzing for the nurse, we knew that there wasn't any.
     One day, near the end, my dad leaned in close and we heard her
whisper to him, "It shouldn't be like this.  No one should be like
this.  What was ever so bad that it should be like this?  What one
thing?"
     When we left the hospital, we saw that it was a beautiful,
warm spring day.  But for us there was no joy in the clear sky, the
pure, clean air, the shouts from the girls in the courtyard behind
our apartment.
     Dinner was especially difficult that night.  Despite the news
that my brother had finally pulled all A's on a report card, we
both knew it would only make things worse to mention it.  My mom
padded around the kitchen, getting up often to bring things back
from the refrigerator that we didn't really need.  She touched my
father's hand as he picked at his food.  It was his favorite, but
flavorless tonight.  My brother and I both went to bed after
dinner, both secretly hoping, in that area behind our thoughts
where the truth is found, that she would just stop fighting and go
to sleep and not awaken, and that we could have our father back.
     At about two in the morning I woke up and couldn't fall back
to sleep.  I made my way into the kitchen and drank some milk.  On
the way back I heard some sounds from my parents' room. The door
was open a crack and father was kneeling at the side of the bed,
hands together.  I heard his voice crack as he said, "Oh God, God,
please.  I'm being good.  I'm being *so* good.  Oh God oh oh God,
*please*?"  Then I couldn't listen anymore.
     I slipped back into my room and yanked my brother out of bed.
     "W-what is it?  I'm asleep."
      I pulled him onto the floor.  "No, How, listen.  We have to,
we have to *pray*."

               HANDSPRINGS ACROSS THE MOON

     "How," I said.  "Lemme borrow your Notre Dame sweater."  He
did, and we tried to get in the right frame of mind to hit the
local pub for their St. Patrick Day's blow-out.
     "You and Maria had another fight?"
     "Yeah, usual shit.  Always starts over something stupid.  I
think this time it was the fact that I like Elvis and she doesn't."
    "She doesn't?"
     "She thinks he was vulgar and white trashy."
     "Yeah, but that's his appeal."
     "I called her a snob and she called me something and it just
got way the fuck out of hand.  But I don't wanna think about that
now.  And I can't write when we're mad at each other.  Nothing
comes.  The whole planet seems dingy and gray and bereft of
stories."
     "Bereft, eh?  So then, you'd say there was a 'dearth' of
stories about."
     "Yes.  Not nearly a plethora.  Hey, where's the Dachau
Darling?
     "She's pissed about something.  Who knows?  Let's split."
 It was early but on St. Patrick's Day it always got crowded by
eight and we wanted a table since we wanted to eat too.  It was
cold out, but not windy, and as we reached the bar we saw a man
next door to it.  He was painting a door that was previously red.
When he finished it would be black.  We saw it and laughed.  Two
guys in sweatshirts with Greek letters on them walked by and
stopped.  The one thickneck said to the painter, "Hey, who's your
landlord, Mick Jagger?"  Then, they high-fived each other.  I
cupped my hand over a cigarette and lit it.
     The painter, who was sweaty despite the cold, looked up and
said, "Mick Jagger?  Landlord?  Oh, wait.  I see a red door and I
want it painted black!  Ha ha ha.  That's funny.  That's good.  I
gotta tell my wife that tonight.  You're very clever.  I woulda
never--"
     "Fuck you," said the other one and they kept walking.
     As soon as we entered the bar, Pat the bartender said the same
thing to me he has every St. Patty's Day I've spent there.  "What
are you doing here, Rich?" hew yelled.  "I thought you were
Jewish."
     The whole bar looked over.
     "Half-Jewish, half-Irish."
     "I never heard of that," he said, like he always does.
"Yeah, my grandparents came over during the great potato knish
famine."
     We've had this exchange for years now and I even heard a
stand-up comic use that line down at the Comedy Works here in town.
Pat still likes it as much as the first time.
     We found a table in the back room and ordered corned beef and
cabbage and Irish stew.  There was a table of about twelve behind
us.
     "Well," said Howard.  "How long?  I say fifteen minutes."
 "I say two."
     "Ten bucks?"
     We shook.
     "What's that song they always sing," I said to Howard, loud
enough, "about that boy who goes off to war?"
     "That's cheating," said Howard, kicking my shin.
     "Ten bucks, Skippy."
     A man in a tan suit smoking a cigar came over and joined us.
    "This is a song about a boy who goes off to war..."
     He finished that part, stood up and closed his eyes.

         [ Oh Danny Boy,
          the pipes are calling you,
          from glen to glen...]

     The bar was filling up.  Just after our food arrived, we were
joined by a family: a forty-ish man with a Yamaha acoustic guitar
and capo, two younger brunette girls, an older woman, an older man,
and a couple of boys our age.
     "You don't mind if the Holloran family singers join you, do
you?"
     "Please."
     They filed in to the booth and piled their coats on the piano.
    "I'm Tim, this is my daughter Maggie, my daughter Clarice, my
sister Ellen, and that's Ron and Mark.  And that gentleman there is
Jimmy, but you can call him 'tamzie'."
     He was wearing a tam.
     "I'm Rich.  This is Howard."
     "Brothers?" he asked.
     "Look at them, Daddy.  They could be twins."
     "Five minutes, Rich?"
     "That's not fair, How."
     "It's a bet."
     "What are you two wagering on," asked Tim.
     "Oh, how long it'll be until we hear Danny Boy again."
   They laughed.
     "That's a sucker bet, you know.  'Oh Danny Boy..."
     "Stop, Daddy."  Clarice elbowed her father.
     He moved the capo to the second fret and started.  "When Irish
eyes are smiling..."
     We were floored by his two daughters.  It was so clear that
Maggie was the 'good' one and Clarice the 'bad' one.  Maggie's hair
was all pulled up and held in place with a bright green hair thing.
She had another, a red one, around her left wrist. Clarice's hair
was long and silky and reached to the middle of her ribcage.  It
was all pulled over to one side of her head. She was moving a hand
through it.
     "What happened to the 'big hair'?" said her father.
     "Well, it *was* big.  There's no more hair spray in it.  If I
had my purse it'd be *huge*.  You'd see."
     "I like it like it is now," said her father, moving a hand
through it.  "Feels like mine."  His was short and salt and
pepperish and it all seemed to go in different directions, but
Clarice felt it and nodded, "Yeah.  I like your hair.  That salt
and pepper action is nice."
     Howard said, "That is just sooo 'Jungle Fever'.  Maggie
giggled.  This was Howard's latest thing.  He'd say things like,
'That girl is so dawning of the age of Aquarius'.  Or we'd be
climbing a tree and he'd say, 'This is just so A Separate Peace'.
The other day he'd said someone was very 'Tinker Tailor Soldier
Spy.'  I still don't know what he meant.
     Maggie was wearing a large wool sweater and blue jeans.  Even
so, the fact that her breasts were very round and large wasn't hid.
Clarice's features were very, *very* brunette.  She had a high,
flawless forehead, cheekbones that would make David Bowie look
moon-faced, carefully plucked dark eyebrows, long eyelashes and
full, sensuous lips.  Her breasts were smaller than her sisters and
conical. They poked at her green chamois-material shirt.  She wore
tight black jeans and boots.
     Soon, it was learned that Maggie was graduating this semester
from a small local college.  English major.  Clarice was a
waitress.
     "Where at?"
     She told us where.
     "Great lobster.  Pricey."
     "Come by for brunch during the week sometime.  That's my
shift."
     "Hey, Daddy," said Clarice, "Pour me some beer in *this*"  She
produced a small ceramic cup.  It had no handles and little ducks
had been painted onto it.
     Her father looked shocked, as did her sister.  "Where in the
world did you dig up *that*??"
     Clarice showed it to me and Howard.  "This was my 'girl cup'
when I was, what-- five?  Six?  Drinking beer out of it would be--
oh God.  I couldn't.  I painted it in kindergarten.  I love this
cup."
     The waitress came by and asked us if we needed any glasses.
The whole room, in unison, said, "Only when we read."

     "Daddy," said Maggie.  Do the alligator song."
     "Alligator song?"
     "You know," said Clarice, who, as it turned out, had studied
voice for a time when she was younger, and had gone from a soprano
to a mezzo in her choir because of cigarettes.
     She and Maggie started, doing these theatrical gestures for
each animal they mentioned:

        [ You got green alligators and long-necked geese,
          Humpty-backed camels and some chimpanzees,
          cats and rats and elephants,
          but sure as you're born,
          the loveliest of all was the unicorn.]

     They sang through this a few times until half the bar were
mimicking these gestures as well.  The table behind us
applauded after they'd finished.
     I was becoming more and more captivated by this fabulous
brunette, Clarice.  She was quiet and sat close to her father, his
arm between hers when he wasn't playing that guitar.  Her sister
was
loud and deep-voiced and boisterous.  She was dunking bits of bread
in my brother's stew and requesting old songs from her father, who
sang much better than he played.
    "Richard, Howard," he said.  "You must know some Irish songs."
    "Well," said Howard, and asked for the guitar.  It was handed
it to him and he tuned it and looked us over and took off the capo.
He picked out his chord and as soon as the girls heard it they
laughed.  "Well, it's Irish all right, but..."
     But it was too late.  It had already begun.

        [ I can't believe the news today,
          I can't close my eyes and make it go away.
          How long, how long must we sing this song?
          How long? Tonight we can be as one.
          Broken bottles under children's feet,
          Bodies strewn across a dead end street,
          But I won't heed the battle call,
          It puts my back up, puts my back up against the
          wall.

          Sunday, bloody Sunday.
          Sunday, bloody Sunday. ]

     Then, Howard stopped and started a different one.

       [  All is quiet on New Year's Day,
          A world in white gets underway,
          And I want to be with you,
          Be with you night and day.
          Nothing changes on New Year's Day.
          I will be with you again.
          I will be with you again. ]

          Under a blood red sky
          A crowd has gathered in black and white--]

     "Don't you think that's a little somber, How?"
     "Mysterious Ways?"
     "Ooh, Daddy," said Maggie, Howard finding the chords and
following her.

     [  She's a rich girl
        She don't try to hide it
        Diamonds on the soles of her shoes ]

       Clarice echoed, "She got diamonds on the soles of her
shoes."

        [ He's a poor boy
          Empty as a pocket
          Empty as a pocket with nothing to lose

          Sing Ta na na
          Ta na na na
          She got diamonds on the soles of her shoes
          She got diamonds on the soles of her shoes
          Diamonds on the soles of her shoes
          Diamonds on the soles of her shoes

          ...

          She was physically forgotten
          Then she slipped into my pocket
          With my car keys
          She said you've taken me for granted
          Because I please you
          Wearing these diamonds...]

     The affection they all had for each other was infectious, but
it seemed clear to me that it was Clarice who was her father's
favorite.  She was older than her sister by a year, had gone to an
accelerated high school, but something must have happened, and she
was a waitress now.
     They were looking through some pictures in her dad's wallet
when we heard her say, "Yeah, so what do you call them when your
grandparents are forty?  Pop-pop and nana?"
     She showed the picture to me and Howard.  She had twin girls,
Jennifer and Lea.  They were perfect.  First-graders.  When she got
up to go to the ladies room she put her hands on my shoulders and
whispered, "Sneak me a cigarette."  I did.  "I'm 23, by the way.
You figure out the math."
     I did.  It wasn't that tricky, and soon I had an outline of
their family's history in my head.  Clarice, at thirteen, winning
a voice scholarship but instead going to a science high school, her
sister to the local Catholic school.  Clarice at 14, already
driving the boys nuts with her savage cheekbones and sultry air.
Clarice at fifteen, starting to rebel.  Smoking cigarettes, pot,
dating college boys.  Clarice at sixteen, pregnant.  Her family
being very supportive--abortion was not an option there.  Clarice,
dropping out of school, having those twins and getting her G.E.D.,
and the next year taking the SAT's as a lark, scoring well into the
1400's.  And her sister Maggie, carefully avoiding her sister's
tracks, remaining chaste, active in her church, trying to be for
her father what her sister could not.
     Clarice returned from the ladies' room, butted out her
cigarette(first, she held it over her 'girl cup', but then rested
her head on her father's shoulder and put it in the ashtray.
 "We've got all the voices now," said her father, strumming lightly
on the guitar.  "Try this one"

        [ Got out of town on a boat goin' to southern islands.
      Sailing a reach before a followin' sea.
          She was makin' for the trades on the outside,
          And the downhill run to Popakay Bay.

          Off the wind on we don't know the words la la la lumbago
         we got eighty feet of the waterline
          nice to make headway.
          In a noisy bar in Avalon I tried to call you.
          But on a midnight watch I realized why twice you ran
away.]

     The people from the table behind us joined in for the next few
verses, including Sister Nancy, a young, attractive nun whom they
all seemed to know.

        [ Think about how many times I have fallen,
          Spirits are using me, larger voices callin'.
          What heaven brought you and me cannot be forgotten.

          I have been around the world,
          lookin' for that woman, girl,
          who knows love can endure.
          And you know it will.  And you know it will.

          When you see the Southern Cross for the first time,
     You understand now why you came this way.
          'Cause the truth you might be runnin' from is so small.
         But it's as big as the promise, the promise of a coming
day.]

     "Keep going, Daddy.  We never get to do this at home anymore,
ever since that table can't fit in the kitchen."
     Both girls pointed a finger at each other and Maggie said,
"Demon Table."
     "Table from Hell!" and they touched their fingers together and
went "Bzzzzzap!"
     "More Crosby, Stills and Nash.  Do 'Teach Your Children',
Daddy."
     He shook his head.
     "Come on, please?"  Clarice spun that cup with the ducks on it
around in her hands.
     "Oh please.  We never get to do this anymore.  And we've got
an audience."
     "I can't, girls.  Listen to your father. I--"
     "Howard," said Maggie,  "Can you play that song?"
     "Crosby, Stills and Nash?  Like ringin' a bell."
     "Oooh," said Maggie, finishing off Howard's black and tan.

     Howard put the capo up on the third fret and managed to up his
voice an octave or so and sang with the two girls.  It sounded like
the three of them had been doing this all their lives.  People were
walking in from the bar to watch and the tiny back room was packed
and filled with smoke.  A waitress dimmed the lights halfway.  All
eyes were focused on the girls' father, who was helpless to hide
his emotion.

        [ You, who are on the road
          Must have a code
          That you can live by
          And so become yourself
          Because the past
          Is just a good-bye

          Teach your children well
          Their father's hell
          Did slowly go by
          And feed them on your dreams
          The one they picked
          The one you'll know by

          Don't you ever ask them why
          If they told you you would cry
          So just look at them and sigh
          And know they love you]

     The girls looked at their father then and his shoulders
started to shake.  But they didn't stop the song.

        [ And you of tender years
          Can't know the fears
          That your elders grew by
          And so please help
          Them with your youth
          They see the truth
          Before they can die
          Teach your parents well
          Their children's hell
          Will slowly go by
          And feed them on your dreams
          The one they picked
          The one you'll know by

          Don't you ever ask them why
          If they told you you would cry
          So just look at them and sigh
          And know they love you. ]

     "We love you, Daddy."  Clarice wiped off her father's cheeks.

     It was late and their father had to work early the next day .
They told us that they came to this bar every Tuesday, early, after
choir practice.  Friendly good night kisses were exchanged and they
drove off.
     We sat down again and the waitress cleared all the debris
away.
     "They were something else.  I like that Maggie.  She seemed
very--"
     "Genuine."
     "Yeah.  Very non-psychotic, you know.  I consider that a plus
these days."
     "As opposed to her sister..."
     "Man!  Her face..."
     "Yeah.  You think Karen and Maria are together somewhere,
scopin' out guys?"
     "You think?"
     "Could be."
     Soon, about ten kids our age in tie-dyes walked in and joined
us.  There had been a Grateful Dead show at the Spectrum that
night.
     "So," said Howard.  "How was it?"
     "Great.  Check out the set list."  He handed us an envelope on
which he'd scrawled the songs that had been played.  I loved
looking at these things just to watch how the writing deteriorates.
Especially after 'Space'."
     "Box of Rain, New Minglewood, Memphis Blues, Cassidy, new
song, Truckin', Spoonful, He's Gone, Space, unreadable, Miracle,
Stella Blues, Sugar Mag.  And they encored with Weight."
     "Nice.  How long was Space?"
     The guy with the set list held his hands about a foot apart
and said, "Oh, about yea long."
     They all laughed.
     "Decent."  So we switched gears drastically and talked with
them for awhile.  They bought us all a round of whiskeys and we
paid for a round also.  The one very blonde girl was an art student
and her boyfriend was trying to be a writer.  When she was
seventeen she worked in a Chinese restaurant.  Her mom had been in
the Mexico City Olympics the same year Bob Beamon set one of the
longest-lasting records ever.  Her mom's event, it turned out, had
been platform diving.
     They signalled last call and Howard and I started to head out.
When we went to settle up with Pat, he said that Tim, the girls'
father, had asked him to put it all on his tab.
     "I like that guy a lot."
     "Great bunch," said Pat.  "They come here every Tuesday.
After choir practice.  With the mom, too."
     I put a cigarette in my mouth and reached in my coat pocket
for my lighter.  There was something else there, too.  I pulled it
out.  It was Clarice's cherished cup.  I didn't show Howard but put
it back into my pocket right away and lit the cigarette.
     "You okay, Rich?" Howard said.  "You look funny."
     "I'm great.  Ready?"
     Howard bought a six-pack and bundled the bag under his arm.
I put my arm around his shoulder and felt in my pocket for the cup.
And as we exited the bar into the cool night we paused for a
moment.  During that pause, I thought about that art student's
mother--young, fit and beautiful, standing on the edge of that
platform, eyes straight ahead.  Ready to jump and spin for the
crowded stadium, for the world.  Ready to touch the sky and slip
into the blue water softer than a kiss.  Ready to know that moment,
just before she begins her descent, that moment where, for the
diver, time seems to stop and elongate.  That moment where anything
was possible.


                        *HERE*??
     I was out doing some post-grad work at one of those midwest
football factory schools.  But they had a strong English department
and there was this one professor there(I'll call him Rav.), a book
of whose I'd read in a theory course as an undergrad, whom I knew
would become my next mentor.  He was barely older than I was but,
on the basis of this one book, had been made a full professor.
He'd had offers from both Yale and Cambridge, but the idea
of being a full professor at 25 won him over.
     He was married to one of the bigger guns in the woman's
studies department(Marna) and Alison, who had traveled out with me,
was taking one of her courses.
     I would spot the professor every now and then in the least
likely of places:  at Herman's, where he was pricing catcher's
masks; at one of the sleazier local watering holes,  where he
bought me a ridiculous drink, bright pink and full of little foldy
umbrellas.  He, of course, was drinking Glenlivet.  I choked on one
of his Turkish cigarettes and he laughed and twirled one of those
umbrellas around;  at Victoria's Secret.  I was there with Alison
and we both nearly died when we saw him.  His wife was quite large.
Later we would discover he wan't shopping for *her* at all...

     However, the day I remember most vividly is that night I saw
him in the video store.  Alison and I went in and split up, as we
always did--she to drama and I to the little adult section in the
back.  As I walked in I noticed that Alison was talking to that
woman's studies professor, who was looking through the classics
section.
     As I entered that small room I put on my usual poker face and
did not make eye contact, as the unwritten rules of these things
go.  It had not been discovered yet that Traci Lords was underage
and they had a big assortment of her movies.  I was crouched,
looking through these, when he walked in.  My beloved mentor.  I
prayed that he was only doing research for some scathing feminist
critique of the porn industry, but of course he wasn't.  He was
studying the boxes carefully, turning them around, looking for
various stars, positions, acts.  Crouched as I was he hadn't
spotted me, but there was no way I could leave that room without
his knowing.  So I kneeled and waited.
     "Richard!  Hi!"
     Oh Christ.
     "Hello, Professor."
     We were the only two there.
     "Alison is out there talking with my wife.  This is funny."
   Funny.  Okay.
     "I don't understand, Professor."
     "Please, Richard.  Rav.  I think we can do without formality
in here."
     "I don't understand, Rav.  I'd have thought that you and--"
   "Marna."
     "That you and Marna would be very anti-pornography."
     "Oh, we hate it passionately.  Which one's your favorite?"
  "I feel very weird about this, Professor."
     "If you call me Professor in here again, Richard, you'll make
me blush."
     Not an easy task.  Both he and his wife were from Pakistan.
Rav was the color of dark Karo syrup, with a pointy, impeccably-
trimmed beard that accentuated the sharp diagonals of his jawline
and cheekbones.  He also had long, delicate fingers.
     "Sorry, Rav, but doesn't Marna speak out against this stuff?"
    "This stuff, eh?  Absolutely not.  We are neither of us
hypocrites, at least not *that* far..."
     "But still--"
     "You know what the basic problem here is, Richard?"  He turned
away from me, faced the wall of flesh, and made a kind of sweeping
gesture with his hand.  "The problem is, and this is the one we
can't seem to resolve, is that it *works*.  Most all of it *works*.
The actors are dirty-looking, the acting laughable, the situations
preposterous, but it all works.  You know what I'm saying."
"I'm here, aren't I?"
     "Precisely.  I think one's consciousness would have to be
raised very high indeed not to be um, affected, by this."
     "Doesn't sound like much fun."
     "So, which one then?"  He made that gesture with his hand
again.
     I picked up the box for 'Battle of the Superstars'(Traci Lords
& Christy Canyon) and handed it to him.  As he looked it over I
picked out a couple of interracial anal tapes and he said, "Great.
Hey, why don't you and Alison come over for some drinks.  We'd love
to have you.  Marna's crazy about Alison."
     Then, he added, "We'll watch a movie."
     I blushed.
     "One of *theirs*.  I wouldn't want to lose my tenure, you
know."
     "Sounds like a plan."
     So we came out of that room into the light.  The women were
waiting for us, arms folded in mock-serious poses, shaking their
heads.
     "Hey, Alison," I said.  "They had your favorite:  Backdoor
Blondes #12."
     "Dick," she laughed.
     Alison was holding 'Grande Illusion' and Marna 'City Lights'.
Rav paid for them all and we followed them back to his house, just
outside the city.  Alison got high on the way and went on and on
about 'Marna'.
     "Oh...myGod, Rich.  She is the coolest.  She's seen
everything.  And *funny*.  She's a piss."
     They lived in an old farmhouse that a noted architect had
lived in before.  He'd sold it to them fairly inexpensively, on the
condition they keep it in good shape and not change anything.
They'd agreed.
     The house was way back off the road and had a long, tree-
shrouded driveway.  It was a clear spring night and I parked my
Duster perpendicular to his Saab.
     Inside, the first word that I think I said was 'Tardis'.
"Tardis?" asked Alison.
     "That's just what we thought the first time we saw the place,
too.  You know, Alison, it's from the Dr. Who show.  His little
booth..."
     "Oh.  Yeah yeah yeah.  You're right."
     Somehow, the place was way bigger inside than it looked from
the outside.  Lots of odd angles and surprisingly-placed mirrors.
And some big sliding-glass doors that led from a garden area inside
straight to gardens out back.  It was an incredible house--perfect
for Rav and Marna.
     Rav got some drinks together and brought them into the tv
room.  They had a big Sony hooked into a Nakamichi stereo with a
Harmon Kardon tape deck.
     They had lots of art everywhere, pretty evenly-divided between
reproductions of Impressionist masterpieces(ballet dancers,
sunflowers, etc.) and originals(Kenny Scharf, Keith Haring, etc.).
     Eclectic and cool; this was Alison's dream house.
     Rav put on a tape of, of all things, a recent Dead show.  Rav
and Marna sat on a black leather couch, I and Alison cross-legged
at their feet.  As Rav started rolling a joint, carding off of
'Double Fantasy'(ick), he said, "I guess it's silly to ask if you
get high."
     It was silly because Alison had already fished her six-
chambered pipe from her purse and handed it to him.
     She said, "There's a bunch of resin in there, if you want to
dig it out."
     He just filled it and lit it with a white-tipped match he
struck afainst the edge of a coffee table.
     The tv room had a great big skylight in it, and Alison leaned
back until her head was in my lap and tried to pick out
constellations.  "That's so bright.  Is that the North Star?"
Marna said, "That's Venus.  Second stone from the sun."
"Hippie," said Alison, and Marna choked laughing on her hit.
"Look!" said Alison, pointing up.
     It was a shooting star, a meteor, and it made a long white
trail over the skylight.
     "Nice."
     "How's your Lacan, Alison?"
     'Feminine Sexuality' was one of the books she'd had to read
for Marna's course.
     "Not bad.  He's tough.  I always get the feeling I'm missing
a lot in the translation, but my French sucks.  Why?"
     Marna answered.  "Rav's had this idea bouncing around for a
while now.  Tell them."
     "This is great pot," said Alison.  "Better than what we find.
Where do you--"
     "If I told you a certain dean would be--"
     Alison covered her ears, "La la la I'm not listening la la
la..."
     "Tell them your idea," said Marna.
     "All right, you're familiar with the 'mirror phase', right?"
    The 'mirror phase', for Lacan, is essentially that moment when
the infant child makes the connection between that person in the
mirror and him or herself; realizes that this hand is his hand,
this arm her arm, etc.
     "Have you ever tried acid?" asked Marna.
     "Wow, you *are* hippies.  But yes, we dosed last weekend in
fact."
     "Well, lsd, if you're receptive that way, can take you back
through early stages of development."
     "Yeah," said Alison.  "Sometimes it's like part of my brain
knows--"
     "Intellectually."
     "Yeah, intellectually.  The left brain I guess.  I know that
I'm in an anal stage again, and the other half, well--"
     "Wants to make a gift of your feces."
     "Hey," said Alison, turning to punch me lightly in the ribs.
"And sometimes it's hard to understand that my hands are really
*mine*, that I can make them do what I want them to--"
     "Okay," said Rav.  "Great.  So imagine the planet Earth as an
infant child.  When would you say its 'mirror phase' occurred?"
  Alison raised her hand.  I tickled her underarm.
     "Yes, Alison?"
     "About the time Columbus--"
     "Late 14, early 1500's"
     "hit America and Magellan circumnavigated and Mercator
started--"
     "Now you're projecting," said Marna, and Alison and I pelted
her with corn chips.
     "No," said Rav.  "You're right.  Everything changed when they
started making globes and the world instantly became finite.  In a
way it had never been before."
     "Neat."
     "The anal stage didn't come until the twentieth century," said
Marna, "when everyone started giving us all this *shit*."
     More corn chip pelting.
     Then, Rav put in 'City Lights' and we watched all but the X-
rated movies and we stayed over.
     Neither of us could sleep that night.  Through the walls we
could hear the two professors, copulating like animals.  We walked
down to the kitchen and made some drinks and sat in the garden.
The roses were just beginning to open up and we stayed outside the
rest of the night, looking up at the stars, at the infinity over
our heads.



                      DRIVE FASTER!
     My grandmother made one of those Henry Jamesian "life-
mistakes" when she married my grandfather.  She was young and
beautiful and erotic, then living in America's oldest city, St.
Augustine, Florida.  She'd moved there as a girl from Fall River,
Massachusetts, notable only for Lizzie Borden.  The way my
grandmother tells it my grandfather was not a particularly
handsome, romantic, or interesting man, but he had a convertible,
and he lusted after my grandmother.
     The summer they courted was the hottest she ever remembers,
out of many sticky St. Augustine summers.  There was no air
conditioning then and the only way she could cool off was driving
with my grandfather, the top down, the sea air burning her bright
blue eyes and wreaking havoc on her waist-length auburn hair.  Up
and down those cobblestone streets they drove, my grandmother
singing Mills Brothers' songs like "Paper Doll" while my
grandfather looked straight ahead and said nothing.

     [I'm gonna buy a paper doll to call my own,
      A doll that other fellas cannot steal]

     And so the summer went, the routine punctuated only by walks
on the beach or malts at the drugstore.  My grandfather worked as
a teller at the bank, and my grandmother would show up before lunch
and plead with him to "take me driving, take me driving.  I can't
stand it.  Take me driving."  He would, not wanting to get in bad
graces with the bank manager, reluctantly agree, and my grandmother
would sometimes stand up on her knees in the front seat and open up
her blouse and let the air cool her chest.  But he wouldn't even
look over, only grip the wheel tighter and admonish her to be
careful, that 'people get hurt that way'.

     [And all the flirty flirty guys
      With their flirty flirty eyes]
     "Oh, Al.  Don't be such a poop.  It's fun.  And it's sooo
muggy."

     Then, in the car:
     "I like your hair, Miriam.  I like how it blows around."
"Oh, Al."

     [Will have to flirt with dollies that are real.
      When I come home at night she will be waiting
      She'll be the truest doll in all this world
      I'd rather have a paper doll to call my own
      Than have a fickle-minded real live girl.]

She was anxious to leave behind her girlhood, and she tried every
trick she knew on my grandfather, all that St. Augustine would
allow.  It was the twenties and it seemed to her that there was
something different in the air, some kind of feeling that was
exciting and sexy and new.  She felt it when they drove in to
Jacksonville to watch the talkies that were just coming out.  She
felt it when she and my grandfather would sneak the bottles of
bootleg whiskey that her own father had learned to make, that
eventually killed him.  She thought her own mom must have felt it
too, because she wore these huge pinafores all the time: she was
'always with child'.
     She graduated high school in 1920.  She took thirteen subjects
that year.  All A's.  She said she would have gone on to college
but there was no way her parents could afford it, even with the
bootleg whiskey.
     She wanted to be a Charleston girl, or better yet, Clara Bow--
the "it" girl, but not because she was famous or talented, but
rather for the reason Dorothy Parker gave('She didn't have *it*.
She had *those*.')  She loved to sit in the theater with Al, lean
her head on his arm, and watch this wonderfully-shapely creature.
    One special day, before they went driving, she poured a whole
bucket of water over her head and then got in and had my
grandfather drive along the beach.  When they finally pulled off
onto an obscure dirt road she pulled off all of her clothes and
begged Al to "drive faster!  Faster!"
     He took her virginity in the car then and she married him in
1926.  He became impotent shortly after my mother was born and they
slept in separate beds the next fifty years.




        PAN PIZZA VS POSTMODERN FICTION AND CRITICISM


PAN PIZZA                              POSTMODERN FICTION
                                       AND CRITICISM
---------------                        ------------------
Traces its nearest                     Has its roots in France.
ancestors back to                      <snicker, snicker>
Chicago-style pizza.
Chicago, birthplace of jazz
and home to the Cubs.

Leaves one feeling warm and            <snicker, snicker>
full and profoundly satisfied.


Eating pan pizza is a sensual,         There is nothing sexy about
sexy experience.  Especially           postmodernism, unless you
when a thread of mozarella             count the fact that Foucault
extends from the tip of the            kinda sorta looked like
slice to your lower lip,               Patrick Stewart, only
stretches, stretches, then             without the deeply resonant,
snaps back against your chin,          car-selling, order-belaying
leaving you and your partner           voice.  Plus like,
dissolved in giggles, both of          Foucault's dead.
you recognizing the pizza's
foreshadowing of the evening's
later events.

Making Pan Pizza is an art,            Post-Modern criticism
requiring careful blending             requires little more
of cheeses, sauces, dough,             than a facile and toppings.
and toppings.                          use of the word
Plus, they bring it to your            "problematic".
table in under five minutes at
lunchtime.  And like,it's real
cheap even if you don't have a
coupon.

POSTMODERN FICTION                     PAN PIZZA
AND CRITICISM
------------------                     ---------
Post-modernists are fond of            That "4 bucks 4 bucks
pointing out that while Western        4 bucks" girl in the
metaphysics marginalizes               Pizza Hut commercial
masturbation, deconstruction stands    gets me hard.
this phallocentric notion on
its head, if you will, and shows
that intercourse is simply another
form of masturbation.  Thus, post-
modern criticism becomes the highest
form of sex, surpassing even self-
fellatio and the Mongolian
cluster fuck.
Few people really get the              Everyone likes pizza.
distinction between 'differance'
and 'difference'.
Fewer still care.

Hobbes said, "The life of man          Evereyone likes pizza. in
the state of nature is nasty,
ugly, brutish and short
So are many postmodern novels.
So, incidentally, is Bella Abzug.



One last time then:

This is your brain:
sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex
sex sex sex sex sex sex you down with opp? yeah, you know mesex sex
sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex
sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex
what time is it sex sex sex sex sex sex I'm starved sex sex sex sex


This is your brain on the post-modern novel:

          angst
                                              huh?

          zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz



            HOW TO READ THE NEW YORK TIMES BOOK REVIEW

     "Rich," a friend says to me,  "I wanna be well-read, too, but
I don't want to waste my time reading garbage."
     "Sounds reasonable."
     "So I try reading the New York Times Book Review.  Only I
can't make heads or tails out of what these reviewers are saying.
It's like they're talking in code or something."
     So I looked through last week's book review, pulled out some
troublesome phrases, and interpreted for my friend.  Here then, is
the result:

WHEN THEY SAY:                         THEY REALLY MEAN:
--------------                         ----------------
"--Michener's huge, sprawling          The first page was too far
work may appear intimidatingly         from the last, but I get
large at first glance--"               the feeling the author is
                                       hung like a baby's forearm.

"--the result is as                    It sucked but I learned
exasperating as it is                  something.
 edifying"

"--the whole novel seems to            I read it while taking a
 exist in a compressed atmosphere"     dump.

"--writers are one of the state        Oh no, not another Stephen
of Maine's bumper crops"               King novel.

"--Even when it is not repetitious     It really sucked, and I
 the writing is flaccid. "             suspect the author is
                                       impotent.

"--one of the dangers in writing       Hmmm, what *is* on TV
about TV is--"                         right now?  Cool, that new
                                       Martika video.

"--there are errors of fact"           He lied.

"--is problematic"                     Sucked moose.

"--in a very real sense"               In a pig's eye.

"--But the author seems compelled      Either the author had
to repeat himself"                     Mexican food for lunch, or
                                       the author is Billy Joel.

 "--restless,clever prose"             words that can't sleep but
                                       can solve tricky logic
                                       Problems

"--this small, charming book"          no threat to my
                                       soon-to-be-published
                                       magnum opus

"--simply done, yet with a lot         see above
of meaning packed into its little
format"

"--pays homage to"                     plagiarizes

"--is a noted                          masturbates often and
deconstructionist"                     with great gusto
-------------------------------------------------------

Hope this helps.

        HAIR CLUB FOR MEN VS POSTMODERN FICTION AND CRITICISM

HAIR CLUB FOR MEN                      POSTMODERN FICTION
                                       AND CRITICISM
------------------                     -----------------------
Whether wet right out of the           Post-structuralist thought
shower, or blow-dried, it              feels about as natural as
looks and feels natural, just          circumcising(or
like a part of you.                    mastectomizing oneself(or
                                       with a rusty can.




"Hair Club's new polyfuse              Derrida will often
coin method literally fuses            new words<portmanteau>,
top-quality human hair                 "pharmakon", "differance"
to your own hair."                     when the old ones aren't
                                       doing what he wants them to.
                                       This is a characteristic
                                       Derrida move and is
                                       certainly nothing woth
                                       losing hair over.

POSTMODERN FICTION                     HAIR CLUB FOR MEN
AND CRITICISM
---------------------------------      ----------------------------
Feminists have borrowed from post-     "Even when you feel it, feel
structuralism the conviction that       around the perimeter of
reality is inherently unstable and      your head, you really the
complementary claim that                cannot feel anything in
language offers the only partial        your hair."
truth of it that we may hope to
know--and they have expanded the
attack on logocentrism into an
attack on "phallocentrism".  Thus
the illusion that the human mind can
identify and understand an
independent reality becomes a
specifically male pretension to
intellectual domination, which must
inevitably end in the
marginalization and obliteration
of Woman, and all Western thought
becomes inherently "phallocentric".
One also notices in many of
Derrida's writings that he will use
what he writes in the margins to
comment on the body.

Derrida will often use a word and      That guy from "Eraserhead"
immediately cross it out to achieve    had really bitchin' hair.
desired effect, a technique he
calls "sous rasure", meaning
'under erasure'

HAIR CLUB FOR MEN                      POSTMODERN FICTION
                                       AND CRITICISM
------------------                     -----------------------"It
really gave me more ways to        Deconstruction is very be able
to do my hair, and I can do       fashionable. Especially  it in
more of a nineties fashion."        in France<snicker, snicker>,
                                      and at Yale<double snicker>.

A new healthy head of hair can         Postmodernism can
enew confidence and improve self-      dash what little
esteem.  It may also bring out the     self-esteem you may
best of who you are.                   have to rubble, as
                                       you find yourself
                                       struggling to grasp the
                                       concept of the 'trace'.
Make sure you call Hair Club's         The Tel Quel group
toll-free number to receive            has no 800 number
their new brochure<800-274-            but, to be fair,
4133>.  It's loaded with               you can usually find
information so you can make            a post-modernist on most the
right choice for yourself.             any 900 line.
And by the way, Sy is not
only the hair club president, he's
also a client.

Sy Sperling boasts a lovely,           Foucault was bald.
full head of hair.

A nice head of hair can                The writers, of the
add character.                         so-called 'nouveau
                                       roman', or 'new novel'
                                       (Robbes-Grillet et al) pride
                                       themselves on eschewing
                                       traditional devices of
                                       narrative, such as plot,
                                       setting and characters.

One last time then:

This is your brain:
sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex
sex sex sex sex sex sex sex Kriss Kross'll make you jump,jumpex sex
sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex
sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex
sex sex sex sex what time is it sex sex sex sex sex sex I'm starved
sex sex sex sex sex

This is your brain on the post-modern novel:

          pain                      fin-de-siecle angst
          alienation                                    huh?
      zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz





              LED ZEPPELIN LYRICS EXPLAINED!!

Stairway To Heaven
-------- -- ------
There's a lady who's sure
All that glitters is gold
And she's buying a stairway to heaven.
When she gets there she knows
If the stores are all closed
With a word she can get what she came for.
Ooh, ooh, and she's buying a stairway to heaven.
-------------------------
Billie Holliday is in her dressing room, shooting up.  A single
candle and a bent spoon stand in mute testimony.
-------------------------
There's a sign on the wall
But she wants to be sure
'Cause you know sometimes words have two meanings.
In a tree by the brook
There's a songbird who sings,
Sometimes all of our thoughts are misgiven.
Ooh, it makes me wonder,
Ooh, it makes me wonder.
-----------------------------
Lady Day can see the writing on the wall.  The drugs have taken
their toll.  But, with the first rush from the heroin, she hears a
songbird.  That songbird is she.
-----------------------------

There's a feeling I get
When I look to the west,
And my spirit is crying for leaving.
In my thoughts I have seen
Rings of smoke through the trees,
And the voices of those who standing looking.
Ooh, it makes me wonder,
Ooh, it really makes me wonder.
---------------------------------
Makes us wonder too.
---------------------------------
And it's whispered that soon
If we all call the tune
Then the piper will lead us to reason.
And a new day will dawn
For those who stand long
And the forests will echo with laughter.
If there's a bustle in your hedgerow
Don't be alarmed now,
It's just a spring clean for the May queen.
Yes, there are two paths you can go by
But in the long run
There's still time to change the road you're on.
And it makes me wonder.
-----------------------------------
the piper is clearly a Pink Floyd reference.
the "piper at the Gates of Dawn" will lead us to "Momentary Lapse
of Reason", thereby encompassing the whole Floyd canon.  How Plant
could have foreseen "Momentary Lapse" we attribute to the endless
mystery that is genius.

bustle in your hedgerow.
"Hey," says Roger Plant, "Whazzat?"
"Nothing," responds Jimmy Page.  "Nothing at all."

two paths you can go by.
Clearly a reference to Robert Frost, Bonham's favorite American
poet.
Zeppelin, like Frost, chose the path less-travelled.
Innovators, all.
------------------------------------
Your head is humming and it won't go
In case you don't know,
The piper's calling you to join him,
Dear lady, can you hear the wind blow,
And did you know
Your stairway lies on the whispering wind.
-----------------------------------------
Back to Lady Day.
Yes, she well knows which way the wind blows.
------------------------------------------
And as we wind on down the road
Our shadows taller than our soul.
There walks a lady we all know
Who shines white light and wants to show
How ev'rything still turns to gold.
And if you listen very hard
The tune will come to you at last.
When all are one and one is all
To be a rock and not to roll.
-------------------------------
Listen very hard
We take this to mean "Play the song backwards."
But then again, we're clearly psychotic.
-------------------------------
And she's buying a stairway to heaven.
-------------------------------
And the farm.
-------------------------------

                NIRVANA LYRICS EXPLAINED!

Smells Like Teen Spirit
=======================

Load up on guns <Guns n Roses?  Bill of Rights allusion?  The jury
                 is still out>
Bring your friends <Pull a train?>
It's fun to lose  <no shame in it, though.  Karpov's good.
DAMNGOOD!>
And to pretend <let's go the land of MAKE-BELIEVE!>
She's overboard <Goldie Hawn?  Bad career move...bad>
Myself assured <If you say so>
I know I know <Cogito>
A dirty word <Fuck>


hello hello hello hello hello hello hello hello
hello hello hello hello hello hello hello hello
--------------------------------
hi
--------------------------------

With the lights out it's less dangerous <well, no wonder it's "hard
                                         to find"
                                         as we will see later>
Here we are now <No.  Over here, you goof.>
Entertain us <...the idol of my age...like another can of beans...>
I feel stupid and contagious <this, we feel, is an allusion to the
                             very rare South American Spotted
                             cuerme bug, the bite of which causes
                             a kind of brain fever.  corroborating
                             evidence to follow>
Here we are now <No!  Over *here*!>
Entertain us <See above>
A mulatto <Jasmine Guy>
An albino <Johnny Winter>
A mosquito <See?!>
My Libido <No comment>
Yea <Yup.>


I'm worse at what I do best <Well, keep at it and one day you may
                             really suck>
and for this gift I feel blessed <If you say so>
I met a group that's always been <The Stones?  The Kinks?? The
Dead???>
And always will until the end <The Kinks it is.>

hello hello hello hello hello hello hello hello
hello hello hello hello hello hello hello hello
-----------------------------
um, hi.
-----------------------------
Chorus


And I forget <that brain fever again>
Just what the taste <Like chicken, you sillybilly>
And yes I guess it makes me smile <and laugh uncontrollably.  Yup,
                                   it's that brain fever all right>
I found it hard <Calculus?  Fourier transformations?  Non-Euclidian
                 geometries??  What???>
Its hard to find <Not in Seattle it ain't.>
Oh well, whatever, nevermind <Ah, fuggedaboutit>

hello hello hello hello hello hello hello hello
hello hello hello hello hello hello hello hello
-----------------------------
um, hi.
-----------------------------
Chorus
A denial A denial A denial A denial A denial
A denial A denial A denial A denial
-----------------------------
No.
-----------------------------


                    MEET THE GRESGE
     His name was Ralph Gresge(grezz-ghee), but we always called
him The Gresge because he seemed more like an elemental force than
anything else.  I first noticed him in a CS class.  I and the co-ed
I sat next to had dubbed him 'the fat kid'.  He would always come
into class late with three or so of his ridiculous friends('the
doofy guy', who always wore cutoffs and sandals with white knee-
high socks; 'the crunchy girl', who had stringy hair and always
carried her backpack over both shoulders and seemed to bounce on
the ball of each foot as she walked; and 'the chess nerd', who
always had a portable magnetic chess set with him and would try to
drum up games when you were trying to study.)
     Sophomore year I was off-campus on State Street and our one
apartment-mate dropped out so we needed a new third.  The Gresge
had the money, so he was it.  Despite his pale skin, curly unkempt
blond hair, and shabby clothes, we learned that he was actually
quite a brilliant guy:  he'd spent a summer in high school
designing video games for Bally, and had bought a Trans Am with the
money, into which he'd dropped an enormous engine and a tank of
nitrous in the back.  The nitrous had this way of kicking in
unexpectedly sometimes because the switch he'd rigged up for it was
right next to the defroster.  When the nitrous was on, the car
would spin wheels in third gear and all the valves would blow out.
    The Gresge was always buying chemicals and cooking stuff up in
the kitchen.  It was not surprising to find saltpeter and bags of
high-nitrogen fertilizer and sugar lying around.  We didn't press
him about any of these.  Wouldn't have been prudent.  Once I saw
him in the kitchen and he had melted a bunch of those styrofoam
packing peanuts in a pot.  Into this he was adding motor oil.  On
the kitchen table was a copy of "The Poor Man's James Bond".
"What's cookin', Ralph?"
     "Oh, plastique."
     Yeah, right.  An hour later, our balcony exploded.

     After a month with him the place was a disaster.  Food
wrappers, explosion burns, garbage everywhere.  Our landlady had
decided that it would be a good thing to "check up on us".  Ralph
was asleep, naked.  She let herself in and screamed.  Ralph threw
on a towel and met her in the front room.  She just stood there,
her mouth open, speechless, pointing.
     "Lady, get out."
     "I own this house!"
     "Hee.  Oops."
     "WHO?!  WHO IS RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS?!"
     Ralph just scratched himself and looked at her.  He said, "I--
I blame society."
     We got a huge kick out of this when we talked about it later
that night, but it sucked because she took our vcr and wouldn't
return it until we cleaned up the place and rebuilt the balcony.
   She still has that vcr.

                         BARANGUS!
     I lived with five guys and one woman senior year.  The Gresge
had the room across from hers and he was obsessed with her.  He
showed us how his closet was right next to her bed and he could sit
in there and listen to her and any one of the numerous boys she
brought home with her.  One day, she forgot to lock her door in the
morning and his subsequent search turned up a mongo vibrator and a
huge drum of lube.  Sometimes he would report on her in the morning
before class.
     "Yup.  She took it up the ass again last night."  He showed
how he'd worked out a pattern to her lovemaking.  "Yeah, she always
starts by sucking the guy off, then, if he can get it up again she
has him fuck her ass while she's on her back and she plays with her
clit until she comes.  If the guy can't get it up again, she has
him use her vibrator.  Man."
     Ralph had problems with women, to say the least.  It was he
who got me the job delivering pizzas in town and one day, he was in
heaven because an Ithaca College freshman co-ed that he'd brought
a pizza to had "gotten on her knees and worked it like a champ."
Of course, we didn't believe him, but he *did* start shaving
regularly that week and was making daily trips over to IC.  A week
later, (God knows *what* he'd done to her), the girl became a
lesbian and hasn't dated a guy since.
     He was a very comfortable guy, and wasn't really into doing
his wash.  In the morning he'd come downstairs in a robe, throw a
pig(a huge rack of pre-cooked, packaged barbecue ribs) into the
microwave, disappear into the basement, and come up fully dressed.
He never took his clothes out of the dryer.  If he had no ribs for
breakfast, he'd drink some barbecue sauce or ketchup and begin his
day.
     Once, we were driving from Ithaca to T-burg(Trumansburg) and
we passed a bar that looked like something straight out of Urban
Cowboy.  It was called 'Barangus' and there was a huge set of
animal horns above the name.  The parking lot was filled with
pickup trucks and I dared him to go in and buy a beer.  He never
backed off from a stupid dare and so he pulled his Trans Am into
the lot and we both got out.  As we'd expected there were old farm
tools hanging on the walls, along with many bear and other traps,
animal heads, and old guns.
     We sidled up up the bar and Ralph said "Two Lites."  The
others at the bar quieted down and looked over.  Without cowboy
boots we might as well have been naked.  "And two shots of Jack."
The moment passed and we sat down at a table near the back exit,
where we'd parked the car.
     "You ready to bolt, Ralph?" I said.
     "Oh yeah."  Ralph was a big, husky guy but he could run when
being chased.
     We did our shots and I said, loud enough, "You know what
Barangus *means*, don't you?"  We both slid our chairs back and
leaned forward a little.
     "What?"
     "It's the sound gay cowboys make when they come."
     And then we were gone.

--BaRANGus!


                         THIEF
     The pizza place that the Gresge and I delivered for was next
to a self-service car wash.  Sometimes, kids would not wear much
and put in the dollar or whatever it took and stand in there,
letting the hose dance around crazily.
     Between the pizza place and the car wash was this huge
dumpster.  One day, one of the cooks there was trying to sell Ralph
an unregistered .45 automatic.  I don't know the law exactly, but
I do think that you are guaranteed a jail term if you're caught
with a gun like that--five years mandatory if the gun was used in
a crime.  I think.  Regardless, the Gresge was skeptical.  He
didn't believe the gun was in working order.  So the cook took him
out to the dumpster and fired into it.  It did work.  The Gresge
bought it for three hundred bucks and added it to his arsenal.
 He was also big on buying junky cheap-shit cars and working on
them, cannibalizing them, anything.  He bought this awful station
wagon for two hundred from this high school kid.  He never drove
it, never worked on it.  It reminded us of that guitar in Spinal
Tap.  "No, don't look at it.  Don't even think about it."
One day, Gresge woke up and the car was gone.  Stolen.  He very
calmly got his .45 and sat on the porch in the rocking chair and
waited.  Sure enough, a few hours later, the car came back.  Ralph
went down to it and showed the gun to the driver and then got in.
Turns out to be the kid who'd sold it to him.
     "Shit," said the kid.  "Fuck.  I kept an extra key.  Shit man,
stop looking at me like that.  I just wanted to buy some groceries
for my mom.  Shit.  C'mon man."
     "Drive."
     He made the kid drive to the Ithaca police station and turn
himself in for "grand theft auto".  Of course, this whole time,
Ralph's gun was a much more serious offense than what the kid had
done.  But the kid got out and raced into the police station.
So Ralph got the car back.
     But the best thing is:  he ate all the kid's groceries!


          I DON'T KNOW ART, BUT I KNOW WHAT I HATE
     We had an interesting assortment of students in that house
junior and senior year.  Myself, the Gresge, a fine arts student,
that one girl, and two physics guys, one of whom I'd gone to high
school with.  The artist was always trying to drag us with him to
these awful downtown ubiquitous-people parties.
     Once, the Gresge and I tagged along to a party that was being
held for a student who'd just sold a painting for some five
figures.  The place was packed.  Wall to wall black turtlenecks and
clove cigarettes.  I spotted my avant-garde theater prof there, as
well as the French Intellectual History big gun.  On the walls hung
art by the guy who the party was for.  Ralph and I stood, in jeans
and t-shirts, drinks in hand, staring at some hideous abstract
Expressionist triptych that the guy had painted.  Onto it he'd
pasted random newspaper headlines.
     While we were staring at it, trying to look knowledgeable,
some guy walked over, stood between us, and said, "So, whaddaya
think?"  I could see my fine arts housemate mouth the words "He's
the artist" to me, but I knew Ralph hadn't seen him.  The room was
oddly quiet and I could feel numerous dark, bloodshot eyes looking
at the three of us, waiting for the Gresge's pronouncement. Ralph
rubbed his chin and took his glasses off and said, way too loudly,
"It looks like a hastily-completed compromise."
     Like a grenade there was a moment and then my artist housemate
began the laughter that was still going strong when we grabbed some
munchies and snuck out.

--baRANGus!

           COULD YOU PLEASE JUST GO NOW PLEASE?
     Because I was involved in theater senior year, and my one
housemate was an artist, a lot of our friends overlapped.  We
seemed to have the same ubiquitous people in common.
     Once, at play practice, it was decided that a few of the
others would come back to my house for some drinks.  No big deal,
just some midweek stuff.  I mentioned this to my artist housemate
and the next thing we knew, he had "made some calls" and was
rearranging the furniture in the living room and setting up
speakers.
     They all seemed to arrive at once and they stayed very late.
Our one physics housemate made some comment about our "existential"
friends and tried to go to sleep.
     He couldn't, and at about four am he came downstairs and
pleaded with us to end it.  There were only three people left: one
guy, two women.  They were all just marginal types, ubiquitous
person wannabes and apparently there was some unspoken kinship
among them.  They seemed to be having just a little *too* much fun
out there, dancing to Animotion or something.  They had ignored all
the subtle cues:  like when we all yawned and glanced at our
watches.  This only made the guy (and oh, how I hate this, bend his
wrist inward and look at his own watch.  Then, he shrugged and kept
dancing);  Ralph, flipping the lights on and off; all of us wearing
bathrobes.
     Finally, someone had to make a move.  The Gresge took over.
He unplugged the stereo and walked over right next to the three of
them.  then, he started doing what looked like rapid-fire mental
patient jumping jacks, screaming at the top of his lungs, "LEAVE
LEAVE LEAVE!!!  DEMONS...YOU VEX ME!!! BEGONE!!"
     They left.

RICHH
--demons

               THE IMPORTANCE OF GOOD INFORMATION
It was late - about 1 AM - on a Saturday night. The Gresge and I
were lounging around, watching TV, when we were finally bored into
action. We decided to head up to the A&P supermarket (i think that
was what it was called, who can remember?) a few miles north of
campus.  We had to take a slight detour because some of the roads
had been blocked off by the police for road repairs.

On the way up there, the Gresge and I were engaged in a discussion
about the relative merits of various philosophies of life.

"So, Gresge, you don't really believe in the Golden Rule, do you?,"
I asked.

He laughed - a crazy kind of laugh, sort of high-pitched, with a
mean, sarcastic tone to it.

"No, not exactly. I don't worry about other people - just myself.
And unlike other people, I am going to survive."

"And just what is it that gives you the edge over other people?  I
mean, it's not just your carefree attitude."

"Information. That's it. Information. I constantly read all kinds
of sources - underground books, Time, financial newsletters, auto
repair books. I listen to and know a lot of different kinds of
people. Because there's nothing more important than information.
You never know when one little bit of information will make the
difference between your own survival and becoming someone else's
*FOOD*!" <ed. note:  *BARANGUS*!!>

I mulled this over as we drove the last couple of miles to the
supermarket in silence.

We pulled into the nearly deserted parking lot. The Gresge smiled
as he screeched to a halt next to a station wagon. At the door, a
woman carrying grocery bags gave him a dirty look, but the Gresge
was oblivious.

As we started hunting for our food (the first stop was the frozen
meats section for the rack-o'-ribs<ed.note: this rack was the 'pig'
that I'd mentioned previously.  The Gresge liked to eat one every
morning.>, I remembered a story Ralph had told me a couple of
months ago.

"Gresge, is it true that you were arrested at this grocery store?"
"Yeah, it's true. But I didn't deserve it. I was arrested for
carrying out a girl. On my shoulders."
"Voluntarily?"

"Not exactly. But I figured, hell, you can buy just about anything
else at a supermarket..."

"So she called the cops?"

"No, the manager did. In fact, she didn't even want to press
charges. It was that damned manager."

We paid for the goods and went out to the car. The Gresge looked
around, grinned, and got into the car. I knew I was in trouble.

"What are you planning, Gresge?"

"Just watch."

He drove maybe twenty yards, straight towards an abandoned grocery
cart.  The back of the cart just touched the front bumper; we were
lined up right behind the cart. The Gresge told me to hang on.
Slowly, he accelerated the car. The grocery cart bounced along in
front of us, rolling faster and faster. When the car hit about 45,
the Gresge slammed on the brakes, and the cart skittered off in
front of us until it started to tumble end over end. I was cracking
up. I have no idea why, but it was hilarious. The Gresge did this
a few more times, then it was time to head home.

On the way back, the Gresge described his philosophy of driving.

"Like most things in life, you never know how far you can push
things until you push them too far. Like taking corners, for
instance."

"That gets to be a little expensive, doesn't it?"

"The way I see it, there's nothing more important than information.
And there's no more important information than good information.
I'm willing to pay for good information."

We drove on. As we passed the blocked off streets, the Gresge said,
"Gee....I wonder...." and hit the brakes.

He backed up the car until we were facing the police barrier.  It
was a large, wooden barrier, painted white. The Gresge revved the
engine a few times, and shouted at me, "I've always wanted to try
this!"

With that, he pushed the accelerator to the floor. The barrier
rushed up at us, glaring in the high beams. I instinctively threw
up my hands as we crashed through the barrier, wooden beams flying
all over. A beam came rushing toward me, smashing into the window
in front of me. It was then that I learned safety glass really does
work. The beam bounced along the roof of the car and was gone. The
Gresge ran down to the middle of the street and stopped the car. He
looked at me, ecstatic.

"Boy, that was great!"
I was still shaking in my seat, thinking that this little piece of
information had cost me a couple years of my life.

He turned the car around, the headlights surveying the damage.  And
what damage there was! Through the cracked windshield I could see
wooden planks and beams scattered everywhere - over several front
yards, on the street, stretching as much as 60 yards from the
original impact site. It was impressive. I could also see there was
another barrier, still standing. The Gresge saw it too. With a
shout of "Irrepressible!"<ed. note: *BARANGUS*!>  he raced the car
toward the other barrier. Once again, I ducked down in my seat as
beams crashed into the car, on the side, on the roof, on the
windshield. And then the car slowed and turned around. I could see
that the Gresge had destroyed the barricades, spreading destruction
over an area roughly the size of a football field. The people
living in the area had a bit of a surprise waiting in their yards.
We decided it might be a prudent time to leave.

The next day I got up around noon and wandered outside to look at
the car. It was a mess. The windshield was cracked, the hood was
dented, and the whole car was covered with white streaks where the
boards scraped across the car. The Gresge realized that the police
would come looking for him (strangely enough, he *was* the first
one they suspected) so we decided to paint the car to cover the
evidence. I drove down to Kmart and picked up a few cans of red and
yellow spray paint. Of course, a bright red car with a green
interior and "Screw the Police" painted in yellow on the side did
attract a little attention...

RICHH


         ...AND IT DETERMINED WHAT HE COULD SEE
     My senior year girlfriend, Alison, called the other day. Seems
that she was just up at school and had checked in on the Gresge.
She was a year younger than I, and she and The Gresge had developed
an interesting friendship after I'd left.
     She had started out quite fearful of him, despite his "nice
smile and heart of gold".  On our very first date, I, God knows
*what* I was thinking, brought her back to the Gresge's
apartment(this was second semester junior year, and the Gresge was
off on his own then) to watch a couple movies we'd rented
("Manhattan", "Mondo Magic", "Shocking Asia")  The last two were in
the Gresge's permanent collection.
     "Shocking Asia", he'd said to me once.  "That's a keeper."
     When we got there, the apartment looked much as you'd expect
it to:  food-encrusted pots and dishes in the sink;  Tv dinner
boxes everywhere(some unopened);  various hardcore mags scattered
about.
     "This one's nice," said Alison, leafing through 'Ass Master'.
"Do you think these girls like their job?"
     The place, somehow, didn't smell as badly as it should have,
and we went out all summer and senior year too.

     "You remember the Gresge's race," asked Alison, "That really
spooked me on him for a while."

     The car he would later paint 'Screw the Police' on was a huge
old Chevelle.  He'd dropped a 454 into it, as well as a
supercharger.  He had a number of nicknames for it, ranging from
'The Problem Solver' to 'The Woman-Tamer'.  But, since no woman
would go near the car, I guess the first moniker was more valid.
     One night, he comes in and says to us all, "This kid, some
townie"(Ralph himself was a 'townie', but still liked to make fun
of them.  He came up with this list of requirements for being a
'townie': a.  a bizarre, ungodly limp
          b.  an unintelligible speech impediment
          c.  a tongue down a sibling's throat
          d.  one chromosome too many)

"...some townie wants me to race him for a thousand bucks.  Any of
you in?"
     "Yeah, sure, Ralph.  Whatever you say."
     "What if you win and he doesn't pay?"  But Ralph was already
checking the action on his .45.
     "Oh, he'll pay all right."
     "What if you lose?"
     "What if, what *if*?!  What if Joseph Conrad had been born an
American?  What if Susanna Hoffs were fatter than Belinda Carlysle?
What if Bertrand Russel played small forward for the--"
     "All right, all right, you've made your point."
     "I did?"
     "Have a good 'race', Ralphie.  Don't be out too late."      So
we went back to watching tv or whatever it was we were doing.  An
hour or so later, in swaggers the Gresge, counting out a big wad of
twenties.
     "Nine-sixty, nine-eighty, a thousand."
     "Holy shit, Ralph.  You won.  It was real."
     "Oh yeah.  Let's go.  Drinks are on me.  *BARANGUS*!!"
And they all left, except me and Alison, who had gotten quite
spooked, especially when the Gresge had quite theatrically, clicked
clip of dum-dums into his gun.
     "He wasn't really going to shoot him, was he?"
     "Don't know that he didn't."
     So later, Alison made me ask the Gresge to pull out the clip
and show her that no shots had been fired.
     "But that's a pain in the ass. You gotta take out the--"
     "If you don't, I won't be able to sleep."
     So he did.

     "Yeah," I said.  "I remember that race."
     "Well, I was just up there, and he's put on some weight, he
finished his degree..."
     "CS?"
     "English."
     "My God."
     "And now he's playing in a band."
     "But he had no musical ability at all..."
     "That's not true.  Remember the rap?"

     One day we were listening to the messages on our machine.
There were way more than usual and most of them were just people
who'd called and hung up right away.
     "Check the message." someone said.
     So we played it back, and it turned out the Gresge had
replaced our normal message with this:

"No one am here this house be vacant
Got ten lil boys locked up in the basement.
Wake up in the morning and you know what.     WHAT??!
Feel like slammin' some hairy butt.
If Jon was here I wouldn't have to wait,
I'd just go up to his room and pump some weight.
If I see that guy named Jim,
I got one big surprise fo' him.
Like I tell my friend Ron Barrett,
Happiness be a big red carrot.
Sometimes I just be feelin' randy,
I think about my good friend Andy.
Can't help lookin' in his direction
But I hear he got a yeast infection.   Huh, huh huh HUH.
When I see Rich lookin' mean
Gonna grease him to a glossy sheen.
So leave your message at the tone
Cause my hands too full to answer the phone."

     That stayed on for months.

     "Okay, you're right," I said to Alison.  "What else?"
     "Well, it's weird.  Every time I see him I feel really warm
towards him.  And he loooves *me*.  I think I'm the only girl he
knows with...with...Oh, *you* know--"
     "With 46 chromosomes?"

--"Well he, wore a hat.  And he, had a job
--And he, brought home the bacon so that, no one knew..."



                           RAT
     The Gresge and I were sitting downstairs.  He was cleaning his
guns, I was reading one of his Loompanics books.  He had quite a
collection:
     'Credit!'
     'The Poor Man's James Bond'
     'How to Change Your Identity'
     and others.
     The one I was reading was, 'I Hate You:  The Angry Man's Guide
to Revenge', by George Hayduke.
     In our living room, next to the tv, was something very odd.
Our artist housemate had made a five foot tall salt shaker out of
cardboard, painted it blue, and hung it upside down, with a small
pile of salt underneath.  He'd originally made it for one of his
openings and had tried to explain the effect it was supposed to
have on the people in the gallery:
     "Yeah, it will 'dislocate' and 'make new' the whole
experience.  It's the 'found object from hell'.  I like the frame
it provides for the whole show."
     "But it's a fucking salt shaker."
     "Philistines."
     After the show it hung next to the tv, and we took great
delight in shooting pennies at it.  Sometimes the Gresge would fire
one of his pellet guns at it, while taking cover behind the couch
and chairs, diving and rolling, yelling "DIE SHAKER DIE!"
     It never did.
     There was a pile of garbage next to the couch.  We both saw a
rat crawl out from it and slowly make its way towards the pile of
salt.  Gresge, without saying a word, picks up a rifle.
     "No, Ralph, don't."
     Pumps it.
     "Think about it, Ralph."
     Slaps on the night scope, aims...
     *BLAMMO*!
     Rat everywhere.
     Bullet ricochets off the fireplace, caroms against the
radiator and blows out the bulb in the lamp right next to me.  I
couldn't move for about three hours.
     Gresge laughs, takes his guns upstairs, and reminds that one
girl that it was her turn to clean the living room.
     Smoothie.

------------
                          BAD BATH

     All I was looking for was a nice bubble bath.  It had been an
especially long day, and I was looking to treat myself.  So first
I added some Calgon, and then I broke out the Captain Gumdrop
Insta-bubble powder.  Soon there were bubbles as high as my waist,
and the tub was hardly even half filled with water.  I undressed,
tested the deliciously hot water with a toe, and slipped in.
Ahhhhh, that's nice.  I carved a little hovel out of the bubbles in
my end of the tub and lay there, enjoying a soak like I hadn't had
in years.
     The power went out.
     I wasn't afraid.  I scooped up some bubbles and blew them into
the air.  It was pitch black in the bathroom.  The phone rang, and
I didn't even answer it.  All I could hear was the pleasing, drone-
like sizzle of the bubbles.  I was in heaven.
     The power came back on.  I kept my eyes closed, luxuriating,
drinking in the steamy air.  Something landed on my nose.  It
itched.  I laughed and rubbed it away--a stray bubble.
     I opened my eyes.
     Instead of bubbles there were now mounds and mounds of
swarming black ants.
     Why did I have to go and open my eyes?

                        POOR MAYNARD
     Maynard awoke to see the Mona Lisa leaning against the north
wall of his bedroom.  He hit the snooze on his alarm and went back
to sleep.  Fifteen minutes later he rolled out of bed and walked
over to examine the painting.  He also turned on the tv to catch
the morning news.
    "...Louvre spokesmen have confirmed that the Mona Lisa, the
single most valuable--"  He quickly turned it off, dressed, and
headed into work.
     "Hey Maynard," said Maggie, the plump, cheery receptionist,
"didja hear?  The Mona Lisa was stolen.  Maynard?  Maynard??  You
okay?  You don't look so good."
     "I--I--tell Kaplan I went home sick, okay?"
     "Sure, Mayn.  Whatever."
     On the street, "Extra, Extra.  Mona Lisa disappears from
Louvre.  Police baffled."
     Maynard, shaken, double-bolted and chained the door to his
West Philadelphia apartment.  He went straight to his bedroom and
propped a chair up under the doorknob.  He walked over and examined
the painting, talking to himself.
     "Yup, it's the real deal all right.  I'm rich.  I'm rich!  No,
don't be an idiot.  You can't fence the Mona Lisa.  You've got to
turn it in.  I'm a hero.  I'm a hero!  No, damn.  I'll be arrested,
laughed at."  Maynard turned on a lamp on a nighttable.  He looked
at it fondly, recalling the teasing game from his childhood:
 "It's the strain of the lamp pushes Maynard to the brink...to the
brink...TO THE BRINK!"  Maynard smiled at the private memory then
gave more thought to the painting.  He lifted it.  "Damn, it's
heavy.  Must be the frame."  He looked at the figure in the
painting for a full five minutes, then kissed her, full on the
lips.  He masturbated, then found some nails and hung the painting
on his wall.  "There," he said.  "You're mine now.  Mine forever."
He lay down and dozed off.  When he awakened he found Botticelli's
Venus leaning up where the Mona Lisa had leaned only hours earlier.

He turned on the tv.
     "--Special Report.  Peter Jennings in Italy.  I'm here at the
ufizzi where, like the Mona Lisa yesterday, Botticelli's Venus has
mysteriously--"
     Maynard walked to his kitchen, made himself a bowl of Cocoa
Puffs, ate it quickly, then returned to his room.  He studied the
Venus.  "A little plump," he said to himself, "kinda reminds me of
Maggie."  He kissed the Venus right below her navel and hung her on
the south wall, opposite the Mona Lisa.  His head was spinning and
he was sweating profusely.  "My God my God my God.  I understand.
I am fat.  I am ugly.  I have no friends.  You have given me the
best friends I could ever hope for.  Thank you.  Thank you."
A voice boomed through his room.  "Do not disappoint me, Maynard.
Do NOT!"
     "I won't, I won't.  But more.  Give me more.  Please.  More.
All my life I've been so lonely.  Please...more..."  He passed out.

When he awoke, Michelangelo's David and the Venus de Milo were
beside his bed.
     "Oh thank you thank you."  He kissed and fondled both statues,
giggling girlishly as his hand smoothed over their naughty bits.
   He called in to work.  "Maggie?"
     "Yes, Maynard?"
     "Remember how I always joked about you and me going out
together one night?"
     "Are you all right, Maynard?"
     "Yes.  Yes.  I'm fine.  Fine.  How about tonight?"
     So it was a date.  They went to Ralph's, in South Philly.
 "Get whatever you like, Mags.  Sky's the limit."
     They started with some gnocchi verdi, then some pasta and
calamari, and numerous bottles of Chianti.  They left, arm in arm,
stuffed and high.
     "Are we going back to your place, Mayn?"  She leaned her head
on his ample shoulder as they walked.
     "Taxi!  Yup"
     "What's gotten into you, Mayn?  You've never been this bold.
I like it.  A lot."
     "I've got a big surprise for you, Mags," he said as he let her
into the taxi.  As the taxi pulled onto South Street and headed
west, Maynard pulled Maggie to him and kissed her until she thought
she was Vivian Leigh.
     "Oh Maynard.  Oh Maynard.  Oh."
     He paid the taxi driver and they walked into his grubby
apartment.  "Close your eyes, Mag.  Here comes your surprise..."
   He led her into his bedroom and closed the door.
     The room was pitch black.
     "Open your eyes, Mag."
     She did and he flipped up the light switch.
     All the paintings and statues were gone.
     There on the ceiling, over Maynard's bed, was plastered Edward
Munch's The Scream.
     Poor Maynard.

                          CHANGES
     Things are changing for Maynard.  Little things.  When he is
at a convenience store and the bill comes to some amount like 76
cents, Maynard is aware that there is something he *should* do,
something that will enable him to get back a quarter, but he has no
idea *what*.  He fumbles through his red squeezey changepurse and
gives the boy three extra pennies with his dollar, hoping that he
might luck into the correct amount.  The boy gives him back two of
his own pennies and then the big shiny quarter that is his prize.
Maynard is left with only a vague awareness that he has done
something incorrectly.  A faint residue of thought, that is all.
Little things.  If the light is on in the bathroom, Maynard will
turn it off as he enters, pee, then turn it on as he leaves.  Never
once during the day does he catch his mistake and reverse the
cycle.  Again that faint residue.  Little things.  Mis-matched
socks, unkept appointments, dizziness.  Maynard is changing and he
doesn't even know it.


         HIS ORANGE JUICE IS WAY PAST THE EXPIRATION DATE
     First, things start to blend together for him.  He is in the
video store, staring intently at a videotape with a picture of a
tornado on the cover.
     "Look at her," he says,  "She is so beautiful."
     "The video is 'The Story of Creation':  music videos by bands
on the Creation label--Primal Scream, for example.
     "Maynard," says the owner's daughter, who works in the store
after school, "that's a tornado, not a woman."
     "No, look."  He shows the box to her.  She is a fresh-faced
red-haired girl, a student at the High School for the Arts.  She is
a painter.
     "I'm looking, Mayn."
     He traces his finger along the inner edge of the tornado and
the countryside shown on the box.  "There's the face, the legs, the
thighs, the oh my."
     "That's the roof of a house!"  She holds the box at arm's
length.  "But you know, Maynard, if I let my eyes blur I kinda
sorta kinda see a picture formi--but no--It's clearly a tornado."
    "Nope.  Don't see it."
     "Get some rest, Maynard."
     As Maynard exits the store, an enormous Burmese women enters.
The two of them won't fit in the doorway at the same time, and
Maynard turns sideways and tries to suck in his ample gut.  As the
woman does the same, Maynard suddenly extends both arms as if about
to tango with some non-corporeal being.  His movements are
preternaturally lithe and graceful for such a fat man and he never
alters his gaze from her face.  The fat Burmese woman screams.
 "I'm sorry, Ma'am," he says.  "For some reason, as you were
turning sideways just now, I got the distinct impression that we
were about to dance."
     "I am a married woman."
     "Iman is a harried cumin."
     She screams again.
     "I'm sorry.  I thought we were about to take turns."
     Later, Maynard gets bits of trivia wrong.  Out with a woman
onw night he says to her, "Did you know that at the time of
Woodstock it was the single largest city in New York state?  Makes
you think, eh?"
     "Yo're an idiot, aren't you?"
     "More people are killed each year in accidents on twisty rides
at amusement parks than die of prostate cancer."
     "You're an ass, Maynard."


                             ODD
     That's odd, thought Maynard as he walked by a trash can on the
street, Why would *anyone* throw away a perfectly good egg timer?
    He reached into the trash can and pulled out the timer, still
in its original plastic bag, the cardboard at the top still intact,
still stapled closed.  He saw the price tag.  $4.98.  This is a
good find, a very good find.
     Maynard pocketed the timer and headed for home, anxious to try
it out.  Along the way he thought of all the things he'd be able to
do with his new find.
     Why, I can see how long I can hold my breath.  I can make
perfect eggs!  Every time!!  Somehow Maynard had forgotten the fact
that his doctor had put him on a strict no-cholesterol diet--and
that eggs were strictly verboten.
     Soft-boiled, fried, over-easy!!  Maynard was on top of the
world.  He wanted to jump and click his heels.  He tried, but only
ended up frightening a mother and her young daughter.  He patted
his hand on his pocket.  He felt the reassuring bulge.  This is it!

This my ticket out!!  This is a good day!!!
     He eyed everyone with suspicion as he walked along.  They all
seemed to *know*.  All eyes were on his right front pants pocket.
He circled down the street as he walked, and entered his apartment
building like a sleek jungle cat.
     "You ok, Maynard?" said the doorman.
     "Nothing.  It's nothing," said Maynard, feeling the gaze of
the doorman burning his trousers.
     "What?"
     "Oh, *this*?  It's a--it's--I bought it.  I went to the store
and I bought it."
     "You been working too hard, Mayn.  You oughtta get more sleep.

    Maynard slipped into the elevator and the doors began to close.

A woman's hand darted in at the last moment.
     Damn!  Damn, thought Maynard, pounding on the 'Close Door'
button.  The door opened and closed on the woman's hand.  She was
holding a bag of groceries in her other arm.
     "Could you please--"
     Maynard saw that in her bag was an egg timer.  He relaxed and
opened the door for her.  She got in.  Maynard noticed that she was
quite sexy, wearing a tight, sleeveless dress and sandals with
heels.  Her toenails were painted red and she smelled faintly of
Opium.
     "Doors are funny," said Maynard."
     "You only had to press this button," she said.
     "Nice egg timer."
     "Excuse me?"
     "That egg timer.  In your grocery bag.  It's a nice one.  I
have one just like it."
     "Oh."
     She got out at the twelfth floor and Maynard continued up to
the twentieth.  He kept circling all the way down the hall to his
apartment.  He entered, double-bolted his door, pulled the chain,
and unplugged his phone.  He took the timer out of his trouser
pocket and started to open the bag.  It wouldn't open.  The bag
wouldn't rip, the cardboard wouldn't tear, and the single staple
that held it all together seemed indestructible.  Maynard struggled
with it for over an hour before finally, sweaty and exhausted, he
sat in his comfy chair and drifted off to sleep.
     His nap was fitful and disturbed.  In his dream, legions of
women were lining up to sleep with "the three-minute wonder" as he
had become known.  They each set the timer over his bed and then
slipped in beside him.  They all left, bitter and unsatisfied.
 Maynard awoke to the sound of his phone.  I unplugged that, he
thought.  He answered it.  It was the woman from the elevator.
Maynard had an olfactory memory and thought about her Opium.
"Hi, I was wondering...this egg timer I bought--it doesn't seem to
be working right.  Could I--could you--maybe--I have to make a
bunch of eggs for a dinner party and I was hoping--could I use
yours?"
     "Um, sure," said Maynard.  "Works great.  You want me to bring
it down?"
     "I could come up.  It's no bother."
     Maynard started to sweat again and wiped his forehead on a
sleeve.  "No, really, the place is a mess.  I'm heading out soon
anyway--"
     "Right away?"  She sounded disappointed.  "I was kinda
hoping...well, that's okay.  Bring it by 1224 soon as you head out.

Thanks a lot.  You're a doll."
     Maynard tried to open it with his teeth.  No luck.  He dug up
a staple remover and tried that.  Still nothing.  What the hey??!!
He started up a band saw and tried that.  Didn't even dent it.  All
right, think.  It can still work even *in* the bag.  Maynard turned
the timer to three minutes and let go.  It didn't move.  Shit.  He
tried turning it back to zero.  Wouldn't budge.  Fuck.
     Then he got to thinking.  *Eggs*??  For a *dinner party*??
Something didn't wash.  What the hell was her angle, anyhow??  And
why couldn't she just use a watch??!!  Why did it *have* to be an
egg timer?!!  Jut what the *fuck* was going on??!!  Unaccustomed to
multi-layered thought, Maynard turned on the tv.  On the Home
Shopping Network they were selling egg timers.  He only got one
other channel.  He switched to it.  Mork and Mindy.
     Fuck!
     They found Maynard days later slumped in his chair, blood
leaking from an ear, the egg timer at his feet, on zero, not
ticking but mocking.


                       MAYNARD'S PERFECT FEET
     Maynard awoke one morning to discover that the middle toe on
each of his feet had been replaced by a woman's toe.  Because he
was so fat it was difficult for him to get a good look at the toes
and could only see them by angling a pocket mirror.  They
looked very odd there, small and pink and sandwiched in by his own
bloated, hairy ones.  These new ones were delicate and sensitive
and perfect.  Maynard felt very giddy.
     He really wanted to touch them and was able to only by
crossing his legs(which took some doing) and reaching around his
belly.  He rolled the toe on his left foot between his right thumb
and forefinger.  It was smooth and had a tiny, neatly-trimmed nail
on it.  He tickled the underside of it, whispering "Gitchy-goo,
gitchy-gitchy-goo."  He then showered, dressed, gave himself a few
spritzes of Drakkar Noir and went to work.
     "Hi Maynard," said Molly, the plump, friendly receptionist.
"Hey, what's gotten into *you*?"
     "What do you mean?" said Maynard, running a hand through his
hair.
     "I don't know."  She smiled.  Nice teeth, thought Maynard.
"But *some*thing's different."
     There *did* seem to be a new spring in the fat man's step, and
he glided into his office, Molly watching him as he sailed.  He
took of his shoes and socks.  Now, all of his toes except the big
ones had been replaced by female toes.  He curled them into the
carpet.
     "Ooooh," he purred to himself, "that is *so* nice."  He had an
erection, which he adjusted for comfort and continued rubbing his
toes on the carpet.  Soon, he climaxed.  He cleaned himself up and
asked Molly to lunch.
     "Wow," she said.  "Sure."
     Maynard got little done for the next few hours.  Just before
lunchtime, he removed his shoes and socks again.  All of his toes
were now female.  He rubbed one foot over top of the other and got
another erection.  "This little piggy went to market, this little
piggy stayed home, this little piggy--"
     "Ready, Mayn?" Molly asked over the intercom.
     "Be right there," he said.
     He took her downtown to Sfuzzi, the trendy, upscale center
city eatery with the funny name.  Actually, Maynard knew it was
pronounced 'F(long u)tsee', but he called it 'footsie'.
     They both got gnocchi verdi and Maynard reached under the
table and removed a shoe and sock.
     "Maynard," pleaded Molly, sotto voice, "there are people
here."  His foot was making good progress and was already past her
knee.
     "Your foot is so soft, Maynard."  She started to look down.
   He caught her chin in his hand and said, "No.  Don't look."
 "It feels nice," she said, her gnocchi getting cold.
     They made love in Maynard's office, she on the edge of his
desk, he curling and uncurling his toes as he moved.
     Later, after Molly had moved in with Maynard and had
discovered his secret, Maynard could be heard saying, "Hold my
foot.  Hold my foot."  They would spend entire days in bed, Molly
sucking on Maynard's perfect toes while he drifted lazily from one
orgasm to the next.  By this time both of his feet were perfect
women's size sevens and Maynard had gotten a new job working for an
Italian designer of women's shoes.  He soon became famous in
fashion circles and was in heavy demand to try on shoes for
designers all over the world.  In addition to his enormous hourly
rates for modelling, Maynard was also given free pairs of shoes
wherever he went.  In just over a year he had way more than Imelda
and bought himself an extravagant house on Philadelphia's Main
Line.  In every room was deep pile carpet and Maynard seemed to ice
skate over it until the pleasure became excruciating and he would
have to rest.
     He lost weight and would walk around the house naked.
"I feel barefoot all over!" he exclaimed to Molly one day while she
was painting his toenails.
     "I love you, Maynard."
     When his calves started to change she left him.

                    BIG DARK EYES

     I'd just gotten my driver's license and was working with my
friend James as a waiter in that retirement place.  One of the
waitresses there, Lisa, a sophomore from a rival high school, was
always talking to James about me.  She had jet-black hair and dark
wild eyes.
     She asked him, "Well, if I asked him out, what would he
expect?"
     "Sex," said James.
     That night, she asked me to go out.  I told her I'd pick her
up Friday night.  Pulled up in the very cool Plymouth Fury, that
shade of green that is found nowhere in nature.  She was in jeans
and a sweatshirt.  Fine.
     Somehow, James and I both had given her the impression that I
was much more experienced than I was.  So, despite the fact that I
was the one with the still-intact maidenhead, she was the nervous,
jumpy one.  This relaxed me greatly.
     "Wanna see a movie?"
     "Sure."
     "Lincoln Drive-In?"  The Lincoln Drive-in showed triple-x
movies all night.  It was right there, across from the Trevose
Hilton, on Route 1.  When businessman booked rooms at the Hilton,
they always asked for a room on the East side, for the clear view
of the movies.  Once, my dad was receiving an award there and my
brother and I discovered that on each floor, just as you leave the
elevators, the management of the hotel had set up two comfy chairs
and a big bowl of popcorn.  We were not so bold to just sit there
and watch for very long so we moved from floor to floor like clever
spies, filling our pockets with popcorn and riding the elevators
whenever the action slowed.  That was the first time either of us'd
seen anything like that and I was anxious to get home and put these
images to some use.
     "Lincoln Drive-in?" I repeated.
     "Sure."
     I sat up straight and tried to look eighteen.  I didn't, but
my money was real.  It was early but already crowded.  We spotted
kids sneaking out of trunks, couples already moving in cars, people
openly smoking grass.  We parked in a fairly unpopulated area of
the lot, hung the speaker on the window and started to watch.  Our
mouths were open; neither said a word.  At some point I ended up in
the passenger seat, she behind the wheel.  At the first
intermission I said, "It's kinda cold over here.  Join me?"
She slipped under my arm, leaned back into me.
     The next line I still take shit for.
     "Um, Lisa.  My lips are still cold."
     Yeah, yeah, I know.  So we made out for a bit before my hand
wandered under her sweatshirt.  Her skin was warm and smooth and
she didn't resist.  I unbuttoned and unzipped her jeans and moved
my hand inside.  She gasped as I fumbled around, and I realized
that in her eyes I could do no wrong.  An image flashed in my head
of her telling her friends, later, "No, Rich *knows*.  The guy is
supposed to yank on it really hard.  Oh yeah.  Everyone knows
*that*."
     Soon, her pants and shoes and panties were off and I was
fondling her on my lap as we watched a couple of girls pretending
up on the screen.
     I reached across her stomach and opened the glove.  "Uh, I
have a rubber."
     "You, you wanna do it?"
     "No.  No, no, no.  I was just saying...."
     She laughed and took the condom from me and put it back into
the glove.
     "It's ok."
     Ok?  Clearly this was some code I was only beginning to catch
on to.  Ok?  Fine then.  She straddled me there and started moving,
her breasts doing a Moe--Curly Howard thing against my face.  I
remember that a pubic hair or a thread from my jeans or something
must have gotten caught inside, because I know something really
hurt a lot, and I winced as much as she gasped.  Lisa appeared to
have more energy than most track teams her age, because she kept
going through the entire third movie and the first one again.
Finally, I reached down, pulled out the offending thread and was
able to concentrate and climax.  When she got up, it all rushed out
of her and she collapsed on the seat next to me and said,  "Sex is
soooo relaxing."
     I was thinking more along the lines of smelly and painful, but
if you say so...
     "That was aMAzing."  Who's to argue?  We smoked a joint and
she got dressed and I took her home.
     As I pulled onto the long, dark, newly-metaphorical country
road to her house she turned on the radio.  She pressed her lips
against my shoulder, put her hand between my legs and, as the
commercial ended and we heard the first few chord changes to that
Bob Seeger song, I knew then that Goddess was my dj and I would
have to become a writer.  That I already was.


                        I GALAVANT

     My name is Rich and I am a galavanter.
     I know that this is what I am.  I am not ashamed.  I feel no
guilt, no regret.
     I know I galavant.  My mom says I galavant.  My dad says I
galavant.  If I'm not at home I can surely be found "out
galavanting about".

     Whence evil?

     My dad never galavanted.  My mom never galavanted.  My
grandparents certainly had better things to do than to be out
galavanting about.  My brother is a galavanter but then again he'd
jump off a bridge if I asked him to.  I know this for a fact.  I
asked him once.  He's okay now.

     Can I return these Ginsu knives?  This Didi 7?  Note to
myself:  Never buy anything except in stores.

     Question:  Can a galavanter ever amount to anything?
     Answer:  Yes.  A row of pins.
     Besides that?

     No ideas but in things.
     To define is to limit.
     Come up and see me sometime.

     To fully appreciate the word "galavant", we must first agree
on its spelling.  The most common spelling for the word is
"gallivant".  I don't like this spelling.  At all.  That 'i'
between the 'gall' and the 'vant' I find especially loathsome.  I
eschew that spelling, declare it anathema.  Galavanting is not
about "gall", it's about...
     If you just said 'gals' you're wrong.
     And if you said 'vants' you are also wrong.  And very silly.
    Galavanting is about freedom if it is about anything.  The lure
of the road, the thrill of the chase.  It's about mobility, elbow-
room, about the exigency of time, and that song by
Steppenwolf. It's about Roger Miller and about that Andrew Marvel
poem 'To His Coy Mistress'.

     'But at my back I always hear
      Time's Winged chariot hurrying near.'

     It's about time.

     To go.
     You know where I'll be.


                         LEMON AND LIME
He's clean, too clean.  Today's the day and everybody knows it. His
friends, family, and even close strangers have filled this house,
all wanting top touch this boy as he comes down the stairs.  Look
at him, just *look* at him.  Sunday best(better!), shiny black
shoes, million dollar smile, skin scrubbed to the bone, he hasn't
missed a trick.  But it's *his* moment, so quiet down.
     Tantalizing, that's the only way to describe him.
*Tantalizing*.  Look at him take those stairs--one step at a time.
And who, Lord, who else is at the top.--who else could it be giving
him the very first pat on the back?  Of course it is--it's Uncle
Lou.  My he loved him he really did.  Give a cigar to Uncle Lou.
So *what* if the doctors told him to give them up?  This is a
special day.  Give him one of his Havana Specials.  Christ, Uncle
Lou, they gave this one its very own plane.  Honest.  A whole plane
just for this one cigar.  It sat in the third seat, first class,
window.  This cigar's a well-heeled traveller.
     But God, will you look at him?!  Makes your eyes want to weep.

Makes them well up and sting and makes you want to cry out and
share in the laughter and the joy.  We're so happy for you, Davie,
so happy.  Where are his parents?  There, over there.  Can we move
in on them?  A few words, perhaps?  Your mother and I, just the
best.  Wishing you, just the best.  They're speechless, folks, and
understandably.  Oh, look at that Cousin Amy, pinching him like the
day he was born.  But look at him take it!  That's a *man* coming
down those  stairs, nothing but.  Grandma, Grandma, where are you
going?  She's running, down the stairs to the bottom.  She's got
something up her sleeve, boys, I'll lay you odds on that one.  What
*is* she doing?  She's stopping.  Wait.  Wait a minute Is she doing
what I think she's doing, by God, she is!  She's belting it out,
arms stretched to the gods in the sky:
     *Hello Dolly, well Hello Dolly, it's so nice to have you back
where you belong...*
     Leave it to Grandma to pick up on that.  It was so *there*,
how *was* it we could have missed it?  Well, I'll tell you.  That
boy, will you look at him?  Will you just look?  That boy?
Why *is* he so clean?  Why does he move *so* well?  Is this his
wedding day?  Can't be.  Where's the blushing bride?  Then where is
he headed, dressed like he is?  He can't be headed just anywhere,
that's for sure.  No, he's taking those steps like he's got himself
a purpose.  He's got the world in the palm of his mighty hand,
folded into the crease of his new wool slacks, tucked into the
lapel of his Pierre Cardin jacket:  he's got it all over him, and
it's fixing to burst.
     Damn!  Damn if he isn't taking those stairs two at a time.  My
God, ladies and gentleman, we here at the house are simply
flabbergasted.  If only you were here, folks, if only you were
here.  This is indeed a momentous turn of events.  Two steps for
the price of one.  Damn if he isn't doing it like he's been doing
it all his life.  Can anyone be cooler?  Slick.  My God, turn off
the cool juice, give us mortals a chance.
     Lemon and lime, gods and godzillas, orangutangs and
marshmallow pies, that boy is something else.  Something else
altogether.  Not entirely of this Earth.  What *is* he going to do
for an encore?  No ritual bow, no tip of the head could possibly
suffice.  This is grandeur, folks, today's royalty.  Head and
shoulders, people this boy towers.
     How about the door, the crowd murmurs, how will he handle the
door?  The breathing has slowed; the crowd is hushed.  My God.  My
God my God my God.  Like a *champ*, friends, a true *champ*.  Well
I for one, am speechless.  We've been bowled right over.  Knocked
off our seats and teleported to Pluto, we've got no hope of return.

Can you feel it?  Can you feel what's happening here?  There's a
change going down.  These people are being changed.  They're being
*changed* for the rest of their *lives*.  That boy has walked out
the door and he ain't *comin'* back.  This is a day and a half,
folks, and I won't be surprised to find a few casualties back
behind their stairs.
     Lord, I need to rest.  Find me some water and a cushiony
chair.  Put my feet up, slip a pillow 'neath my head.  Sing me a
lullaby and hush out the light.  Child, this has certainly been:
one helluva day.


                 UNDER THE TABLE MANNERS
First of all, how does one distinguish between a casual touch that
doesn't mean anything, and one with intent?

Well, in my experience, watch out if the person across from you
very obviously takes off his or her shoe and then slams it on the
table in front of you.  Then, if he or she spins it and stops it
when it points at you, extends a forefinger straight at your
throat, and then(with a foot) makes a beeline for your crotch, that
would probably be a casual touch.  However, if the person is
nonchalantly tapping a foot against what they think is part of the
table but is, actually, your shin, well...in many cultures that is
considered a proposal of marriage and it's high time you excused
yourself so the mensfolk can discuss dowry young lady.

Second, if one is in doubt as to WHO it is doing that, is there any
polite or non-obtrusive way to find out?

Nothing could be simpler.  Just disappear under the table with your
food and smear some on every shoe.  But make sure you memorize what
food you put where.  Here's a tip:  try to establish some link
between the person's name and the food you smear on them.  For
example, if the person is named 'Gnocchi', smear sauerbraten, or
veal marsala.  If the person is named 'Calamari', smear pudding.
Then, after the round of footsie, all you need to do is excuse
yourself to the ladies' room, remove your stockings, and then taste
the food bits that have become attached.

Thirdly, what is the proper response if one wishes to give
encouragement, or if one wishes to NOT give encouragement?

To give encouragement:  Hook your one ankle over the side of the
table and your other behind your neck, roll your eyes upward and
scream, "DO ME BABY, DO ME DO ME DO ME!  *BARANGUS*!
WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I MAKE MY OWN GRAVEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

To NOT give: Stab offending foot with a salad spoon.

And lastly, when is it appropriate, or a good idea, to initiate
proceedings oneself?

There are two schools of thought on this subject, both of
which I will ignore.  The best time to initiate contact is on a
heavy flow day.  But like I need to tell *you* that, you cutie.  It
is only inappropriate--no, not even then.  One subtle way of
initiating contact is to slide your instep behind the john's ankle,
raise his foot up to your hands, remove the trick's sock, slide
your panties aside and say to the waiter or waitress, "Yo!  Check
*this* shit out!"

There are other matters of ettiquette that I am also not
conversant with, but because of some recent incidents, I
find this particular one rather pressing at the moment, so to speak

Oh you are such a *button*!  I just wanna EAT YOU RIGHT UP!   Why
yes, they *are* Gold Toe socks I'm wearing.

                        BANK JOB
     It *was* Pete, which was unfortunate.  Scratch unfortunate--
awful.  Pete and his Jimmy Durante voice.  Well, the best-laid
plans, right?  What, you're wondering, what plan?  His bank job--
Christ, I still can't believe it was him, it was like some big
cartoon.  That's how my mom described it, a big cartoon.  What was
my mom doing describing it, right?  Well, my dad's editor of our
local paper so...that's right, that's right, you got it:  front
page, eyewitness account--the works.  Why my dad couldn't ask *me*,
I don't know, that's neither here nor there.  The point is, it
shook me up a little and I'm stuck, I'm really stuck.  It was Pete,
it was him, I'm sure it was him.  Oh, I'm gonna be hated for this.
    Here's how it happens:  Mom and I go to the shopping center.
She has to make a deposit at the bank, I wanna hit the bookstore.
But, oh and this is what did it, my mom says Can't you keep me
company for once, home from school not two days and already
galavanting off to blah blah blah blah blah.  The point being, I go
to the bank.  My mom fills out whatever it is she's supposed to
fill out and gets in line.  I'm checking out this teller; she's
ignoring me.  Usual day at the bank, right?  Wrong.
     In come five guys with guns and Halloween masks.  I'm thinking
Why didn't I go to the bookstore Why?  They've planned this well.
Only one of them does the talking.  The problem, the fatal flaw:
it's the one with the unmistakable Durante scowl.  He's screaming,
"Everybody on your stomachs, now!" and I'm hearing "A-rinka-dinka-
doo."  Some old guy clutches his chest.  We find out later he had
a heart attack.  Didn't die thank God but still.  The leader speaks
again.  "Hurry," he yells, "hurry."  I hear, "Good night Mrs.
Calabash..."--you know the rest.  The voice is Pete's.  No one but.

No one else possible.  Only the great Schnoz himself, but come
on...
     The three of them jump over the counter and throw all the
loose cash into these bags.  As I've said, they've planned it well.

They get out in under five minutes with over a hundred grand.
Social Security day.  Five Halloween pranksters making it big.
 Only this whole time, I'm thinking Hey, I know who it is.  And I
do.  It's Pete, boyhood chum and semi-degenerate.  Kid with a mean
streak but on-third of the Three Musketeers nonetheless.  Kid with
a mom I was in love with for about three years.  Really in love.
In love like I've never been since.  In love like I have to lie to
my girlfriend when I tell her she's the only one.  In love like I
can't even pick up the phone and turn him in and cash in on tenn
cool g's.
     That's my problem, maybe you've guessed it.  I don't really
give a damn about Pete; I guess I never did.  He was kind of a
bully, mean to my little brother, mean to a lot of people.  But I
loved his mom like I can't even explain.

                      GIVE US A PECK

     "Boys don't make passes at girls who wear glasses," sing-sang
Ruth's mother, on their way to get Ruth fitted for contacts.
"Oh, Nancy," said Ruth, who didn't call her mother Mom.      Once
there, Nancy flipped through a book telling all about tinted
contacts, the kind Brooke Shields was advertising.        "My Ruth
doesn't need any of these," Nancy seemed to announce to the whole
store.  "She has the loveliest powder-blue eyes..."      "Cut it
out," said Ruth.  "You're really entarrassing knee."      "Don't be
such a gloomy Gus all the time.  You'll see.  These contacts will
give you a whole new perspective on things...
boys...dating...you'll see."
     "I really don't think it's nigh eyes that are the prollun
here, Nance."
     She was not lying.  Ruth had, through some DNA foul-up, been
born without lips.  Her face ended in a sort of raggedy-half-
finished fringe just above and below her upper and lower gum lines.

This gave her a constantly ferocious, menacing affect.  Ruth's
parents were by no means wealthy but a local philanthropist had
taken pity on the poor girl and offered to pay whatever it took for
plastic surgery.  No luck--Ruth and her mother had travelled across
the country from one plastic surgeon to another, all of whom said
nearly the same thing:  "Lips are the trickiest area for us to work
with.  She would look worse, honest.  I'd do something if I thought
it would help.  I'm sorry, there's nothing I can do."  One doctor
had said something to the effect of, "Look on the bright side; it
could be worse."  When Ruth's mother had asked how, he pulled out
a book ofburn victims and showed her.
     She was sickened by the photos, but the doctor seemed almost
romantic as he spoke of them.  "These are the glory jobs, the ones
that can make or break a career.  Skin grafts, facial
reconstruction...You know what *I* have to look forward to next
week?  Eight nosejobs and twelve tattoo removals.  Do you--"  He
was becoming angry and red-faced and Nancy took her crying
daughter's hand and left.
     Ruth tilted the mirror up until she could only see her nose,
a perfect aquiline, and her eyes, the large powder-blues of which
her mother was so proud.  The woman returned with the contacts,
Ruth was shown how to use and care for then, and she and her mother
left.
     On the way to the car, they heard a bunch of workers gathered
around a manhole whistle at them.  "That's for you, you know," said
Nancy to her daughter.  She let her daughter walk a few steps ahead
of her then she caught back up.  "You do have a perfect little
figure--"
     "That's enuss," said Ruth, who had the kind of body that no
matter what she wore it seemed as if she were naked.  Often, she
felt as if her 'perfect little body' were part of a perfect cruel
joke that was being played on her.  Other times she felt as if God
had tried to make the perfect woman, but just ran out of material
at the last moment.  This thought consoled her somewhat, and
allowed her to go through life with an attitude of bemused
acceptance.
     "Nance," said Ruth, at dinner, "Do you know what the most
romantic thing any guy said to me last semester was?"
     Ruth's mom looked at her husband then answered, "What?"
"Turn around and grab your desk," said Ruth.  "Turn around."  Ruth
started to cry.  Flecks of food were visible in between her teeth.
Her father looked away.
     "Your father and I," said Nancy, "have come up with something
that might appeal to you."  It seemed to Ruth that her mother's
full, sensuous lips mocked her daughter as she spoke.  "Your father
and I have added up just how much you would have ended up spending
on lipstick, makeup, everything over the course of a lifetime..."
    Ruth wore no makeup, ever, seeing no point in it.  The fact
that she had perfect skin didn't hurt either.
     She listened to her mother some more.  "...and we worked out
that it would all add up to something like, oh, how much was it,
hon, some outrageous amount, I can't believe that I spend that much
money just on--"
     "It's quite a bit of money," said Ruth's father.
     "Yes.  And as an early graduation gift, we're going to--oh--
well here."  Ruth's mom pulled out a card with a check in it and
handed it to her daughter, kissing her on the forehead.
     Her father said, "Buy a car, take a vacation, anything you
want."  He was hoping she would choose the latter.
     Ruth excused herself and went up to her room.
     The boxes that arrived the next week were all full of
lipstick.


                          HOW IT WENT
     First, you wore Beta Bullets from Buster Brown.  Or, for
basketball, high top Pro-Keds.  Then, sometime around fifth grade
or so they invented running shoes. They were blue and the tread
went up in the front and back and you cried and cried until you got
a pair.  You could run faster in these, jump higher, and would mark
on the wall how high you could jump with each new pair of shoes,
ignoring the fact that you were also getting taller too.  That
would only weaken your argument when you tried to explain to your
parents that with these shoes it would be a cinch to get one of
those Presidential Physical Fitness patches; ignoring yet another
pertinent fact--that you could, even on your best day, only do
three pull-ups then, and you needed seven for the patch.
     Everything changed in seventh grade.  The rich kid across the
street had Adidas Roms, and you knew you had to get a pair.  Roms
were the coolest.  Even cooler than the more expensive Superstars.
And equally cool as those Nike leather Cortez's or maroon Puma
Clydes, which looked great but turned all your socks purple.
Adidas Roms, Levi's with the red tag, and you were good to go,
until you saw a kid with those green-striped Adidas Countrys, and
another with Stan Smiths.
     As for jeans, Lees were about as good as Levis and way better
than Wranglers, with that ugly zigzag stripe.
     And it went like that, until the girls started wearing
designer jeans and your whole world changed.



                    AT THE BOOKSTORE
I'm at my favorite bookstore here in town(Border's, 17th & Walnut,
Philadelphia).  I get bored with the magazines so I head upstairs,
not really looking for anything in particular, just browsing,
idling, wasting a hazy afternoon.  I wander through the
lesbian/gay/s&m section, notice there is nothing new by Pat
Califia, think about my dyke friend Beth, and tool down to fiction.
The thing that always makes me smile in the fiction section is that
all the spines to the Anais Nin books are broken, and the pages are
worn and well-thumbed.  The Henry Miller 'Tropics' books too.  And
some Erica Jong and D.H. Lawrence.
     I hear a tiny "eep" from behind me.  I turn around.  There are
two girls on the wooden bench between the racks of books.  They
couldn't be more than thirteen and they are next to each other, but
facing away.  Each has a windbreaker across her lap, one leg tucked
under her, and hand hidden to the elbow under the windbreaker.
One is reading 'Delta of Venus', the other, 'Little Birds'.
     This is interesting.
     I pull a book at random off the rack next to me and sit down
and pretend to be reading it.  The book is 'A Scanner Darkly' by
Philip Dick, and it's such a cool book I almost forget about the
girls.
     Almost.
     These girls are really going at it.  Ever so often, one will
pull her hand out from under her windbreaker and hold it to her
friend's lips.  The other one will kiss and suck the offered
fingers, which will soon again disappear.
     The "eep's" come louder and quicker from the two girls and I
mentally will them to quiet down or the show'll be interrupted.  It
doesn't work.
     "Eep, eep"
     "Yip, yip."
     Finally, it stops.  I adjust my hard-on so it's vertical and
head over to the girls.
     "How come you don't just use the bathroom?" I ask.
     The girl with 'Delta of Venus' looks at me like I just asked
the stupidest question on Earth and says, "You can't get caught in
*there*..."
     Silly me.
     The girls ask me if I know of any other "good" books.  I look
around to make sure no one is watching and introduce them to the
lesbian/gay/s&m section.
     "Wow," says the one, "there's so *many*."  They ask me which
ones are best.
     I point out 'Macho Sluts' and the 'Serious Pleasure' series
published by the Sheba Collective.  They each grab one and the next
thing I know the girls are swishing down the stairs, holding hands.
     I head back to where they were sitting and pick up the copy
of 'Delta of Venus' the one girl was using.  I find the page she
was on.  The story was 'Mathilde'.  I slide 'A Scanner Darkly' into
an inappropriate place on the shelf and head into the bathroom, my
thumb holding the book open to the beginning of 'Mathilde'.

     Just after I come I realize: I'll never die of natural causes.


                          PANTY-HOSED

     It all started when I was walking past University City
Nautilus.  I looked in the window and immediately saw her.  She was
on that machine that works the pecs and shoulders.  Strands of her
light brown hair were matted to her forehead and there was a semi-
circle of sweat on her t-shirt just below her chin.  I really liked
the way she attacked the machine, her face an exquisite contortion
of pain with each rep.
     The next time I saw her was at a fraternity party.  I'd been
on my way home, heard the noise and wandered in.  She was wearing
a red skirt that came to mid-thigh, black stockings(pantyhose, it
would turn out), a black boobie top, and a red, light cotton
jacket.  What was most striking about her was that she was wearing
four-inch heels, which took her to, I guessed, an even six feet.
This was a woman who wanted to be noticed.  I saw two fratboys walk
over to her, ask her something, she shook her head "No"--not even
a smile, and they walked away.  She was staring intently at a girl
on the dance floor--a tiny, blonde girl who wore Esprit everything
and--it was clear--never left a party alone.  I grabbed an empty
cup and walked over next to her.
     "Pathetic, huh?" I said.
     "She's such a little nothing," she said.
     "Must be the hair."
     "Uggy blondes.  Hate em.  All of em."
     I looked at her hair.  "But--"
     She said, pointedly, "I'm a brunette.  I dye it darker in the
summer, but it's brunette."
     A song came on that I didn't know, but the lead singer's voice
reminded me of an old song. "Remember Romeo Void," I asked.
"Waitaminut--Oh, yeah yeah yeah.  They had that song--"      The
expression on her face told me that she remembered.      She put
her cup down on a chair and looked at me.  We both said "Wanna
split" at the same time but luckily I said "Jinx" first.  This was
especially lucky since neither of us knew the other's name.
"You drive here?"
     "No," I only live a few blocks away."
     I punched her on her upper arm.  It was like punching a brick,
but she humored me by rubbing it with her other hand.
"So do I."  I asked her if her place was empty.  No, her housemate
would be there what about mine?  Well I didn't know my brother and
his girlfriend's plans, but I had a feeling they'd said something
to me about going downtown somewhere, to some kind of poetry
reading at a coffeehouse somewhere.  I remember them saying that
"all the ubiquitous people" were going to be there.
     So we went to my place.
     "I'm Rich, by the way," pleased that I hadn't said
Bee-Tee-DoubleYou.
     "Pam."
     Turned out she helped run a DP department at a hospital here
in town.
     "Know any good blonde jokes," she asked as we walked.
     I tried to think of one that she would like, given what little
I knew about her.
     "Data Processing, eh?  Mainframes?"
     She nodded.  "Mostly, yeah.  We're starting to switch over to
PC's."
     "So how can you tell when a blonde's been at your computer?"
I said.  She shook her head.
     "There's white-out all over the screen."
     She had a great laugh:  deep, throaty, bottomless.
     "Tell me another," she said.
     "And how do you know that another blonde was there after her?"
    "Got me."
     "There's writing on the white out."  That was my last joke
along those lines, but I liked her laugh so much and the
anticipation of holding her was so strong it was easy to improvise.

    "And how do you know that a blonde with a degree was there
next?"
     "Well?"
     "All the spelling mistakes have been corrected.  And how do
you know that the first blonde came back?"
     "Wait, all right, I don't know.  How?"
     "Because now there are smiley faces in all the o's."
     We walked in.  My place was indeed empty.
     "Wow, that tv is *huge*," she said, as everyone does.  "What's
that down below it?"  She threw her jacket on the couch.  Wow.
What arms.  She had definition in her arms that I envied.
"That's a sub-woofer with a dedicated pre-amp," I said, hoping
she'd buy it.  I grabbed a couple of Kronenborg's from the fridge
and clicked on VH-1, hoping for something slow.  Never have I been
so happy to see Mariah Carey.  "Vision of Love. was on VH-1.
"You know," I said, before she could finish,  "I never got to dance
with you at that party."  I put a hand on her hip and drew her
towards me.  I felt her palms on my back.  Her hair smelled really
good.  Wow, was she ever in shape.
     It was nice, slow-dancing with someone my own height.  The
body parts lined up differently than they normally did, and the
newness was pleasant and intriguing.  The Mariah Carey song was
over.  I was hoping that they would follow it up right away with
another slow one, but it was that damned Rosie O'Donnel woman and
her comedy show.  Fuck.  It was ironic because right after that
stupid opening they cut to a commercial that said "Vh-1.  Videos.
That's all we are.  That's all we do."  Yeah, right.  I switched to
BET and was rewarded with some Marvin Gaye.  Well all right.
   "Where do you work out," I whispered, as I felt our hips begin
to grind.
     "University City Nautilus," she said, and added, "So you
noticed?"
     I let out a laugh and said, "Well if it weren't for these
things right here--"  Before I could finish she'd taken my hand
from her breast and began moving it to various places on her body.
    "Oh yeah?  What about *this*," she said.  And *these*, back
here?"
     "I never said you were hard *everywhere*."
     She placed a hand right over my crotch.  "Well *you* seem to
be."
     We sat on the couch, she near the armrest, I next to her.  She
took a swig of beer and set the bottle down on the coffeetable on
a "Soldier of Fortune" magazine.(Where the hell did *that* come
from??!).  I reached my left hand behind her and rested it on a
bare shoulder.  I put my right on her right knee.  We kissed.  Her
lips were very soft, buttery.  And she had a way with a kiss.  Her
tongue became an expert explorer, searching throughout my mouth.
I especially liked how she ran her tongue between my teeth and
lips.  I got the feeling she was looking for something specific, as
if she had forgotten something.  I couldn't help it--this struck me
as funny, and I tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle a giggle.
"What," she asked, taken aback.
    I moved my hand up her thigh and kissed her again.  This time
I was the one doing the search.  My right hand became fascinated
with the fabric of her stockings.
    I moved along, kissing along her jawline to her ear, then down
her neck as she pulled her hair back to expose more of it.
    "Like em," she asked, meaning her stockings.
    "They don't feel like regular stockings."
    "They're not stockings," she said, flipping up the front of her
skirt to show me they were pantyhose and that she wore nothing
underneath.  The photons must have travelled straight from her fur,
pressed up against the inside of her pantyhose, to my groin.
"They're supposed to never run.  We'll see.  Hey, what's this," she
asked, reaching back with her hand behind her head and running it
along the top of the couch.  She had found a hinged metal ring that
had been attached to the top of the couch.
     "There's one down here, too," I said, directing her attention
to the base of the couch where there were two more, "and there's
one back here too."  I was kissing her shoulder, but I could tell
her interest had shifted to these metal rings.  Luther Vandross was
singing in the next video.
     "What are they for?" she asked, and then answered herself. "To
tie me up?"
     I alternately pinched and smoothed out a nipple and whispered
into her ear "Wanna try some things?"  Her breathing changed
markedly and she whispered, "Say that again and I will."
     "Wanna try some things?" I repeated, and saw in her eyes that
she was trying to take in every detail of my face, of the room,
every detail of what would surely become:  a lasting memory.
"Ok," she said, quietly.
     I kissed her on her forehead, got up and said, "Hold on" and
fished around in a closet.
     "What are you *doing*," she said.  "Come back here."  She was
used to getting her way.  I filed the tone of voice she'd just used
away in my head.  I fished around, making sure she heard metal
clanging.  Finally I found a couple pair of handcuffs.  They
weren't the good kind but they worked.  I also found a plastic bag
and dumped in some alligator clips and a set of jumper cables(just
for show, of course).  An image flashed through my head just then
of my standing there with a horrible grin on, dangling the
handcuffs from a finger.  I felt a little nauseated at how
ridiculous I would look like that so I just walked back and dropped
them on the couch next to her, after grabbing a pair of thick wool
socks(the grey kind with orange at the top) from a drawer in my
room.
    She picked a set of the handcuffs up and immediately started
examining them. They made clicking noises as she tightened them in
on themselves. "Where does the key go oh I see it's a button--" She
opened and closed one pair a few times and said, "This is *kinky*."
I went into the kitchen and made a couple of stiff kamikazes, glad
that I kept triple-sec around.  I put the kamis on the coffeetable.
She slammed hers down and then drank mine, saying, "I don't even
know you.  What if you're a psycho?"
     "Would a psycho waste the last of his triple-sec?"
     "I don't know--I don't know if I could relax enough--I've
never been-- "
     "Handcuffed?"
     "*Anything* like this.  I'm usually in control.  But I know
what thinking about it is doing to me."  She took my hand and
placed it between her legs.  She was soaked.
     She finished her beer.  Another replaced it.  She fished a
roach out of a Whitman's Sampler box in her purse and lit it.  I
pulled an alligator clip out of the bag and she squeezed it around
the end of the roach, which disappeared in a drag.
     "These things are very versatile," I said, opening and closing
one of the clips.  "As you'll see.
     She was playing with one, squeezing it open and closed and
testing its tension on the skin between her thumb and forefinger.
"W-where do these go?" she asked as I answered her question by
pinching a nipple through her top.  She gasped.
    "Well, just go slow with the weird stuff.  Or else..." She
flexed a bicep.  It was impressive.  I got the message and resumed
kissing her.  Her top found its way off and I kissed my way down to
her nipples, which were already stiff and raisiny.  I ran my teeth
over one and she arched her back. She laughed and shivered slightly
as I rubbed the edge of a beer bottle over one.  When my right hand
finally palmed her bush and was moving the whole mass of softness
as a unit around and around she threw back her right arm in a
dramatic gesture and said, "All right, you got me.  Slap the cuffs
on.  I did it.  I confess."  I unrolled the socks and had her put
a hand in each.  Then I handcuffed each of her hands to one of the
rings on the couch, just tight enough that she would be always
aware of their presence.  I pulled her down on the couch until her
right arm was straight back behind her.  As she was moved down her
skirt rode up until it was completely around her waist.
     Her right leg was draped over the top of the couch and her
toes were running around the ring back there and her left leg was
bent and I could see her big toe inside the ring down there.  Her
legs were long and very strong.
    I bent my head down into the crotch of her black pantyhose and
drank in the heady, wild-oniony musk.  I began nibbling on her
outer pussy lips right through the fabric.  I also began massaging
from the very bottom of her pussy down to the perineum and back
again in slow, firm circles.  The fabric was slick beneath my
fingers.  I bunched up the fabric as best I could to create some
slack and stabbed my tongue into the very bottom then drew it up
hard across her pubic bone and dragged it along her clit.  She
gasped.  I experimented with the material seeing how far I could
push in a finger.  Every time I did this the material would tighten
over her clit and labia.  "Oh," she said.  "That's unbearable.
Don't stop." I slipped under her right leg, reached into a drawer
in the table behind her and fished around for some rope.  It was
gone, but there *was* a roll of duct tape.  Better than nothing.
I moved back and started wrapping her right ankle around the
pantyhose.  She started to say something but then stopped.  She
seemed to shiver at the tearing noise the tape made as it unrolled.
Soon(I was going as fast as I *could*.  Duct tape's a real pain to
thread through; it keeps sticking to itself.) both legs were well-
restrained.  I moved up between her legs, kissed her stomach, her
breasts, and her neck.  "So how does it feel to be, to be so--" I
said.
     "Helpless?  Vulnerable?  It's weird.  It's kind of scary,
which is weird for me, I mean, I walk home from parties in West
Philly at 3 in the morning in a miniskirt and I'm not scared, but
this is different.  I feel like, like when you're at a horror movie
and you cover your eyes with your hand only you peek through a
couple of fingers, because you wanna see what's going to happen
next, you know?"
     I kissed her and squeezed open one of the alligator clips and
closed the toothy jaws around a nipple.  I did the same with the
other.  She winced very slightly.  "Hurt?"
     "Just a little, but--"  I squeezed them both down a bit harder
and she bit her lower lip.
     "Because if you they don't do it for you," I said, pulling the
jumper cables out of the bag, there's always..."
     She inhaled sharply and said, "Oh God, there's no way--"
I squeezed open the black end and let it close around the duct tape
on her leg.  I didn't let it close completely, just enough.   After
a few seconds I squeezed it open and removed it from her leg.  Her
eyes were wide, following the large jawed end of the jumper cable.
I rubbed the metal over her ass, her snatch, her abdomen, and
dragged it across her until it touched the underside of a breast.
She shuddered.  I rubbed the end across an aureole.  "I'll save
these," I said.  "In case we need em." I dropped the cables to the
floor.
     "These hurt?" I said.  She nodded.  "Well they *look* great."
     I opened up a couple buttons on the fly of my jeans, reached
in and pulled out my cock, which had been hard since that Marvin
Gaye song and had only gotten harder.  I removed a Trojan from the
drawer behind her head, tore it open and unrolled it on my cock,
smoothing it out.  I could see her face soften a bit as I did this.
I guess this finally convinced her I wasn't a psycho.  I took my
now-sheathed cock and rubbed it over her outer lips and clit,
shuddering at the excruciating pleasure the fabric produced.  The
feeling reminded of a Truth or Dare game we had played here not
long ago. I aimed the head of my cock at her opening and pushed in
a couple inches before the material resisted and tightened over her
clit, causing her to gasp and tighten her hands(through the socks)
around the rings.  I repeated this a few times, liking the odd way
the material resisted and pushed me back out like a trampoline.
But this wasn't going to do.  I leaned down, my head on her stomach
and searched with my right hand under the couch.  Found it.  It was
a stiletto my brother had bought off a street guy on a recent trip
into New York. She looked at it as I held it.  "W-what's that?"
There was fear in her eyes.
    I knew that if I opened it right then she would scream so I
said "I'll buy you a new pair of pantyhose, okay?" and started
pulling out the fabric at her crotch so she would know what I had
in mind.  "It's okay," she said.  "I have plenty."
     I liked that.  Even though she knew it was coming she gasped
as I pressed the sliding button upward on the stiletto and the
blade appeared with a "SHOOOP" noise.  For the first time in a long
time, I imagined, she had just felt that first adrenaline rush of
fear.  I pulled out the material of the hose and began cutting--
around her shins--just above the duct tape. Her fear now blended
with confusion, but her breathing was still quick and shallow.
When I had cut a full circle around both calves, I began sliding
the pantyhose up her legs, to create the slack I was looking for.
As I tested the amount of slack there was by sliding the material
into her pussy with a finger, she said "Oh" in a tone that
signalled she saw what I wanted to do.  Soon there was enough.  I
pushed the button the other way on the stiletto.  The blade
disappeared and I set it down on the table.  I lowered myself onto
her.  She gasped at penetration.  As did I. Even through the
condom, the texture of the material that surrounded it could be
clearly felt.  As I sank in fully I saw that when my pubic bone hit
hers, the material would stretch taut over her clit and would also
give me that trampoline-y feeling and start me moving back out.  I
held her head in my hands as we fell into that most ancient of
rhythms.  She bit her lip.  "Your legs want to close, but they
can't," I said into her ear.  She nodded. I could tell that the
alligator clips hurt her more than she had let on.  "Concentrate,"
I said.  "Concentrate on what's going on between your legs.  Focus
on that."  She closed her eyes.  Before too long she said, "Oh God.
I can't stand it.  I'm gonna come.  I'm gonna scream--"
     I concentrated on the pleasure below, trying to will my own
orgasm to match hers.
     I placed a forefinger over her anus and felt it involuntarily
contract.  My own orgasm began as she shut her eyes tightly and
started to come, then just as suddenly opened them.  Her mouth
opened and she hit a note that even my old pal Mariah would envy.
We were both completely spent, sweaty, satisfied. I pulled out,
reached up and popped open the handcuffs. I also cut her legs free
with the stiletto.
     "Come here," she said, pulling the socks off her hands and
opening her arms to me.  I rested my head on her chest and she
pulled her legs around me and we drifted off like that.
    We were awakened in a few hours by the giggles of my brother
and his girlfriend.


            LOST IN TV HELL. EPISODE 1

I'm trying to call Phoenix, misdial and get Fiji.  So I ask the guy
for instant credit.  He says you can't get instant credit.  I said
I always did when I had  AT&T.  He says, "You're not dealing with
AT&T.

Well I am now.

I am now.

I am now.

So this branch manager guy calls me up from one of these other
long-distance  carriers, right?  And he says he heard about my
problems with the Phoenix-Fiji  thing and that he was very very
sorry and would I please reconsider using his  company?  He says
he'll cut the basic rate in half, give me free pay-cable for  a
month and even set up a date for me with his nubile young daughter.
I say,  "Wow, AT&T never gave me so much." He says, "You're not. .
.

So a little while later the guy from AT&T calls and says he heard
about my  "defection from the flock."  He says his kid's gotta eat
too and then he starts bawling into the phone--blubbering just like
a woman.  So as much as I want to  nail this one guy's daughter, I
say sure, hook me back up.

No sooner does the AT&T guy hang up but the other guy calls me back
and this  time he's crying.  And he brings his daughter to the
phone and she's crying  too.  And then he faxes me this naked
picture of her, but like, the good parts  are all covered up.  And
she's something real sweet, too, something like I  ain't seen in a
while.  I say I'm still not sure and so I hear him start  fiddling
with something and his daughter starts screaming, "No daddy, don't
kneel on the tatami mats, don't part your robe, don't. . ."   I
hear the guy  say, "You be my second, daughter; fetch the katana."
"No daddy, please daddy. . ." So now this guy is going to commit
ritual suicide, and like it's gonna be on my head or something,
when the call waiting goes off. So I yank the phone out  of the
wall, and fashion it into a noose when there's a knock at the door
. . .

            LOST IN TV HELL. EPISODE 2

So this guy calls from MCI, right?  Now by this time I'm getting
pretty damned  tired of these calls.  I found out earlier today
that my kid broke her arm on  the playground yesterday, but they
couldn't get through because I was on the  phone all day with AT&T,
SPRINT, and MCI.  So I went down there and asked her  principal why
they couldn't tell the operator to cut through, since it was an
emergency, and she just gave me one of her best 'Don't you think we
tried that, don't you think this has ever happened before, you're
the negligent parent not me not me, my kid's at Harvard--so just
fuck you' looks and told me  that the phone people had blocked out
the emergency lines, so the operator couldn't cut through.   All
right, I think, time to play hard ball.

So I say to the guy from MCI, can he put it in writing?  He calls
my bluff and  says, sure, that his lawyers are already drawing up
the paperwork.  All right, I say, does MCI come with 16-bit Turbo
Grafix, the best animation, and a wide  selection of the hottest
games out there?   The guy's breathing changed and I knew I had
him. "No," he said, "I don't think it does.  But Nintendo doesn't
even do that."
"Well," I said.  "Genesis does."

Genesis does.

Genesis does.

So now I have no long-distance service at all and that suits me
just fine.  I mean, c'mon, two alimony checks a month, and my
second wife's lawyer makes me pay child support, which I consider
pretty shrewd, seeing as the broken-arm little playground slut
lives with me, eats my food, and threatens me with child-
molestation charges if I step out of line. The other day she shows
me these anatomically-correct dolls she has, just like the ones the
police lady will use when she asks the kid where daddy touched her.
And then she goes, "Right here, where Billy touched me, and right
here, where everyone touched me, and right  here. . ." "All right,
all right, you can have the bike.  Christ.  Get me a beer already,
willya?"


                   LOST IN TV HELL. EPISODE 3

     So I'm trying to call overseas and I think I've dialed
correctly but--     "Womonanakapeasie."
     So I ask the operator for an international number.  And she
says she can't give me an international number, that she 'ain't no
nukular physicist.'"        I say, "Well, AT&T. . ."
     She says, "Fuck you" and hangs up.

     And then I'm walking down the street with that asswipe from
the  Encyclopedia Brittanica commercial and he says, "There you are
in there stark  white offices, and in front of you are those stark
white flakes."
     "Dandruff?  But I don't have--"
     "No, moron.  Cocaine.  Nose candy.  Bolivian marching powder."
     We both look at each other, point our fingers, smile and say
"Bingo."

     So I'm at lunch with some guy who says, "Well, didn't you ever
think you  had been somewhere before?"
     "Well sure, I mean, that's not uncomm--"
     Then he puts his hand on my knee, looks me in my eye and asks,
"In another life?"
     "All right, back off."
     The waiter smiles and says, "I-I see you two are okay.  I'll
come back in  a minute."
     The guy gives my thigh a squeeze.  "In a parallel dimension?"
     For some reason I am now fascinated.
     "Read about how little mole-men dug a tunnel from Afghanistan
through to  Jacksonville, Florida, just to prove it could be done."
    "Did that happen?"
     The man takes my head in his hands and kisses me on my
forehead.  "Read  the book.  Read about how Benito Mussolini once
beat Omar Sharif at a bridge tournament while partnered with a
meatball stromboli."
     "Did that--"
     I felt my shirt being pulled out of my pants.  Read the--"

     "Read about how Sir Clifford Cameron-Sweeney and his youthful
bride Marie  spent their wedding night in King Tut's tomb and how
she left him the next  morning for making her do weird stuff with
a rotting corpse."
     "Did that happen?"
     "No."
     "Read about the last voyage of Cleopatra's barge, and how it
ended up in  the hands of a Volvo dealer in White Plains."
     "Is that true?"
     "What are you--a moron?!

     So I'm stuck in an elevator with that kid from the
Encyclopedia Brittanica commercial.  And I don't know what the hell
he ate for lunch, but it must have  been bad and it must have been
refried.
     So the kid says, "Hey, did I tell you I did an entire report
for school by copying verbatim the Brittanica article on human
excrement?"
     "Did you get an A?" I ask, feigning interest in hopes of
tasting a bit of  his tight, white--
     "Got a F."
     "How come?"
     "Wrong class.  I forgot we don't do reports in calc."
     "Stoned, huh?"
     "Out of my fucking mind.  But I did real good on my next one."
    "English class, huh?"
     "Wow, you must be like psychic."
     I put my hand on the ruffian's shoulder, kinda digging his
tousled blond  mane.  "Well don't you think we all are?  For
example, a mother in California  puts her hand on a hot stove.  At
the exact same instant, her long-lost twin  sister takes a dump in
her pants during the original Friday the Thirteenth  movie."
"That doesn't prove anything.  Which part?"
     "The scene where she opens up the fridge and find the
decapitated head."
     "You fucking bullshitter.  That was part two."
     "So it was.  Well listen kid, do you like girls?"
     "I think I've made that abundantly clear."
     "Huh?"
     "Sorry.  That's my best line.  Got to say it."
     "Hey kid, do you know what flatulent means?"
     "Sure.  Remember that excrement report I did--"
     "All right.  Hey kid, you know there are some things a woman
will never  know about a man."
     The kid pressed the button for his floor over and over.
"Goddammed  elevator."
     "Men have a violence in them that is completely foreign to a
woman.  Hey  kid, do you have anything leather?"
     "Just a skirt."
     "Well put it on."


               LOST IN TV HELL. EPISODE 4

     So I'm in The Foot Locker trying to buy a pair of Reebok's
when one of the shoes in front of me starts to ring.  So I think,
"Oh fuck.  Why didn't I go to Herman's, why. . ." and I look around
for the hidden camera, cleverly disguised as a telescope set up at
the entrance to the store.  "Hey," I think to myself,  because
thinking to anyone else is a big waste of time, "Hey, don't be
nervous. Show no fear and they'll go away.  They just want
attention."  But no, my  stupid fucking brother has to pick the
phone up and put it to his ear and flash some stupid smile.  Then
he says, "Hello. Puma."
     The rocket scientist at the other end says, "Sorry, I must
have the wrong sneaker."  And he marveled at his witticism.
My brother stands up, looks at the 'telescope', and grabs his nuts,
redeeming himself, but just barely.
     Then some dopey chick comes along, takes the phone from my
brother and  says, "Wow, now I know just what to get my boyfriend,
like ohmigod, it's perfect. . ."
     Shot her.

     So the kid from the Encyclopedia Brittanica commercial shows
up and this older guy in a raincoat comes over, tousles his hair,
and says, "Well Timmy, we've got a lot of talking to do.  Let's
step into this back room over here.  We walked over and put our
ears to the door when all of a sudden the kid  blurts out, "Wow, I
always wondered where my prostate was."
     The older guy took time out from his work, looked up at Timmy,
sighed, and said, "Yes Timmy, you can laugh about it now, but when
you're my age that juicy little prostate of yours will enlarge,
necessitating some painful surgery, and  then you'll cry when you
pee, speaking of which, how good's your aim?"
     "All right, but I don't have to go right now."
     The old man let out this weird laugh.  "You will," he said,
pressing on  the boy's bladder with his left palm while pulling out
a warm Meister Brau from under his raincoat with his right.
Well, we had all heard enough, so we backed away from the door.  My
brother and I just wanted to leave, which wasn't easy, since the
police had  cordoned off the area and were detaining witnesses to
the shooting of the  bimbette on the sneaker-phone.  So I threw
open the door to the back room which caused Timmy to lose his aim
and hit the old dude right in the eye with a noxious yellow stream.
The man howled, the police drew their weapons, and we escaped in
the confusion.

     So we're at this bar when this moron with a bag full of
videotapes comes over and joins us.  So my brother gives me one of
these 'Christ, not another kiddie-porn broker' looks.  But it's
worse, much worse.  The guy asks, "Who's  the greatest fighter of
all time?"
     I just look into my glass, trying not to think about all that
time I spent in Haiti.
     The guy starts in again.  "C'mon, you look like sports fans.
Who's the greatest fighter of all time?"
     I say, "Barkeep, another double vodka martini.  Very dry."
  "Same as before, he asks, smiling, "no olive, no vermouth?
  "Bingo."
     So my brother feels like fucking with this guy.  He says,
seeing quite clearly the Muhammed Ali videotape in the guy's bag,
"Well, pound for pound, there's really no question."
     The guy with the tapes nods.
     "I mean the moves, the feet, the street fighting ability.  I'm
talking raw, savage punching power."
     The guy says, "Yeah, well. . ."
     "Well what, Roberto Duran.  No doubt about it."
     I down the vodka and say, "But Marciano did retire
undefeated."
     "Only because he never fought Duran."
     "Bullshit.  Apples and oranges.  You can't compare a pencil-
necked middleweight to an undefeated heavyweight."
     "I can do what the fuck I want."
     "Besides, I mean, Duran, Hearns, Leonard.  Everyone knows
they're all  pussies who would rather slap-fight each other for
seven figures in East Bumfuck, New Jersey than do one round with
Michael Spinks, the only real fighter in the division."
     "Michael Spinks?  Are you nuts?"
     So the guy with the tapes says, "Excuse me, aren't you two
forgetting  someone?"
     My brother and I look at each other and I say, "Of course, I
mean pound for pound, no one could touch Bruce Lee.
     My brother says, "Bullshit.  Jean Claude Van Damme is not only
bigger and  better-looking, but he can outact Bruce Lee any day of
the week."
     "Don't believe the hype, dude.  I guarantee you that Bruce
Lee, Worf and George the Animal Steele could take any three guys
you name any day of the  week."
     "First of all, Steven Segal could take Bruce Lee simply
because he spent time in Japan.  He knows the Oriental mind.  And
Worf.  Don't give me no fucking Worf.  Tasha Yar could kick Worf's
Klingon butt with one of her long, tanned, supple legs tied behind
her back."
     We saw the videotape guy drawing his forefinger across his
throat to  signal "Cut" to his cameraman and we knew we had him.
But he kept on.  "Haven't you guys ever heard of Muhammed Ali?"
  My brother's face went blank and he replied, "Who?"
     I shook my head.  "Sorry, doesn't ring a bell.  Hey, got any
wacky bloopers?  Like when L.T. ended Theisman's career, or that
punch Rudy  Tomjonavich took that nearly killed him."
     I ordered a fifth of grain and my brother said, "Don't we
already have that tape, you know, 'Career-ending bloops, bleeps,
foul-ups, smash-ups, and blunders.'  You know, the one with all
that footage from the Munich Olympics."
     I started in on the grain and said, "Isn't that the one with
that close-up of Olga--"
     My brother nodded.
     "--Korbut's snatch when she missed a front walkover on the
beam."
     The video guy asked, "Hey, where'd you get this tape anyway?"
    I asked the bartender if he had anything stronger than 200
proof.  He handed me a Baretta, which I promptly unloaded into the
video guy.

     Man, I hate Mondays.


                LOST IN GAME SHOW HELL

     So I'm in L.A. and I finally get to be a contestant on Wheel
of Fortune,  which is pretty much a dream come true for me.  I show
up for the taping and  look over my opponents.  I'm in the coveted
middle position and on my left is some big fat North Carolina white
trash woman with a huge mole on her chin.  I am strangely drawn to
her.  She is so white trash that when we're in the  courtesy room
before the show starts I see her reach into her purse and pull  out
a roll of toilet paper to blow her snotty nose on because she's too
goddammed cheap to buy one of those individual packs of Kleenex. If
she beats me I know I will kill her.
     So at this point I figure I've got it made.  Then I look to my
right.  It's Hannibal Lecter.  Jesus Christ.  What the hell is this
shit?  So I turn to him and say "Hannah," because I know that
really pisses him off, "why aren't you on Jeopardy or something
like that?"  He gives me this look like I'm some kind of turd and
says, "On Jeopardy, assuming I answer every question correctly, get
every Daily Double and bet everything each time, the most I can
win is $214,400, chump change in my opinion.  Whereas on Wheel. .
."
     "Okay, okay, you've made your point."
     "Besides, Vanna White is to die for."
     Now Lecter was talking my language.  I was thinking this might
work out after all.
     The game started and the first puzzle was 'Internal organs'.
Shit.  '------ -- ----------' was the puzzle.  Before he even spun,
Lecter started  nodding his head in that annoying way of someone
who thinks he knows everything and how could you not see it, it's
so obvious.  So he spun carefully and picked the letter 'S', of
which there were three in the puzzle.  He spun a few more  times,
never missing a letter, and finally guessed, "Islets of
Langerhans."   Which of course was right.  He looked at me, smiled
and said, "Not as vitamin-rich as the liver, but if prepared
properly, perhaps in a light cream sauce. . ."  He looked
distracted so I turned to the mole-woman and she spit some brownish
goop onto the wheel which Vanna promptly toweled off.  Now it was
my turn.  I'd show old Lecter.  The puzzle was 'Now-discredited
psychiatric  theories.'  Shit.  '------'s ------ -- ----- ----- ---
--------'.  I spun the  wheel and hit a bankrupt.  Great.  The
mole-woman spun, landed on the $1000 and nodding her head in that
same excruciating Lecter fashion said 'Z'.  Sajak did a double-take
and said, "Was that T?"
     "No.  Z."
     "P it is then."
     "No.  Z"
     "You're certain?"
     "Z."
     So now it was Lecter's spin.  He said, "I'd like to solve the
puzzle,  Pat."
     "But you have no money."
     "I know that.  It's a defensive move.  May I solve the
puzzle?"
     "Of course."
     "Piaget's theory of early child development."
     I just said, "How?"  and Lecter looked at me, tapped his
forefinger to his temple a few times, arched his eyebrows and said,
"I know how Merv thinks."
     So I didn't win shit.
     But next week I'm on Jeopardy and I'm feeling pretty good
about my chances.  Until I see that Lecter is back.  And he looks
hungry.  I say, "But I thought you couldn't make--"
     He shook his head and said, "I'm not doing it for me.  I'm
here for you."  He smiled and I had to change my shorts.
     We started the first round and Lecter chose first.  The
category was  'Cthulu' (pronounced K'thooloo).  And Lecter went for
the $500 space.  The answer was 'When Cthulu calls, he calls..."
   "Collect," replied Lecter.
     "Who the hell is Cthulu?" I said, under my breath.
     Dweeb next to me says, "Old Norse god of ultimate evil.
Pretty obscure."
     "Eat shit, suckwad," was the cleverest thing I could think of.
     Then Alex said, "Pick again."
     But Lecter said, "Now Alex, you remember our agreement?  Quid
pro quo.  I am going to ask you a question.  And do not lie to me,
for I shall know if you're lying."
     "It's a little unusual, but ask away, Dr."
     "You are 43 years old and live with you're mother, correct?"
     "I'm Canadian," said Alex, defensive.
     "Yes or no."
     "Yes."
     "I, of course, ate my mother.  Then, I killed her."  Lecter
laughed at some private memory.  Your mother--"
     "My mother--"
     "is a whore whose legs go up faster than Jean Claude Van
Damme's."  Lecter laughed again, marvelling at his own witticism.
     The game continued, until Final Jeopardy.  Lecter had some
$107,000.  I had $200, which during a commercial Lecter told me he
let me win so there would be a Final Jeopardy, giving him a chance
to double his cash.  So the category  came up, and it was "RichH's
early adolescence."  Finally, I felt good.  I looked over at
Lecter, who was writing down his question already,  before they
even showed us the answer.  I, despite my confidence in the
category, found myself looking over his shoulder to see what Lecter
had written down.  They showed us the answer and I wrote down my
question.  Alex asked what I had written and my question was, "What
are pierced labia?"  "Correct," said Alex, and my score doubled to
$400.  Then we looked at  Lecter's.  He also had 'Pierced labia'.
     "I'm sorry, Dr., but you didn't phrase it in the form of a
question, which means if you wagered more than $106,600, RichH is
our new Jeopardy  champion.  He had bet it all, so I won.        Oh
boy, $400!  Now I could do anything.  I was standing on top of the
world.  I was somebody.  I had finally arrived.
     Then Lecter ate my spleen.


                  A DELICATE HINT OF TV HELL

     "Hi, Bob Vila here.  Did you know that if you can peel a hard-
boiled egg you can perform tricky testicular cancer surgery.  If
you can cut a small notch in a length of wire, drill two small
holes in the cranium, and work it back and forth like dental floss,
you can perform brain surgery the way they did in the 'operating
theater' of the mid-1700's.  And if you can ladle soup you can
remove so-called deep tumors from previously inaccessible
structures deep within the brain.  And if you can peel the silvery
part from a Wrigley's gum wrapper and keep it in one piece, that
means you're a virgin.  It's true. And did you know--"
     "All right, Bob, come along with us.  How many times have we
told you not to open a can of paint thinner in an unventilated
room?  You should know better than that, Bob, you're a professional
for chrissakes."      "If you can get a hard-to-reach boogie out of
your nose with just your  forefinger, you could be a proc--"
"Bob, Bob, Bob--"


             LOST IN TV HELL. EPISODE 5

     So I'm bored and looking for someone to mess with.  My brother
says,  "Let's call that Citibank VISA 800 number."  This seems
pretty juvenile so we do it.  I tell them I was on vacation in West
Philly and my wallet was stolen.  The girl says, "I'm sorry, but
you don't have an account with us."
     I say, "I know I don't, but the girl on the commercial was so
helpful and  cheery that I just--"
     She says, "You watch too much T.V., asswipe," and hangs up.
     So I've got this little scam going where I float one bad check
after  another and then back them up with this stolen VISA card I
found in West  Philly.  Only, the card is almost maxed out because
I've already bounced about  five grand worth of these checks.  So
I call Citibank VISA and I say, "Listen, my mom really needs this
here kidney. . ."
     "Say no more, Mr. Goode, I'll raise your credit limit to ten
thousand  dollars."
     "But that won't cover the bone marrow for my boy,"  I say,
slowly beginning to sob.
     She says, "My sister had leukemia. . ." starting to sob also.
Now I knew I had her.
     I mumble something through my tears and say, ". . .watching
your own flesh and blood waste away like that. . ."
     She says, "It won't let me raise it past ten thousand."
Luckily, I just happen to have some familiarity with these types of
systems.
     I say, "Do you know your boss's password?"
     She says, "Yes, but why--"
     "Please, just log in as your boss and bring up my account."
   She does, and I say, "Now, is there somewhere on the screen that
it  mentions the word 'Gold'?"
     She says, "Yes, right here in the corner, it says 'Status',
and underneath it says 'Gold', 'Platinum', and 'Corporate'.  And
each one has a little box next to it."
     "Okay, move down there and hit return in the boxes that say
'Platinum' and 'Corporate.'
     She does and I say, "Now move up to the credit limit part and
type in all 9's."
     "Okay.  My boss will be back soon.  I hope your boy gets
better.  And thank you for using VISA."
     I say, "Not just any VISA."
     "Citibank VISA."
     "Bingo.

     So my brother and I are in line at a MAC machine, and we're
stuck behind  one of these guys that is pressing every single
button.  I mean, I think this  guy is Donald Trump, and he's doing
a hostile takeover by ATM.  We're getting pretty pissed, so my
brother starts shaking and says, "Jeez, I just wanted to get my
insulin money.  You got maybe a candy bar or  something?"  The guy,
who incidentally is munching on a Snicker's bar,  continues his
asinine takeover attempt, so my brother starts mumbling,  "...blood
sugar. . .bottoming out. ..think I'll lay down for a while."  So
this speeds the guy right up, who apparently was doing some
creative debt re-financing to rebuild his crumbling empire.  He
throws his Snicker's wrapper on the ground and my brother dives on
it, furiously licking the inside clean.
     Before Donnie leaves I say, "I just hope you aren't planning
on breaking that company up and selling off the assets."
     And he says, "Why the Hell not?  Scott Paper is extremely
diversified, and floating in cash at the moment."
     I just laugh, hinting at some hidden knowledge of the company,
none of  which I have.
     "All right, spit it out, what are you saying?  There's a lot
of money on  the line here."
     Seeing that the doofus has left his MAC card in the machine,
I try to get him to leave. "Of course," I say,  "you must be right.
By the way, I used to fuck Marla Maples in high school.  She ever
get rid of that nasty case of--"
     "All right, I've heard just about enough." he says, and storms
away.
     My brother's already at the MAC console, refinancing Donnie's
empire  through a series of short-term high-interest loans,
underwritten by the Sony  and Matsushita corporations.  He looks
back at me over his shoulder and says,  "The public outrage over
all that money going to Japan should take care of this whole Trump
thing, once and for all."
     I lean over, hit a few buttons, and all of a sudden the entire
deal hinges on the price of silver going to some six thousand
dollars an ounce.    And my brother says, "Hey, you got any of
those bad checks on you?"  Of course I did, so we deposited a few
into Donnie's account, along with a Polaroid picture my brother had
featuring a troop of Cub Scouts, a young Hindu boy, a six-pack of
jolt and a garden weasel.
     I looked at the picture and shook my head.  "Man, they've
really upped the requirements for a Merit badge. Think these
kids'll make Eagle Scout?"
     "Oh yeah, spread Ea--"
     "That's enough.  Where'd you get this picture anyway?"
     "Found it."
     "Oh. OK"  Best not to know, I figured.
     So we left, but not before we invested some more of Donnie's
money into some creaky corporate paper and snapper soup futures.
Then, we withdrew some cash and headed into town.

     If only he'd given up that Snicker's bar.


             LOST IN TV HELL. EPISODE 6

     So the guys say to me, "Annie, is it true that you can pop a
kernel of popcorn just by holding it between your thighs and
thinking about soccer players?"
     I say, "This is an unusual question for an AA meeting but
you've got my attention.  Actually, I can not only pop the kernel
but can douse it with  melted--"
     "We've heard more than enough, Annie.  Thank you."
     So the guys say to me, "Annie is it true that if I stick my
finger into  your bellybutton you'll giggle and squirm like a
schoolgirl?"
     I say, "This is an unusual question but since I'm not wearing
any  underwear, I'll ignore it."

     So I'm walking down the street when this huge, disembodied
head appears  before me and in this deep, bellowing voice says,
"These are the Halls of Medicine."
     I say, "Wrong, asswipe, this is Locust Walk.  Now get out of
my way; I'm just not in the mood."
     But he says it again.  "These are the Halls of Medicine.
 I look around.  Apparently no one sees this stupid thing but me.
Great, I think, Jimmy Stewart gets Harvey, a cuddly, lovable bunny
and I get this  30-foot tall turban-wearing asshole with a sinus
problem.  Well, I'm just not  having it.  I mean, my grandfather
bought Polaroid at eight and a half.  I don't need this shit.
    So I sneak off the walk and catch a cab on Walnut Street.  The
guy says,  "Where to?" and I say, "Just drive, I'll let you know
when we're they're."  So  the driver takes this great big nasty,
drool-slimed cigar out of his mouth,  puts it in his pocket, hits
the gas and turns around to face me.  It's Buster Fucking
Poindexter.  And he wants his fare 'up front'.  I'm like, I don't
think so, so as we pass a Pizza Hut I open the door and jump out,
trying to flip him  the bird at the same time.   I go in to the
Pizza Hut and there's that girl on the phone with this infuriating
knowitall grin on her face.  And I hear her say, "Regular price,
four bucks, four bucks, half a million bucks, four bucks."  So I'm
like, no fucking way.  I walk around towards the rest rooms,  get
on a pay phone and, still in earshot of the girl, call up the Pizza
Hut.
     "All right," I say, "how much for two Super Supremes, a Beta
Version of "Cool as Ice", and another Super Supreme?"
     "Regular price, four bucks, six cents, four bucks."
     Damn, she IS good.
     "All right, how much  for three Super Supremes, you to get
down on your knees and work it like a champ, and two more Super
Supremes for afterwards, cause I'll be hungry."
     Without missing a beat, she says, "Thirty bucks, and the pie's
on me."
     I find this ambiguous, so I hang up, and go home and meet my
brother,  who's bored and looking to get out.  He suggests we go to
our favorite local bar.  I remind him of the ugly Sports
Illustrated incident of a few weeks ago.  He says he's got a
foolproof plan, so we go.
     So we're at the bar and Ed the bartender is dripping butane
from a refill  canister into a shot glass for me--because he's a
friend.  I put my cigarette  out, do the shot, wipe the blood from
my ears, and he pours another.  My  brother's drinking mugs of
Bacardi 151, cause like, he's a lightweight.  And sure enough, in
walks the Sports Illustrated guy and his camera crew, this time
with some stupid "I'll get you guys *this* time" look on his face.
And he pulls up a seat  and Ed asks him what he wants and he looks
at my shot and says, "What he's  having, only with a dash of
Tabasco (only he doesn't say Tabasco, he says  Tabasky, trying to
be colloquial, which causes my brother to begin fingering  the
business end of the linoleum knife he carries with him at all
times, just  in case someone says Tabasky.)  I clear my throat,
hoping my brother will  recall that ugly incident in Albany with
the Jesuit priest who called him  'homey' once too often.  Well, my
brother got the hint and put the knife away.

     Then something strange happened.  This babe at the bar started
making goo-goo eyes at the videotape moron.  I did my shot and
looked at my brother,  who had begun caressing his knife again.
Well, the chick walked over to the jukebox, and the videotape guy
got up and gave my brother a "Watch a pro in action, son" look, at
which point I had to hold my brother's wrist to stop him  from
carving this guy into spaghetti-splattered stucco.  Well, the guy
walked over to the jukebox and started talking to the babe, this
knockout brunette  with a tight, squirmy body that you just know
could to the French Butterfly trick without even warming up first.
So my brother just looks into his drink and shakes his head.
Ed says, "I've seen it happen hundred times.  Some moron walks in
with a camera crew and the chicks fall all over him."
     So my brother says, "Well, not this time," and gets up and
goes to the jukebox, where the moron and the chick are looking for
some tunes to play.  He puts in his dollar and my brother tries to
distract the girl.  This he does by putting his hand in the small
of the brunette's back.  She, mistaking him for part of the moron's
film crew, slides it down to her ass, at which point he starts
walking the back of her skirt up.  By this time I have already
picked the guy's first selection on the jukebox for him--"Rough
Boys" by Pete "Huh?" Townshend.  Before it comes on, the guy makes
his selections and kicks the machine, saying "Hey, you're supposed
to get three for a buck.  I want my third."
     Ed doesn't go for this sort of behavior and sets up an old-
fashioned gattling gun on the bar, the kind with long ribbons of
bullets you have to feed into it.  He says, "Hey, back off,
asswipe," and starts adjusting the sights.
     The video guy throws his hands up and says, "Take it easy.I--I
just--I--"  The babe takes the moron by his arm and coos into his
ear, "Let's sit down and relax.  Did I tell you I'm a dancer?"
   My brother is now behind the bar,  cranking up the volume on the
jukebox, which we can hear setting itself up to play the moron's
first selection.
     And then it's, "Rough boys, out on the streets. . ."  And the
video guy, instead of playing it off, starts singing along, looking
straight at the babe  and saying, "I want to bite and kiss you."
Well, a couple guys from the back  of the bar who thought the moron
was singing to them walk over and sit down at  his table.  My
brother laughs, because they're both wearing leather everything
and one of the guys has an airbrushed picture on the back of Pete
Townshend boning Keith Moon, kind of a bad visual pun.  So the babe
gets up and the guy  starts to get up, but one of the leather guys
puts his hand on the moron's thigh and sits him back down.  The
leather guy says, "Don't be ashamed of what you are.  As long as
you're true to yourself."  My brother says to the moron's  camera
crew, "Hey, you guys want a raise?  Keep your camera on your boss's
table over there."

     And now I guess maybe Tuesdays aren't so bad after all.

               LOST IN TV HELL. EPISODE 7

     Susan D'Amato of Great Neck writes in, "I'd really like to buy
a  Volkswagen but I don't know what Fahrvegnugen looks like."  The
boys in the shop laugh and high-five each other.  My brother, who
came up with this  advertising campaign one day during a Grateful
Dead show says, "What kind of lame-brained bimbo writes to a car
company?"
     "But I'm not sure what Fahrvegnugen looks like," says Gus the
graphics  chief in a ridiculous mocking voice.
     Dan says, "Hey, isn't that the same bimbo that wrote to Ivory
Soap asking  what the other 6/100 was?"
     "Oh my God, you're right.  And what did they tell her?"
"Wet Ostrich farts"
     "Concentrated."
     "With a glistening drop of retsin."
     My brother laughed and shook his head.  "And she's still
writing.  You got to admire that kind of thickness.  I mean, the
idea that someone that dense even exists, much less has a husband,
and is thinking of buying some  little Kraut car. . ."
     "I agree," said Gus, "Can we do something for her?"
     "Give her something?"
     "Send her somewhere?"
     "How about Germany?"
     "Hey, what if she won our 'Guess what Fahrvegnugen means'
contest?"
     "What if she didn't enter?" asked Geena.
     Everyone just looked at her.
     "What's first prize?"
     "Usual.  Trip for two to Germany, expenses, new car, the
usual."
     "And they follow a planned itinerary, right?"
     "Right."
     "Well, what if she had to go with me and my brother, and we
changed the  itinerary a little, to suit our tastes. . ."
     "Bingo," they all said.

     So we're in Germany at this little Pub called Die
Lugershpittle.  We love Germany because, like that woman says, they
serve you beer in liter mugs and encourage you to drive as fast as
you can.  Mrs. D'Amato has proven herself to be truly a remarkable
piece of work.  I mean, not only has our 120+ mph average speed not
fazed her,  but we even let her drive and she was able to maintain
that speed--through Berlin.  And she will not shut up, either.
 She drinks her beer, eats some schnitzel and we hit the road.
 "I can't even tell you how exciting this is for me.  I've never
won  anything in my life."
     "Well, you're no prize yourself," I say, under my breath.
My brother gives me this look and says, "That's surprising.  Your
entry to the contest showed great originality."
     "Really?"  She sounded surprised, which made sense since my
brother threw  her stupid entry out and wrote in one of his own
which he knew would easily  win, since he was judging the thing.
"But all I did was look it up in a  German-English dictionary.
'Fahr' means driving and 'nugen' is pleasure.  The  pleasure of
driving.  Simple"
     "That--that was your entry?" asked my brother, flabbergasted.
     "Of course."
      My brother looked at me.  "Uh oh.  I don't know how to say
this, Mrs. D,  but you'll have to get out.  Now."  My brother
reached back, grabbed the lady's hair, and opened his door a bit,
preparing to toss her from the speeding auto.
     She screamed, he closed the door and said, "Well, you can't
honestly  expect to continue with this little charade any longer,
can you?  You had us  believing you were really something.
Pleasure of driving my ass.  That didn't win.  Christ, every dildo
who could open a German dictionary sent that one in.  Pleasure of
driving.  Christ."  He spit out the window with utter disdain,
which quickly proved to be a bad idea since the window was up.
Mrs. D'Amato started to cry.  My brother opened his door and she
stopped.

     "Wha-what was the winning entry," she asked, stammering.
"Oh, it was 'Ream my ass with your ropy rod until my ears bleed and
my colon quivers in undulations of ecstasy and you fill me with
milky gobs of sweetest ambrosia..."
     "My God."
     "Truly beautiful, isn't it.  Man, we should have known that no
Mrs. fucking D'Amato could come up with 'undulations of ecstacy'."
    "Well, that's not what America's going to think."
     "What do you mean."
     "You remember that release you willingly signed?"
     "They said it was a formality."
     We laughed.
     "The first ads should be hitting the air back home about now.
Tell me,  your husband planning on watching the Super Bowl?"
She started bawling.  My brother turned on the radio,  finding an
English-language station.  Within minutes, there was a
Volkswagen commercial on.
     ". . . A Mrs. Susan D'Amato writes in, 'Now I know what
Fahrvegnugen is.  Now I can buy. . ."
     "Turn it off.  Please.  Turn it off."
     I obliged, right after the 'sweetest ambrosia' part.

     We got the feeling she wanted to drink, so we went into this
pub called  Die ShtupperUhpperShphinxterMitDasGrosBaton.  This
sounded extremely promising, so we donned our protective buttgear
and removed Mrs. D's underwear and went inside.  Now this was our
kind of bar.  Some fraulein was up on a pool table taking on all
comers, Annie Potts was sitting on the bar, legs crossed way up
high, adjusting a red lace garter.  We sat down, ordered a few
pints, and our  attention wandered to a door in the back with a
sign above it that said  'Aufwiedershein'.  Naturally we're
wondering what the hell this is.  Unafraid  of a back room in some
sleazy Kraut biker bar, we sent in Mrs. D'Amato.  My  brother
wanted me to give her my protective buttgear but I said no way.  We
ask Annie what the story was with the Aufweidershein room.
    She laughed and said, "I was hoping to save this conversation
for my  next--"
     "Cocktail party?" said some moron with a bag of videotapes at
the bar.
     "Try anal rodeo," corrected Annie, leaning sideways and
letting a steamy  one rip right in his face.
     "More pork rinds, heavy on the Tabasky," called out Annie to
the bartender, a big fat bald fuck who looked a lot like an ugly
George the Animal Steele.
     My brother let her slide on the Tabasky faux pas, having
checked his  linoleum knife at the door.
     He said, pointing to the back, "So what about that room?"
 "You don't want to go in there," she said, "unless you're prepared
to never--"
     But she couldn't finish.  The kid from the Encyclopedia
Brittanica had  checked into the bar, gone straight to the
Aufweidershein room and had spotted Mrs. D'Amato, who had recently
become his hero thanks to her latest Volkswagen  ads. He saw her,
screamed like Linnea Quigley, she screamed, and about ten greased
up biker guys screamed too.
     "Ohmigod," gushed the little blond brat, "like this is too
amazing."  He clasped his hands together and jumped in place with
girlish glee.  "Hey guys,"  he said to his biker friends, "this is
the one I was telling you about."
     One of them moved in next to her.  "Sweetest ambrosia, huh?"
     The others laughed.  "I'll give her a dollop, right on--"
     "I--I've gotta go," said Mrs. D, struggling to leave a room
already thick with  manstench.
     But we'd already left.

     Now that was a good vacation.



              FALSE STARTS/BULWER-LYTTON ENTRIES
Everyone used to laugh at Jesse for his foolish worship of Pippi
Longstocking; today that laughter stops.

"Drop and give me a googolplex," shouted the nerdy drill sergeant
as he eased himself into a lawn chair, settling in for the long
haul.


"C'mon seven, c'mon seven," said Lotus-Blossom, whose delicate
Oriental features seemed as out of place on the Mississippi
riverboat as the prodigious lump in her trousers.


The children hooted and hollered and they gathered around cousin
Cleetus; and we all secretly envied him his dangerously high blood
pressure as we watched yet another mosquito fill up and explode on
his arm.


The walls were wet with envy, and they mocked me.

"No, no, no, Jockamo.  You kinna staple your ear to soil!"

"She had features which could only be described as optional."

"There was no doubt in anyone's mind that the butler had, in fact,
done it;  the only question was:  To whom!!!???"


"Hey you, you, yeah you, in the green plaid pants and
technicolor bowtie, you, that's right, you," said Veronica, to no
one in particular.

I hated him the way most people hate Ghenghis Khan...
historically!!


"There are eight million stories in the naked city,"
said the beleagured "New Yorker" fiction editor, throwing
yet another tale of Yuppie love from the slush pile into
the circular one(trash can), "And they all suck."

"Drop and give me a googolplex," shouted the nerdy drill sergeant
to his men as he eased himself into a lawn chair, settling in for
the long haul.

"Sarah," said Noodle, "mop!"

One potato, two potato, all my own.

"It's a squish," Paula belfed as her woman's size twelve foot
prevented so many tadpoles from becoming frogs.

"Can't," said Glenda, and didn't.

If you ever see a man selling cigarettes from the back of his
trousers, do not, I repeat, under any circumstances, even if he's
really really cute, buy Menthol.

Castanets, carbuncles, corral, bridge tokens, none of these rhyme
with "purple" and I'm shit out of luck again.

     Fabula, beautiful countess from the tiny country of Exotica,
languished sighingly by her bedroom window, the regular breeze
cooling her slightly parted thighs--thighs that men had wept over,
fought wars over, been spanked over(for our Fabula can be a randy
lass oh yes she can)--and, with one leg tucked magically under her,
rocked ever so to and fro, thinking all the while of the one man
she could never keep, could never tame, until tiny little tremors
of pleasure began to radiate outward from her undulating center and
caromed palpatatingly off all the corners of her body, especially,
she noted, her elbows and knees, as well as her most secret, folded
places, and then they flew home faster, faster, ever faster until
she could take it no longer and, screaming "Oh, I die," fainted
dead away, and the effect was not altogether unpleasant.

                   THE JAMES STORIES

                     CHECK, PLEASE

     Junior and senior year of high school I worked as a waiter in
this "retirement community."  It was a good job in that it was four
hours a day after school, the food was good, and most all the
waiters and waitresses there were high school kids.  I got the job
because my best friend James, a brilliant, very-handsome black kid
had been working there a few months and put in a good word for me.
Most all of the other waiters and waitresses there were Catholic
school kids, the girls all pretty and the boys all clean-cut and
preppie.  James and I stood out because we went to a more
integrated, blue-collar type high school.  And oh how we wanted
those Catholic girls.
    After we went to college, we continued to work there over
summers.  The summer after my freshman year we were there one
night, setting up the tables for the next night when I noticed two
girls(one new, one who'd been there almost as long as we had) were
talking to James.  He waved me over.
     "Rich.  You got anything going on after work today?"
     "Nope."
     "How's about we take a ride with Lisa and Peggy, pick up some
beers, hang out."
     "Sounds good."
     The girls ran off to finish their tables.  Peggy was short and
very bouncy, an all-state soccer player for her school.  Lisa was
older, taller, more slender, with a "white girl's ass".
     The girls got in the back of my dad's Plymouth Fury III and we
headed out for beer.  Though we were still underage James had been
getting served since he was about sixteen.  I pulled into the lot
of a sleazy-looking bar(lot full of pick-up trucks) and James and
I got out.  We got two sixes of Miller and we were off.  James
opened up two and handed them back to Lisa and Peggy.  No more than
a minute later, before he had even opened up two for us, Peggy
handed hers back over the seat.  It was empty.
     "Jesus Christ," said Lisa, lighting a cigarette, "We didn't
have anything to eat, slow down a bit.  You don't want to pass out,
do you?"
     "I'll be (hic) fine."
     We pulled in to the back of a rival high school of ours and
drank the beers and talked.  It was a hot, sticky night in
Pennsylvania in July, and the beer disappeared faster than a prom
dress.
     "I'm so glad you and Rich came back for the summer," said
Lisa.  "This place has been dead all year."
     "But all the boys are so pretty," said James.  "So--so--"
 "White," I said.
     "Cheers," said James, and we clinked our bottles.
     Peggy stuck her finger down her throat and feigned a vomit.
   "The worst," she said.  "The worst."
     That Tina Marie song "Love on a Two-Way Street" came on my
boom box and soon we were up and slow-dancing, I with Lisa, James
with Peggy.
              [...love on a two-way street
               and lost it on a lo-onely high-ighway...]

     "That girl can't be all white," said James, about Tina Marie.
    "Yup.  Think so."
     My face was buried in Lisa's neck and my hands nearly
encircled her waist.  Her skin smelled so clean.
     She leaned away from me and said, as my hand slipped from the
small of her back into her maroon waitress skirt.  "I hope you two
realize we're both underage..."
     Peggy laughed and James said, "First of all, Lisa, you were
*never* underaged, and Peggy won't be tomorrow.
     "Oooh."
     So James slipped into the backseat with Peggy, and Lisa and I
were in front.
     "You know why you guys are so different from--"
     "All those pretty-boys..."
     "Yeah.  Well, you two *talk* about sex and stuff..."
     "In fact," added Peggy.  "That's all you talk about.  Even if
you're talking about something else, it's still sex."
     "Mark and Brian and Tim(other waiters), they're cute and all
and they always want to do it, but they never *talk*..."
     James and Peggy began making out in the back.  Already we
could hear clothes coming off.
     I said to Lisa.  "Talk, eh?  All right, would you like to hear
what we're gonna do?"
     Her eyes were wide and she bit her lower lip and nodded yes.
    "You're going to lie back...Go ahead, lie back."  She did, her
head on the driver's side.  "I'm going to hitch up your skirt--" I
did, and then took off my belt.  "--and I'm going to...give me your
wrists--" She did, and I started to loop the belt around them.
"...going to tie your hands to the steering wheel..."
     "Oooh," she said, "Keep going."
     "...and I'm going to slide down these panties."  I did, and
handed them to Peggy, who, naked, was straddling James who was on
his back, head on the driver's side.  Peggy took them and held on
to them.
     "...and now I'm going to suck on you until your ears bleed
while you watch Peggy."
     "Oh yeah," said Lisa as I raised her right leg up and let it
hang over the backseat.  She put her other foot up on the dash.
    As soon as she felt my breath between her legs she gasped and
said, "Mmmm, it's been so long since anyone's done this to me."
Then she giggled and said "Hi Peggy.  Oooh, nice."
     Lisa's pubic hairs were sparse and golden and she squirmed
against the steering wheel as I licked her furiously.
     "Ouch," said Peggy.
     I looked up.
     "She kicked me...right in the--"  James moved his hands up and
massaged her breasts, pinching and pulling at her pointy nipples.
"But it's okay," she added, then patted and placed her right hand
on Lisa's knee. As I resumed going down on Lisa, I pulled Peggy's
hand down as well and as she ground against James she rubbed the
inside of Lisa's thigh.
     "What are you doing?" I heard James ask Peggy.
     "I'm rubbing her leg."
     "Go lower," said James.  She did, and soon her fingers joined
my lips.
     "Ohmigod," said Peggy.  "I'm touching it.  Ohmigod.  Oh.  My.
God."
     "Oooh, don't stop," said Lisa.  "That feels wonderful."
"Hi Lisa," said the sophomore.
     "Unng, hi," said Lisa, who moved her one foot from the dash to
the seat, then used it to help her arch up into the younger girl's
hand, who was able to slide in three fingers easily.
     "Oooh, harder, harder--"
     "How does it feel?" said James.
     "Soft," said Peggy.  "And hot.  Nice."
     I sat up and unzipped my black waiter pants.  I moved Peggy's
hand to Lisa's mons and slid in easily.  Lisa put her left foot on
my shoulder and I felt her toes press hard into the back of my
head.
     "Oh, do it hard.  Do it so hard."
     Soon I was slamming away.
     Lisa said to Peggy.  "You're going to come soon aren't you?"
    "Uh huh," said Peggy.  "Oh yeah."
     I looked over the seat at them.  James' dark hands stood out
strongly against Peggy's waist where he held her as she moved in
circles on him.
     "Well, come then.  Just remember, we're all watching you,
Pegs."
     Peggy started chewing on the older girl's heel and scratching
her nails up and down her leg.
     "Oooh," said Lisa.  "Wait for me.  I'm gonna come too."  I
undid the belt from the wheel and Lisa reached up and interlaced
her fingers with Peggy's.  Their breathing soon synchronized and
both girls' knuckles were white from the tightness of their grip.
    "Oh oh oh..."
     Then Peggy collapsed on James and Lisa let her foot move from
the seat to the floor.
     I leaned forward and kissed Lisa.
     "Oh my," she said.  "You know that's the first time you've
ever kissed me...above the waist."
     After a moment, James said, "Round two?"
     "Absolutely," said Peggy and I together.  I pulled out of Lisa
and helped her sit up.
     "All right," she said.  "Let's go."
     After we all caught our breath James and I helped the girls do
an awkward over the seat exchange and soon Peggy was lying in
Lisa's spot.
     "Fair's fair," she said as she reached up and pulled Lisa's
hand down to her.


                         BUSTED
     James and I got busted for underage drinking.  A cop called
our parents and told them we had a choice:  either pay a three
hundred or so dollar fine or pay seventy-five and attend weekly AA
classes for the summer.
     We picked the latter.
     Once a week we would get drunk, stoned, and head over to these
classes, held in a church and held specifically for minors who'd
been caught with alcohol or a joint or so.
     There were maybe a hundred of us all together and we were
broken into groups, each of which was run by a former alcoholic.
They passed out charts, pamphlets, etc. and lectured us against the
dangers of letting our lives turn out like theirs had.  James and
I had a field day.  Most all of the other kids there were the dregs
of teen humanity, while James was president of our Honor Society
and I was, well, me.
     One day, the woman who led our group was explaining how very
risky it was to take both quaaludes and alcohol together, that if
you take a certain amount of both you could lapse into a coma and
die.
     "Well, how many?" said a particularly-scummy member of our
group.
     "How many what?"
     "How many 'ludes can I take, before I die?  I wanna do one
less."
     We were rolling.
     She passed out a chart to all of us, showing a graph that
compared body weight to intoxication.
     "If you weigh so and so and drink such and such, you will feel
drunk, lose your sense of balance, your reaction time will
suffer..."  She added more drinks.  "And if you drink this many,
you can pass out...fall into a coma...die."
     I raised my hand.
     "Yes?"
     "Well, if after nine drinks in two hours you pass out, how can
you ever drink enough to make it to the coma part, or die?"
"Um, er--"
     "I guess if one of your friends hooks up an IV..."
     "That's enough."
     We bought a loose joint off of the 'lude guy and ate a pizza.


                        HALFWAY THERE
     James was my best friend through high school.  I've mentioned
him before.  Black kid,  brilliant.  He was a guard on our school's
basketball team.  He was too slow to be really great, but he had
great touch from the outside and played killer d.  Our friendship
grew through countless games of halfcourt at a local playground.
He won about seventy percent of these.  I couldn't drive on him,
but if my shot was on I'd just take a step back from the foul line
and keep popping them.
     James took a lot of shit from both white and black kids.  They
called him "Oreo" because he was "black on the outside, white on
the inside."  He usually just said they were "ignorant" and let it
drop.  Once I asked him why he never confronted anyone about it,
since he was pretty big(6'2", 180+).
     He said, "What's the point?  You can lose a fight.  But if you
just keep doing what you're doing, ace every test, win every award,
this you can't lose.  Got any reefer?"
     So, high school ended and we went off to college.  Once, James
came up to visit me at Cornell.  We were wandering around the
Ithaca Commons, and stopped in at McDonald's for a bite.  It was
April, still cold, and we got a few Big Macs, fries and Cokes, and
sat down.  To my right was a table of about three skinny, black
high school girls.  Behind James were two fortyish, heavyset, white
women.
     The girls to our right were going on about something, very
animated, and we tried to catch what they were talking about.  One
of them kept looking over at James, her mouth open.
     "Girl," said one, "You crazy.  Yoni ain't ever been nuthin'
but a ho', You *know* that's the truth."
     The two women behind James were grumbling to each other,
peppering their dialogue with numerous 'Nigra's and "Can't stand
this place'.  I could tell James was seething inside.  But he just
kept eating, calm.
     "Oh, this is the *shit*, said the one who'd been looking at
James, and turned up her radio.
     [...ticket to ride, a white line highway
      tell all your friends that they can go my way...
      White lines...go away...
      White lines...go away...]
     "Slammin' bass line," said James to me.
     "Oh yeah."
     The girls were dancing in their seats.
     Suddenly, loud enough for the girls to hear, one of the women
behind James said, "I have no problem with them eating here.  But
why do they have to be so damned *loud*."
     The girls quickly turned off their radio.
     James stood up and turned to face the two women.
     "Lady, maybe it's because black folk know there's plenty of
time to be quiet once you're dead in the ground.  You, you're
already halfway there."
     The women left.  The girls turned the song back on.  James
turned back to me and sat down.
     "Rich, you okay man?  Your eyes..."
     "C'mon, let's get drunk."


----------------
                  LIFE IMITATES CARTOONS


                   PART I--MONGO SNOWBALL


     I lived across from a rich kid, Keith.  His parents were
divorced and his dad owned a small local airport.  In the winter,
we would go snowmobiling on the runway, becoming airborne over
where the plow had pushed the snow into a hill at the end.  He was
the one who introduced me to Levi's(red tag) and Adidas Roms.  I
thought he was pretty cool and we hung out a lot.
     Behind the townhouses where we lived was a huge mongo hill.
Back when it used to snow, we would roll a waist-high snowball, set
it at the top of the hill, and push it over the edge.  It would
become enormous by the time it reached the bottom, way bigger than
either of us were.  Whenever someone would find us there and ask if
we were building a snowman, we would say(before that Calvin &
Hobbes cartoon ever appeared on the scene), "Yeah, this is his big
toe."
     One day, I was feeling adventurous and decided it would be
neat to stand on this snowball and run on it as it rolled down the
hill.
     "No way, man.  You'll never make it.  I bet you fall into the
creek."
     "Bet?  How much?"
     "I bet you my Gerry jacket."
     He knew I wanted that jacket.  It was trim and sleek and
didn't have a furry hood, like mine did.
     "Deal.  And if I don't make it?"
     "Just do it."
     So I stood up on the ball, shifting my weight and moving it
carefully to the edge. I slipped off and was hit on the chin with
an iceball. It didn't come from Keith, but from some smaller kids
who saw what we were up to and were coming to watch.
     "You fall into the creek, you're history," said one, blowing
into his gloveless hand.
     "I'm not gonna fall."
     "Bet?"
     "One dollar from everyone if I make it."
     "And if you don't?"
     "Then I'll be dead so what do I care?"
     The set up a toboggan and four of them went down the hill,
wiping out before they reached the big rocks in front of the creek.
    "Ready?" said Keith.  "This is gonna be great."
     I stood up on the snowball, steadying myself with a hand on
his shoulder.
     "I am king of the mountain...clearly," I said, as someone hit
me
in the back with an iceball.  Keith looked.
     "You're dead meat.  Truly dead meat.  Ready?"
     "Bon Voy-adgee."
     I went.  It was all right at first, for about two seconds.
But I overcompensated for something and I moved my feet too fast
and I fell forward, landing right on top of the already huge,
galloping ball.  As I fell I tried to lean away from the creek and
flailed around crazily, desperate to grab on to anything.
     All my hands found was the snowball.
     This is where it gets weird.
     The landing knocked the wind out of me and soon it got dark as
the mongo ball rolled me right up.  I could hear the crowd of kids
at the bottom yelling and hollering as the ball seemed to gobble
me. After a dizzying, wild ride, it stopped before the creek.  The
ball split in two; one half landing right on top of me, wobbling on
my stomach, the victor.  I lay there, spread-eagled, trying to
regain my breath.  I could hear Keith, in tears laughing, at the
top.
     "Pile-on," was the last thing I remember hearing.
     Even though I'd technically lost the bet, Keith still gave me
that jacket.  I wore it well into the Spring.



                   PART II--SWIMMING

     Pete swam like a fish, Chris like the next best thing.  I,
however, was not so well-accomplished.  I struggled, I floundered,
I cried for help.  If humans were meant to swim, I argued, we'd
have fins.  If humans were mean to swim, we'd look better in
bathing suits.  If humans were mean to swim...
     "Enough," said the swim instructor, foreseeing no end to my
stalling.  "I want to see you dive into this deep end here, and
then I want to see you come out at the shallow end there.  I really
don't care what happens in between."
     "Yes sir, Mr. swim teacher sir."
     I looked around.  Pete and Chris were on the side of the pool,
having easily swum the single lap.  They would be receiving their
Beginner's Certificates.  I, on the other hand, was fairly certain
I would never be heard from again.  I'd emerge somewhere in a New
York City sewer, live on a diet of mutant alligators, grow strong.
Then I'd track down this swim instructor and feed him to my
crocodile friends.
     "C'mon, Rich," said Pete.  "Hurry it up.  Into the pool or
we'll push you in."
     I am alone.  I am so alone.  Taunts on one side, reptile food
on the other.  In front of me, clear blue, deceptive calm.  What
will it look like when the kid does his flop?  What will it look
like when I sink like a rock, hit the bottom like a lead balloon?
    I am pushed in.  I do, as I thought I would, sink straight to
the bottom.  Defying all known laws of buoyancy I find myself
standing on the bottom of the pool, looking around as if I'd been
transported to some alien planet.  I try to will myself to the
surface.  No go.  A long pool skimmer invades my privacy.  I am
supposed to grab it and be pulled to the surface.
     No way, uh-uh, not for me.  I was told to get to the shallow
end and I will.  I'll walk.  I'll walk like the great Wallenda over
Niagara.  Nose in the air(kinda), I set my sights on the shallow
end and begin my march.  Stoic, proud, arms folded across my chest:
7', 6', 5'--the numbers fall like enemies on a field of battle.
  I break surface and take a breath.  First hair, then eyes, nose
and mouth.  Once my chin is out I look from side to side, waving at
my friends like a visiting dignitary.  I use the royal wave.  Thank
you, I say, thank you.  Pete and Chris stand on the edge, mouths
agape.  The instructor has no words for my situation, no common
chant, no hymn, no prayer.  As it is, he stands mute, in awe of the
boy that can walk the tightrope.
     I am awarded my Beginner's Certificate.  I vow to never swim
again.
     I break that vow.

                    PART III--LAGOON

     It was a thousand steps from my house to Pete's, that winter
we were ten years old.  A thousand up, a thousand back, a cool
grand both coming and going.  Ten street lights along the highway,
each forty-two steps apart, leaving five eighty, divided like this:
two-ten before the lights, three fifty-eight after, and twelve big
ones across the lawn to his screen door, opening and closing in the
bitter wind.
     "Let's go to the lagoon," said Chris, already at Pete's.   We
called it a lagoon, but it was really just a rancid, slimy creek,
even more so in the winter because the top froze and didn't move
until April.  There were trees on both sides that bent in over the
top, giving the lagoon a safe, secluded feeling.  It was there that
we had our sling-shot wars, smoked cigarettes, and plotted our ten
year old plots.
     Pete made an angel in the snow.
     I didn't care.  I was going to be the first on the ice.  That
was my mission.  It took a long time for the lagoon to freeze,
since it was actually a running creek, and it was always something
to be the first to stand on it.  Pete used to joke that they should
award a merit badge for stepping out onto the ice.  (We were all
three of us in the Scouts.  I quit just after Webelos but Pete
stayed on until Eagle Scout, mocking the whole organization,
really.  He had by that time been busted twice for possession.)
  But that bitter cold day in December, nothing mattered except me
and the ice below me.  I inched down the snowy bank and set one
foot on the lagoon.  The surface made hideous cracking noises
underneath, but I was resolved.  I moved the foot out farther and
brought the other one on as well.  I heard more cracks and when I
looked down it looked like Mr. Rabb's windshield did after Pete
heaved a brick on it one day.  I decided it wasn't my weight that
was making these cracks but my *shoes*, my shoes which were the
real problem, each issuing lightning bolts into the ice behind it,
each concealing a miniature Zeus.  Well, I thought, my shoes I can
control.  I looked down and inched out still farther.  Little
sticks had frozen into the ice, along with a tennis ball or two,
and a child's plastic toy.  These items formed an obstacle course
for me, the intrepid pioneer.  I inched out further.  The ice had
give to it, like a long clear trampoline.  The cracks were
frightening, but controllable.  Once to the center I bounced
lightly on the balls of my feet, master of these expanding cracks.
   "Look," I yelled to Chris and Pete, who were both upstream,
chipping away at some ice with tree branches.  "Look," I yelled,
standing on the ice like a tightrope walker--arms out to the side,
eyes forward, hips giving a little wiggle.  "Look," I yelled,
coming to realize the awesome glory of my state, my divine right to
the ice.  "Look," I yelled, "I can walk."
     I heard them yell something back and come towards me.  The air
was clean and crisp and felt good to breathe it in, empowering.
The sky overhead was pure blue, broken only by some journeying
black birds.  I blew into my fists to warm my hands, and I stared
as my breath rose and dissipated like cigarette smoke.
     Pete and Chris arrived.  "So it's strong enough?"  said Chris,
crouching on the bank with Pete, daring only to touch the ice with
tree branches.
     "Yeah, stay there.  I don't think it'll hold all of us."  The
ice cracked some more.
     Pete and Chris looked at each other then back at me.  "Rich is
going down.  Going down big-time."
     "I am not," I said.  "I own this lagoon."  I started towards
the opposite bank, not lifting my feet but rather sliding them.
The cracks followed me.
     Somehow, in my reverie, I hadn't noticed Pete and Chris
banging on the ice with long sticks, chipping at the ice
around me.  I looked down and the cracks soon came together and
formed a perfect circle.  Then there was this odd hesitation
moment, and I imagined Wile E. Coyote running off a cliff, pausing
before he fell.
     The water hit me like a punch to the gut, and I couldn't find
my breath.  The lagoon was icy cold and untouchably deep.  Pete and
Chris ran up the creek to the crossover and ran back for me on the
other side.  It seemed to take them hours.  Finally, they made
their way down and helped me out.  My fingers wouldn't close on
their arms so they ended up pulling dead weight, which took
forever.  I wanted to call them something rude but my lips were
unresponsive.  I thought I was going to die.
     The walk back to Pete's house was an exercise in humiliation.
I, stiff-legged and dripping, unable to even turn my head.  Pete on
one side of me, Chris on the other, apologizing into the air.  I
could feel my corduroys freezing on my legs as I walked.  People on
the poorer side of the creek stared out of their homes and looked
at me.  Chris flipped them the finger.
     Pete's mom undressed me immediately, wrapped me in a blanket
and sat me in front of the space heater.  I made a face when she
took off my underwear, but she said, "I live with three men.
Believe me I know what one looks like."  Pete and Chris laughed and
watched and made hot chocolate.  As the heater brought life back to
my limbs it also brought back pain.
     "It burns," I told her, when my lips could finally move again.
    "I know, she said, her voice calming.  "I know."
     I was shivering and my breathing came quick and shallow.
Pete's mom was afraid I would go into shock or something.  She told
Pete to get more blankets and she sat by me near the heater.  She
held me close until I calmed down.  She was a plump, buxom woman
with straight black hair.  When she held me that day she rocked me
and pushed my head down against her breasts.  They were warm and
smelled of gardenia and honeysuckle.  She held me until my
breathing slowed and was in unison with her own.  I was in love; I
was the luckiest boy alive.
     "It still burns."
     "Better that than being numb," she said.  "You stay numb for
too long, your toes turn black and you get frostbite.  That's bad."
    Pete's mom knew things like that, things of which my own mom
had no conception.  She knew how to handle a gun, and she knew how
to drive a stick-shift, and how to skin an animal and cook it,
which she did when Pete's dad took them all out camping.
     Pete's family was the type that went camping, and I envied him
for this.  He got to fire guns and sleep in a camper.  He knew how
to clean a fish and what a thirty aught-six was.  Even though his
dad hit him a lot, I still envied him.  When he got a B.B. gun one
Christmas I wished I was in his family.
     That one winter day, it felt like I was.

                      NAKED GAMES

     Before we moved to the townhouses, we lived in an apartment
complex.  I was there all through elementary school.  Separating
the 'B' building from the 'C' building was a big courtyard, in the
center of which were three giant rocks.  We called them the
'boulders'.
     Over in the 'C' building lived a mother and her two daughters,
the same ages as myself and Howard.  They adored us and would, in
the summer, wake up very early and lie on the boulders in the sun
until Howard and I showed up.  Rita was the one my age and her
sister Anne was three years younger.  Anne was the bolder one and
it was she who pulled her shorts down one day on the rock to show
us her 'seesee'.  That was our first glimpse of that odd, neat
cleft, but we knew we wanted to see more.
     One day some older boys(seventh-graders maybe) came over and
brought the four of us to the storage room(there was one in each
building.  No ventilation and only a single bare bulb.  That room
became a sauna in those humid Pennsylvania summers.)
     "All of you, get naked.  You two first."  They did, and
stretched out on some cardboard next to each other, touching.
"Now you."  We did and stood there.
     "You're gonna have to get boners if you want to hump them...
Nah, try it anyway.  Lie down on top."  One of the older boys was
masturbating behind a box.
     We lay down on the girls, squishing ourselves against them.
   "Now put it in."
     We tried, but they kept slipping out.  I wondered how anyone
ever 'humped'.  I reached down and tried rubbing the head in that
smooth cleft, hoping to find a clue.
     "Wait," said Rita, and she spit in her hand and rubbed some
into herself.  "Now do what you were doing.  I'm gonna get the good
feeling."
     Anne looked over and spit in her hand as well.  She rubbed the
drool into herself but also around Howard.  Rita, seeing the effect
that had on my brother, did the same with me.
     "Watch," said Rita, sliding a finger in and out of her mouth,
"you're up too high.  Watch."  She poked it in and it disappeared
up to a knuckle.
     "Wow," said a seventh grader.
     So she guided it in and I didn't move, not wanting to lose
this place.
     "They're humping."
     More like sleeping, only we happened to be connected.
     "Someone's coming.  Shit.  Get dressed."

     After this, naked games became a regular part of our
routine:  Howard and I, over at the girls' apartment, while their
mother was at work and their grandmother slept.  Often, we would
sit on the couch and watch them.  First, Rita would rub naked on
Anne until she got the good feeling.  Then, they would switch and
Anne would be the man.  We would sit, also naked, on the couch and
they would watch, trying to remember what gave us boners.
     Boners were important because then they could come over to the
couch and straddle us or lick us.  They especially liked licking us
because, as the rules of naked games go, you are then obliged to
reciprocate.  We did, sometimes adding ice cream or honey,
sometimes the eraser end of pencils, or fingers.  They always got
the best feelings when either we were licking them like ice cream
cones or they themselves were.
     The best was the one day we discovered that there was a guy in
our building that read lots of dirty magazines.  Instead of tossing
them in the dumpster he would tie them in neat bundles and set them
on the concrete there.  We had a field day with them.  They were
all pretty hardcore and explicit, much dirtier than the Playboys we
would buy for our 'uncle'.
     The older boys would read them with us down at the creek,
checking us often for boners.  My favorite was this one that showed
all the girls tied up in an assortment of ridiculous poses.  We
showed this one to Rita and Anne and the next thing we knew we were
all stealing twine and Scotch tape from the local Seven-Eleven.
Anne liked being tied up the most.  Her favorite was if we had lots
and lots of twine, and criss-crossed her body with it, pulling it
tight up between her legs so that no matter what or how she moved,
it would tighten and scrape her there.  Tied like this we would
then play with her sister in fromt of her, one of us licking her
'bagina', the other in back playing with her heidyhole.
     After doing like this for a long time, Anne would be nearly
completely exhausted.  And then the three of us would attend to
her.  Between her legs would be very sensitive and tender and only
her sister was allowed to touch her there, so we would find some
vaseline and take turns behind her.
     We moved away when I was in seventh grade.







            WHAT TO DO IF YOUR BROTHER GETS PRETENTIOUS
     So my kid brother is going to one of these schools, you know
the type(it's not an Ivy, but it kinda thinks it is. Like Stanford
or Johns Hopkins or Rutgers or Cornell).  Anyhow, he's taking a lit
class and he comes up to me the other day and says, "Rich, can you
help me?  I've got to write this term paper.  It's due tomorrow."
     "No prob.  You start the coffee, I'll heat up the crystal
meth. What's it on?"
     "I'm supposed to deconstruct Hamlet."
     "Hamlet deconstructs itself.  Now leave me alone."
     "*I* know that.  *Everyone* knows that.  But the prof won't
accept that as a paper."
     "Bastard."
     "I got some ideas."
     I was afraid of this.  "All right.  What?"
     He took a deep breath.  I cringed.  "Well you know how in
Hamlet everyone is interpreting everything everybody says, you
know, reading each other?"
     I nodded, distracted.
     "And like, Hamlet's madness, even if it appears feigned to
everyone else could be very real to him, right?"
     "So?  You got any herb?"
     "Don't you see, it's a classic appearance/reality--"
     Oh no, if I didn't watch my step here, he'd be trying to work
in Antonioni's 'Blow-up' and Roeg's 'Don't Look Now.'
     He was really breathing hard now.  "Don't you see?  Horatio,
draw thy breath in pain to tell my story.  My story!  Hamlet's
story!! Il n'y a pas dehors du texte.  History exists only as a
function of present discourse!!  Yes yes yes I will yes I do YES!"
    So I sucker-punched him.
    "Thanks."
    "Il ny'a a pas dehors du texte my ass.  Try de la droite."
"Huh?  Il n'y a pas dehors de la droite."  He stared blankly.
"Oh, never mind.  You got any other ideas for this here
'deconstruction'?"
     "Well, we can break Hamlet up into 'homme lit'.  'Man reads'.
Don't you see?  Man reads!  It's all just so like, there."
     "Slow down a second, Piper Cub.  It seems to me that Hamlet
sounds a lot more like 'omelette' than anything. . ."
      His eyes brightened like a schoolgirl at her first dance and
he ran to the kitchen.  "Yes, yes!"
     "Put the eggs in a bowl of water first.  Bring em to room
temperature."
      "Sheesh," he called out.  "I'm not stupid you know."
      True.  He's got two more years to get really stupid.


                 MY BROTHER THROWS A PRETENTIOUS PARTY

    Let's see, gang.  When we last saw my brother he was cooking up
a couple of omelettes.  Let's check in on him and see what's up:

     "Heat the plates first," I said.
     "I know," he called out.  "I'm not an idiot."
     "Yeah, all right."
     "Hey Rich, I'm having a party here next Friday."
     "Thanks for letting me know.  What kind of party?"
     "Just some friends from one of my classes."
     I perked up, remembering that he was taking two theater
classes.  "Which class?"
     "English 405--"
     My heart sank.
     "Between Hermeneutics and Deconstruction:  The Politics of
Contemporary Literary Criticism"
     It hit the floor.
     "Can you DJ?"
     "What, you think I'd let a roomful of postmodernists anywhere
near my 12 grand Nakamichi?!  Yeah, I'll be here."
     "Cool.  All the ubiquitous people'll be there."
     "Oh joyous day."  The ubiquitous people were what I
affectionately called all those people on campus that we seemed to
see everywhere.  I suppose, to be fair, that I was one of them,
simply because I was no longer a student but still hung around
campus a lot.  But I didn't wear nearly as much black as a true
ubiquitous person, nor was my skin quite that pale.
              FRIDAY NIGHT--PARTY PREPARATIONS
    I was going through my records, putting away the Naughty By
Nature and dusting off some old Scritti Politti and Pop Will Eat
Itself.  As I did this I chewed on some Dramamine, trying to fight
down the nausea that was already starting to rise.
     The first to arrive were about five pasty-boy ubiquitous-
person wannabes.  My brother called them the marginal guys because
they showed up in all his classes but never said anything, just
looked around a lot.
     Some women had arrived, including one fine arts student who I
called my Buchenwald baby because of her severely short haircut,
hollowed-out cheeks, suspicious eyes, and black cape(?!).  She was
in a corner, dancing to some private beat while Pop Will Eat Itself
spouted banalities:
    ". . .Alan Moore knows the score
      . . .Alan Moore knows the score."
The pasty-boys were standing against a wall, all taking notes.  I
asked my brother about this.
     "Oh, they're deconstructing the party.  It's the latest
thing."
     I wiped the vomit from my lips and said, "No.  Just no."
"Honestly.  They are.  Sure, you can talk about the Heisenberg
Uncertainty Principle and how the presence of the observer changes
the observed phenomena all you like, but it's undeniably fun.
Besides, who's gonna dance with those guys?"

     When he's got a point, he's got a point.

     My gaze returned to my Dachau darling, who was doing that
strange ubiquitous-person dance, all severe angles with lots of odd
elbow and knee movements and strange, disturbing glances.  I really
hated it.
    I looked over at my Naughty By Nature album and started to
weep.
     "Play Scritti Politti.  Play Jacques Derrida!"
     I was besieged with insipid requests.  And I was getting
bored.  But I had an idea. I queued up that old Chakha Khan song "I
Feel For You" on the turntable and plugged in my microphone.
My brother saw me and hurried his way over.
     "Rich," he pleaded. "You can't rap here.  You just can't."
  "Relax.  I've got a plan."
     I started the record and started singing over it.
     "Jacques Lacan. .  .Jacques Lacan. . .I wanna hug you wanna
love you wanna squeeze you too.  Do you feel for me the way I feel
for you?  Jacques Lacan, Jacques Lacan.  I fee-eel for you, and I
think I love you. . ."

     It worked.
     After that, the party rocked.
     Now I'm swamped with requests to DJ ubiquitous-people parties.
    Only problem is, none of my clothes are black.

              MY BROTHER--LOVE AMONG THE RUINED

     Let's see, then.  When we last saw my brother, he was enjoying
his hugely successful party.  We catch up with him a few weeks
later, when he comes to me for some brotherly advice.
     "Rich," he said.  "I need some help."
     "Sure, Howard, what's the class."
     "No class, it's Karen."  Karen was the girl he had been seeing
ever since the night of the party.  She was the one I called the
Dachau Darling.
     "Karen, eh?  How is the Auschwitz angel?"
     "Not so good.  It's kind of hard for to talk about, but I
don't know who else--"
     "Howard, listen.  I'm your brother.  You can tell me
anything."
     "I really want this thing with Karen to work out.  I really
love her.  I do.  But it's (sotto voice), it's our sex life."
"I understand completely.  You want to take it further than she--"
     "No, not at all.  In fact, what's so silly is we've tried to
marginalize sex in our relationship.  That's why the whole thing's
so ridiculous."
     Kids, I thought.  Things were so much simpler when I was his
age, all of three years ago.  "You know you can't marginalize sex.
Because then your whole relationship becomes defined by exactly
that.  And what did Oscar Wilde say?"
     "Deeper?"
     "Besides that."
     "To define is to limit?"
     "Exactly.  Do you see now?"
     "We were just trying to take control of our center."
     I smacked myself in the forehead.
     "Details, Howard.  I need more details."
     "She's really into pain."
     "Kinky, eh?  That's odd, she never struck me as the type.  So
what's the prob--"
     "No, that's just it.  She *only* likes pain.  Not pleasure at
all.  She never ever comes.  I feel so inadequate.  I would kill to
make her come."
    I shook my head.  "Howard, Howard, Howard, didn't you read 'The
New Our Bodies Our Selves'?"
    "Skimmed it.  Just the dirty parts.  But I see what you're
saying.  Her orgasm isn't my responsibility, it's hers.  But that
doesn't change how I feel."
     We were getting nowhere, so I told Howard I was going to have
to talk with Karen also.
     She came over.  We talked.
     "Karen," I said.  "My brother tells me things are kinda shaky
between the two of you--"
     "We can work it out ourself.  Besides, what the hell do you
know?  Why don't you get a job?  How do you *eat*?"
     "Karen, you're projecting.  Now then, my brother tells me that
you can't seem to, er, never, um--"
     "Come?  I don't come?  Is that it?  Well did it ever dawn on
you that maybe I don't want to come.  It's *my* orgasm and I'll do
what I want with it.  I'm an artist, dammit.  All I need is pain."
    Her eyes were wild.  I was beginning to see what my brother saw
in her.
     "Pain?  You know, the line between pain and pleasure is a
tenuous one."
     "Don't give me any of your horseshit.  Pleasure is nothing,
pain is everything.  Our minds can conceive of very few pleasures,
but the pain, the tortures, oh. . .That's why Dante's Inferno is so
much better than Paradiso.  I mean Beatrice, who really gives a
fuck, right?  I mean, you're much bigger and stronger than I am.
You could easily tape me to this chair, cut the cord to the lamp
there, strip the ends, force it between my thighs," She leaned
forward and took a breath. "--until it pressed against my
cervix..."
    Karen was hardly your average freshman.  I looked at her more
closely.  Her wrists and ankles were improbably slender and the
angular, birdlike features of her face, including her sharp, high
cheekbones bespoke her excellent breeding.
     "Karen, tell me about your family.  Howard says you're from
Manhattan.  That your father--"
     She spit.
     "He's a plastic surgeon with a Park Avenue office, isn't he?"
     "I loathe him."
     No surprises here.  My brother was going to owe me *big* for
this one.
     "Karen, you've never masturbated, have you?"
     "Ha," was all she said.
     "You know, it would mean a lot to my brother if you could be
a little more responsive.  Hey, I've got an idea.  Wait here,
okay?"  I went to my closet, and dug through a bunch of videotapes,
finally finding one with a skull and crossbones attached to it.  I
pulled it out and put it in the vcr.
     "What's on the tape?" Karen asked.
     "Just watch.  I'm going to talk to my brother."
     I closed the door behind me as the screams on the tape began.
    "Well," said Howard,  "what do you think?"
     "Karen's an odd bird, Howard."
     He smiled sickeningly.  "Isn't she great?"
     "Remember that tape we got a hold of, that we stole from
Amnesty International?"
     "The torture tape?"  He looked pale.  "Yeah, what about it?"
    "Nothing."  I knew that tape had given him nightmares.  I
changed the topic.  "Howard, tell me exactly what you love about
Karen."
     "I love her face.  I love her high, sharp cheekbones.  I love
how she calls attention to herself when she walks into class.  I
love her pain."
     "But you know her pain's a sham.  She had the most privileged
upbringing imaginable."
     "Of course, but I love that.  I love how completely deluded
she is, how completely lacking in self-knowledge.  Oh God, I love
her so much.  If she could just come--"
     "So Karen is your project then?"
     "Yeah," said Howard.  "My project.  That's it, exactly."
"Didn't I tell you to read 'The Denial of Death'?"
     "Is it in the bookcase?  Who wrote it?"
     "Ernest Becker.  Yes it's in there--"  My brother was
laughing.  "What's so funny?"
     "Ernest Becker wrote 'The Stars My Destination', not "The
Denial of Death'"
     I punched him and he doubled over.  "Don't correct your
brother.  It's rude.  Besides, I'm right.  Alfred Bester wrote 'The
Stars My  destination.' Now get up.  You remember what Becker
said?"
    "That the natural human inclination is toward the heroic?"
"Not that.  About the love object?"
    "I don't remember."
    I'll sum up.  Becker took 200 pages to say what Groucho Marx
said in one sentence."
     "Why a duck?"
     I punched him again.  "That was Chico.  Now don't interrupt.
What Groucho said was he wouldn't belong to any club that would
accept him as a member.  This is basically what Becker says, only
with a lot more footnotes.  It's also the basis for Annie Hall. You
remember how Diane Keaton, in the beginning, was very shy and sang
very nervously in the club, but by the end, after she had taken all
those adult education courses--"
     "That Woody encouraged her to take--"
     "Bingo."
     My brother thought a while.  Then he looked up at me.  "So are
you saying that all love is doomed to failure?  That's so
depressing."
     "Not at all," I said.  "Do you see me singing the metaphysical
blues or wallowing in existential self-pity?"
     "No, but you hide from yourself in promiscuity and you'll
probably get AIDS soon and then where will I be?"
     "Ouch."
     "I'm sorry."  He stood up and hugged me.  "I love you, bro.
Thanks."
     "I'm gonna check in on Karen then, okay?  You wait here."
 I walked over to the tv room.  I heard through the door that the
tape was over.  I knocked.  She said, "Come in.  It's okay."
First, that smell.  The room was full of it.  That familar, heady,
yeasty, pissy smell.  Karen was chewing on a finger, one foot on
the edge of my desk, the other on the floor.  She looked at me and
giggled.  "Could I keep this tape," she asked, sheepishly.      "Of
course.  It's yours."  I hit eject on the machine and handed the
tape to her.  She unzipped her backpack and slid the tape in, right
between a book of the collected lithographs of Edward Munch and a
book by Hans Georg Gadamer, 'Truth and Method'". She zipped up her
backpack and we left the tv room.  She took Howard's hand and
whispered something in his ear and the next thing I knew they were
gone.

     Now I've got a new job.  Troubled kids come to me and ask me
to deconstruct their relationships.  I'm not proud of what I do but
it pays the rent.

                   MY BROTHER--LOVE LIES
     "Rich, don't I just want to be completely and totally honest
with Karen so that she will fall in love with the real me?"      I
almost hit him.   "No no no no no no."
     "But--"
     "You do want her to fall in love with you, right?"
     "Uh huh."
     "Well then, you're going to have to be sneaky about it.  You
have to make yourself into her ideal love object.  I'll be blunt.
You're gonna have to lie your ass off."
     "How?"
     "You really wanna play hardball?"
     "Yup."
     "Try this.  It's risky, but if it pays off, it pays off in a
big way."
     "What, what?"
     "Try this.  On the back of one of your notebooks write over
and over again her first name and your last name.  Then leave it
oh, leave it lying around.  Or in her dorm room, but that night be
pushing it, just a tad,"
     "This works?"
     "It's a battlefield, Howard.  Your only weapon is your mind.
You're gonna have to do some things you might not be too proud of,
but if you follow my advice, you can accomplish the greatest,
highest achievement this planet allows us."
     "Love?"
     I could have hit him.  "The complete control of another human
being's mind.  You will pull all the strings.  All the power will
be yours."
     "You're starting to scare me, Rich."
     "Good.  You should be scared.  It's a scary thing, power."
  He was hooked.  "So what do I do?"
     "I'll give you an example.  You remember when I was seeing
Alysse?"
     "Jewish girl?  Nice legs?"
     "That's the one.  Now I met her at a stand-up comedy night
here in town.  So what do we know, right off the bat?"
     "Um, well--"
     "Think about it.  Young, privileged Jewish girl.  Likes
comedy.  Who's going to be her favorite director?"
     "Woody Allen?" he answered.
     "Precisely.  And her favorite Woody Allen film?"
     He thought a moment.  "Annie Hall?"
     "You're okay.  So, armed with this knowledge, here's what I
did.  She saw an ad for a local airport that was running an offer
to go skydiving.  Give them 200 bucks or so and you get to the
skydive.  Now I had absolutely no desire to skydive, right?  So she
says to me, 'You're just chicken.'  I say, getting my line
together, 'I'm what?'  'You're chicken,' she says.  'You're just a
chicken'
     "Now here's the killer.  'So what if I am,' I say.  'My family
needs the eggs.'"
     "What'd she say?"
     "Nothing.  She just looked at me.  But I could tell the gears
were turning.  Now you see, I could really care two fucks about
Woody Allen, but you see, she now thinks that not only am I a big
fan of the pretentious, once-funny,would-be artiste poseur JUST
LIKE SHE IS but that I've also memorized most of his dialogue, JUST
LIKE SHE HAS.  See?"
     "Did you?"
     I only wished I had a gun.  "Are you nuts?  I rented 'Annie
Hall' the night before.  Worked out my line later that night.  If
she hadn't fed me the straight line I had a couple back-up plans
worked up. . ."
     "Back-up plans?!  Worked up?!  You're some kind of monster."
    "Ouch."
     "I'm sorry, Rich, but I'm only a freshman.  I've got four
years to become as jaded and cynical as you."
     "Double ouch."  I had taught him well.  "All right then, back
to Karen--"
     "She doesn't like Woody Allen."
     "That's okay.  What's her favorite movie?"
     "I think she likes old concentration camp footage."
     "Hmmm.  This could be tricky."
     "I know she saw 'Rain Man'.  I think she liked it."
     "Perfect.  Now what is the best part of Rain Man'?"
     "I don't know."
     "Come on.  Think.  The one part that really got to you, that
made you just go 'Wow'?
     "When Tom Cruise is teaching Dustin Hoffman to dance?"
"Bingo."
     "But what if that's not Karen's favorite part?"
     "Howard, just trust me, will you?" Kids.  Sheesh.
     "Okay."
     "You know what to do?"
     "I think so, yeah."
     "We'd better practice.  I'll be Karen.  You be well, you
know."
     "Karen?" said Howard, in just that right 'Please Listen to me
what I'm about to say isn't easy and I want you to listen because
I care about what you think' voice.
     "Yes, Howard."
     "What do people say to you about me, about my brother?"
"That he's an asshole, that he hurt a lot of people at school here,
that he still does, that you're just like him, that he teaches you
how to manipulate people, that you two actually practice--"  My
voice was quavering.  I dredged up an emotional memory and let the
tear roll down my cheek.  "It hurts me when they talk about you
like this.  I--I don't know what to think.  I know Rich.  He
doesn't seem--"
     He touched my arm and wiped the tear away.  "Karen, I want to
tell you something about my brother."
     "Okay."
     "When I was a junior in high school, I wasn't real popular and
it really depressed me, especially since all my friends were
popular.  You know how high school is."
     "Oh, Howard."
     "Well, one of my friend's older brother's was getting married
and a bunch of us got invited to the wedding.  One of the people
that got invited was Lisa Howell."
     "Wasn't she the first--"
     "That comes later.  Can I go on?"
     "Please.  But come here."  I opened my arms. "I want to hold
you.  You look like you need to be held."
     He leaned back against me and continued.  "Well, I had been
worshiping this girl since about junior high.  I mean, I was
completely obsessed."
     "She's the one that looked a little like me?"
     "Uh huh.  Anyhow her dad owned this dance studio and she
helped him teach some of his classes there.  Well, I knew that at
the wedding every guy was going to want to dance with her.  I only
knew that I wanted to be the one to sweep her off her feet."
"Well, my brother was already in college by this time and had taken
a class in ballroom dance to fulfill a phys ed. requirement.
I straightened up.  "Go on."
     "I was lucky cause he was home on break that week and he
seemed to just know what I was thinking cause one day he comes into
my room and says, 'Howard, follow me.'  Only he doesn't do it like
he's doing it just so I can get over at the wedding.  He sneaks it
in on me.  He says, 'I'm taking ballroom dance up at school.  It
seems kind of faggy, but it's okay.  A lot of fun, really.  And the
babes really go for it.'  Then he puts on this record and starts
showing me the boxstep!  I couldn't believe it.  He said it was his
personal project for the week to make me a dancer.  We practiced in
the living room, under the skylight."
     "Just like in Rain Man," I said.
     "Huh?"
     "Just like in Rain Man, the movie."
     "Never saw it.  Can I finish, please?"
     "Go on.  I'm sorry."
     "Well, so the wedding comes around and sure enough, every
dance there was a different guy trying to slowdance with Lisa,
holding her close and pawing her.  I just watched her.  She looked
really depressed.  Finally, I got up the nerve to ask her to dance.
She just said 'Howard?' like she didn't know me from Adam.  Then
she put her arms around me like I wanted to dance like everyone
else.  Only I took her one hand and put it on my shoulder and put
mine on her waist and then took her other hand in mine and then,
and then she looked up at me with those big brown eyes and smiled
and, and--"
     "What?"
     "Then the room just disappeared.  It felt like we were flying.
After that, she would only dance with me.  Through three waltzes
and two jitterbugs.  When I got home my brother was waiting up for
me.  And then--"
     "And then?"
     "And then I met you, Karen."
     "You really love your brother a lot, don't you?"
     "It hurts when I hear people talking, that's all.  And yeah,
I, I--"
     "I know.  I love him too." I started tickling his ribs.  "For
helping to make you so perfect."
     "Hey," he laughed.  "Cut that out."
     "You're good, Howard." I said.  "That bit about the skylight
was an inspired touch."
     "Thanks.  Think it'll work?"
     "Oh yeah, just be careful."
     "Huh?  Oh, you're right.  I mean, what if she asks me to teach
her how to dance or something."
     "Good point.  Next week, dance lessons."
     "Really?"
     "From 3 to 5 in the afternoon.
     "Thanks, Rich."
     "Not a prob."

     But I didn't think he was quite ready yet.
     "Howard, have you played the 'what are you thinking' game'
yet?"
     "The what?"
     "Oh come on, Howard.  You know what I mean."
     "Yeah, we have."
     "Who started it?"
     "Well, she did."
     "And did you tell her the truth?"
     "Of course."
     "Oh no."
     "I didn't know.  I thought you were supposed to be totally
honest with the other--"
     "Howard, listen to me.  Do you want this one to last or what?"
    "Well, yeah."
     "Well then, tell me what you told her then I'll tell you what
you should have said."
     "We were in bed, right?  She asked me what I was thinking.  I
said, 'Honestly?'  She said, 'Yes'.  So I went for it.  I said,
"You know how soft and white your skin is right here, along the top
and inside of your thigh--"
     "Good start.  Very good indeed.  That have the right effect?"
    "Oh yeah, but then I added, 'Well I was just thinking that
Nicole Kidman's skin is this soft all over, so I was imagining how
soft *she* was right here."
     "Oh no.  You poor kid."
     "I fucked up, eh?"
     "No shit.  Nicole Kidman's that redhead from 'Deep Calm',
right?"
      "Yeah, and 'Days of Thunder'."
      "Well, it could have been worse."
      "How?"
      "You could have told her what you wanted to do to that Pizza
Hut four bucks girl."
      "Oh God.  Well then what should I have said?"
      "Ask me.  I'll be you.  You be her.  Pretend we just had sex
and now we're heading off to sleep."
      He looked deep into my eyes.  "Howard," he said.  "What are
you thinking?"
      I feigned a little embarrassment.  "I--No, I can't."
      "Tell me."
      "I can't.  I'm embarrassed."
      "Tell me."
      "All right.  I was just thinking that I kind of like
Christopher as a name for a boy.  Molly or Sarah for a girl.
Sebastian is nice too."
     "I love you," he said.
     I pretended to kiss him.
     "You're a weasel," he said.

     "You're learning."


                   KAREN'S SHINY WHITE TEETH
     "Karen," I yelled, looking into my bathroom.  "Ka-ren."
"What?" she yelled back, from my brother's room.
     "Would you come here please?  There's something I want to ask
you."
     The next thing I knew, she was standing next to me, wearing a
short, satiny robe with some Oriental motif on the back.  I looked
at her.  Being with my brother these past few  months hadn't done
her any harm, I saw.  She was eating better, her face had filled
out, she wasn't quite so pale and she just generally looked softer.
This transformation on a girl who was pretty to begin with had
produced quite a fetching--
     "What is it?" she asked.
     "Look in my bathroom, Karen.  On my sink.  What do you see?"
    "It's Shrapnel."  Shrapnel is my cat.
     "Good, good, now what is she doing?"
     Karen paused.  "Uh, she's licking your toothbrush?"
     "Very good."  I have one of those Interplak electric
toothbrushes. Right now the cat was licking it.  "Now tell me,
Karen, do cats normally lick the bristles of a toothbrush.  Is this
something anyone has *ever* seen a cat do?!  Is it?  Is it!?"
"Um, no.  I guess."
     "So why is Shrapnel licking it, do you think?"
     She was shaking.  "I--I can't--I--"  She ran into my brother's
room and shut the door.  I walked over.  I heard her crying.
"It's okay, Karen.  It doesn't bother me, honest.  It's just this
whole cat thing--.  Well, everyone has his limits, you know. Karen,
I can get you your own attachment.  Yours will be red, mine blue.
How about that?"
     Her sobs increased in volume.  "Can I come in?"  I came in.
She was on the bed.
     "I'm so, I'm so, I--I--"
     "I know, I know.  It's okay, really.  I said I'll get you your
own attachment."
     This really set her off.  "It, it, Oh God, it only works if
it's, if it's--"
     "If it's what?  What?  I'll get you it.  It's okay.  Stop
crying."  I wiped a tissue over her cheeks and eyes.  "If it's
what?"
     "If it's yours.  Waaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh--"
     Oh no.  This was not good.  I mentally kicked myself for not
taking precautions against precisely this sort of thing.
     "But Howard--"
     "I love Howard.  But he doesn't love me."
     What she said was true.  My brother was in love.  But not with
Karen, the real person.  He was in love with a feeling, an idea.
Probably just endorphins.  I *had* noticed he hadn't been eating
much chocolate lately.
     "I want him to love ME.  Help me, Rich.  Won't you help me?
Please??  I know you help *him*.  Can't you do the same for me?"
   I thought about this for a moment.  Heck, what could it hurt?
Besides, I was curious to try a few things. . .
     "Okay, but you have to do exactly what I say, okay?"
     "Okay."
     "You know that tape my brother has?  That porno tape?"
"Which one?"
     "It's called 'Miss Directed'.  It's up there; you'll find it."
    "Okay, what do I do with it?  Those movies don't turn me on. At
all."
     "I know.  No one gets hurt."
     "Very funny.  I can't help it if, if--"
     "If your tastes run a little extreme?  If you've got a vanilla
boyfriend and you're pistachio ripple surprise?"
     She laughed.  "Okay, I'll find the tape.  Then what do I do?"
    "Well, watch the movie.  You'll find a scene where one of the
girls says 'I need more footage'.  Then she goes down on another
girl until the other girl comes."
     "Oh yeah, she squirts all over the place."
     "So you do know it."
     "I remember it.  But that stuff with lesbians does nothing for
me.  Nothing."
     "That's okay.  It doesn't matter.  This is what you do:  queue
the tape up to that part with the two girls.  Then be up in bed,
waiting for Howard to come home.  As he's coming up the stairs,
start the tape, and then pretend to, well, make like you're playing
with yourself."
     "Rich."
     "Well, you asked.  You wanted to know-- Close your eyes and
pretend it's footage of Nazi war atrocities, or whatever--"
"Rich, do you think it's weird that you can talk to me like this?"
     "You're an odd bird, Karen.  Nothing would surprise me--"
 "Okay, so I do what you say.  Then what?"
     "Well, my brother will wait at the door until you're done--"
    "He won't barge in and ravage me?"
     "Nope.  Not right away, at least."
     "And this will make him fall in love with me?"
     "Just do it."
     "But why?  I wanna know why.  Why will this work?"
     "All right, what it'll do is show my brother that the same
things turn you on that turn him on.  That you're not a psycho--"
    "--Bitch from Hell?"
     "Er, yeah.  He'll know that when your eyes glaze over in class
that you're daydreaming about the same things he is, he'll know
that when you close your eyes and throw your head back you're
sharing his thoughts as well as everything else.  He'll think
you're kindred spirits.  In fact, he may never *stop* thinking
about you.  We may not want something quite so, quite so--"
"Too late.  I'm gonna do it."
     "Just leave my toothbrush alone, okay?"
     She laughed and blushed slightly.  "How long have you known--"
    "Since you started."
     "And it really didn't bother you?"
     "Why should it?"  I pulled an Oral-B out of my pocket.  "This
is *my* toothbrush."


                  KAREN--PETA TO THE MAX
     We were watching Michael Jackson's new "Black or White" video.
Karen and Howard were not impressed.  I, however, was mesmerized.
    "All right," I said.  "So the guy's odd.  But he sure can
move."
     "IN BED!" said Karen.
     "For a white guy," said my brother.
     Howard had some study group or another to attend, so he headed
back to campus.  Karen walked into the kitchen, made some microwave
popcorn and came back out.  She was wearing only a long Penn  t-
shirt that went to just above her knees.  She set the bowl of
popcorn down next to me on the carpet and sat down, cross-legged,
her neatly-painted toenails peeking out from under the shirt, which
she had stretched down over her as she sat.
     "Rich, can I ask you something?" she said.
     "What's on your mind?"
     "I can't believe I'm asking you this.  It's kind of
embarrassing, really.
     "What could you say to me that could possibly be
embarrassing?"
     Her face was lowered.  She was concentrating on removing all
the unpopped kernels from the bowl.
     "Do you think you could get me any movies with animals?"
"Animals?" I said, knowing full well what she meant, but hey, fun's
fun.
     "You know--and girls.  Girls and animals.  Together."
     "Anything specific in mind?"
     "Dogs'd be the best.  Nice dogs.  Big dogs.  Great Danes,
Dobermans. . ."
     "Pit Bulls?"
     "I don't think a pit bull would work.  I think they're too
short.  Farm stuff'd be good, too.  Ponies, pigs, whatever they
have on a farm."
     "You've given this some thought, eh?"
     She was forming the unpopped kernels into patterns on the
carpet in front of her.  Stars, moons, genitalia. . .
     "Well, it's my latest kick.  That one tape you gave me is
yesterday's news."
     "Yeah, I can get them.  But it won't be cheap."
     "How much?"
     "Two hundred bucks a tape."
     She extended her hand.  "Deal," she said, as I shook her hand.
Must be nice, I thought.  Must be nice.
     "Why animals?  Did you ever--"
     "Well, not really.  When I was seventeen, my first boyfriend
had this really nice dog.  I don't remember what kind, but it was
really nice.  We had been fooling around in his basement one day
and the dog wandered in and--"
     "And?"
     "I let him lick me.  It was no big deal."
     "You didn't do--"
     "No.  I wasn't so bold then.  I kinda wish I could go back
there now.  I'd do some things. . ."
     So I got her the tapes and made $1600 bucks.

                         PSYCH
So, describe her already, wouldja?

     All right then, I will.  Start with Laurie Anderson.  Her face
reminds me a lot of Laurie Anderson.  Only without that dopey grin
that Ms. Anderson always seems to wear.  And without those
chipmunk-ey cheeks.  Karen's cheekbones are higher and more
pronounced.  And Karen wouldn't be caught dead in one of those
white suits either.  Her eyes are like Sinead O'Connor's, very blue
and very clear.  She has a short sharp shock of dirty blonde hair
and her ears are improbably small, as are her teeth.  Her eyebrows
are near-invisible;  they almost seem to be an afterthought, which
I find odd since I know she does nothing with them. Add a dash of
Karen Finley and Kathy Acker for attitude and there you are.
But it is her neck that fascinates me the most.  The whole line of
her neck, from behind her ears down to her collarbones is
preternaturally delicate.  It reminds me of Audrey Hepburn's. And
the hair on the back of her neck forms a fine V that stops just
before the top of her spine.
     When she walks around without a shirt I am reminded of Edie
Sedgewick in 'Ciao, Manhattan'.  Though Karen's breasts are smaller
than Edie's they are very round and very high.  Sometimes it seems
as if she has conscious control over them, like the headlights of
a Corvette.
     She also reminds me of Roseanna Arquette and Ellen Barkin, two
actresses that look absolutely nothing alike.  But I find they both
have a quality that whenever I watch them in something I don't even
like to blink, for fear of missing something interesting.  Their
every move onscreen fascinates.  Karen is similar in that
everything she says, whether it be idle chat about the weather or
more personal talk, seems to be fresh and interesting.  Something
in her phrases or choices of words.  Or it could just be the fact
that I am in love with her.

------------------------------------------------------------------
     "Goddammitall," she said, the other day, throwing her bookbag
across the room.  "Fuck!"
     "All right," I said.  "I'll bite.  What's wrong?"  I had a
strong feeling that her anger was feigned, that she had a story she
wanted to tell me, but wanted it to seem as if I'd specifically
asked her to tell me it.  This was one of Karen's biggest passive-
aggressive tricks, but I always went for it, because her stories
never disappointed.
     She jumped up on the couch, stretched out, and started hunting
for the remote control for the tv.  "Psych 100," she said.  "Fuck,
I could just scream."  Then, she screamed.
     Then Howard walked in, back from class.  As he walked into the
kitchen"Oh my God, Rich.  Karen, tell him what happened in psych.
It was infuckingcredible.  Want a Pop-Tart?"
     Karen took a breath and said, "Yeah.  Heat it up first.  Well,
there was a lecture today on the Zimbardo shock experiment.  And I
was really into it, right--"
     "Yeah, I remember."  I said.
     "I showed up late so I couldn't sit next to Howard and had to
sit in the back.  Well, the whole class there were these two moron
fratboys sitting behind me.  "
     "I saw them," said Howard, coming out of the kitchen with a
plate of frosted brown-sugar cinnamon Pop-Tarts and a half gallon
of milk.  "They were huge."
     "Well, the whole lecture, they were having this loud debate on
why Catholic girls like to give head so much."
     "Hmmmm."
     Karen started in on her Pop-Tart, first breaking off the four
unfrosted edges and setting them on the plate.  Howard did the
same.  He got that from her.
     "Well, it was really pissing me off, but no one around them
would say anything.  So finally, I turned to them around and said,
"Well if you two really want to know, why don't you ask *me*?  I
guess they figured I was flirting or something because then one guy
says, all patronizing and shit 'All right, tell us, why do you
Catholic girls like to give head so much?'  So now, like, everyone
in my row and the row behind me is completely ignoring the lecture
and only listening to me, so I say, sweet as can be, 'Well, sugar.
What girl could bear to look at meatball like you in the face?'"
   "You didn't."
     Howard said, "Yup, she did.  Next thing you know, the whole
back of the class was cracking up, which really pissed off the
prof, cause I guess this is his coolest lecture."
     "Yup," I said.  "He just loves that shock experiment thing.
You'll hear about it all year."
     Howard said, "Wait, it gets better."
     "Better?  No way.  That was classic."
     "Well, like she said," said Howard.  "The prof was pretty
pissed with this whole big disruption and all, so he says, just
like we were in high school, 'If something back there is amusing,
I'm sure the whole class would be interested.  Please, share it."
    "He said that."
     "Sure did."
     "So what'd you do?"
     "I couldn't let down my fans now, could I?"
     "Oh no."
     "So I stood up and told the prof exactly what happened, just
like I told you."
     "Oh man.  What happened to the fratboys?"
     "They left.  I think one managed to call me a dyke on the way
out.  I blew him a kiss.  So then the prof played it really cool,
right.  He switched from a lecture on the shock experiment to a
different one about social norms and how hard it is to break them,
and he used *me* as an example.  It was so cool."


                SEEMS LIKE OLD TIMES
     Somehow my brother had managed to score some dope of the kind
that I hadn't seen around in almost 5 years.  We're talking KILL.
ER.  MTV was on but the sound was off.  Howard pulled out some
papers.  We were sitting cross-legged, on the carpet, in front of
the tv.
     "Screw that," I said.  "Grab the bong."  He did.
     I filled it, but just enough for one good hit.  That Wilson
Philips song 'Hold On' came on.
     "All right," said Karen, as I took the first hit.  "Quick top
ten list."
     "Topic?" asked Howard.
     "Top ten things heard at a Wilson Philips party, after Chynna
and Wendi have gone outside to make out with their boyfriends."
  I half-laughed, half-choked, and passed the bong to my brother.
     "Excellent," I said.  "Number 10--Such a pretty face."
Karen said, "9--a great personality."
     My brother scored big with "She writes *all* the songs you
know."
    But Karen topped it with "Brian was the most talented."
Karen did her hit and I said  "She was a champion swimmer in grade
school, you know."
    "What number is that?" asked Karen, whose eyes were already
mere slits.
     "Number two--," said Howard,  "Where's Chynna.  Where's
Wendi?"
     "All right," I said.  "And the number one thing overheard at
the Wilson Philips blah blah blah--" Howard drummed a little on the
carpet.  "Got any blow?"
    "Careful," I said, as the bong teetered precariously from the
encouragement of my brother's foot.
     Howard was the first to say it.  "I am stoned."
     "How much of this did you get?" asked Karen.
     "Just an ounce.  Should last for a while at this rate."
This was clearly true.
     "Mariah Carey," said Karen, who then stuck her finger down her
throat.  The 'Emotion' video was on.  "Turn the sound up, How," I
said.
     "You don't *like* her, do you?" asked Karen.
     "Gimme a break.  I just wonder if she hits those notes on her
back, too."
     "Figures."
     "Wait," said Karen, her eyes opening suddenly.  She turned the
sound down on Mariah.  "I've got an idea.  I've got to say it now,
because I only think of it when I'm stoned, you know?"
     "It's not that 'thought' again, is it?" said Howard.
     "No, now shush."
     That 'thought' that Howard brought up was what Karen liked to
call "the thought that thinks itself.  A few times before, when
Karen has done whippets while stoned we noticed she would drift
away from the rest of us, her eyes would glaze over, and she would
look frightened.  It turned out to be the dreaded 'thought that
thinks itself' and it would have Karen's brain spinning, spinning
in on itself for hours at a time.
     "Now," said Karen.  "This may only seem important because I'm
stoned, but I was thinking, you know how sometimes when you're
alone, maybe, you'll just kind of drift off.  It's not a daydream,
really.  It's more like a different way of thinking.  You kind of
see the whole world as a large system.  Or something.  And
everything seems kind of small and pathetic."
     "Sounds like clinical depression," said Howard.
     "No, it never lasts very long.  It's a weird thing.  It seems
like there's a weird hum, or vibration associated with it.  It
happens a lot when I'm reading.  It reminds me of getting stoned,
but not really.  It's weird, it's a kind of thought, a different
way of thinking--"
     "I do know what you're talking about," I said.  "It's weird,
I've never actually heard anyone talk about it.  Or read anything
about it. Which is odd, I guess.  Wait.  Lemme make sure we're
talking about the same thing--It's a thought, a kind of thought,
only there's a very real physical sensation attached to it, a kind
of hum, or vibration.  It seems like something very personal,
almost embarrassing to talk about, for some reason.  Sort of like
being caught masturbating."
     "Unintentionally," Karen added, and we all laughed.  For
different reasons.
     "All right, so now we know what you're talking about, so what
do you make of it?"
     "Well, what if it's something important, something basic about
consciousness, or how language works."
     "An epiphenomenon of self-awareness," said my brother.  "A
side effect, if you will."
     His phrasing sounded so preposterous that I was forced to
refill the bong.
     "Remember when all the pot was like this," I said.
     "Nope."
     "Uh uh."
     "Well it was.  Way back there in those heady days of the early
'80's."
     "What is it," asked Karen.  "Just more thc?"
     "I think this stuff is laced with a little opium.  Seems to be
a more physical high."
     Karen said, "It's in my face, it's in my chest, my *knees*. My
fucking *knees*.  I tell you, my knees have never been stoned
before."
     Howard took another hit.  He was completely blind.
     "I think we've lost How," said Karen, who pulled his head down
across her thigh.  I think he was asleep before he landed.
     "I'm afraid so," I said.
     "So anyway," said Karen.  "What I said, does it mean anything,
or does it just seem profound because I'm high."
     "I think you're astonishing," I said.
     "Ooooh, say that again," said Karen.  "It gave me a chill."
   "I find you absolutely astonishing."
     "Oh God, there it goes again," she said.  "I think I better
put this one to bed."
     "I'm gonna throw in some French bread pizzas, want any?"
"Oh God yes.  How long will that take?"
     "In the toaster oven. . .Half hour."
     "There any cookies in there?  For in the meantime?"
     "Yeah, Pepperidge Farm Sausalitos.  And we've still got all
that Haggen-Dasz strawberry--"
     "Bingo."

                        TRUTH OR DARE

     We play lots of games over here, but the only time I am ever
really concerned is when Karen gets the urge to play 'Truth or
Dare'.  Invariably, she will push things just a little too far, ask
questions whose answers lie a bit too close to the bone.  The last
time we played, there was Howard, myself, Karen, and two girls and
a guy that Karen knew through her Fine Arts classes.  One of the
girls, Maria, a dusky Spanish jewel, I'd had the good fortune to
have seen for a month or so earlier in the year.  We had spent most
of the evening drinking wine, smoking some dope, talking about
everything from art to music to pornography to what it was about
John Malkovich that girls liked.   Karen was very giddy.  She had
kept up with the rest of us on the wine, glass for glass, despite
the fact that she weighed little more than half what I or my
brother weigh(my brother and I have near identical physiques).  MTV
was on and the sound was off.Howard put in Steely Dan's 'Aja' cd
and Karen suggested we play a few games.  Erin, a rail-thin but
pretty artist with stringy brown hair and a fondness for peasant
skirts, and Maria, the Spanish girl, and Josh, a too-handsome
junior with curly, Einstein-wild hair and paint-smeared jeans,
looked skeptical, but didn't want to seem chicken, so they seconded
her motion.  We started with a little Jeopardy.  I offered the
first clue.
     "Fisting an old stank-ho," I said.
     Howard and Karen laughed.  Josh screwed up his face.  Erin
said "Fisting?  You mean like--"
    Josh made a fist and whispered into her ear at the same time he
mimed an upward fisting motion.
    Erin shook her head and whispered something to Maria, whose
dark, Spanish eyes seemed to constantly dart about the room.  But
before Erin could say anything to her, Maria said, "I know, I
*know* what it is."
     As Steely Dan sang about a guy named Deacon Blues Erin and
Maria lit up a couple of Marlboro Lights.  Howard produced an
ashtray and a pin-joint (Why *did* he insist on rolling them like
that?!).  Erin took a deep drag of her cigarette, exhaled, gestured
toward the joint that Howard had placed before him and said, "Hey,
that is some serious pot."  This struck everyone as being utterly
hilarious and we laughed while Karen asked, "What's the category,
Rich.  You gotta tell us the category."
     So I said, "Philosophy and Religions of the Far East."
Almost instantly Karen said "Sheesh, why don't you just *give* it
away at the same time Erin and Maria and Josh said, "Huh?"
Karen said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world,
"Fisting an old stank-ho.  What is the sound of one hand getting
the clap?"
     It took almost a minute for it to kick in, but when it did it
hit with a vengeance.
     "No way," said Josh.  "How the fuck did you get that?
Unbefuckinglievable."
     "Impressive," said Maria, who was moving her shoulders to the
music.  'Josie' was the song.
     ". . .she prays like a Roman with her eyes on fire."
     It was clear to everyone there exactly who Steely Dan was
talking about.
     "You must have known that one," said Erin.  "There's no way--"
    "I think our friends are doubting the veracity of your guess,
hon," said Howard, as only he can.
     "Bullshit," said Karen, a little miffed.  "I'll tell you
exactly what made me think of it.  When he first said it, I had no
clue.  I just thought it was just some kind of sick joke."
     Erin and Josh nodded.
     "Then he said Religion and Philosophy of the Far East.  So
right away I'm thinking Buddhism, Zen Buddhism.  And as soon as I
think Zen I'm thinking koans, right?  Now the most widely-known
koan of them all is that sound of one hand clapping one.  So once
that was in my head, well, the rest was cake.  I also know Rich has
a weakness for puns. . ."
     "Oh," said Josh, with mock anger.  "Well there you go.
Weakness for puns.  If we had only known. . ."
     "Yeah, right," said Erin.  "Sure."
     "It's still amazing," said Maria.
     I felt very strange.  Could this tiny waif-like girl's thought
processes be that close to my own?  It's one thing to locate a part
of yourself in another--that is a prerequisite to love--but to find
so much of yourself congruent with another--this is frightening.
     "New game."
     "Let's do that Truth game," said Karen.  She was talking about
the game we had seen in the movie 'Metropolitan', where a penny is
placed on a napkin and suspended over a glass.  Everyone takes
turns poking a hole in the napkin.  Whoever the penny falls in on
has to answer any question that someone asks with absolute honesty.
It's a pretty scary game, especially with people that knew each
other as well as we did.
     "Karen, someone always gets hurt.  Try something else."
"Truth or Dare?" said Erin.
     "Oooo, yeah," said Karen.  "Even better."
     I found a bottle of Stoli in the back of the freezer, poured
a shot into a Dixie Cup, and we were ready to start.
     "I don't know if this is such a good idea," said Josh, running
a hand through his curly brown hair.
     "Oh, come on," said Erin, nudging his thigh with her knee.
"It'll be fun."
     I looked at Karen.  I could tell she was thinking what I was.
We'd both been watching Erin's body language and it had seemed, all
night, that she was behaving just a bit too friendly toward Josh.
This last nudge with the knee had confirmed it.  This was something
she would be looking to exploit once the game started.
     "Okay, let's go," said Karen.  "We all know the rules.  I'll
start."
     Erin said, "Truth or dare, Karen?"
     "Dare."
     Josh, not really meaning it, said, "Show us your tits."
In a flash Karen had lifted up her t-shirt and had instantly raised
the stakes of the game.
     Maria sat up, smoothed her skirt under her legs, and sat back
down.  "Waitamin--", she said, not liking the direction the game
had already taken.
     "Put them away, Karen.  Jeez.  I was just kidding.  I didn't
think she'd actually--"
     "Could we just move a little slower, please?"  said Maria,
quickly downing the contents of the Dixie cup and refilling it.
"You only have to drink if you refuse your turn." said Karen.
"I know.  Go on."
     "Truth or Dare, Howard?" I said.
     "Truth."
     Howard had been going for truths of late, ever since he and
Karen had been dared to have sex in the back of a taxi, while
tooling around town.  They did.
     Maria said, "Do you honestly love Karen?"
     "That's too easy," said Erin.  "Try this:  Who do you love
more.  Your brother or your girlfriend?"
     "Still easy, but go ahead."
     Howard thought a moment, then said, "Gotta go with the big guy
on this one.  Hey, I've known him a bit longer--"  Karen smiled and
played with her shoelace.
     Josh said, "Truth or Dare, Maria?"
     Maria slammed back another shot, took a deep drag and said,
"Dare.  No no no, truth.  No, dare.  All right, truth."
     Karen said, "Tell us about the last time you made it?"
As Maria began to answer, Karen added, "with another girl?"
"Ooooh, yeah."
     Mariah picked up the Dixie Cup and there was a chorus of:
 "No, don't pass."
     "Come on."
     "Just do it."
     She said, "What if I was never with --"
     Howard said, "We'd know you were lying or you would have said
that right away."
     "Shit," she said.  "Shit shit shit shit."  She stubbed out her
cigarette and lit another.  Howard lit up the joint, took a drag
and passed it to Karen, on his right.
      "All right, I'll tell you.  It doesn't bother me.  It was no
big deal.  I met someone at a dance.  We had lunch a few times.
Went to another dance.  Slept over her place that night.  Like I
said, it was no big deal." I took a hit off the joint.  I would
regret that decision shortly.
     "Bzzzt," said Karen.  "It doesn't count unless you use the
word 'vulva'."
     "All right," said Maria.  "And she had a vulva."
     "Hsssssss."
     "Bo-ring."
     The turn was about to move to Josh when she added, rather
sheepishly,  "A nice one."
     "Hel-lo," said Howard.
     "Now you're getting it," said Josh.
     Wow, I thought, with just that simple phrase she had instantly
turned a banal story into what would surely become masturbation
fodder for more than a few of us there.  As I looked around I
thought I could actually see the scenario forming in Josh's head.
And Karen's.
     Maria said, "I just, I just don't talk that way.  I'm sorry."

     "No need to apologize, said Karen.  "But we do wish you'd
define 'nice vulva'."
     Karen, looked over at the tv.  Motley Crue's 'Home Sweet
Home'(the new video version) was on.  Karen paused the cd and
turned up the sound on the tv, all via the big universal remote
control she kept next to her.  She said, "I love this song.  Vince
Neil is so sexy.  Look how he moves his hips under that long shirt
thingee.  Ooo, I just *love* that."
     "That *is* hot," I said.
     "Rich," said Josh, who we all knew was bi, "I thought you were
strictly--"
     "Hey," I said.  "Sexy is sexy.  As for me, did you know I was
a vegetarian?"
     "Huh?"
     "Sometimes," I said, nicking a line I'd heard somewhere
before, in a different context.  "It depends what I'm eating."
 "Touche," said Josh, self-consciously tucking his t-shirt into his
jeans.
     The video ended.  Sound was restored to the stereo.
     Howard said, "I'm still curious about this here vulva."
Maria's face was flushed.  Josh said, imitating a horny adolescent,
"Yeah, was it smooth and shiny and slippery and--"      "Oh, leave
her alone," said Erin, grabbing Josh's left arm.      "Oh, all
right."
     "Besides, it's *your* turn now."
     "Truth or Dare."
     "Dare."
     Karen said, "Hold on," and got up and went into the kitchen.
She returned with an empty bottle of olive oil.  Josh paled a
little.  "W-what's that for?"
     "It's been a while since anyone's been to the bathroom.  I
know *I* have to pee."
     "*My* eyes are floating," said Erin.
     Karen handed Josh the bottle.  "Go ahead," she said.
     "It doesn't bother me," said Josh, opening a few buttons on
his button-fly jeans.  "I can piss anywhere."  He slid his left
hand in and fumbled around for a second or two.  Then the neck of
the bottle disappeared into the fly of his jeans as well.
"Oh no," said Erin, shaking her head, "That doesn't count."  She
looked at Karen.  "Does it?"
     "Nope.  Erin's right.  We want to see some meat!"
     "Fair's fair, Josh," said Maria.
     Josh set the bottle down on the carpet in front of him.  He
got up on his knees and slid a finger and thumb into his jeans.
When his cock appeared, Maria gave a short, shrill scream.  Karen
clapped, slowly, self-consciously.
     "Oooo, a *nice* one," said Karen.
     Erin watched, mesmerized, as the bottle began to fill with
amber urine.  After about a minute, the stream waned.  Josh
squeezed out a last couple of drops and buttoned himself back up.
    "You're next, eh?" he said, looking at Erin and swirling around
the contents of the bottle."
     "I gotta go," said Erin, up and already halfway to the
bathroom.  Everyone relieved themselves, the olive oil bottle was
disposed of, and we reassembled.
     "Truth or Dare, Erin?" asked Josh.
     "Truth."
     "Will you come with me after we leave here?" he asked.      As
Erin said "Sure" I saw Maria cast a glance over at me and it soon
became clear that we were going to have to make a decision soon.
I sat back, hoping that the answer would come during the game.
     "Truth or dare, Rich?"
     I looked around.
     "Well?"
     "Dare."
     Karen said, "Oooh, I've got a good one."
     As she said that, I lost my breath.
     "I want to watch you. . .masturbate."
     "All right," said Erin.
     "Cool beans."
     "Go for it, Rich." said Josh.  "Aim away, though."
     "But," added Karen, "not the way you do now.  But the way you
used to do when you were twelve."
     Shit, I thought.  The other day we'd been sitting around,
talking very casually about various things and it was revealed that
when I first made this 'masturbation' discovery, my technique was
much different than just 'jerking off'.
     "I've never actually done this in front of an audience."
"But--" said Howard.
     "At least not where I was the only act."
     "Ha ha."
     "Josh peed," said Erin.  "Oh go on, it can't be that ha--"
  "Erin!  You've hit the nail right on the head."  Everyone
laughed.
     "Well, try, at least."
     I got up from the floor and sat in a comfy chair.  "Now
everyone has to be quiet."  Howard started fiddling with the remote
and Josh popped in some microwave popcorn.  He yelled out, "Wait
till the popcorn's done."
     I put my palm on my dick through my jeans and started rubbing
slowly.  I mentally kicked myself for not going easier on that pot.
Luckily I hadn't had that much wine.  "I don't know, guys. . ."
  Erin said, "Oh, just do it.  I've never seen a guy play with
himself.
     Josh emerged from the kitchen with a bowl of popcorn.
"Never?" he said to Erin, who shook her head.
     Erin walked on her knees to Maria and whispered something in
her ear.  Maria got up and walked over towards me.  She kneeled
beside the chair.  She placed her left hand on the inside of my
thigh and said, "You never had this problem before. . ."
     She slid her hand up under my balls.  She smiled and added,
"If you don't count that time--"
     "Hey hey hey," I said.  Maria unzipped my jeans and slid her
hand inside.  I closed my eyes.
     "So you finally did it with a girl, eh?" I said so only she
could hear it.  She nodded.  Sleeping with another girl was
something she had told me she was curious about while I was seeing
her.
     "And how was it?"
     "It was great.  Totally hot."
     "So did I turn you off of men forever?"
     "Hardly.  It was just something that I knew was going to
happen sooner or later."
     "What did you do with her?  Tell me."
     "Everything."  She increased her ministrations, feeling me
respond.
     "Everything?  Did you use, did you--"  I curled my hand into
a fist.  She nodded.
     "It was sooo hot.  If I just picture it in my head I'll get
wet instantly.  In fact, I'm pretty--"
     With my lefty foot I kicked off my right shoe and slid my foot
under her skirt, up along her thigh until I felt the soft fullness
of her panties.
     "Hey,"  she said, re-arranging herself "cut that out.  This is
your dare."  She pulled my penis out through my fly and said,
imitating Raoul Julia in that Addams Family commercial,  "It's
showtime."
     Erin said, "All right," and Howard shushed her.
     I pulled my t-shirt out of my jeans and pulled the bottom of
it taut with my left hand.  I unwrapped Maria's hand, took my cock
in my right hand and, shifting it from right to left, rubbed the
head against the inside of my t-shirt.  I gasped at the
excruciating pleasure.  I hadn't done it like this in over a
decade.
     I whispered to Maria, "Remember the first time we did it?"
  "Of course."
     "Tell me," I said, leaning forward, rubbing my cockhead in
circles against the fabric of my shirt.  Resonances of long-
submerged memories were making themselves known in my mind.  I
remembered how important different textures were to me then.  I
remembered I had two favorite shirts--favorites because their
material produced the best orgasm.  I remembered how the bedsheets
would become matted and crinkly.  I remembered how, just before
ejaculation, I had to make that decision on whether or not to pull
my shirt away(sucky) or just keep going(not sucky), throwing
caution to the wind.
     "Well," said Maria, just to me.  "It was on that blue couch
you used to have.  We were watching MTV."
     "What video?"
     "I don't remember, exactly.  I just remember it was a song I
liked."
     "It was 'Billie Jean'."
     "My God, you're right it was."  She placed the palm of her
hand right below my navel and started rubbing it in circles.
 "Then you did that thing with your neck, like you wanted a
backrub, so you put a pillow on my lap and lay down on your folded
hands.  I started rubbing your neck--you *were* tense--and worked
my way down to your ribcage, gradually touching the sides of your
breasts through your t-shirt.  This was kind of a big deal since
we'd only gone out a few times, right?"
     "Uh-huh."
     "Soon, when I was cupping both of your breasts completely you
said 'My lower back, too.'  I pulled your shirt out of those jeans
of yours-'Chic', I think."
     "Uh-huh."
     "Yeah, I remember that 'natural woman' song," I said.  "I was
rubbing your lower back.  I remember your skin was so cool--
gradually I worked my way under the waistband.  I remember how
disappointed I felt when I realized that your jeans were so tight.
But then you remember what you did next?  Remember?"
     "Uh-huh."
     "Tell me."
     "I reached a hand down and unbuttoned and unzipped my jeans."
    "Yeah.  Why?  Tell me why you did that."
     "So you could get your hands in farther.  It felt *really*
good."
     "I thought that was about the sexiest thing I'd ever seen
anyone do.  Well, then I had both hands on your buttcheeks.  I
couldn't get over how cool and soft your skin was there, especially
after being in those tight jeans all day."
     "I'm a cool person."
     "I'll say.  Then, I worked my right hand lower and lower,
remember?"
     "Oh yeah."
     "Do you remember my pinkie?"
     "Yup."
     "What did I do with it?"
     "You put it in my butt."
     "Had anyone ever done that to you before?"
     "Nope."
     "But you didn't say anything."
     "I wanted to see what you were going to do with me."
     I really liked how she sid 'with me' just then and felt the
beginnings of an orgasm in the base of my penis.
     "Then I took my pinkie out, remember?"
     "Yup."
     "How did you feel?"
     "A little disappointed."
     "Mmmm.  Then I dipped the tips of my other fingers through the
wetness of your slit and transferred the moisture to my thumb,
right?"
     "Uh-huh.  My heart was really going--"
     "I remember.  Then I slowly twisted that thumb into your ass,
until it was all the way in.  I put two fingers into your pussy--
you were *so* wet--"
     "I am."
     "Then what did I do?"
     "You, you--"  Her breathing had changed.  "You pinched me."
   "What did I pinch?"
     "With your thumb and your fingers--"
     "You remember what it's called?"
     "The pe, per, perneum?"
     "Close enough.  Maria, grab me a couple paper towels, would
you?" I managed to say. My orgasm was at that happy place where it
was within conscious control.  I knew it was there and it wasn't
going anywhere.  "Ready, gang?"
     Josh said, "Go for it."  Erin, I think, shushed him.  Maria
returned and put the towels next to me on the chair between me and
an armrest.
     "Here.  It.  Comes."  I heard Karen say "Oooh" as I came into
my shirt, which I wiped off with and then took off.  A fine patina
of sweat covered my chest and my breath was very quick and shallow.
    "Excellent," said Erin, who was doing her clapping thing again.
     "Game over?" I said.
     "Typical guy," said Karen.  "Typical."
     Maria said, "Rich, I--"
     "You're gonna stay, right?"
     She nodded.
     We waved to Josh and Erin as they got into her car.


                              FIGHT
     They fight bitterly.  And often.  But always about stupid
things:  Why it's better to have a birthday in the summer than the
fall; who would win if Bruce Lee fought Worf; why "The Crying of
Lot 49" is better than "Vineland"...  The fights are so bitter
because there is nothing really at stake; it's foreplay if
anything. But they have a foolproof method for coming down off
these fight-highs.  The last fight before break was about whether
more people had finished "Foucault's Pendulum" (Howard) or had
stayed awake through "My Dinner With Andre"(Karen).  The tail end
of the fight went something like this.
*Punch!*
*Slap!*
*Biff!*
*Pow*
"Asshole!"
"Bitch!"
"Whore!"
"Slut!"
It was Howard who started the ball rolling downhill:
"Hussy!"
"Libertine!"
"Harlot!"
"Rake!"
"Jezebel! Dirty Jezebel!"
"Dandy!"
"Filthy Trollop!"
"Fop!"
"Cunt!"
At that point I thought How had won, but...
"Dullard.  Oafish Dullard."
"You really think I'm a dullard?"
"Oh Howard..."
Then I was asked to break the tie.
"Well," I said.  "Since I did manage to finish the book, and since
no one on the planet has made it through "My Dinner With Andre..."
"I did."
"No, you didn't."
"I *did*.  I had to do two lines of crank in the ladies' room when
they started talking about his electric blanket, but I made it
through."
"But that was the *best* part.  All right then how did it end?"
"Well, I--  Well, how did "Foucault's Pendulum" end?"
"Anyone hungry?"


                     KAREN:  DREAMS OF PROMS #1
           "Mom, Dad, I want you to meet my date for the prom:
Flavor Flav."
     Flav slid his sunglasses up until they were just over his
forehead and smiled.
     Karen's mom fainted immediately.
     Karen's father extended his hand.
     "Yeah, boyeeeeeeeeeeee," said Flav, bending his knees inward
until they touched and touching the heel of his left hand behind
his back to his left shoulderblade and extending his right hand
straight into the air, "Apocalypse '91 and Public Enemy is
bumrushing that old recipe." Then, he rapped:
     "It's Flavor Flav on the microphone,
     I'm on your daughter like a dog on a bone.
     I'll devastate her sphincter muscle,
     And I got better rhymes than, than,....help me on this one,
Doll..."
     Karen and Flav said, in unison, "than Nipsey Russel," then
exchanged high fives.  "Yeah, boyeeeeeeeeeeeee."
     Karen's dad then joined his wife on the floor as Flav led
Karen into the back of his limo.

                     KAREN:  DREAMS OF PROMS #2
     "Mom, Dad, i want you to meet my date for the prom, Gordon
Gano."
     Gano extended his hand and Karen's father shook it, letting
out a huge sigh of relief at the same time.
     "Have fun, you two," said Karen's mom, turning and heading to
the kitchen.  "I have to check my pot roast."
     "Don't rub it all over your chest this time," said Karen's
dad, smiling at some private memory.
     "Gordon's a musician, Daddy."
     "I've been known to pull out my sax once in awhile myself,"
said Karen's father, warming to Gano.
     "He's a singer in a group."
     "Which one," asked Karen's father, who had prided himself on
keeping 'in touch' with his daughter's musical tastes.
     "The Violent Femmes, Sir."
     "Violet Femmes?  That's an odd name, isn't it?"
     "Violent.  Violent Femmes."
     "What kind of music do you play, son?"
     "Hold on, Dad.  He'll show you."  She disappeared for a minute
and return with an old acoustic guitar, which she handed to Gano.
"Go on, Gord.  Play something nice."
     Then, in a voice of quavering psychotic gelatin, Gano played
and sang:
     "Why can't I get, just one kiss?
     Why can't I get, just one kiss?
     There are some things I wouldn't miss,
     But I look at your pants and, I need a kiss.
     <twangy guitar break>

     Why can't I get, just one screw?
     Why can't I get, just one screw?
     Believe me I'd know what to do,
     But something won't let me make love to you.

     Why can't I get, just one fuck?
     Why can't I get, just one fuck?
     Guess it's got something to do with luck,
     But I've waited my whole life for just one--

     Day, after day--"

     But Karen's father already lay in a heap on the floor.  Karen
and Gano turned to leave, just as Karen's mom began rubbing the pot
roast all over her chest.


                  TRUTH OR DARE--# 2

     Karen looked goofy, wearing Esprit everything:  maroon
terrycloth shorts and a pink sweatshirt.  Howard was leafing
through a Physician's Desk Reference, his new favorite book.  Maria
had plugged my brother's Les Paul into the stereo and was trying to
figure out the bass line to Stevie Wonder's "Sir Duke".

     [...Satch-a-mo, and the king of all Sir Duke,
      and with a voice like Ella's ringing out,
      there's no way the band can lose.
      You can feel it all o-a-o-ver...]

    Her fingers were flying, but she pulled the cord out of the
stereo and ejected the tape.
    "Too many damn sixteenth notes.  My fingers are fast enough but
my hand's just not strong enough.  Definitely not for a *real*
bass."
    Howard said, "You should try 'I want a new drug' or 'I can see
for miles'.  Major bass action."
    There was a knock.  Karen ran over and let in Josh and Erin.
Quickly, drinks were poured and a couple joints were moving around.
   "You two," said Maria, walking into the living room, in bare
feet and a black cotton skirt, "Never thought you'd--"
    "What?" said Erin, tossing her coat onto a chair.  "Why not?"
   "I don't know.  It just seemed so random the way you started
going out, and now you're all lovey-dovey."

    "Let's do best-worst," said Karen, pouring some orange juice
into a glass with some Absolut.
    "I'll start," said Erin, "The worst is when you've only seen
one episode of 'Mystery Science Theater 3000' in your whole life,
the one with all the motorcycles--"
    "Sidehackers," said Howard.
    "Yeah, that one.  And then, two years later, you happen to be
in a place that gets that comedy network, so you decide to watch
it, and it's that SAME GODDAMMED EPISODE!"
    "Yup, that's the worst."
    "Why does that happen?"
    "My guess is there's really only one episode, and they just
keep showing it."
    Josh took a drag off the joint, handed it to me and said, "The
best is when you're taking a pee, and you spit, and it splits right
in half because of the stream."
    "Oh really?" said Karen.  "I'll have to try that.  *NOT*."
Maria took a healthy drag and said, "Bridges."
    "Well," said Howard, the GW is okay but I like the Ben Franklin
right here in town."
    "You know what I mean."
    "How about that bridge to Taxi?" said Howard, who had recently
learned all the words.
    "Well, hang on," said Maria, heading to Howard's room to get
his acoustic.  Karen scowled, downed her screwdriver and poured
another.  Erin whispered something to Josh and he nodded his head.
I measured out equal parts triple-sec, lime juice, and Absolut into
a big, ice-filled pitcher,put the lid on it, shook it all up, and
brought it over with some glasses.
    Maria sat down cross-legged and played the beginning chords to
'Taxi', then went straight to the bridge,

    [ Whoa, I've got something inside me
      To drive a princess blind
      There's a wild man wizard, he's hiding in me
      Illuminatin my mind
      Whoa, I've got something inside me,
      Not what my life's about
      'Cos I've been letting my outside tide me
      Over 'till my time runs out.

      Baby's so high that she's skyin'
      Yes she's flying, afraid to fall.
      I'll tell you why baby's crying
      'Cos she's dying; aren't we all? ]

    "That's a good one.  What about 'Live and Let Die'?"
    Guns n Roses were on MTV.
    "Gosh MTV," said Karen.  "You think maybe we could see aNOTHER
Guns n Roses video?"
    Howard unmuted it just as Axl started in on the bridge:
    [ What does it matter to you?
      When you got a job to do, you got to do it well.
      You got to give the other fella hell--]

     Maria covered her ears with her hands.  "Ouch.  He *does*
sound like a coyote trapped in barbed wire fence."
    "All right," said Karen.  "Remember 'I'll stop the World and
Melt With You'?  Kick-ass bridge there."
    "Musical Youth?" said Erin.
    "Reggae.  Kids.  They did 'Pass the Dutchie'"
    "Cool song.  Modern English did 'Stop the World'.  Whole bridge
is built around these three notes."  She played them.  "The
future's...open wide."
     "I remember it from 'Valley Girl'."
     "The worst," said Howard, "has to be that Lionel Ritchie song
from 'White Knights', 'Say You, Say Me.'"
     "Is that the video where he seduces a blind girl?"
     "That was 'Hello'.  Ugh."
     "'Say you say me' is so bad because it starts out like a fast
song, then grinds to a halt with this preposterous 'you are a
shooting star' bit, then finishes as a slow song.  It's the worst."
    "The best," said Karen, "was when Bugs Bunny is crashing in
that airplane or spaceship or something and it stops just before it
hits the ground and he gets out, chews on a carrot and says, 'ran
outta gas'.  That was the coolest."
     "Hey," I said, "You remember Goofus and Gallant?"
     Goofus and Gallant was Howard's idea, and he was the
undisputed master.
     Josh shook his head.  Erin nudged him and said, "Oh you do
too.  It's a cartoon from 'Highlights for Children'.  I read it in
the dentist's office.  You know, it's got the same cover every
month and you open it up and go straight to the Goofus and Gallant
cartoon.  Goofus is the big dumb bully and Gallant is the all-
American, clean-cut--"
     "Okay, yeah," said Josh, "so how does this one work?"
     "Like this," said Karen.  "Goofu says, 'Let's fuck, BA-BEE'"
    Howard said, "Gallant says, 'My place or yours?'"
     Erin said, "I like this.  What about...Goofus says, 'I got ten
big inches of throbbing manmeat for ya, babe!'."
     "Gallant says, "My Maserati does 185"
     "Goofus says, 'Dyke.'"
     Howard said, "Gallant says, 'Maybe I'll see you at the pro-
choice march.'"
     "Wow, you're good," said Erin.
     "Goofus says, 'Who farted?'"
     "Gallant says, 'It's a beautiful night for a walk.  Shall
we?'"
     "Goofus says,  'You've got some big-ass jugs'."
     "Gallant says, 'I bet you'd make a wonderful mother'."
"Gimme a Goofus, any Goofus."
     "Goofus says, "You are soo fat.  What'd you eat--the
universe??!!"      "Gallant says, "You are everything to me."
     Maria said, "Goofus says, 'Buy your own damn rags.  Who do I
look like--Alan Fucking Alda??!!'"
     Howard didn't even have to think about it.  "Gallant says,
'I'll pick up some herbal tea and Haagen-Dasz, too.  Back in a
flash.'"
     Erin said, "What else do you do?"
     Karen refilled all our glasses from the kamikaze pitcher and
said, "Retrograde jokes."
     "Retrograde?" said Erin.
     "Punch lines first.  You have to figure out the joke."
Karen said, "Stvie Wonder doing a Rubik's Cube."
     Howard said, "What goes click, did I get it yet?  Click, did
I get it yet?  Click, did I get it yet?"
     Erin spit out some Kamikaze.  "Ouch."
     Josh said, "The guy sitting in front of Pee Wee Herman."
Erin said, "Ooh, what goes like this?" and started rubbing the back
of her head.
     "Nice.  Real nice."
     "Truth or Dare, then?" said Karen.
     Howard said, "I'll put on some tunes."  And then he was up,
fiddling through some cd's.

   [ Farewell to this land's cheerless marches
     hemmed in like a boar between arches ]

     "Haven't heard from Morrissey in awhile," said Josh.
   [ her very Lowness with her head in a sling
     I'm truly sorry-but it sounds like a wonderful thing ]
     Karen said, "Morrissey plus red meat equals..."
     "Got me."
     "Howard," said Karen.  "Grab the cd of 'Bona Drag', will you?"
    He did.
     "Morrissey plus red meat equals..." She showed us the cover.
     "Vanilla friggin' Ice.  My God."
     Pretty scary, eh?  C'mon, truth or dare."

   [ dear Charles, don't you ever crave
     to appear on the front of the Daily mail
     dressed in your Mother's bridal veil?
     ...
     has the world changed, or have I changed?
     has the world changed, or have I changed?
     ...
     life is very long, when you're lonely
     life is very long, when you're lonely ]

     "All right," said Josh.  "Truth or dare?"
     "Dare."
     "Show us your--"  Karen's sweatshirt was already halfway up
her ribcage.  "--Birthmark."
     Maria laughed.  Karen smoothed out her sweatshirt and pulled
the left side of her shorts down a little, revealing a pale brown
heart on the inside of her hip.
     "Cute," said Erin.
     "Truth or dare, Erin?"

   [ Panic on the streets of London
     Panic on the streets of Birmingham
     ...
     Burn down the Disco
     Hang the blessed D.J.
     Because the music that they constantly play
     IT SAYS NOTHING TO ME ABOUT MY LIFE ]

     "Hang the DJ's," said Howard.  "You gotta love Morrissey."
     "At least he's real," said Maria.

   [ Hang the blessed D.J.
     Because the music they constantly play
     ...
     Hang the D.J., Hang the D.J., Hang the D.J..
     Hang the D.J., Hang the D.J., Hang the D.J..
     HANG THE D.J., HANG THE D.J., HANG THE D.J.
     HANG THE D.J., HANG THE D.J., HANG THE D.J. ]

     "Quit stalling, Maria.  "We know you're not shy."

   [ Shyness is nice, but
     Shyness can stop you
     From doing all the things in life
     That you'd like to
     So, if there's something you'd
     like to try
     ASK ME-I WON'T SAY "NO"-HOW COULD I? ]

     Erin finished off her kamikaze and poured another.
     "Truth."
     Karen said, "Do you make Josh wear a condom?"  Josh was openly
bisexual.
     She leaned her head against his shoulder.  "He insists."
     "Awww."

   [ Spending warm, Summer days indoors
     Writing frightening verse
     To a buck-toothed girl in Luxembourg
     ASK ME, ASK ME ,ASK ME
     ASK ME, ASK ME ,ASK ME
     ...
     Because if it's not Love
     Then it's the Bomb
     That will bring us together ]

     "Maria?  Truth or Dare?"
     "Shit.  I wanted to ask Karen something.  But she never does
truths."
     "Go ahead, sweetness, ask me I won't say no how could I?"
 Maria poured herself some from the pitcher.
     "How come you hate me?"
     Erin nudged Josh and he nodded slightly.
     "Look, sweet--"
     "And stop calling me sweetness.  I hate that."
     "What do you want from me?  I don't much like girls anyway and
before you showd up I was the queen.  How could I not resent you?
With your guitars and your voice, what the hell do you expect--"
   "Karen,--"
     "No.  She asked.  And I don't hate you.  It's just hard for me
to not be in the spotlight, all right?  I have a big problem with
that."
     "Wow," sad Erin.  "Total buzzkill."
     "Fuck off."
     "Hey."  Howard lit up another joint and was passing it around.

     "All right," said Karen.  "I answered a truth.  You owe me a
dare."
     Maria drank some more and said, "All right.  Lemme pee first."
Soon she was back.
     "All right.  Dare."
     Karen said, "Two words.  Eat me."
     "Karen--"
     "I see how you look at me.  Come on, I want you to.  And I
don't even like girls.  Make me like it."  Karen got up and sat
down on the couch.
     "Rich--" Maria looked at me.
     "Go ahead.  Just don't fall in love."
     "Ha.  Not fucking likely." She lifted her skirt to her thighs
and walked over on her knees to the couch.  She reached up and
Karen lifted her hips and she slid down Karen's shorts and dropped
them beside her.
     "Oooh, nice," said Maria, running her hand along the inside of
Karen's thighs, pushing them apart slightly.  Then she seemed to
have an idea and sat up on the couch next to Karen.  She reached
one arm behind the half-naked girl and lifted off her sweatshirt
when Karen raised her arms.
     "You've got the best tits," said Maria, squeezing them
together and moving from one nipple to the other with her mouth,
finally teething across both of them.  Karen arched her back and
groaned.  Maria took a nipple between her teeth and stretched it
away from Karen as her hand rubbed circles on her belly,
occasionally sliding over her shaven mons.  Maria kissed Karen
behind her ear, down her neck, and over her scapula.  Karen
shivered.  Maria ran a hand over Karen's upper arm.
     "Look at all these goosebumps!"
     "I haven't felt like this since the first time I heard the
Faith album."
     Without taking my eyes off the scene, I quickly slipped in the
cd and came back.

     [ Well I guess it would be nice
       If I could touch your body.
       I know not everybody's
       Got a body like you. ]

      Karen pulled Maria's head back to her breast.  Maria licked
and sucked at the swollen ridges, the nipple knobby as a walnut
shell.

     [ But I gotta think twice
       Before I give my heart away.
       I know all the games you play
       Because I play them too ]

     Maria's hand travelled over Karen's belly, hip, and thigh
before it finally stopped, cupping the soft fullness between her
legs.  Karen's thighs parted still more as Maria moved the whole
area around over Karen's pubic bone.  She slid a forefinger between
Karen's folds and Karen gasped.
     "Have you been doing your exercises?" asked Maria.  "Tighten."
A look of concentration came over Karen's face and Erin gasped as
Karen's cunt appeared to suck in the brunette's finger.
    "Good girl," said Maria.  "You've been a very good girl.  That
deserves a kiss."  And she leaned down and planted a kiss right on
Karen's clit.

  [ Well I need some time off
    From that emotion
    Time to pick my heart up off the floor ]

    Karen took a breath and said, "You're gonna have to work.  I've
been drinking."
    "Sweetness," said Maria.  "Put a sock in it, okay?"  Then she
reached under Karen's knees and pulled her legs up onto the couch
spinning her ninety degrees. Karen let her left leg dangle over the
side of the couch and her right leg stretch out straight to the
floor.  Her legs were spread very wide.
    "My God.  You are so pink."  Maria lay on her stomach, her
knees bent and bare feet pointing in the air, toes curling and
uncurling as she worked.  She started by sliding her thumb into
Karen's hole and the tip of her forefinger into her ass.  Karen
arched her hips up to bring in more.  Maria's fingertip made little
circles in Karen's ass tunnel as her thumb worked against her
pelvic floor.  All the while her other hand was strumming across
her clit as her tongue disappeared between the younger girl's
folds, occasionally grazing against her clit.  Karen arched up and
said, "Oh shit.  Eat me.  Suck me.  Oh God.  Fuck.  Suck m.  Lick
it.  Mmmm.  Mmmm.  Fuck.  Oh shit."
     Then, Maria began to really eat her in earnest, sliding her
tongue deep into the bottom, drawing it up hard over Karen's pubic
bone and finishing by grazing it over her clit.  She kept repeating
this while her hands ran over Karen's waist and hips and buttocks.
We thought that Karen would pass out for certain.  Then, Maria just
went completely nuts, using her cheeks, chin, her nose--
transferring the moisture until her entire face, and Karen's
thighs, were very shiny and slick.  Karen's face went through a
series of contortions and she dug her toes into the carpet.  Soon,
the younger girl's whole body tensed, her fingers tight in Maria's
hair, and she made noises she had no choice about.
     When Karen's body went slack, Maria wiped her face on the
girl's thigh, looked up and said, "Still hate me?"
     "Bitch," said Karen, and theatrically sat up and slid down the
couch and landed in a heap on the floor.  "That was sooo fucking
intense."
     Maria slid up a little on he couch then leaned over, took
Karen's head in her hands and kissed her, full on the lips--a long,
juicy, thrilling kiss that seemed to go on and on.
     "Um," said Josh, "think maybe we oughta leave?"
     "Nah.  Howard," said Erin.  "You got any incense?"
     Everyone laughed and Maria helped Karen back into her clothes
and hurried into the bathroom.  Howard dug up a stick of incense,
lit it, and put it into a holder on a table.
     "While you're up, Howard," said Maria, over the running water.
"Why don't you deep-six the George Michael?"
     Soon Howard and Maria returned.  Howard whispered something to
Karen and she smiled and then nodded.
     Erin said, "My God, Karen.  Your face--"
     Karen said, "What."
     Erin shook her head.  "You've just got that look.  I've never
seen you quite this, this--"
     "Soft," said Josh.
     "Yeah, this soft.  You're all languid.  And your face is
pinker than your shirt."
     "Stah-ahp," said Karen, and leaned back into Howard.  He
kissed her on top of her spiky hair and folded his arms around her.
    "So fucking intense," said Karen and she shivered in an
afterimage of the orgasm.
     "Who's up?"
     "How."
     "Truth or Dare?"
     "Dare."

    [ "Show me how you do that trick
      The one that makes me scream" she said
      "The one that makes me laugh" she said
      And threw her arms around my neck
      "Show me how you do it
      And I promise you I promise that
      I'll run away with you
      I'll run away with you" ]

      "The Cure," I said.  "All right, How.  We need a break.  Do
a trick.  Any trick."
     "All right.  Anyone have a fresh pack of cigarettes?"
     Erin produced an unopened pack of Marlboro Lights and handed
it to Howard.  Karen sat up, and Howard carefully undid the
wrapper, crumpled up and tossed the foil, and pulled out a
cigarette.  He lit it, took a puff, then with the cigarette burned
a hole carefully into the larger half of the plastic wrapper, right
near the bottom.
     "All right, I'll do two tricks.  First, my duck call."  Karen
and I groaned and he raised the wrapper carefully to his lips and
said, "Here, Ducky, Ducky.  Here, Ducky, Ducky."
     "Boo."
     "Hsssss."
     "All right.  Hold on.  I told you I had another.

    [ Spinning on that dizzy edge
      I kissed her face and kissed her had
      And dreamed of all the different ways I had
      To make her glow
      "Why are you so far away?" she said
      "Why won't you ever know that I'm in love with you
      That I'm in love with you" ]

     "And because you booed me, Erin, you get to be my lovely
assistant."
     "Fine."
     "Hold out your arm and make a fist."
     "Is this going to hurt?"
     "Just do it.  Don't be such a--"
     She did as he asked.

    [ You
      Soft and only
      You
      Lost and lonely
      You
      Strange as angels
      Dancing in the deepest oceans
      Twisting in th water
      You're just like a dream ]

      He carefully balanced the wrapper on her arm.  Then he held
the lighter up to the small hole he had burned near the top.  Next
he pulled back the little plastic piece and we could hear a hiss as
the gas came out.  After a few seconds he brought his thumb down on
the roller part of the lighter, a spark flew, and the plastic
wrapper exploded over Erin's arm in a burst of flame.
     "Yeeow," yelled Erin, jerking back her arm and rubbing it
against her thigh.  Josh inspected the forearm.
     "Didn't even leave a mark."
     "Well, it still hurt."
     Josh kissed her forearm and dragged the tip of his tongue
along it into the crook of her elbow.
     "Hey, save it, tiger."
     Karen leaned back into Howard and said, more to herself than
anyone, "So fucking intense."

    [ Daylight licked me into shape
      I must have been asleep for days
      And moving lips to breathe her name
      I opened up my eyes
      And found myself alone alone
      Alone above a raging sea
      That stole the only girl I loved
      And drowned her deep inside of me

      You
      Soft and only
      You
      Lost and lonely
      You
      Just like heaven ]

     "Truth or dare, Josh?"
     "Truth."
     Karen said, "What does Erin not do for you, in bed, that you
wish she would?"
     "Wow."
     "Well?"
     "Well, Erin's pretty uninhibited, but for some reason all the
straight girls I've been with have this weird phobia about using
their fists."
     "Jah-ahsh--"
     "So she doesn't pummel you?  Is that what you're saying?"
     "Very funny, Karen."
     Maria said, "Shame to waste such a cute butt."
     "Waste?"
     "Hey," said Erin.  "Did you hear?  There was this big shakeup
in the airline industry?"
     "Nope, what?"
     "Aer Lingus merged with Cunningham Airlines."
     Numerous groans and Karen said, "Aeringham?  I don't get it."

     "Rich," said Maria.  "Truth or dare?"
     Still gunshy from the last time I took a dare I said, "Truth."
    "Tell me something," said Maria.  "Something real.  Something
real and beautiful and true.  Tell me something I'll never forget."
    I'd had an idea kicking around in my head for awhile, so I
said, "Come here."

     She sat down next to me.

     I took a breath and said, "I love neither the princess nor the
whore, but rather the princess inside the whore; the whore in the
princess.  None of us is ever just one thing.  We fall in love with
the incongruities.  For example, you love me because to the world
I talk so tough, but inside, behind that door to which only you
have the key, lurks the warmest, sweetest, most affectionate child
on this planet.  I will never ever stop touching you."
     "Maria?"
     "And I love you because everyone can see that you are
beautiful and smart and talented.  But I know that later tonight,
when we're alone, you will be a ravenous, passionate tigress, with
hungry eyes, and you will part for me and hold me tight and you
will scream my name."
     "Ree?"
     "Ree?"


                  TRUTH OR DARE--#3
          [Once I ran to you,
           Now I run from you
           This tainted love you're giving,
           I give you all a boy can give
           Take my hand and that's not nearly--]

     "Where the hell did you find that, How?" asked Maria.
     "In the archives.  Cool tape."
     "Where are Erin and Josh?"
     "They'll be here," said Karen.  "Relax.  I'm gonna order some
pizzas."
     Howard said, "Call California Pizza.  Get a couple of Super
Hawaiians."
     "And a small plain," added Maria.
     Karen called and ordered.  "They said twenty minutes or so."
     "Cool," said Howard, already lighting a bowl.  "I'm starved."
    A knock.
     "They're here," said Maria, her skirt whooshing as she ran to
the door.
     Josh and Erin came in.
     "We ordered some pizza," said Karen.  "It'll be here soon."
   Tia Carerra, that Oriental woman from Wayne's World was on MTV,
singing her cover of 'Ballroom Blitz'.
     "Ooh, check this out."  Maria turned up the volume.

          [...and the girl in the corner
           lets no one ignore her
           cause she thinks she's the passionate one.
           It's electric, so frightfully hectic--]

     Then she muted it and added,
          [from another dimension,
           with voyeuristic intentions--]

     Erin said, "I haven't seen Rocky Horror in so long."
     Karen said, "Up at the Video Library they have a copy that's
subtitled in Japanese.  But I can understand it because I'm fluent
in all the Romance languages."
     "And Australian," I added, getting some drinks together.  I
set up the six glasses, poured in a shot of Absolut.  Josh came
over.
     "What are you concocting now?"  He saw the Bailey's and the
Strawberry Schnapps.
     "Watch.  This is the tricky part.  I poured the Bailey's over
the back of a spoon and it settled into a grayish blob on top of
the vodka.  "It's called a brain hemorrhage.  There's the brain--"
I held the schnapps about a foot over the glass.  "Here comes the
hemorrhage."  I poured in the schnapps and it went straight to the
bottom, dragging bits of the Bailey's with it.
     "That is soooo nasty-looking."
     "It's all right.  You drink it all at once and you end up with
a nice glop of gloop on the back of your tongue."
     We passed the drinks to everyone.
     "What's with all these Wings covers?  What's next?  Ministry
doing 'Band on the Run?'"
     "Skinny Puppy is gonna cover 'Silly Love Songs.'
     Karen downed her hemorrhage.  "This should be called a
blowjob.  Tastes kinda funky."
     "Where the *fuck* is that pizza?" said Maria.  "It's been over
45 minutes."
     "I'll give em a call."
     I picked up the phone in the living room.  Howard, nix this
tape.
            [And I run
             I run so far away--]

     "Any suggestions?"
     "Yeah.  Something cool.  Make the girls wanna dance."  He
passed the bowl to Josh and headed to the stereo.  I called the
pizza place.
     "Hello?  Yeah, we ordered some pizzas a while ago and it's
been over an hour--On his way--Well, the problem is, we got a kid
here, and she's hypoglycemic--yeah, yeah--*Well, *anything*?  A
candy bar?  A sixpack of Pepsi?  Some glucose solution?  Do you
know what the first signs of shock are?  Shit, cover her with a
blanket, How.  Any minute?  Fine.  Thanks.

            [My spy boy saw you spy boy sittin' by the fi-yo
       My spy boy told your spy boy, "I'm gonna set you flag
        on fi-yo."]

     "Ooh, Howard," said Maria, pulling Erin up to dance with her.
"You're the best."

            [I said, "Hey now," "Hey now,"
             Aiko Aiko all day, jockomo feno na na nay, jockomoa
             feena nay.]

     Josh emptied the bowl and refilled with some of his own. Maria
was completely nuts.
     Erin said, "Maria, what's gotten into you?"
     "Oh, nothing.  Just happy, I guess.  I really really like this
song."

            [My grandma and your grandma were sitting by the fire
             Said my grandma to your grandma, "Gonna get your tail
             on fire."]

     Josh took a hit and handed the bowl to Karen.
     "Nice," she said.  "Sense?"
     "Columbian."
     Howard said, Where the hell did you find--"
     "Can't tell.  Sorry."
     Karen said, "I'm going on a picnic and I'm
bringing...cockroaches."      I said, "Cauliflower?"
     "Nope."
     "Hornets?" said Howard.
     "Nope."
     "What's this?" said Erin.  "How do you play?"
     "It's the picnic game.  One person starts and you have to
figure out what you're allowed to bring to the picnic.  For
example, if I said 'Toast' and you said 'Fries' and my pattern was
foods that you can precede with 'French'...you see?  Or it could be
based on the letters of your name, anything.  It's hard."
     "Well?  Just take a guess."
     "Oh, I know," said Howard.  "But it's not fair."
     "Let them guess," said Karen.
     "I'm bringing, "More cockroaches," said Erin.
     "Okay," said Karen.

            [When they come to take you down When they bring that
             wagon 'round
             When they come to call on you and drag your poor body
             down]

     Maria sang along.
     Erin said, "Just cockroaches, huh?"
     "I'm not telling."
     "Oh, I know," said Josh.  "It's what will survive a nuclear
war."
      "Not too shabby, Josh.  Not too shabby at all."
      "Let's do something easier.  Where is that pizza?" said Erin.
I'm getting Major munchies."
      I called them again.  "--low blood sugar, doesn't look good.
What?  His car was *stolen*?  Someone else is on the way?"
      A knock.  Karen got up.
      Maria said, "I dare you to answer the door with your shirt
off."
      Karen collected money and dropped her shirt on the couch.
            [Just one thing I ask of you, just one thing for me
          Please forget you know my name, my darling Sugaree
       Shake it, shake it sugaree, just don't tell them that
        you know me
             Shake it, shake it sugaree, just don't tell them that
             you know me.]

     "You were right, Maria," said Erin.  "They *are* nice."
We all watched as she opened the door, and the pizza guy's jaw
dropped to his shoes.  She paid him.
     He said, "I-I'm awfully sorry it took so long, so w-we threw
in some extra stuff.  F-free."
     "Thanks.  That was sweet."  The pizza kid was visibly shaken,
especially when Karen said, "Shit.  Not enough money for a tip.
What *can* I give you instead.  Brrr, it's cold out there.  Look!"
    But he was already gone.  Now, sometimes California Pizza will
call us up and ask us if we want anything.
     Howard and Erin got together some paper plates and Maria says,
"I guess it's truth or dare time."
     The pizza disappeared noisily.
     "Does that count as the first one?" said Josh.
     "Nah," said Karen, finally pulling her shirt back on.  "That
was just random."
     "Man, am I buzzed," said Erin.
     "Howard, grab a bottle of tequila and put on some Steely Dan.
I like theme music."

          [...the Cuervo Gold, the fine Columbian,
           make tonight a wonderful thing]

     "Ok, truth or dare, How."
     "Truth."
     "Tell us something that'd really embarrass Karen.  I mean
really."
     He laughed and said, "Well, earlier today, we were talking
about the movie 'Grease' and--"
     "Howard..."
     "No, go on."
     "About how everyone's seen it a lot and Karen said--"
     Karen said, "I don't see what the big deal is."
     "Stop interrupting."
     "She said 'I have seen that movie, literally, three times.'
So we got into this fight about how she doesn't know how to use the
word 'literally'.  She's like, 'Whaddayoumean, I *have* seen Grease
three times, what's the big deal?"
     "Yeah," said Karen.  "So?"
     "She still doesn't get it.  A person might say, I've seen
Grease, literally, dozens of times."
     "That *is* silly, Karen."
     "No, but I only saw it three times.

          [she don't remember,
           the Queen of Soul...
           Please take me along when you slide on down--]
     "Truth or Dare, Karen."
     "Dare."
     "Get naked and do a whippet."
     "Cool.  You have whippets?"
     "What's a whippet?" asked Erin.
     "It's nitrous oxide.  You'll see."
     Howard brought back a box of whippets, a balloon, and a
canister.  And some smelling salts.
     "Those things really fry your brain, don't they?" said Josh,
taking a deep hit off the bowl.
     "I'll live," said Karen, already naked.
      WHOOOSH.  The balloon inflated.  Howard pinched off the end
and handed it to her.
     "What's *that* for," said Erin, about the smelling salt.
  "Watch."
     Karen brought the balloon to her lips and leaned back against
Howard, her feet in Erin's lap.  It deflated.
     "Oh shit," said Karen, in a voice about five octaves lower
than normal.  She smiled, made two fists; then her eyes rolled back
and she slumped against Howard.
     "Wow," said Erin, tickling the soles of Karen's feet.  "Looks
intense."
     "It is.  It only lasts for maybe a minute or so."  Howard
squeezed and broke the smelling salt and passed it back and forth
under his girlfriend's nose.  No response.
     "Oh shit," said Erin.
     "Gimme that," I said, and he gave me the smelling salt.  I
smelled it and got a boner.  "Look at her nipples."  They were
frighteningly stiff.  Howard pinched them.
     "Wow, like rocks."
     This is no smelling salt, How.  This is fucking amyl.
     "Oops," he giggled.  "Boy, is my face red or what?"
     "Amyl?" said Josh, and grabbed a capsule from Howard, squeezed
it and inhaled deeply.
     "YEEEOOOWWW!!" and his head snapped back.  Howard grabbed it
from him quickly and revived Karen with it.  Her hand slid between
her thighs and she started lazily stroking herself.
     "Mmmmmm, did I miss anything?"  She looked down at her hand.
"What the hell am I doing?"
     We laughed.
     "Oh," said Erin.  "I wanna try one."  Before Josh could talk
her out of it, she was handed a balloon.  "If I faint," she said,
"I better not wake up with my skirt up around my waist."  She
inhaled the balloon and after a few seconds began giggling
uncontrollably.  "Oh, hee hee, man, hee hee, what a rush, hee hee."
    After a few moments Erin returned to the planet.  "I don't
know," she said.  "There's something in the air--"
     "Oh Lord."
     "Truth or Dare," Josh?"
     "Dare."
     Karen whispered something to Maria and her eyes opened wide
and she nodded vigorously.  The both ran back towards the bedrooms.
When they returned, Maria had a violin bow in one hand and a cube
of rosin in the other.  She twisted the knob on the end of the bow,
tightened it, and began rosining it.
     "Hey, what the hell--" said Josh, staring at the bow.  "Not
enough amyl on the planet--"
     Erin laughed.  "You're not planning on doing any permanent
damage to him, are you?"
     Karen opened her hand.  In it was a butt-harp.
     "It's called a butt harp, Josh.  I found it in the city last
time I went home.  Have been saving it."
     "It looks evil."
     "It's completely benign, she said, swinging it like a bolo.
"Honest.  You'll see.  So will Howard."
     "Huh?"
     "Oh, come on, we know you're not shy."
     "I'm game," said Josh.
     "Fine, said Howard.
     "So, take off your pants and underwear and be on all fours,
both of you."
     "Oooh," said Erin.  "I think I'm gonna like this.  I want
another whippet."
     I gave it to her and she inhaled it and when Howard and Josh
backed next to each other, their butts nearly touching, her hand
disappeared inside her skirt.
     "All right," said Karen.  "Now we've got some meat.  Hold on,
I'll be right back."  She came back while she was pulling on some
latex gloves.  "Gotta be responsible, you know."
     Josh gasped as she slid the ball into him.  The other end went
into Howard.
     "Walk forward a little, Howard, until it's tight.  He did.
Karen took off the gloves and plucked the wire.
     "Hey," said Howard.  "Can I have a beer?"
     SMACK!  His ass reddened from where she'd slapped it.  He got
hard.
     "The bow."  Maria handed it to her.  I did a shot of the
tequila and looked at Karen  It looked as if she were trying to
memorize every detail and store it away as fodder for future
fantasies.  I knew she'd get mileage out of *this* tableau.  She
dragged the bow across the wire. Josh and Howard both shuddered.
     "Wow!"
     I pulled Maria over against me and slid my hand up along her
thigh.  Her eyes were riveted on Josh and Howard and she was very
wet.  Erin had moved her other hand between a couple buttons on her
shirt and was unabashedly working herself over.
     "Turn over," said Karen.  "I wanna try something."  She helped
both of them roll onto their backs.  The wire was an inch or so off
the carpet.  Erin gasped when she saw how hard they both were and
increased her ministrations.
     "Erin," she said.  "Get your hand out of your twat and come
here."  She did.  Karen straddled Howard and lowered herself slowly
onto him, grabbing Josh like a stickshift to steady herself.
 "Oh my."
     Erin removed Karen's hand and, pulling her panties aside,
squatted onto Josh and was soon moving in small circles on him.
Karen leaned forward, her face in Erin's chest, and drew the bow
across the wire.  Erin screamed.
     "Did you feel that, Karen?!  Do it again."
     Erin stopped moving and let Karen control all four of them
with that bow, going from long strokes to shorter staccato ones,
pausing every few measures to prolong it.  Maria came grinding
against my palm.
     "Maria," said Karen.  "Take over the bow wouldja?"
     She did.  Karen sat up straight and pulled off her shirt.
Erin unbuttoned her own.  Maria started with the bow again,
tweaking both girls' nipples with her free hand.  Soon, both Erin
and Karen were grinding away fiercely.  I, lonesome, walked over
and slid in behind Maria.  Erin lifted up her skirt and we could
see that Josh had come.
     "Howard, too,"  said Karen.
     "Oh.  Me too," said Erin.  "Mmmmmmm."
     "Oh yeah," said Karen.
     "Wow."

     We're still reeling.


                         TRIP TO THE DENTIST

     "Oooh, says Karen.  "I gotta tell you about what happened at
the dentist."
     Karen has this dentist downtown, some real old guy.  Despite
the number of times a day she brushes her teeth, she always ends up
with cavities.
     "So I'm there, right.  He's poking around in my mouth, and he
says, 'Now *there's* a cavity just *begging* to be filled."
"What a cool bad pick-up line," says Maria.
     "Yeah," says Howard, "but only if he drops his pants and says
'And I got just the tool for it, right *here*."
     Karen says, "So I closed my eyes and said, 'Say that again',
but he wouldn't.  So he's loading up the novocaine and I shake my
head and say, 'Uh-uh, no novocaine.'  'But I'm gonna be drilling
pretty close to the nerve.  How about some gas?"
     "Did you--" says Howard, and we all laugh.  We've seen what
NO2 does to Karen.
     "Nope.  Nothing.  I say, just do it.  That tooth is no
stranger to friction.'"
     "Oh God, you didn't--"
     "Yup.  It didn't even hit me, what I'd said, until I was
coming back, in the cab, and I just start cracking up.  Driver kept
asking me if I was okay--"
     "I wonder if your dentist ever got it.  Hope he wasn't
involved in some sort of root canal, then busts out laughing--"
  "Naaah, he never gets any of my jokes."
     "Ah well."

               YOU CAN'T TAKE ME ANYWHERE

     It was a special dinner.  Karen's parent's, Maria's, and mine.
We were eating downtown at The Palm, the restaurant in the Bellevue
Strattford.  At the table behind us were Bill Giles and Norman
Braman, owners of the Phillies and Eagles, respectively.  Earlier
that evening we had seen about twenty bellhops surrounding this guy
who was trying to get on the elevator.  We looked closer and it was
Muhammed Ali.  His son had strayed, and Howard and I were play-
duking it up with him, before he was dragged into the elevator.
  Dinner went well, at least until dessert.  We all got coffee and
cheesecake, and Maria's mom made the mistake of telling a joke.  It
was a clean one, a Polish joke.  The punch line was:  "But this is
a hardware store."  Soon, everyone told his or her own.  Finally,
it was Karen's turn.  Maria, as Karen started, dug her fingernails
into my right knee.  Howard did the same to my left.        The
tables around us had been eavesdropping since we had started this
joke thing, and Karen was well aware of her audience.      She
said, "How do you get a nun pregnant?" I crossed my fingers under
the table and shook my head.  The hands on my knees tightened their
grip.
     Maria's father said, "I'll bite.  How *do* you get a nun
pregnant?"
    "YOU *F*U*C*K* HER!!"
    Oh man.


                       BRASS ONES
     Before break.
     "Rich," said Howard, in that tone that could only mean two
things:  Either a term paper was due or he'd wrecked the car.
Since we don't have a car I said, "What class?"
     "Asian studies.  It's that whole Taoism, Buddhist Zen thing."
    "You haven't been to a class all year, have you?"
     "It's a nine o'clock.  But I did make it to the first one.
Got the syllabus."  He handed it to me.
     "Have you read any of these?"
     "Never bought them.  I skimmed them in the library before the
midterm.  Got a b minus."
     "Any papers?"
     "Two.  Blew em off."
     "Great."
     "I don't want to fail this class.  I'll just have to take
ano--"
     "All right.  Let's think."  I lit up a joint, took a drag,
passed it to him.  "How big are your balls," I said.
     "Big enough.  Wha--"
     "All right.  I got an idea."  Got up, grabbed a pen and a
sheet of paper, scribbled something on it and handed it to him.
"There's your paper."  He looked at it and laughed.
     "No way.  I'll flunk."
     "Probably.  So why not do it with style?"
     A few days later he said, "Professor wants to see me in his
office tomorrow."
     "Could be trouble."
     "I'll live."
     After.
     "So how'd it go?"
     "Check it out.  I'm in there, and he says, 'Howard, you
haven't been to a class all year, have you?'  I shook my head.
'Did you even *buy* the books?'  Kept shaking it.  He points to a
pile of papers on his desk and says 'I've been a professor here for
twenty some odd years.  I've read thousands of these papers.  But
this', he says, pulling out mine, 'is the only one that I'll
remember after the semester ends.  What the hell were you
thinking?'  I say, 'I didn't want to insult you buy pulling an all-
nighter and putting together some half-plagiarized piece of crap.
Figured you get enough of those.'"
       Wow, I thought, he's good.
       My brother sat down and said, 'Howard,' he says, 'You
probably heard about the guy who, on a philosophy exam, saw the
question, 'Why?' and answered 'Why not?', right?'  Yeah, I say, I
always figured that was some kind of urban legend.  'No', he says,
'it happened.  The first student to ever do it probably got an A.
After that, all F's.  Now, no one in his right mind would put that
on a test'  'This', he says, holding up my paper, is the same sort
of thing'."
     "He gave you an *A*??," I say, incredulous.
     "Um, not exactly," Howard said, handing me the yellow see-
through binder with the single page in it.  It said:







------------------------------------------------------------------
                 FOOTNOTES
1.Ibid.





     Below it there was a red 'F' with a circle around it.
     "Am I missing something?" I say.  "He gave you an 'F'."
"But I got an 'A' for the course, on the condition that I read
these books over the summer and take him again next term."
     "No shit."
     "But he said if I ever pull this Ibid thing again, he'll fail
me for that term and retroactively for this one."
     "An A.  Un-fucking-real.  So you gonna buy those books now?"
    "I might," said Howard, like he had a secret.
     "But you heard what he said.  That's it for this Ibid thing."
    "I got an ace up my sleeve," said Howard, folding a stick of
Big Red into his mouth and handing me the pack.  I took one and
said, "Ace, eh?"  Then I looked at my brother and between us there
passed those two words that soon had both of us hysterical, on the
floor.
     Op cit.


                       GAMES
     The kids are back, and they want to PLAY.
     "Break was sooooo boring," said Karen, in biker shorts and one
of Maria's tie-died t-shirts.  "Let's play something."
     Maria was there, in a flowery cotton skirt.
     Howard appeared, bong in hand.  Somehow he'd managed to pick
up some expensive black Afghan pot.  It didn't much look like pot
and it smelled like cinnamon rolls but it could punch you like
George Foreman and it could take you back farther than dreams.  As
he lit up the bong the rest of us passed around the plastic bag and
inhaled.  It smelled really good.
     "Best-worst," said Karen.
     "What's 'best-worst'?" said Maria, who's been spending more
and more time over here, and was trying to learn everything.
"You'll see.  I'll start.  The best was--okay, remember the old
Donnie and Marie Show?"
     "Uh huh."  We all nodded.
     "Okay, remember how she would always sing I'm a little bit
country and Donnie would sing I'm a little bit rock and roll?  And
like, you always kind of hoped they would *switch*.  And then, one
day, THEY DID.  That was the fucking BEST."
    Maria dissolved into giggles.  The bong moved around and was
refilled.
    "All right," said Howard.  "I got one.  The worst is when
you're at home, eating something, and your mom looks at what you've
left on your plate and says 'You're not going to eat *that*?  But
that's the BEST PART.'  I just wanna say 'No mom, it's not the
best, it's the *worst* fucking part.  If it was the best I'd eat it
first but I never eat it do I?  DO I?! All these years and it
always gets thrown out.  That's cause it's the worst.  You burnt
it, you always burn it, and it's the *WORST*"
     "Want a valium, dude?"
     "I *hate* that.  It's the worst."
     "Maria?"
     "All right, I always thought the coolest was when Bugs Bunny
would make a guest appearance on the Road Runner show.  That was
the best."
     "The best," said Karen.  "Is when you take a dump and whoosh
it all comes out and you wipe and there's nothing there.  It's just
a perfect shit."
     "Nice.  Real nice."
     Maria got up and headed to the kitchen.
     "Bring back some soda."
     She did and drank some just as Howard said, "The worst is when
you get that feeling, you know, like you're fucking into nothing.
You know?"
     Maria half-choked and we all expected Pepsi to come out of her
nose.  It didn't.  She hadn't quite adjusted to our level of
familiarity.
     "Geez, Howard, don't beat around the bush.  If you've got
something to say, say it."
     "Yeah," said Karen  "Fast-forward to the come shot."
     "Huh?" said Maria.
     Karen gave her this look.  "Cut to the chase."
     "You're on the pill, right, Karen?" I said.
     "Yeah, but I *have* to be.  My period's all fucked up and I
get these killer cramps."
    "Besides, I can't stand the taste of spermicide," said Howard.
    "Yeah," added Karen.  "And have *you* ever tried to put in a
diaphragm in the back of a moving taxi?"
     This time the Pepsi *did* come out her nose.
     "Not recently.  No."
     Maria wiped her nose and just shook her head.
     "Well, anyhow," said Howard.  "That fucking into nothing
feeling is the *worst*."
     "Doesn't bother me," said Karen.
     "Shit, Howard.  Just pull out, wipe it off, and try a
different position.  It's hardly the end of the world."
     Maria tried to stifle a snicker.
     "Hey," I said.  "I never got to do my 'Best'"
     "Go on."
     "The best is the beginnings of things..."  Maria put her head
on my shoulder and Karen and Howard both said, "Awwww."
     "...when everything is all magic and electricity."
     "Oh God.  Stop that."
     "And big tits.  Did I mention big tits?" <author's. note.
'Big tits' is an example of assonance>
     "Wait," said Maria, suddenly rising and heading towards my
brother's room.  She came back with his old Gibson acoustic guitar,
sat down, picked out the notes of an E chord, tuned the guitar and
said, "I just had an idea.  Listen.  It won't sound quite right
without a wawa pedal and I have to slow it down, but listen.  You
know St. Stephen, right?"
     "Sure."
     "Uh huh."
      "Aoxomoxoa, right?" said Karen.  Maria had given Karen a
crash course in the Dead just before the break.
     "All right, watch."

     She played and sang,
     "Saint Stephen with a rose, in and out of the garden he goes,
      Country garden in the wind and the rain,
      Wherever he goes the people all complain."

     She stopped.
     "That's great, Maria," said Howard.  "Congratulations."
    "No.  But watch.  If I slow it down a lot, what about--
     "Saint Stephen with a rose, in and out of the garden he goes,
     When you coming home dad I don't know when but we'll get
together then, Son.  You know we'll have a good time, then."
     "Cool, the Grateful Dead Harry Chapin extended dance remix."

     "Stephen prospered in his time, well he may and he may
decline"
     "When you coming home son I don't know when--"

     "Well," said Maria.  "It was just an idea."
     Maria had abandoned years of classical piano and voice lessons
to follow the Dead around while she was still in high school.  When
she sings, her phrasing is always a surprise.  She says the only
reason she got into Penn was during her pre-admission interview the
interviewer let slip that he liked country music.  Maria then sang
"Crazy" for him a capella.(I suppose that *could* get you into
Penn, but I'm certain 730 verbal and 700 math had *something* to do
with it).  She fits in well in a house full of manipulators.  She
sings with unique phrasings; she can make even the worst pop
ditties sound fresh and surprising.  It's hardly a wonder that her
favorite singers are Billie Holiday, Ricky Lee Jones, Natalie
Merchant, and Patsy Cline.

     "My favorite song on Aoxomoxoa," said Karen, "Is 'What's
Become of the Baby'."
     Maria said, "Oh it is not," and began picking out the
beginning to 'Friend of the Devil."

      Howard started.
      "I lit out from Reno, I was trailed by twenty hounds
       Didn't get to sleep last night 'till the morning came
around.

       Set out runnin' but I take my time
       A friend of the devil is a friend of mine
       If I get home before daylight, I just might get some sleep
tonight."

      Karen's eyes were heavy-lidded and she pulled Howard onto the
sofa and lay down on her side and put her head in his lap.
     "Sing something to put me to sleep," she said.  "Something
sad."

     "Howard," said Maria.  "You know the words to 'Taxi'"
     He said, "I know a little thing about Taxi; Baby, I can guess
the rest."
     Maria directed her eyes to the bong and nudged me.  I brought
it to her mouth, covered the carburetor with my thumb and lit it.
It gurgled as she inhaled.  Soon, the red chamber was full of thick
smoke.  As I moved my thumb away she nodded No and I brought it to
my own lips and finished it off.  She strummed softly, and Howard
smoothed out Karen's hair as he sang.

       "It was rainin' hard in Frisco, I needed one more fare to
make my night.
     A lady up ahead waved a flag-me-down,
     She got in at the light.

     Aw where you gone to, my lady blue
     It's a shame you ruined your gown in the rain.
     She just looked out the window
     She said 16 Parkside Lane."

     I stretched out on the floor, my head just in front of the
guitar on her thigh.

     "Somethin about her was familiar, I could swear I'd seen her
face before
     But she said 'I'm sure you're mistaken,
     And she didn't say anything more.

     ...


     Then she said How are ya Harry
     I said How are ya Sue
     Through the too many miles and the too little smiles
     I still remember you.

     It was somewhere in a fairy tale
     I used to take her home in my car
     We learned about love in the back of a Dodge
     The lesson had gone too far.

     You see she was gonna be an actress
     And I was gonna learn to fly
     She took off to find the footlights
     I took off to find the sky

     <Bridge, to which we didn't know the words>

     ...
     Then she handed twenty dollars for a two-fifty fare
     She said Harry keep the change
     ...
     ...
     Stuffed the bill in my shirt.

     It's strange how ya never know
     We'd both gotten what we'd asked for
     Such a long time ago.

     You see she was gonna be an actress,
     And I was gonna learn to fly.
     She took off to find the footlights,
     I took off to find the sky.

     You see, she, she's acting happy
     Inside her happy home,
     And me, I'm flying in my taxi,
     Taking tips and getting stoned.

     I go flying so high...

     Next thing we knew, it was morning.  We were still in the
living room, where we'd all crashed.


                   CRITICAL MASS--A PARTY


     "Bad idea," said Karen, as she rotated the new Pepsi can in
her hand.  "What a terrible idea.  Why the fuck would they change?
And to *this*??!!  Some fucking ABA basketball yinyang doofusy
shit.  Wasn't broken, so why'd they fix it?"  Then she took a last
swig and folded the can in half, twisting it until she cut herself.
    "Hey," said Maria,  "Aren't you gonna get dressed?"  We were
going to a party at a house down here in West Philly.  We'd heard
there were going to be some "punks" there from out of town.
"Read my lips, sweetness.  I'm wearing lycra."
      Howard laughed.  Maria screwed up her face.  Karen, for some
odd reason, had been walking around in a leotard, black stockings
and a lacy pink garter.  She got up, ran into her room, and emerged
after a few minutes in a black leather skirt and pointy ankle
boots.  She could not have been dressed more wrong for the party to
which we were headed.
     "I'm ready," she said.  "Oh shit.  Lipstick."
     We all looked at each other and mouthed "Lipstick?"
     Yup, lipstick.  Deep whorish red.
     Karen threw on Howard's blue CB ski jacket and we headed out.
    "Hold on," I said, and ran back in.  I pulled open a drawer and
thought, "Taser's gone.  Good.  Howard must have it.  I pocketed a
stiletto and joined the others.
-----------------------------------
     "Let's get drunk and stick beans up our noses!"  hooted
Lemming, almost missing the tricky left-hand merge onto the
Schuylkill Expressway.  The "Repo Man" theme howled from the tape
deck, harmonizing eerily with the growl of exhaust leaking from the
cracked tailpipe of Lemming's '76 Nova.
     "Tell me again why we had to drive all the way to
Filthydelphia to find a party," grumped Ratt, toying with her
nunchaku.  She was pissed because she'd had to sit scrunched down
all the way from Baltimore to protect her Mohawk.
     "Well," I said, fumbling on the floor for the bag of Cheez
Doodles, "the party's really secondary.  Our primary purpose is to
complete the Cosmic Color Wheel of Junk Food.  Hey, Suicide, you
haven't had any of the orange group yet."
     "Shut up, everybody," said Suicide.  "Here comes the chorus."
    "Using my HAND for an AAAASHTRAY!" we all shouted.
     "Okay, kids, time to clean up the car," Lemming announced.
  Iggy Pop was drowned out by the roar of the wind as we rolled
down the windows and began pitching beer bottles out onto the
highway.
      "Yo, Lemming.  Get off here at the South Street exit.  Wait,
save a couple of bottles to throw at my old dorm."
     "Hey, Lar," said Lemming, taking the left turn onto Spruce on
two wheels, "what's in that package you put in the trunk?"
     "Party supplies."  Actually, it was my M1 carbine and a couple
of boxes of ammo, but I thought it'd be best not to mention that
yet.
-------------------------------------------------------
     We made our way to 48th and Spungen.  We could hear the music
as far as 46th street.  We slipped into the house and quickly
dropped our jackets in a pile in the corner.  As we headed over to
the beer, I did a quick calculation of what that pile of coats was
worth and made a mental note to keep an eye on it while we were
there.
     "Wow," said Maria, "this is something else."
     She was talking about the unusually-diverse mix of people at
the party.  In one corner were some skinheads; in another,
preppies; about ten Black students were huddled by the stairway;
behind us about five Cure-fags(my cousin's name for them) and the
ever-present death-rock girls.  The dj had apparently given up
trying to appeal to everyone and was playing songs that were his
personal favorites--a good strategy, all things considered.  Karen
downed about four styrofoam cups of beer and was quickly
inebriated.
     We heard a car screech to a stop outside and went to take a
look.  As the group from the Nova emerged I saw my brother's hand
move down instinctively to the taser in his front jean pocket.  I
did the same with my stiletto as one of them began to open up the
trunk.  But a girl with a cool foot-high mohawk said something to
him and they both laughed and the trunk stayed closed.  The noise
level in the house dropped to near zero as they came in.  We
exchanged 'hi's'; they got some beer, and were soon talking among
themselves.  I noticed the taller male of the group looking over
the rest of us as they talked, his eyes darting everywhere.
The dj put on "Smells Like Teen Spirit."
     "Cool," said Karen, and we all half-danced and half-talked.
   There was a group of two big, athletic guys and their
girlfriends talking behind us.  One of the girls said, "Who'd do a
song about deodorant?"  Yes, she was a natural blonde.
     Karen stopped dancing and got that look in her eye.  Damned
gibbous moon.  She turned and said, "Sweetness, it's not about
deodorant."
     The athletic guys scowled and we heard one of the girls say to
him, "She's the one who--" and then we couldn't hear her.
     "Well," said one of the guys, "why don't you just tell us what
it's about."
     Howard's hand slipped into his pocket as Karen began, loudly,
to be heard, "It's about heat.  And sweat."    She grabbed Howard's
arm.  "It's about the girl smell of me exploding over our skin,
sealing us in its sweet envelope.  It's about wastebaskets full of
matted, crumpled Kleenex.  About locker rooms full of hormones.
About that scene in Porky's up in the boy's laundry room.  It's
about how the air smells the moment after you hear the swish of a
skirt.  It's about lust, hard cocks, gushing cunts. Any questions,
sweetness?"
     I tightened the grip on my stiletto and looked around.  The
song had ended, and people were listening, especially the punks.
   The one guy said to Howard.  "Your friend here don't talk much
like a lady.  You sure she's a girl?"
     Howard had pulled out his taser and had palmed it.
     Karen said, "Suck.  My.  Dick."
     Before they knew what had happened, Howard pressed the taser
against the guy's thigh and gave him an healthy, prolonged jolt.
As he slumped to the floor we grabbed our jackets and headed out.
    "Wow," said Maria.  "All that from just a nine-volt battery?"
     Someone behind us said, "It's not the volts, it's the
amperage."
     We stopped and turned.  It was those punks.
     ----------------------------------
     The car lurched as Lemming rode it up on the curb, parking on
Spungen St.  "Shit," she said.  "Gotta get curb feelers on this
thing. Okay, people, pre-shutdown checklist.  Nunchucks?"
     "Check."  Ratt stuck the nunchaku in her belt.
     "Tequila?"
     I patted the zippered pocket of my biker jacket.  "Roger."
  "Pyrotechnic devices?"
     Suicide fished the pack of bottle rockets out from under the
seat.      "Yup."
     "Ignition switch, off.  Lights, off.  Door locks, free.
Doors open -- three, two, one, EJECT, EJECT, EJECT!"  We opened all
four doors simultaneously and piled out.
     "Lemming, gimme the keys.  I'll get the flare pistol out of
the trunk."  I started around to the back of the car, but Ratt
intercepted me.  "Leave it till later, Lar," she said.  "Check out
that group on the porch -- see the Laurie Anderson lookalike in the
leather skirt?" I glanced over.  Two guys in leather jackets stood
with her and another woman, hands in pockets, eyeing us warily.
"You're right, Ratt.  Full threat assessment mode."  We laughed.
   "Hey," said Lemming.  "Everybody remember that NDI song?  Let's
soften these people up a bit."  We stomped up the front walk, the
porch lights reflecting off the studs, spikes, and chains on our
jackets, singing in ragged unison:
     "Open up, honey, I'm your mystery date.  I brought you some
flowers and I'm sorry I'm late.  I'm an item, not a fashion plate,
so open up, honey, I'm your mystery date."
     "Hi, y'all," I said as we brushed past the guys on the porch.
They seemed to relax slightly.  We headed inside, scanning the room
for the keg.  The DJ was between songs, and the buzz of
conversation tailed off to nothing as we entered.  A group of
preppies in the corner stared at us, naked fear in their eyes as
they huddled protectively together.
     "Fuck," Ratt muttered.  "Skins."
     Lemming looked at the group of skinheads.  "Nahh," she said.
"Check out their boots.  Green laces.  They're straightedge, don't
even smoke.  They'll sit over there all night, swapping thrilling
stories about how Ian MacKaye looked right at them once at a Fugazi
concert."
     We got beers, and Suicide slipped off to search for an
unlocked liquor cabinet as the DJ cued up "Rock Lobster."
     A beefy jock type with no neck sidled drunkenly up to Lemming,
staring at her close-cropped head with the single blond tuft in
front as if it were some sort of strange animal.  "Hey, uh," he
began,  sloshing beer on her shirt, "what *are* you, anyway?  A boy
or a girl?"      Lemming smiled nastily.  "Hiya, stud, guess what?"
she said, bringing her steel-shanked motorcycle boot down on his
instep.  There was a muffled crunching sound.  "*That's* what."  An
expression  of excruciating pain slowly began to form on his face
as she pushed him violently away.
     "Smells Like Teen Spirit" came on, and Ratt sang along.
"Stupid and contagious... yup, that's me.  C'mon, Lar, let's start
a pit!"  She grabbed my arm and yanked me towards the dance floor.
I brought her up short.  "Check it out, Ratt.  Confrontation time."
    We couldn't quite hear what they were saying over the music, so
we moved closer.  The leather-skirted woman we'd seen before, a
feral gleam in her eye, was getting ready to rumble with a couple
of jerks and their girlfriends.  "Any questions, sweetness?" we
heard.
     Ratt punched my arm and laughed.  One of the frat boys made
some remark, and the woman snarled, "Suck.  My.  Dick."  Her friend
jammed something against the guy's leg and he convulsed violently
and fell.  "Shit, a taser!  I *like* those people!"  Ratt chortled.
    "Hey, Lemming!"  I yelled.  She popped up at my elbow.  "Think
we should check out of here before that guy you stomped finds his
friends?"  "Aaaaah," she said.  "They're probably all upstairs
raping each others' dates.  Still, a strategic withdrawal might be
in order."      Leather skirt and her friends had grabbed their
jackets and were headed out the door.  One of the jocks started to
follow them, but stopped when he saw Ratt idly twirling her
nunchaku.  "Where's Suicide?"  "Right here," he said, zipping his
jacket.  Something  clinked underneath it.  "Jackpot.  I found some
single-malt scotch and a bottle of ouzo."
     We left.  Suicide hung back slightly, pulling the pack of
bottle rockets from his pocket.  Ahead of us, one of the women was
saying something about 9-volt batteries.  "It's not the volts, it's
the amperage," Ratt called.  We caught up to them.  Behind us,
there was an earsplitting screech and a shower of sparks, then
another, as Suicide fired bottle rockets back at the house.  "Dixie
Whistlers," I said.  "Loudest whistling bottle rockets on the
market."


                WHO *IS* THAT GUY??
     We're in New York.  Bored with Manhattan we take a cab into
Greenwich Village.  Check out a cool punk store and look for some
coffee.  We find a tiny place and go in.  Because of the odd hour
it is nearly empty.
     We sit, order.
     Hey How, Rich, says Karen.  Who *is* that guy?
     Over in the back, sitting alone, facing diagonally away from
us is a guy drinking coffee, leafing through a copy of Billboard.
    He hears us and glances over.  Karen digs her nails into my
knee and my brother's.
     Shit, says Maria.  It's John Malkovich.
     A high-pitched squeak from the back of Karen's throat.
Dangerous Liaisons, she says.  I'd do him if he asked me.      It's
not, says Howard.
     Well it *is* someone famous.
     We agree.
     But *who*?
     I know, says Howard.  Look at the hair.  It's Art Garfunkel.
    Is not.
     Is.
     Follow me, says Karen.
     So we do.
     Excuse me, I don't mean to be rude, but could I have your
autograph?
     Why sure.  He beams.  Is very friendly.
     Hold on, says Howard.  You don't know what he's--
     She elbows him.
     You're John Malkovich. I thought you were great in Dangerous--
   He shames his head and laughs.
     Art Garfunkel?
     Laughs again, harder.
     Three strikes, Karen.
     Do I get a hint?
     Sit down, he says.  Shield me from the throngs of adoring
fans.
     We sit.
     Well, do I get that hint?
     He puts down his coffee and sings softly, in a voice that is
still high and beautiful and pure.

     [I've seen fire and I've seen rain.
      Seen sunny days that I thought would never end.
      Seen lonely times when I could not--]

      Maria joins, harmonizing.
     [--find a friend,
      But I always thought that I'd see you again.]

      Karen is shocked, breathless.
      He beams again and takes a sip of coffee.
      Karen says, rather loudly, James Ingram!
      The coffee comes out his nose and he laughs so hard we are
certain he'll hurt himself.
      Gotcha, says Karen.


                      TWIN PEAKS
     "Oh God," said Howard, as the video began on MTV.  "Silent
Lucidity.  The worst."
     Karen nodded.  "The poor man's 'Comfortably Numb' by the poor
man's Pink Floyd.  Cheer up, Rich.  What's wrong?"
     I just looked at her, astonished, as Howard ran the flame of
his lighter back and forth under the freshly rolled joint.
     "Mood swing," he said.
     "Here," said Karen, tossing me a pink pill.  Lithium.  300
milligrams.  Karen and I both shared this particular quirk.
"Very funny.  I'll be fine after the break."
     "*I* know what you need," said Howard, clicking off the tv and
put "Blonde on Blonde" into the cd player.  So it was a cliche.  It
was a cliche that worked for us.

     The riotous carnival of "Rainy Day Women 12 & 35 began:
    "They'll stone you when you're trying to be so good--
     They'll stone you just like they said they would.
     They'll stone you when you're trying to go ho-ho-home,
     They'll stone you when you're left all alone--"

     "Okay," said Karen.  "punch lines.  I'll start.  Punch line to
"I am the Walrus"
     Shrug.
     "Gesundheit."
     Howard contorted his face into some pained expression.
"Howard?"
     "Punch line to Barton Fink."
     "Go on."
     "Wow, who'd a thought *she* was a virgin?"
     "Ick."
     "Rich?"
     "Punch line to Star Trek 2, Wrath of Khan."
     "CorDOba?"
     "Close..."
     "Zee plein, zee plein?"
     "Nope."
     "Well?"
     "I kin't hear you kiptin, there's something in my ear."
     "Ouch.
     Howard passed the joint to me and Karen said, "Oooh, I got
one."
     "Punch line?"
     "No, just a joke.  Why is it best to fuck a hen just after
it's laid an egg?"
     "We give."
     "You get a nice, warm, dilated birthing canal."
     "Sweet Jesus," exclaimed Howard, choking out a laugh with some
smoke.  "She's RIGHT."
     "She *is*.  But how does she *know*?  That's what I find so
disturbing."
     "I'm hungry," said Karen, standing and heading into the
kitchen.  "I'm gonna make a fig thing.  Want one?"
     "Bring me back a Snicker's ice cream bar."  I needed the
chocolate fix.
     "I want both," said Howard.
     A fig thing is three or four fig newtons on a plate,
microwaved for about thirty seconds, and covered with some Haggen-
Dasz honey vanilla or rum raisin.  We happened upon it one night
while looking for the perfect thing to eat while stoned.  But then
we decided it's not really perfect because it's missing that all-
important crunch.  But the hot/cold part works nicely.
     So we were munching when Karen said, "I know you're gonna hate
this but I'm *sure* Laura Palmer's still alive.  It was Maddy that
died."
     "Topical as ever, Karen."
     "I might have believed you once, but it's clearly Leland.  And
Bob, of course."
     "I don't care what Lynch and Frost say, I *know*."
     "You're stoned."
     "Regardless," she said, as a thin rivulet of ice cream traced
a path from a corner of her mouth down her chin and on into the top
of her loosely-fitting t-shirt.  It was evident in a few seconds
exactly where the ice cream was pooling.  "*I* know.  The
characters have a life of their own.  Laura is not dead."
     "You just know her *so* well."
     "I *do*.  Her dark side.  Her diaries."  Karen had been
obsessed with "Twin Peaks" for awhile, but we'd thought that was
all past.  We were wrong.  "Laura Palmer, c'est moi."
     "Well then *I* am Heathcliff."  Man, when had Howard ever read
"Wuthering Heights"?
     "Well then I'm, uh, Garfield?  Marmaduke??  Fred Bassett??
Shit. Well, *some*one."
     "No.  I'm *serious*.  Wait," she said.  "I got one.  Punch
line to 'Silence of the Lambs.'"
     "Got me."
     "Well?"
     "Hello, Clarise?  I'm going to DISNEYLAND!"
     Howard was right.  I was feeling much better indeed.

     "Visions of Johanna" was the song.  One of my all-time
favorites.  Dylan sang and I looked at Karen and thought about all
the Johannas, all the people who walk in and out--women who'd made
cameo appearances in my life.

     "--Ain't it just like the night to play tricks when you're
trying to be so quiet?
     We sit here stranded though we're all doing our best to deny
it.
     And Louise holds a handful of rain tempting you to defy it
     Lights flicker from the opposite loft; in this room the heat
pipes just cough--"

     "Now look," said Karen, trying to draw me back to the planet,
"we know all about Laura's dark side. She liked corrupting people.
She could easily have lured her cousin into a life of drugs and
illicit sex.  *I* sure would have."  She took a drag and continued.
"It could easily have been Maddy who worked at One-Eyed Jacks and
posed in Flesh World.  And we don't know how long Maddy's been in
Twin Peaks since she could always pass for Laura.  So it's really
Maddy who's killed in the railroad car and um, Leo and Laura
discover the body together and Ronette escapes in the confusion.
Remember, Donna's father won't do a detailed autopsy so he misses
seeing all the details that would have given the whole thing away."

     And still Dylan sang:
     "--electricity howls in the bones of her face
     While visions of Johanna have now taken my place

     --He's sure got a lat of gall
     To be so useless and all
     Muttering small talk at the wall
     While I'm in the ha-all--"

     "That doesn't prove anything.  Besides, Donna and James would
have known if she was faking it, don't you think?"

     "--But Mona Lisa must have had the highway blues you can tell
by the way she smiles--"
     I felt that chill go down my spine and my upper arms were soon
gooseflesh.

     "No, that's the whole thing." said Karen..  *We* saw things
that Donna and James never did.  Like those tapes to Dr. Jacoby
that she claims she found in the headboard of the bed, when
actually she pulled them out of a big box, one that was way too big
to fit in her headboard."

      "--Nobody feels any pain."
      Cool.  Howard had programmed the cd player to go from
"Visions of Johanna" to "Just Like a Woman"--a deadly one-two
punch.
      "--inside the rain
      Everybody knows that baby's got new clothes
      But lately I see her ribbons and her bows.

     --She takes just like a woman (yes she does)
       She makes love just like a woman (yes she does)
       And she aches just like a woman
       But she breaks just like a little girl.

     "And," Howard says, "She does dial Donna's number without
looking it up even though she supposedly only met Donna the day
before."
     "Yes!."
      "--Queen Mary she's my friend--"
      I took a hit off another joint and handed it to Howard.

      "-- I think I'll go see her again--"

     I leaned back against the couch, exhaled, and hoped that
Dylan, wherever he was, was in love.


                          BREAKFAST
     It's Sunday morning.  We all try to be together at breakfast
on Sundays.  Maria is there.  Together, we are putting out cereal
bowls, spoons, fruit, boxes of Frosted Flakes and Lucky Charms.
Maria has ground up some Jamaican Blue and the coffee is almost
ready. Beside my bowl and Karen's is our little pink happy pill.
Howard and Karen amble in, the sleep still on them--Howard in
shorts and a white t-shirt, Karen in a short maroon terrycloth
robe.
     "Wake and bake?" says Howard, producing a bowl from somewhere
and lighting it.  It works its way around the table.
     "Wow," says Karen, who is carefully eating her Lucky Charms,
working her spoon around so to leave all the marshmallows until the
end, when they'll be eaten in one huge, gooey slurp.  "This is the
best Lucky Charms *ever*.  Hey--Bow Wow Wow--" Bow Wow Wow was on
VH-1.
    "I know a boy who's tough but sweet,
     He's so sweet he can't be beat.
     Got everything that I desire.
     Sets the summer sun on fire.
     I want candy..."

     "Haven't heard *that* in so long," says Howard.
     Karen says, "I used to want to *be* her."  She was talking
about Annabella, Bow Wow Wow's 14(?)-year-old lead singer.  Malcolm
Mclaren, the Sex Pistol's guru had found Annabella working in a
laundry in Burma, brought her back to England, gave her a cool
haircut, and created every adolescent's teen cream dream.

     "...I like candy when it's wrapped in a sweater..."

     "But," says Maria.  "You couldn't have been more than nine or
ten when this song came out."
     "I know, but my older sister Cathy was really into all that
New Wave stuff.  I remember I liked that Bow Wow Wow girl because
she had a really cute, little butt."

     "...so sweecha make my mouth water..."

     "I also thought that girl who sang, oh, you know--"
     "Goodbye to You?" says Howard, tuning in to his lover's
wavelength.
     "Patty Smyth?" says Maria.  "Scandal?"
     "Yeah, she had a really cute butt too."
     Indeed she did.  Howard refills the bowl and took a hit off of
that expensive black Afghan pot. It was something else.  From
moment to moment you would feel deep resonances within yourself,
almost as one does when one unexpectedly encounters a familiar odor
from long ago.
     Maria suddenly gets up and bolts into the stereo room.  She
returns with my brother's old Gibson acoustic, jumps on the floor
in front of the tv and starts picking out the bouncy riff to "I
Want Candy" on it.  She's watching the guitarist's hands on the tv.
"Let's see," she says, looks like a G...up here...with an added.."
and before too long she has it.
     "Hey Rich," says Karen, as a commercial comes on, "What do you
have to major in to become a "Master Reincartionist?"
     "Well, it's not so much what you major in *now*..."
     "Ah," says Karen.   "If I was reincarnated, I'd wanna be
Chrissy Hynde."
     "Chrissy Hynde?"
     "Yeah.  She seems pretty cool.  Taught Johnny Rotten to play
guitar.  Had Ray Davies' kid.  But no way could you get me to live
in Akron."
     "I'm glad she didn't teach *me* to play," says Maria,
strumming the guitar ludicrously fast and growling, "God save the
queen, I did it my way, she ain't a human being, I am an
AntiChrist-ah, I am an anarchist-ah, don't know what I get--"
"Not Akron?" says Howard.  "Dayton?  Sydney?  Cleveland?
Cincinnati?"
     "London.  I'd want to be a punk.  But not like here.  Here it
was just about fashion.  Over there it was real.  Political.  Shit.
But I wouldn't want to be poor--"
     "A rich punk rocker, eh?"
     "Yeah.  Silver spoon and a paper plate."
     Maria says, "Cut that out."
     "With my *nails*?" adds Karen
     "Stop it," says Maria.  "Before I get sick."  She was picking
out the notes of some odd-looking jazz chord.  "My hands are too
small.  I wish I had big hands."
     "Well, says Howard.  "You know you're the one."
     "That's it."  She covered her hands with her ears and started
singing.

     "Remember when you were young?
      You shone like the sun.
      Shine on, you crazy diamond
      Now there's a look in your eyes
      Like black holes in the sky
      Shine on, you crazy diamond--"

     Karen grabbs Maria's wrists and pulls her hands away from her
ears and says, "Read my lips, sweetness:  No.  Pink.  Floyd."

     "Oooh, catfight," says Howard.  "Knew it was just a matter of
time."
     "Now, now.  Show some compassion, little brother, they're
still misaligned."
     "Misaligned?"
     "Yup."
     Karen says, "It's a pussy thing, Howard.  You wouldn't-"
"Sheesh," says Maria.  "You're like a fucking truck driver."
"Yeah," I say to Howard.  "Hormones.  Progesterone, estrogen. But
the ones that're causing all the problems are called
prostaglandins, I think."
     "Now I see, misaligned."
     "But in a few months, if they don't kill each other first,
their cycles of ovulation should be perfectly matched--"
     "That'll make deciding what videos to rent a hell of a lot
easier.  No more of these "Sorrow and the Pity"/"Desert
Hearts"/"Backdoor Blondes #12" triple bills."
     "Heh.  Exactly.  Ideally, they would begin ovulation with the
coming of each new moon, every 28 days, then would come the minor
depression of the waxing crescent, the shopping binges of the half-
moon, the anger of the gibbous, the secret, black rituals of the
full moon, another angry gibbous, and of course the frightening,
no-holds-barred lasciviousness as the waning crescent brings us
back, 28 days later, to another new moon.

     Howard continued, hamming it up.

     "The smell of the rain-washed florin!
      The lure of the lira!
      The glitter and the glory of the guinea
      The romance of the ruble!
      The cold antiseptic sting of the Swiss franc!
      And the sunburnt splendor of the Australian dollar!"

     Maria stands up like she's about to get something from the
kitchen, looks at me, and says, "Where do you *get* this stuff?"
   "Right here," I say, tapping a finger to my chest.  "Under my
left nipple."
     "Maria?"
     She sat back down on the floor and leaned forward so the blood
would return to her face.
     Karen says, "You skipped PMS."
     "Yeah, I know."
     "Typical, just typical. Okay," says Karen.  "Bad pick-up
lines."
     Howard says, "I'll start.  Yes, that is a Beretta 93R in my
pocket and I *am* happy to see you."
     I say, "You know, honey, my kittens don't have four limbs
among the eight of them, but they're soooo friendly."
     "Ick."
     Howard says, "Shave it and call me Daddy."
     "Pithy.  Effective?"
     "Not."
     Karen says, "Hey big boy, tell me, is that a birthmark or
Caposi's Sarcoma?"
     "Ouch."
     "Can we please not do any AIDS ones?  Please?"
     "All right.  Celebrity math.  Olivia Newton-John minus
Crocodile Dundee?"
     "That's an easy one," says Maria.  "Debbie Gibson.  All right.
James Dean minus Al Pacino?"
     "Johnny Depp."
     "I like that one. Luciano Pavarotti minus Enrico Caruso."
 "Dom Deluise."
     "Paul Prudhomme."
     "Stop.  You're both right."
     "Laurence Olivier minus Laurence Olivier?"
     "William Shatner."
     "Double ouch.  He was funny on Saturday Night Live."
     "Yeah, and he was good in 'The Andersonville Trial'.  But he's
still Captain Kirk."
     "All right.  Joan of Arc plus the Mr. Clean guy."
     "Jane Wiedlin?"
     "Sinead O'Connor."
     "Shit, I was thinking of that "Bill & Ted" movie."
     Karen says, "I heard the dumbest thing the other day."
"Dumb thing?" says Maria.
     "Yeah.  Dumb things.  Remember when the power went out
yesterday?"
     "Yup."
     "Well, I was with Howard in the video store.  And the guy
says--"
     "I nearly shit," says Howard.
     "This guy says, 'Dag, I wish the tv would come back on so we
could get the news and know how much longer the power's gonna be
out.  Dag."  The he looks around and says, hey, what's so funny?"
    "The whole store was dying.  But he never knew."
     "All right," I say.  "Dumb thing.  We're at this steakhouse.
All we hear from the guy at the table behind us is, '*Well* done.
Doctor's orders.  No red meat."
     "No way."
     "It's true," says Howard.  "I remember."
     Maria says to Karen.  "You notice it's only guys that say the
dumb things."
     "Yup."
     "No surprise."
     "If I were reincarnated, I'd definitely want to come back as
a girl."
     "Oh really now," says Maria, nudging my calf with a bare foot.
    "Oh yeah.  Seems like it'd be much more fun."
     "Fun?"
     "Yeah.  Like shopping.  When a man goes shopping, it's pretty
much a straightforward thing, but women, wow, way more choices.
Like lingerie; there's really no male equivalent: teddies, baby
dolls, crotchless panties, lace, dresses, skirts, snappy pantsuits-
-."
     "Don't forget the--"
     "Cheese?" says Howard, and is kicked.
     "Shoes," says Maria.
     "Oh shit yeah.  Flats, pumps, heels, boots, sneakers,
espadrilles, those dragon sandal things.  Plus, you can always shop
in the men's section too."
     "For sweaters," says Karen.  "I only buy sweaters from men's."
    "You see, that whole shopping experience, that's all closed off
to us, we don't get any of that."
     "Oh, you do too," says Maria.  "In sporting goods."
     "Oh yeah," says Howard.  "Herman's."
     "It's not the same."
     "You only want what's fun."
     "Yup.  Fun.  And big tits.  Did I mention big tits?"
     "Oh yeah."
     "That reminds me, Karen.  Leave the Victoria's Secret catalog
in the bathroom, wouldja?"
     "But I was gonna order something.  It'll just get ruined."
  "So order it and get on their mailing list.  The one you've got's
addressed to *me*."
     "Fine."
     "Fine."
     And so the day begins...

                        BLACK CAT
     Karen had gotten a hold of some Ecstacy, and it was starting
to kick in.
     "Now," said Karen, "Nobody can do anything stupid to me.  Oh
God."  Maria was behind her, already pulling off her sweatshirt.
Josh lit up a joint and passed it after taking a hit.  Howard put
on an old tape.  Some Prince.

    [My little secret, my private joy
     I could never let another play with my toy
     My little angel from heaven above
     oh oh oh oh oh I think I'm falling in love]

     Maria kissed Karen's neck and Karen shivered.
     "I'm gonna die tonight, aren't I?"
     "I'll do my best," said Maria, kissing her behind her ear.
  Karen took a hit off the joint.  "Well, in that case I'm gonna
party like it's--"
     "Yeah yeah."
     Erin's eyes were wide and Maria ran off towards the bedrooms
and came back holding a short silk robe.  She rubbed it over
Karen's shoulders and breasts, her nipples already hard as dates.

    [U're my little lover, Orgasmatron
     Only I know, only I know, baby, what turns u on
     U're my little secret neon light
     Girl I wanna turn it on turn it on turn it on every night]

     Maria whispered something to Howard then ran into the kitchen.
He moved Karen over to the couch and slipped her out of her
panties.  Then he cuffed her, spread-eagled, and kissed her breasts
and trailed the robe lightly over her.  She whimpered, her mouth
half-open, eyelids half-closed.

    [Shoot me up baby, let's take a trip
     I can't get enough can't get enough of your private private
     joy joy
     joy -- such a such a pretty toy
     joy -- u are my private joy
     joy -- shoot me up baby, let's take a trip
     joy -- can't get enough of your private
     joy -- come on honey baby get up, get up]

     We heard the can opener buzzing in the kitchen and our fat
black cat Shrapnel ran into the kitchen.
     "Hi Shraps," we heard Maria say and soon she returned from the
kitchen, holding a bowl full of crumbled tuna fish, the cat
following her.
     "What are you *doing*?" Karen managed to say before Howard
dragged his fingertips lightly over the insides of her thighs, the
X doing its job and magnifying his touch until we could almost see
the ripples moving through her.
     Maria took Shraps into the bedroom and soon returned, only
this time he was wearing four little red felt cat booties Maria had
made.  They looked like miniature Christmas stockings.


    [I strangled Valentino (He strangled Valentino)
     Been mine ever since (been his ever since)
     If anybody asks u (if anybody asks u)
     U belong to Prince (U belong to Prince)
     come on baby, get up, get up, get up, get up]
     Maria lay the cat on Karen and Howard stroked it until she
purred.(Shraps is a boy cat.)
     Maria rubbed a clump of the tuna fish around each of Karen's
nipples.  Shraps went to work immediately.  At the first brush of
his sandpaper tongue her eyes opened wide and she screeched.
"EEEEEK!!!  Oh God, it's unbear-oh, oh, oh God."
     Maria moved him to the other nipple and Josh's hand
disappeared under Erin's skirt.
     The pizza guy arrived.  A different one, but he'd heard.  We
let him in and he said, "Holy.  Fucking.  Shit."
     We paid for the pizzas and tipped the guy with a loose joint.
He didn't want to leave and we let him call back and say he'd be
late.  He lit up his joint and passed it.
     The song changed and we started eating the pizza.  Howard fed
Karen a slice and she chewed it forever, rolling it around inside
her mouth.  The pizza guy ate more than any of us.

    [If U're looking for somewhere to go
     Thought I'd take u to a movie show
     Sittin' in the back and I'll jack u off]

     Maria rubbed some of the tuna across Karen's clit and she
shook, coughing on the pizza.
     "No," she said.  "No.  You can't.  I'll freak."  Maria kissed
her on the lips and smoothed a hand over her spiky hair.  Maria
rubbed a liberal amount of KY over and into Karen and then she
lifted the cat off Karen's stomach and lay it between her legs.
This time she screamed.

    [I can't give u everything u want
     but I can take u to a restaurant
     if u're not hungry
     I'll jack u off]

     The pizza place called back and the guy had to leave.  At
first he said, "Fuck the job," but then changed his mind and headed
out.

    [if your man ain't no good
     Come on over to my neighborhood
     we can jump in the sack and I'll jack u off]

     Karen twisted and the cat only licked faster while Maria
lazily played with her nipples.
     "He's gonna lick you raw," said Maria.  "That won't do," and
Karen was able to breathe again when Maria scooped him up under one
arm.  She squeezed some more KY over the very bottom, her perineum
and anus.  Then she crumbled some more tuna over those same areas
and set the cat back.
     "Ooooh, nice," said the girl.

    [if u're tired of the masturbator
     bring a girl, we can go on a date
     and if u like, I'll jack u off]
     Maria said, "Ooh, if I just breathe on your clit you'll
come..."

    [I'll jack u off, jack u off
     I'll jack u off, jack u off
     I'll jack u off]

     We all heard it.  Karen definitely meowed.  "Mrrrrow."  Maria
kissed her clit and then gently smoothed some lube over her with a
light forefinger.
     "Mmmm," said Maria.  "Feels like a ball bearing under a
pancake.  A pearl onion.  A tapioca pearl."  Karen was
hyperventilating.  "Josh, hand me your watch."  He did.  She rested
it against Karen's left breast and lay her left hand right above
it.  After fifteen seconds or so she said, "One-sixty."

     [I only do it for a worthy cause
     virginity or menopause
     u'll have an instant heart attack if I jack u off]

     Josh said, "Beats the shit out of aerobics, eh?"
     Erin giggled, still pumping on his hand.  "Oh, oh, I'm--" and
Josh swallowed her last word into his mouth.

    [If u really really want to be a star
     we gotta do it in your momma's car
     naked in a Cadillac, I'll jack u off

     if we can't find no place to go
     girl, I'll take u to a movie show, we can sit in the back
 and I'll jack u off]

     Maria handed Josh back his watch and trailed her hair over
Karen's chest.  Then she lowered her head to join her fingers and
Karen arched stiffly, scaring the cat away.  He was quickly
replaced by Howard.  Karen clenched and arched her fingers,
straining against the cuffs.  Then she screamed and stiffened, the
dam broke, and the sea flowed into Howard's mouth.



                         SONNET SPEAK
     Howard comes up and says, "I saw that homeless guy again
today.  He asked me for a cigarette I said 'Don't smoke, but how
about a Milky Way'?  He said that sugar makes him nuts and led--"
    "Holy shit, How, what the fuck are you doing?"
     "What?"
     "What you just said."
     "What about it."
     Karen says, "You're talking in sonnets.  Pretty odd."
     He repeats it to himself:

     "I saw that homeless guy again today,
      He asked me for a cigarette.  I said,
      'Don't smoke, but how about a Milky Way?'
      He said that sugar makes him nuts and led--"

     Howard laughs.  "Cool.  That and fifty cents..."
     "Weird shit, How," says Karen.  "I used to talk in fairy
tales."
     "Don't say it," says Maria.
     "Really?  When did that start?"
     "Oh, once upon a time."
     Maria covers her ears and starts.  She can't take the Monty
Python shit.

      [Look out of any window, any morning, any evening, any day.
      Maybe the sun is shining, birds are singing,
       No rain is falling from a heavy sky.
       What do you want me to do, to do for you to see you through?
      For this is all a dream we dreamed one afternoon, long ago.]

     "So what else about the homeless guy?  Finish it."

     "He said that sugar makes him nuts and led
      Me to his place behind a coffee shop.
     I know it isn't much but hey, it's home."

     "This really happened?, said Maria.  "No way."
     "Let him finish."

     "Finish?  That's it.  He took the Milky Bar and I split."
 "Weird.  Weird-ass shit."


                  TRUTH OR DARE #4--PT A
     For a change, we were at Josh's.
     "Well," said Ellen, Karen's slightly psychopathic cousin,
"the one song that always sends a chill up *my* spine is 'Woman',
by John Lennon."
     "Oooh yeah."
     "Anything by the Cocteau Twins," said Josh.
     "'She's Leaving Home'," said Howard.
     "Early Billy Joel."
     "Rich?"
     "One summer I was seeing this girl who lived off of exit 8 on
the Jersey Turnpike, and I remember driving home every night like
2 or 3 am, just going through all the stations until I found
'Thunder Road'."
     "There's no lonely like the 3 am Jersey turnpike lonely."
 Howard filled a bowl.
     Josh said, "Rich, gimme a hand with some drinks, will ya?"
  I followed him to the kitchen.  He opened up a cabinet and pulled
out some bottles.  "Let's see...there's Absolut in the fridge, we
got Bailey's, Chambord, Pernod..."
     "Pernod?"
     "Green creme de menthe..."
     How much?"
     "Almost a full bottle, why?"
     "One of Paul's drinks.  Dirty girl scout.  Vodka, Bailey's,
creme de menthe."  We made a bunch and joined the others.
"Howard," said Maria.
     "Yeah?"
     "What is the funniest thing you ever heard your parents say?"
    "Funniest, eh?  That's easy.  I was in 8th grade.  Rich was in
high school.  In health class, we were--"
     "Mr Wallace?" I said.
     "Mr.  Emery.  Oh God, remember that masturbation thing?"
"Masturbation thing?" said Karen.
     "When I had health, the teacher asked 'Does anyone know what
masturbation is?'  Well, you know how it is in 8th grade.  You
don't admit to even knowing how to spell the word...So no one said
anything.  After a few seconds I raised my hand.  My left hand.
'Yes, Rich, why don't you tell us what masturbation is.'  I said,
'Beats me.'"
     "Heh.  Howard, well...?"
     "Like I was saying, I was in 8th grade and the teacher had
told us about 'simultaneous orgasms' which, at the time, sounded
pretty cool."
     "Overrated."
     "Lame."
     "Well, anyhow, we were all at breakfast on Sunday and I asked
my mom, 'Mom, have you and dad ever had any simultaneous orgasms?"
    "Hee."
     "My dad put down the paper and said, "Oh sure.  Many times.
Now, we weren't in the same room, mind you, but still..."
     "I remember."
     "Your parents are funny, How."
     "Can be.  So is it truth or dare, then?" said Howard.  "That
was a truth."
     "Hey, no retroactive shit," said Josh.
     "My ass," said Howard.
     "Whatever turns you on, How," said Josh.
     "Fuck that," I said.  "besides, where the fuck are we gonna
find a caulking gun and a bottle of Karo syrup?  At this hour??"
   "I've got both those things," said Josh.
     "Bastid."
     "Truth or dare, Ellen?" said Maria.
     "Truth.".
     "Tell us about your first sexual experience.  With another
girl.
     Ellen was plump and told some of the raunchiest jokes.  She'd
been with Josh for about two months.  "Okay.  I was in 8th grade.
My best friend was this girl, Janet.  She was a year younger but we
hung out all the time anyhow.  Both my parents worked so she would
come over to my house after school and we'd go up to my parents'
room and watch tv or listen to the radio.  We watched, oh, you
remember Dance USA?"
     Maria admitted, "I was *on* it.  Once."
     "Yikes.  Well, we watched that, cartoons, whatever.  Sometimes
we'd smoke.  But we'd go outside if we were going to do *that*.
    Well, one day, we're just lying there, and Janet says:
"Ellen, can I ask you something?"
     "Sure."
     <In these <> things will be present activity.  Anything else
is Ellen's story.>
     <"Now, Janet had a funny way of putting sentences together
sometimes, especially if she was nervous.">
      Janet said, "Do you ever, oh, like at night, before you go to
sleep, thinking about guys, or slow-dancing, or in the bathtub, do
you--"
     <Well, I knew her well enough to know what she was getting at,
and since I was supposed to be the neighborhood 'bad' girl, I
said,>
     "Do I ever masturbate?  Play with myself?"
     "*Do* you?"
     "Do *you*?"
     "I asked first."
     "So you do, then."
     "I didn't say that."
     "If you didn't, you would have said no right away.  It's okay.
So do I."
     "You do?"
     "Sure.  All the time."
     "All the time?"
     "Well, not *all*..."
     "How do you..you know...do you inside...outside...what do you
think about?"
     "Well,' Ellen said, "Why don't I just show you."  <"We were
both still in our uniforms and I just pulled up my skirt and slid
down and kicked off my panties and started going for it."
     "Coolness," said Karen.  "Hey, you never told me about any of
this."
     "I guess I never thought you'd be interested."
     "Bitch," said Karen.
     "Go on," said Josh.>
     <"Well, Janet was sitting up, her legs tucked under her,
studying me intently, staring at my hands, my face, everything.
Sometimes she'd look in the mirror on my mom's bureau for a
different angle.  So I knew I had to put on a good show.  I mean,
I really got LOUD."
     "Hee."
     "I did things I never had tried, just to turn her on.  I
reached my one hand under my thigh and slid in a couple fingers.
My other hand was playing  with my clit and I was moaning and
gyrating, calling out names of boys we knew, hinting at some huge
fantasy in my head, saying things like:" >
     "Oh yes, yes, kiss me there.  Yes.  Get the chocolate.  Ooooh.
That's so nice."
     <"Finally, I reached up and pulled Janet back down so she was
laying next to me and with my left hand I did me and I slid my
right hand into her panties and did her the same way.  She just
whimpered and held my wrist and said:">
     "Oh my God, this is just like I imagined it..."
     <"So this 'sexplay' became a daily part of our after-school
routine.  It was funny.  We kept daring each other to go farther
and farther.  Things really got wild when Shemp wandered in..."
  Karen screeched.
     "Shemp?"
     "Our collie.  We kept the door open so we could hear when
either of my parents came in.  Well, I was on my back and Janet was
eating me when he just kinda came wandering in.  I was kinda
surprised that he hadn't before.">
     Janet looked over at the dog and patted her hand on the bed
and said, "Hey Shemp, good boy, good boy.  Up on the bed.  Come
here. Good boy."
     <"I *loved* that dog," said Karen.
     "Apparently not as much as Ellen."
     "Nor as often.">
     "Shemp jumped up on the bed and I instinctively closed my
legs.
     "Boy," said Josh,"has *that* instinct ever changed."
      Ellen elbowed him and continued:>
     Janet said, "I dare you to let him lick you."
     So of course I did.
     Janet rubbed Shemp, encouraging him.
     "Oh my God," said Janet.  "His thing.  It's coming out."
<"I looked under him.  Sure enough, it was.  It looked like a
lipstick.">
     "I dare you to touch it," I said to Janet.
     "I couldn't."
     "Chicken."
     Janet reached out a tentative hand, touched it, and screamed,
scaring the dog off the bed.
     "Oh.  My.  God.  That felt *soooo* weird."
     "Weird?"  Ellen looked over at the dog, who was lurking at the
foot of the bed.  "C'mon, boy.  C'mon, back up here."  <"He jumped
back up and wrestled him down and turned him over and started
rubbing his belly.  He really liked that, because his little
dogdick came right back out.  I rubbed his balls.">
     "I'm gonna put my mouth around it," said Ellen.
     "Ewwwww," said Janet.  "Go ahead.  I dare you."
     "Well, if I do, you're gonna have to do something."
     "Go ahead."
     <"So I did.  That was strange.  But I sucked on him like I
would've on a guy.  Janet took a picture of me doing it."
     "A picture?"
     "With my dad's SX-70.  That started a whole new deal for us.
Pictures."
     "Wicked.">
     "Your turn now," Ellen said to Janet.  "Come on, fair's fair."
    "What?" said Janet.
     "Come here.  Give me the camera.  Ok, now get on your hands
and knees.  Good, good."
     "Ellen."
     "Just relax.  Shemp is way smaller than your hairbrush."
<"Hee," said Karen.  "I remember *those* days."
     "Well, you oughta," said Howard.  "Last week...">
     Shemp mounted the small redhead and soon Ellen was saying,
"Oooh, Janet, nice.  How does it feel?  Oooh, that looks hot.  Say
cheese."
     Janet said, "I don't want any of his stuff inside me, Ellen."
     "Relax."
     <"When it looked like Shemp was ready, I reached under and
pushed Janet forward and pulled him out and he shot doggie jizz all
over the bed.  We just looked at each other and realized what a bad
idea that had been.  We tore all the sheets off the bed and stuffed
them into the washer.  It was late and when my mom came home we
told her we'd spilled some grape juice or something."
     "She bought it?"
     "Oh yeah.  So then we would split up the pictures and bring
them to school, where we kept daring each other to do things, like
look at them during class, during lunch, to meet in the bathroom at
a certain time all sorts of shit."  Both Howard's hand and Karen's
own were hidden up to the wrist in her shorts.  "So, all year that
was our thing:  to come over my house and be naked.  Lemme tell
you--that was one lucky dog.">
     "Ruff."
     "Bow.  Fucking.  Wow."
     "Truth or dare, Karen?" said Maria, pulling Karen's and
Howard's hands out of her shorts.
     "Dare."

                  TRUTH OR DARE #4--PT A
     "Dare, Karen?"
     "Yes, dare."
     Maria whispered something to Josh.  He nodded and headed
towards his garage.
     "Okay," said Maria.  "Strip."
     Karen did, and stood there.  "Shit.  I was just this close,
Ree."
     "I noticed."
     Josh returned with a bench press rack.  And a big roll of duct
tape.  Karen stood there, her hands at her sides.
     "I like it here, Josh.  You don't have any exotic equipment."
    "So we have to improvise."
     "I like household stuff way better anyway.  I mean, you see a
big ole iron cross--that's pretty much only used for one thing.
There's no mystery about it.  But you come at someone with a roll
of Scotch tape and a box of thumbtacks--well, then you've got lots
of good connotations to work with."
     "Oooh, yeah," said Maria.  "Tape is usually benign, helpful.
But--"  She unrolled a bit.  "It can cut, it can tear, it can pull
out pubes..."
     Karen shuddered slightly and her nipples stiffened.
     Ellen got a bunch of plastic trash bags from the kitchen and
lay them on the floor.  Josh situated the rack over it.
     "What's with the bags?" said Karen.
     "Catch any stray fluids," said Maria.  "Blood, urine, bile,
lymph..."
     "Cerebrospinal fluid."
     "I hear that tastes like seawater."
     "Yikes."
     "Lie down," said Maria.  Karen did.  "Arms up.  Hold these."
     Karen grabbed onto the upright supports and Josh secured her
wrists with tape.  He did the same to her ankles.
     "How does that feel?  Any bony prominences feel
uncomfortable?"
     "Nope."
     "Great."
     Josh disappeared to put on some music.
     "Play something raunchy," said Karen.  "Something that
grinds."

        [ She was a fast machine,
          She kept her motor clean,
          She was the best damn woman that I ever seen,

          She had a-sightless eyes,
          Telling me no lie,
          Knockin' me out with those American thighs,]

     "Coolness."
     Maria tore off two squares of duct tape and covered Karen's
eyes.
     "Hey--"
     "Relax.  We'll be with you in a sec."
     We huddled and split up, each of us searching for something to
play with.  When we all returned, we had a bunch of long red
candles, a bowl of ice water, a bunch of towels, a big bottle of
baby oil(warm from the microwave), a box of thumb tacks, and a pair
of rusty garden shears("for aural stimulation," Ellen had said.  No
doubt.)
     Maria kneeled beside Karen and started pouring the baby oil
over her stomach.
     "What's that?  Mmmm, warm."
     "It's just oil.  Relax."  Maria smoothed it out over Karen,
cupping a generous amount between her legs.
     Howard knelt on the other side and slipped a finger between
her folds and started talking.
     "The great thing about Karen" he said, rolling his forefinger
over her clit, "is that you can always tell exactly how close she
is.  Right, hon?"  Karen screeched and he stopped his hand.
"You're already there.  Well, relax.  If you lose the feeling it'll
come right back."
     "Ohhhh," she whined.  "But I'm so--so close."

        [ Taking more than her share,
          Had me fighting for air,
          She told me to come, but I was already there,

          'Cos the walls start shaking,
          The earth was quaking,
          My mind was achin',
          And we were makin' it and you...

          Shook me all night long,
          Yeah you, shook me all night long. ]
     Maria found a lighter and lit all the candles and passed them
out.  Soon, we were all hovering over Karen.  When the first
droplets hit her, she said, "W--what's that?  Warm.  Wax?  I've
never played with wax before!"
     "The baby oil should take the edge off it.  Should just feel
warm.  You wanna come, don't you, baby?"
     "Oh fuck."

        [ Running double time on that seduction line,
          She's one of a kind,
          She's just mine all mine,

          Well her claws,
          Are just another cause,
          Made a meal out of me, and come back for more,

          Tried to cool me down,
          To take another round,
          Well I'm back in the ring to take another swing ]

     Karen's breasts were soon almost completely covered with the
red wax and efforts were concentrated below her waist.  Howard held
her lips apart and we saw her pussy twitch slightly as the wax
landed.  Ice water was added to the recipe.  A delicate trail
across her nipples.  Warm, cool, COLD, HOT!  The signals were
dizzying the young girl, but each trail of sensation sent showers
of tiny explosions across her cunt.  Karen was panting, writhing,
near-hyperventilating.
     Howard moved around so he was between Karen's thighs and
spread her fleshy outer lips.  He dragged his tongue across her
vulva and around her clit a few times.  He picked away any stray
wax and said to her, "Karen, I'm going to kiss you two hundred
times.  You count.  When I'm done, you can come.  But if you lose
count I'm going to start at one."
     "Ok, ok, anything."
     He started, got up to 50 and said to her, "Now by eights."
  "58."
     Pause.
     "66."
     "74."
     "82."

        [ But the walls were shaking,
          The earth was quaking,
          My mind was aching,
          And we were making it and you...
          Shook me all night long,
          Yeah you, shook me all night long,
          Knocked me out, I said you
          Shook me all night long,
          Had me shaking and you,
          Shook me all night long,
          Had me shaking,
          Well you shook me...
          [guitar solo]

     "Too easy.  By 12.5's"
     "You're cruel, How.
     "94.5, 107, 118.5--"
     "Excuse me, Karen?"
     "Shit.  119.5."
     "That's one."
     "Nooooooooooooooooooooooo."
     "Oh all right, just do the Big Mac song then you can come."
   "Two all beef patties--"
     "Backwards.  No mistakes."
     "Or pauses," said Maria, who was nibbling on Karen's nipples.
She removed the tape over Karen's eyes.

        [ You really shook me and YOU!
          Shook me all night long,
          Aaaaahaaaahaaaah You...
          Shook me all night long,
          Yeah yeah you,
          Shook me all night long,
          You really got me and you,
          Shook me all night long,
          Yeah you shook me,
          Yeah you shook me,
          All night long. ]

     "Bun seed sesame a on."  Pause.  Maria twisted Karen's left
nipple hard.
     "Bun seed sesame a on onions cheese pickles--"
     "Onions pickles cheese, dearest," said Maria.  "I like that
idea, Howard.  Poor dear can't come if she has to *think*."
Maria turned to me and said, "Rich, gimme your belt."  I did.
She cut the tape off Karen's arms and placed them so that her hands
rested on the inside of her own thighs.  Then, she threaded the
belt through the space between Karen's elbows, under the rack.
 "Try to move towards your clit, Karen."  Karen did and Maria
tightened the belt when Karen's fingertips were just a few
Angstroms away from the money.
     "Where did you learn to be so cruel, Ree?" asked Ellen,
brushing her hand across her cousin's hair.
     "Cruel? You think?"  Maria knelt next to Karen's right leg and
started licking her in earnest.
     "Oh, oh, please don't stop."
     Maria stopped and said, "All right, Karen.  When you really
really want to come, I want you to say, 'Please keep teasing me,
please.'  Got it?"
     A tear rolled across Karen's cheek.  Ellen brushed it away.
   Maria went back to work.  She looked up and said, "Well, Karen
do you want to come?  Just say the word."
     "I-I--please keep teasing me, please agh you're--"
     Maria reached under and undid the belt.  "Don't move your
hands at all."  Then, Maria moved around and leaned over Karen's
stomach.  She lifted up her black cotton skirt and said, "Rich.
I'm sooo ready."
     So she was.  I slipped in behind her and she toweled off
Karen's stomach.  She rocked over Karen, screaming as we both came,
and pulling Karen's hand away from her clit every now and again.
Then, she cupped herself between her legs and stood up over Karen's
face.  She moved her hand away and said, "Suck."
     Karen did, visibly gulping.  Maria came again, grinding slick
over Karen's face.
     "Ahhh, that was so nice,"   said Maria.
     "Please," begged Karen.  "It's so unfair.  Pleeeeease?"
"Howard?"
     Howard cut the tape around Karen's ankles and brought her to
the floor.  He entered her slowly, halfway.
     "If you really concentrate," said Howard, "you can feel Karen
flutter, just slightly."
     Ellen said, "Like the wings of a whippoorwill, as it prepares
for flight."
     "Where the hell did you get *that*," said Maria.
     "Oh...around."
     Karen had crossed her ankles behind Howard and was trying to
pull her hips up to meet him, but he held her at bay.
     "Nice face," said Ellen.
     Karen's spiky hair was matted and she looked on the verge of
tears.
     Howard sank in fully and felt her contractions.


                    STEAMBOATS SPINNIN'
     Howard was writing a new story.  I looked over his shoulder.
He had written:  "Steve walks warily down the street."
     "Whatcha workin' on, How?  Sounds like a hard-boiled, Raymond
Chandler kind of a deal."
     "We'll see.  I've just had this line going through my head.
Figured it was time to write it down."
     "I grabbed his pen and changed the line so it read:  "Steve
walks warily down the street with the brim pulled way down low."
   He looked at it.  "Hey, that's cool.  Can I use that?"      "Um,
How.  I don't know quite how to tell you this, but that line.  It's
not yours."
     "Whaddayoumean?  I thought of it this morning."
     "What line," said Karen, from the living room.  She was
wearing biker shorts, a Campagnolo hat, and a Nekromantik t-shirt.
    "Take a look."  She came over to where we were and looked at
it.  Then she said, "Hey, isn't that from..."  She looked at me and
I put my finger to my lips in a 'shhh' gesture.
     "It's from a song, How."
     "No way."
     "Honest.  A song you've heard zillions of times.
     "Are you *sure*?  What song?  Tell me."
     "It'll come to you, eventually," said Karen, who was holdong
an old copy of Spy magazine.  She ran back into the living room and
sat down sideways in the blue chair, her feet over the side.  She
was chewing on a pen, working on the Roy Blount crossword puzzle.
She was frighteningly good at then.
     "All right," she yelled.  "I need a five letter word.  Here's
the clue.  Once an airport.  Gets things moving."  Howard looked at
me.  He was still working on his story.  He lit a joint.
     "You're not bullshitting me?  It's from a song??  A song I
*know*??"
     "Honest."
     He crumpled up the paper and took a huge drag off the joint.
The paper hit me in the eye.
     "How," I said to him quietly.  "The answer, to that crossword.
It's 'ex-lax'."
     "Shit.  You're right."  He exhaled.  Maria was slapping out
the bass line to 'Another One Bites the Dust'.  Karen must have
told her about Howard's "story".
     "Howard," said Maria, "Do you know the chord changes?"      "I
could bluff through em.  It's not a tricky song."  He plugged in
his Telecaster.
     This is what he sang, I swear it:

     [Steamboats spinnin' around my feet, ain't no way I go.
Ain't no sound but the sound of speed, machine guns ready to
      go
      Are you happy?  Are you satisfied?
      Are you hanging on the edge of your seat--]

     Maria stopped.  "You really don't know what song that line of
yours is from, How?"
     "Tell me!"
     "It'll come to you."
     "I had this weird dream," said Karen.  "I told Howard.  He
called it my Debbie dream."
     "Debbie dream?"
     "Yeah.  Because in it, Debbie Harry was slunched down like
this in a chair..."  Karen sat up and then slid down so her butt
was just hanging on it.
     "...and Debbie Gibson was sucking on her toes, working her way
up."
     "Wow," said Maria.  "Awesome."
     "It all started because Howard showed me this picture--"
The book was 'Rock n Roll Babylon'.  In it, there's a picture of an
early '80's Debbie Harry in concert wearing only a Doctor X t-shirt
that came to very high on her thigh.  The picture was a sever low-
angle shot and from it it is clear that whatever money Ms. Harry
saved on wardrobe she spent on shaving cream.  Karen loved the
expression on the singer's face.  She called it, 'one of bemused
detachment'.  I call it, 'Reds.  Lots of reds.'
     The tv was on:  "...'Hazard', the dark side of Richard Marx."
    "Oh give me a fucking break.  What rocket scientist decided
that Richard Marx needed a 'dark side'.  Check out these
testimonials."
     One girl said, "The whole video just gives you a real...creepy
feeling."
     "Ooooooh, scaaaaaary."
     Then, this doofus adds, "The video, each time you see it.  It
keeps messing with your mind."
     Karen added, "Like that picture.  Is it two vases, or two
faces!!??  Man, that's some scary-ass shit!  That shit'll fuck with
your head, no lie!"
     "Jessie's boy--the dark side of Rick Springfield.
     "Shake your love...IN MY *FACE*!  the horny side of Debbie
Gibson.
     "Mother Figure--the Oedipal side of George--"
     "Yeah yeah.  C'mon 5 letters.  Once an airport.  Gets things
moving..."
     Howard stood behind her.  "Well, what airports do we know?
LaGuardia, Kennedy, Dulles, O'Hare..."
     "Oooh, LaX," said Karen.
     "Once," said Howard.  "Could that mean 'formerly'?"
     "Oooh.  ExLax.  Coolness."
     "Are Josh and Erin coming over?" asked Karen.
     "I think they want us to go over there for a change."
     "Waiting for God's favorite angel, Lucifer, to fall--the dark
side of Boy Meets Girl."
     Maria started playing again.
     "You know, How, I really don't think that the word 'steamboat'
shows up anywhere, in *any* Queen song."
     "Fine.  Make fun of me."
     "But I do like the idea of steamboats spinning around your
feet."
     "Eat me."


                      REALLY DEEP THOUGHTS
     That Tori Amos video was on MTV.  Very cool video.  Maria
turned up the sound.  Karen was wearing biker shorts and a yellow
and black Campagnolo cap.  And a t-shirt she had silk-screened
herself.  It was one she didn't wear much outside the house.  My
guess is that the scene it depicted, involving herself and Bart
Simpson, had *something* to do with that.
     Howard had scored some great dope and was passing a red bong.
     "Oooh," said Maria, who had just bought the cd, "this is the
best part:

     [  So you found a girl who thinks really deep thoughts,
  What's so amazing about really deep thoughts?
        Boy you best pray that I bleed real soon.
        How's *that* thought for you? ]

      "I like that a lot.  With that one line she raises the stakes
of the whole song."
      "Great phrasing," said Maria.  "I'd do her if she asked me."
     "Throw in the cd."  Howard did.
      Cool cover.  Redhead girl in a wooden box.  Barefoot with a
tiny piano.  Definite David Lynch feel to it.  And on the back
cover these phallic mushroom stalks and caps.
     "Hey," said Howard, looking over the cover, "Isn't David
Lunch's daughter supposed to be doing something about a girl who
lives in a box?"
      "Sounds likely."

     [ she's been everybody's girl
       maybe one day she'll be her own. ]

     Karen said, "Hey, you know the prisoner's dilemma?  For some
reason I was thinking about it the last time I tripped."
     Karen had been reading up on game theory and famous paradoxes.
The prisoner's dilemma is more or less:  You and another person are
captured by the police.  You are held in separate rooms and both
made the same offer.  If you defect(tell all to the police) and the
other one doesn't, you get off scot free.  If you both refuse to
defect, you get one year in jail each.  If you both talk, you both
get three years.  So, what do you do?
     "Sure.  We know the prisoner's dilemma.  What of it?"
     "Well, do you talk or not?"
     Howard said, "I think that before I would commit any crime I'd
talk it over with my accomplices beforehand and have everyone agree
that if we got caught and were presented with--"
     "But can you trust them?"
     Maria said, "I read about this guy in Scientific American...I
guess it was in the old Martin Gardner column, does he still do
that, who auctioned off a dollar for $3.40."
     "Shubin was the guy's name who did that.  Something Shubin"
   "Whatev.  What made it cool was whoever bid second-highest had
to pay that much, so no one wanted to be that--there was an
imperative to keep going."
     Karen thought it over a moment, then said, "Neat" and tossed
the Campy cap onto a table.
     Josh and Erin walked in.
     "I remember a different version.  Twenty people, you and your
friends, sitting in sealed booths.  You each have a gun pointing at
your head and a button by your hand that you can press.  For anyone
who pushes the button, the odds of survival are set at ninety
percent.  Not too bad, but with twenty people, almost certainly two
will die.  You following, Josh?"
     "Yeah.  We're already baked.  Go on."
     "Well, for anyone who doesn't push the button, the odds of
being shot are one over n-squared, where n is the number of people
who don't push.  So, if five people don't push, the odds are what,
one in twenty-five.  Not too bad.  But if you're the only one..."
    "Blammo."

     [ I wanna smash the face of those beautiful BOYS
       those Christian boys so you can make me cum
       that doesn't make you Jesus I remember yes
       in my peach party dress no one dared no one cared
       to tell me where the pretty girls are those demigods
with their NINE-INCH nails and little fascist panties        tucked
inside the heart of every nice girl...]

     "Who's the singer?" asked Erin, while I pulled Josh over to
help me with some drinks.
     "Tori Amos."
     I set up the glasses and Josh filled each with a shot or so of
Bailey's.
     "What's that?" he asked.
     "Chambord."
     "Ooh, raspberry.  Good deal.  What's with the spoon?"
     "Check it out.  Paul showed me..."
     "The bartender?"
     "Yup."  I showed him how to dribble the liqueur over the back
of the spoon so the Chambord would remain separate, on top.
"Funky."  He held up the glass in the light and bent his wrist in
and out as he looked it over.  Then, he drank it.  "Man, that's
good shit.  What's it called?"  And he poured himself another one.
    "Paul calls it Good Sex.  I don't argue with him."
     "What's he doing these days?"
     "Workin' on a novel."
     "Really?  Cool."
     "Yeah, he was always a slow reader."
     "Shit.  I stepped right into that."
     "I won't tell," I lied.
     "Thanks."
     We brought the drinks back.
     "So you really wouldn't press that button?"
     "If no one presses, then you've only got a one in four hundred
chance of dying."
     "But you can't be *sure*."
     "What if the others are all stupid?"
     "What if they're not?  What if they're all Secretaries of
State, all War Ministers, all Henry Kissingers?  What changes?  For
you??"

     [ I'll go wearing my NAUGHTIES like a jewel
       they'll be my ticket to the universal opera
       there's Judy Garland taking Buddha by the hand
       and then these seven little men get up to dance
       they say Confucius does his crosswords with a pen...]

     "Sounds like the arms race."
     "The analogy is probably clearer with that dollar bill
auction."
     "Dollar bill auction?"
     It was explained to Josh and Erin.
     "There's no imperative really to win.  In fact, you just end
up looking foolish, because you bought a dollar for three bucks."
    "The only imperative is not to finish second, in which case do
you lose not only near as much as the high bidder, but you don't
even get the buck for it."

     [ oh god could it be the weather oh god
       why am I here if love isn't forever and it's
       NOT THE WEATHER hand me my leather...]

     "I second *that* emotion," said Karen.

     [ "IN A SENSE" he said "you're alone here
        so if you jump you best jump far"...]
     "And *that* one.  Hey Josh, Erin, either of you take any
anthropology classes?"
     "A while ago, yeah.  Just for the requirement.  Why?"
     "Oh...I was just thinkin' about something..."
     "All right.  What?"
     "Well, the very very first humans.  I mean, at some point
there had to be a human whose parents weren't...human."
     "Well, how are you defining 'human'?"
     "I mean, the first ones to have 'language'.  The whole thing.
There must have been some point where a girl had language and her
parents didn't.  She must have been so lonely.  I bet there were a
lot of suicides among these people, before they finally found each
other."
     Erin took a hit and said, "What makes you think it happened
like that?  Couldn't there be some with just the rudiments of
language--"
     "Five nouns, four verbs, no adjectives."
     "Well, yeah.  Kinda."
     "No.  They say there's no such thing as a 'primitive'
language.  Every language is capable of saying exactly what it
wants to say.  They are all infinite.  It's just how language
works.  So this poor girl had all of infinity inside her, and her
parents were still sniffing each other's butts."
     "Some things never change," said Josh, sniffing Erin's.
"No, I'm serious, this really bothers me.  Language is an all-or-
nothing thing.  You have it or you don't.  That girl must have been
*so* lonely..."
     "Oooh, this is a cool line."

     [ Neil says hi by the way
       I don't believe you're leaving because me and Charles Manson
      like the same ice cream." ]

     "Wonder what flavor?"
     "Ben n Jerry's Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough," said Howard, from
the kitchen.  "Want some?"
     "Bring the whole thing.  And a bunch of spoons."
     The ice cream disappeared, noisily.
     "So...as soon as this poor lonely girl had language available
to her, she instantly had everything that language creates--"
"Dreams that she could remember, hopes, desires, mystery, wonder,
awe.."
     "God, death, love."
     "Oh, yes," said Karen.  "Do you think love is a zero-sum
game?"


                     CAMERA OBSCURA
     We were at Josh's, for a change.  He was excited about some
"new thing" he had made and wanted to show us all.  Karen was
standing, barefoot on the back of the couch, which she'd pulled
away from the wall.  She was practicing entrechats.
     Among other things.
     Stag leaps, split leaps, whatever came to her.  She'd
sprinkled thumbtacks(the really short kind) upside down on the
floor behind the couch for incentive and she wore this cobalt blue
Lycra leotard that was one size too small for her.   I think she
might have even pushed some mousetraps down into the cushions too.
A full pirouette.  Not bad.  Apparently the years of ballet and
gymnastics classes hadn't been a total waste.  A tinsica.
Interesting.  Everyone had gathered into the living room.
     "You gonna miss or what?" said Maria, chewing on a tear
jerker.
     "I wouldn't hold my breath on it," she said, doing a side
aerial and wobbling a little, sticking her butt way out to keep her
balance.
     "Cool," said Howard.  "You'll get extra marks from the German
judge for the thumbtacks."
     "Not to mention the blowjob," said Maria.
     "Hey, I'm no Katarina Witt!" said Karen, "But I'm close."
 "You give better head," said Howard and Maria at the same time.
     "All right," she said.  "I need quiet for my next trick.  The
very challenging front aerial.  She moved back to the edge of the
couch and glanced over at the sea of tacks behind the couch.  She
took a few quick short steps then bent forward and kicked her legs
up behind her, her back arching, her legs coming around.
     Too early.
     Her feet landed all right, but her hips and torso were too far
behind her and it was instantly clear that she was about to fall.
None of us were near enough to do anything about it.  Josh,
however, had ben raised better than the rest of us, and he sped
over as quickly as he could.
     But what we all remember most was the moment, just as she
began her descent down towards the floor behind the couch, when she
looked over at us.  She bit her bottom lip and opened her eyes
wide--she wanted to see everything.
     Even though we were ready for it, the scream was quite
frightening.  I guess we were expecting something higher-pitched
but this seemed to come from some deeper place.
     "Holy shit, Karen," said Josh, bending to help her.  "Don't
move.  What a fucking mess."
     "Take em out.  Just take em out."
     We were all there by this time and saw what Josh had meant.
She hadn't missed a single tack.  We pushed the couch out of the
way and gathered around her, each of us finding a different part of
her body to de-tack.  The ones in her ass and waist were easy.  As
were the ones in her upper arms.
     "Ellen," said Josh.  "Go grab some spoons, wouldja?  And a box
of Kleenex."
     Spoons.  Good idea.  Some of the tacks just wouldn't come out.
These were the ones that had pierced her pelvis and the back of her
head.  And the backs of her heels.  And the heels of her hands.
She really hadn't missed a spot.  We used the spoons to pry out the
last of the tacks.  Karen didn't say anything during the whole
procedure, but was really rushing on the whole thing,
hyperventilating and opening and closing her hands, even before
they'd been de-tacked.  Finally, they were all out.  We managed to
stand her up and peel off her leotard.  We stretched her out flat
on her stomach on the couch.  Her whole body looked like some
bizarre connect-the dots and big bruises were starting to well up
on her lower back.
     "We missed one," said Maria, who had found another in to the
hilt behind Karen's knee.  She pulled it out a little and said,
"That was not the brightest thing to do--you know, Sweetness."  On
'Sweetness' she pressed the tack back in and Karen screeched.
"I know, I know."
     Josh had dug up some rubbing alcohol and some cotton swabs.
     "No betadyne?" Josh, said Maria.  "Alcohol'll sting like
hell."
     "Betadyne'd stain the couch."
     "Good point."  Maria finally twisted out the last tack and
soon we were cleaning up the wounded Karen with the cotton and
alcohol.  Karen bit into the arm of the couch and dug her right
hand deep into the cushions.
     Bad idea.
     *SNAP*!
     "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!"
     We just had to laugh.
     Amazingly, she hadn't done any serious damage to herself.  The
leotard was a mess, so she threw on a pair of Josh's sweatpants and
a 'Film Threat' t-shirt and we reconvened in the living room.
"Rich," said Ellen, taking a joint from Josh, "Truth here:  did
your dad ever give you any advice...about women?  Something all-
encompassing, something that only someone like your dad--"      "I
remember one thing very well.  He said, 'Son, if you can make a big
girl feel small, and a small girl feel tiny, then you've got
something.'  I never forgot that."
     I was pelted with a corn chip.
     "Howard?"
     "He never told *me* that," said Howard
     "Maybe he expected that *I* would," I said.
     "So why didn't you?"
     "I forgot."
     "Well, How?  Any other pearls of wisdom?"
     "Lemme think.  Ok, he said. 'Howard.'  He always calls me
that.  'Howard, middle management is a one-way ticket to despair
and regret.  Build something with your *hands*.  Something someone
*needs*.'"
     Howard was pelted with the whole bag.  Josh got up to put on
some music.

        [ You been bad
          Don't do what I say.
          You don't listen.
          And you never obey.
          Try to teach you.
          But you just won't be good.
          You won't behave the way
          A big girl should.
          It's time to give the whip a crack.
          I'm gonna have to send you back to
          Bitch School.
          Bitch School. ]

     "Hey, is this the new Spinal Tap?"
     "Yup."
     "Is there gonna be another movie?"
     Shrug.
     Maria said, "Ellen, all my mom ever told me was to make sure
that whatever boy I was with, to make sure he cleaned under his
fingernails."
     "All the time?  That's pretty harsh."
     "Just if he was going to put them in me."
     "She didn't say that."
     "It's what she meant.  She went on and on about UTIs and all
sorts of things.  I think she got a UTI when she was young.  Her
blood pressure dropped a way lot and she nearly died."
     "Yow."
     All the guys stole glances at our own and each other's
fingernails.

        [ You're a beauty.
          You're the best of your breed.
          You're a handful.
          And I know what you need.
          You need training.
          Gonna bring you to heel.
          I'm gonna break you with my will of steel.
          Discipline's my middle name.
          And no one comes back the same from
          Bitch School.
          Bitch School.

          No more sniffling strangers, or running free at night.
        You think my bark's bad, honey - wait till you feel my
        bite. ]

     "Oh, I hope there's another movie," said Karen.  "Spinal Tap
was a *piss*!"

        [ You got problems.
          You whine and you beg.
          When I'm busy,
          You wanna dance with my leg.
          I'm gonna chain you.
          Make you sleep out of doors.
          You're so fetching when you're down on all fours.
   And when you hear your master,
          You will come a little faster, thanks to
          Bitch School. ]

     "Cool tune."
     "The video's a piss.  At the end they're all talking to some
record executive, I think, explaining how the song is really about
*dogs*.  They keep saying, 'I don't know how the lyrics could be
misconstrued...'"
     "Heh."
     "Maria," said Karen.  "Tell me about the 'Day of the Many
Orgasms'."
     "Hee."
     "Maria blushed.  "Ka-ren..."
     "Just tell her.  I don't know why you should be so
embarrassed.  I mean, it *was* your idea."
     "Oh it was not.  You little--"
     "Yes it was.  Howard."
     "Don't look at me."
     "Rich."

        [ There's a pulse in the new-born sun;
          A beat in the heat of noon;
          There's a song as the day grows long,
          And a tempo in the tides of the moon.
          It's all around us and it's everywhere,
          And it's deeper than Royal blue.
          And it feels so real you can feel the feeling! ]

     "It just kinda happened.  Can't really say *whose* idea it
was.  Well, we had talked about going to Great Adventure or
Hersheypark for a while.  Or maybe even driving out to King's
Island, though that was a little ambitious--for us.  So it was
early last fall, when it was still hot enough to do the flume ride.
We all headed out to Great Adventure.  Maria wore some kind of--
what was it--a unitard?"

        [ And that's The Majesty Of Rock!
          The fantasy of Roll!
          The ticking of the clock,
          The wailing of the soul!
          The prisoner in the dock,
          The digger in the hole,
          We're in this together...and ever...

          In the shade of a jungle glade,
          Or the rush of the crushing street,
          On the plain, on the foamy main,
          You can never escape from the beat.
          It's in the mud and it's in your blood
          And its conquest is complete.
          And all that you can do is just surrender. ]

    "On the plain," sang Howard.  "On the plain, on the foamy
main."
     "Wearing?" said Maria.  "Just an old leotard.  And boxers, I
think."
     "Ick."
     "Taking a fashion cue from Karen, eh?"
     "Ha.  It was comfortable."
     "Karen wore cutoffs and some old old old t-shirt."
     "It was mesh."
     "Oh fuck.  You're right.  It was a mesh Notre Dame deal."
 "And what else?"
     "Sneakers."
     "And...?"
     "Oh yeah.  And Ben Wa balls.  Maria too."
     "Mine're better, though."
     "Look, sweetness," said Maria.  "I'm not going to spend eighty
bucks just for--besides, I know where you keep em, anyway."
"She's got you there."

        [ To the Majesty of Rock!
          The Pageantry of Roll!
          The crowing of the cock,
          The running of the foal!
          The shepherd with his flock,
          The miner with his coal,
          We're in this together...and ever... ]

     "Ben wa balls?" said Ellen.  "Do they really *do* anything?
How do they even work?"
     "Well," said Karen, "Your mileage may vary, but for my
money...they work--big time.  The kind Maria has are the kind you
could buy downtown at the Pleasure Chest or Adam n Eve, or Doc's.
They're a little bigger than marbles, made of brass I guess--"
 "I guess."
     "And they're each like half-filled with mercury."
     "That stuff's deadly--"
     "The balls are sealed.  Relax.  So now picture this:  You take
the balls, right, and you slide them in..."

        [ When we die, do we haunt the sky?
          Do we lurk in the murk of the seas?
          What then? Are we born again?
          Just to sit asking questions like these?
          I know, for I told me so,
          And I'm sure each of you quite agrees:
          The more it stays the same, the less it changes! ]

     "...the less it changes.  Hey, you know," said Howard, "this
album rocks."
     "It does."

        [ And that's The Majesty Of Rock!
          The Mystery of Roll!
          The darning of the sock,
          The scoring of the goal!
          The farmer takes a wife
          The barber takes a pole.
          We're in this together...and ever... ]

     "All right," said Ellen,  "wonderful--I can just see trying to
explain *this* to my ob-gyn.  Well you see, Doctor, we were playing
full-contact labyrinth and..."
     "Full-contact *naked* labyrinth."
     "Is there any other kind?"
     "They don't get *lost*," said Karen.  "Trust me."
     "So why the mercury?"
     "All right, picture this:  imagine you're in a rocking chair,
okay...? Now, the mercury in the balls is going to stay level with
the ground.  So when you start rocking...the balls spin."
     "Eep."
     "BaRANGus!"
     "Yup.  They move when you move."
     "So what's so special about *yours*?"
     "Well, for one thing, they're *bigger*.  And instead of
mercury, they have ball bearings inside.  I always imagine little
hamsters running around in little wheels.  They just *feel* better.
More vibrate-ey."
     "So you wore ben wa balls to Great Adventure?"
     "Yes," said Maria, "And what else?  Karen wore this.  I
didn't"
     "And a butt plug."
     "What kind?  Say it without laughing."
     "A triple-ripple butt plug."
     "Ha."
     "Wow.  You were set."
     "You don't know the half of it.  I was just about to get my
period too."
     "HeLLO."
     "Yeah.  I think you hear me knockin'.  Now, I mean, amusement
parks turn me on anyhow.  I mean, the rides, all the high school
kids and the adolescents and the hormones all floating around--
plus, you're all wired from soda and junk food--I just get nuts."
    "Which ride was the--which one felt best."
     "Oh God--Lightning Loops.  Runaway Train lasted longer but
Lightning Loops you go through this big loop completely upside
down--then you do the whole ride again, backwards."
     "Holy--"
     "Yeah, the guy bitched at her because she wouldn't get out."
    "I'll bet."
     "All the roller coasters were great.  The spinny rides I
didn't like so much.  The flume was cool.  And Free Fall was
intense."
     "You should have seen her when we left.  Me and How had to
carry her to the car.  Maria wasn't real energetic either."
"That was the best," said Maria.
     Josh lit up a joint and took a hit.  "So come on," he said  "I
wanna show you the 'new thing'.
     "Well," said Karen.  "What's the deal?"
     "All right.  Follow me."  He showed us into a room adjacent to
the guest bedroom.  No furniture.  Just a few black throw pillows.
The walls were covered with some sort of black felt, the window
with black trash bags.
     "Black carpeting??!!  Where the fuck--"
     "Never mind.  Sit down.  Over here.  Get comfy."  There were
a pair of black speakers against one wall.
     "Wow.  Darkness is like, such a rush, you know."
     "Ha ha."
     "Whaddayathink?" he said.  "Smiths?  Cure?  Floyd?"
     "Oh, put on some Floyd," said Maria.
     "Good call," said Josh.  He slipped out and was back in a few.

        [ Lime and limpid green, a second scene
          A fight between the blue you once knew
          Floating down, the sound resounds
          Around the icy waters underground ]

     "All right," he said, once we were all settled back against
the one wall.  Check this out."  He closed the door and moved a
black felt snake up against the crack and soon we realized what was
up.  Across from us, on the wall, was a slightly fuzzy upside-down
projection of what was taking place in the world outside.  Josh had
made the room into a 'camera obscura', by opening a small hole in
the trashbag covering the window.

        [ Jupiter and Saturn, Oberon, Miranda and Titania
          Neptune, Titan, Stars can frighten
          Lime and limpid green, a second scene
          A fight between the blue you once knew
          Floating down, the sound resounds
          Around the icy waters underground
          Jupiter and Saturn, Oberon, Miranda and Titania
          Neptune, Titan, Stars can frighten ]

     "This is my new exotic room."
     Ellen said, "It's wild.  We'll smoke a joint, come in here,
and watch the world go by.  You lose all track of time.  Shit, I
gotta be downtown.  See you all later."
     "Bye."
     She kissed Josh and was gone.

        [ Blinding signs flap,
          Flicker, flicker, flicker blam.  Pow, pow.
          Stairway scare Dan Dare who's there?
          Lime and limpid green, the sounds around
          The icy waters under
          Lime and limpid green, the sounds around
          The icy waters underground ]

     Josh got up, whispered something to Karen and Maria and they
disappeared with Josh out of the room.  Soon he was back.
     "All right," he said, covering the hole on the window, "check
*this* out.  All of you, switch around, so you're sitting over
here."  We moved so we were all sitting against the wall across
from the window.  Above Howard's head, Josh untaped a piece of
black-colored tape from the wall, exposing a tiny hole.  On the
wall across from us was the most bizarre-looking thing.
     Apparently, Karen was suspended upside-down in the adjoining
room, in gravity boots, from some gallows-like suspension thing
he'd put together.  She was naked.  And she knew how we were seeing
her, because her hands were at her sides, and with her hair so
short there were no real cues that she was upside-down.
Maria was standing behind her, holding a cat o'nine tails.  She
held it between Karen's legs and just ran the tips back and forth
over her.  Karen asked her for a shoe.  Maria handed it to her and
she tossed it up and caught it.  Of course, it looked like she was
throwing it down towards her feet and it was floating back up into
her hands.  This was the silliest scene.  Karen heard us laughing
and started cracking up herself and Maria started pushing her so
she swung from the boots.
     Maria ran from her room into ours to see what Karen looked
like, swinging like that.  She cracked up too.
     It was the most bizarre-looking thing.
     Then, Karen pulled herself up and slipped out of the boots.


                WHO *IS* THAT GUY??
     We're in New York.  Bored with Manhattan we take a cab into
Greenwich Village.  Check out a cool punk store and look for some
coffee.  We find a tiny place and go in.  Because of the odd hour
it is nearly empty.
     We sit, order.
     Hey How, Rich, says Karen.  Who *is* that guy?
     Over in the back, sitting alone, facing diagonally away from
us is a guy drinking coffee, leafing through a copy of Billboard.
    He hears us and glances over.  Karen digs her nails into my
knee and my brother's.
     Shit, says Maria.  It's John Malkovich.
     A high-pitched squeak from the back of Karen's throat.
Dangerous Liaisons, she says.  I'd do him if he asked me.      It's
not, says Howard.
     Well it *is* someone famous.
     We agree.
     But *who*?
     I know, says Howard.  Look at the hair.  It's Art Garfunkel.
    Is not.
     Is.
     Follow me, says Karen.
     So we do.
     Excuse me, I don't mean to be rude, but could I have your
autograph?
     Why sure.  He beams.  Is very friendly.
     Hold on, says Howard.  You don't know what he's--
     She elbows him.
     You're John Malkovich. I thought you were great in Dangerous--
   He shames his head and laughs.
     Art Garfunkel?
     Laughs again, harder.
     Three strikes, Karen.
     Do I get a hint?
     Sit down, he says.  Shield me from the throngs of adoring
fans.
     We sit.
     Well, do I get that hint?
     He puts down his coffee and sings softly, in a voice that is
still high and beautiful and pure.

     [I've seen fire and I've seen rain.
      Seen sunny days that I thought would never end.
      Seen lonely times when I could not--]

      Maria joins, harmonizing.
     [--find a friend,
      But I always thought that I'd see you again.]

      Karen is shocked, breathless.
      He beams again and takes a sip of coffee.
      Karen says, rather loudly, James Ingram!
      The coffee comes out his nose and he laughs so hard we are
certain he'll hurt himself.
      Gotcha, says Karen.

                   GIRLS WHO SMOKE, FUCK
     "Girls who smoke, fuck," said Karen, looking up from a book.
"Girls who smoke, fuck."
     "*You* don't smoke."
     "I could.  I did."
     "I smoked before I started fucking," said Maria.
     "Yeah, but you knew you *would* fuck.  That's the thing."
     "You think?"
     "It makes sense.  I mean, how else can a girl announce it?
It's either that or you tatoo 'I fuck' on your forehead."
     "That takes a lot of the mystery out of things, don't you
think?"
     "No.  It's not 'Girls who smoke, fuck you', it's just that
they fuck.  Period.  Actually, the very fact they do smoke and are
not fucking you is where a lot of their power comes from."
     "You're so reactionary, Karen.  You would set women back a
hundred years, like those Virginia Slims ads."
     "I think I was born too late anyway.  Could you just imagine
me as a Victorian??  In a corset??!!  With lots of intricate stays
and laces.  Heh.  Guys can hardly figure out bras.  I'd love to see
one struggle with a corset for a while.   Maria, why did you start
smoking, anyway?"
     "Oh God.  That was a long time ago.  I don't know.  To be more
interesting, to be sexier..."
     Howard said, "People smoke because it is a sure, approved
method of suicide."
     "Who--"
     "Vonnegut."
     "I don't know.  If I smoke, it's usually because I know for
the next six or seven minutes, I know *exactly* what I'm gonna be
doing.  I won't be bored.  I'll be--"
          Vh-1 was playing that Clapton song.  Lightweight, minor-
league stuff, but MTV just would not stop playing it."

          [Would you know my name, if I saw you in heaven?
           Could it be the same, if I saw you in heaven?]

     "It's a pretty song, but you know, it's much funnier if you
replace every 'heaven' with 'Trenton'."

          [ Cause I know, I don't belong, here in Trenton. ]

     He was right.  It *was* funnier.
     "Well, what if I'm an actress, and I have to smoke for a
part?"
     "Maria, honey.  If you're an actress, you fuck.  The cigarette
doesn't really--Besides, why would you *need* to smoke if you
didn't fuck, anyway."
     "I have no idea what you mean."
     "A lot of Catholic girls smoke."
     Paul came over.
     He was my best friend in ninth grade then he moved away.
Twelve years later he happened to be tending bar here in
West Philly.  We hang out at the unemployment office and we'll
write together sometimes
     "Hey, Rich," said Paul,  "did I ever tell you about Seth?"  He
lit a Marlboro and found an ashtray.
     "Seth?"
     "Kid in my high school.  When I was a senior he was a junior.
He took the SAT's.  Got 1600.  Then, he kinda disappeared.  He was
a major geek so no one really missed him.  But there were rumors
and shit about how he'd gone nuts and had tried to kill himself,
but most of us figured they'd moved away somewhere.  Well, it turns
out, that at night, he would take a screwdriver and drill holes
into the wall next to his bed.  He'd scream into these holes and
then plug them up with spitballs.  And all night he would hear his
screams coming back out at him."
     "Despite the spitballs?"
     "Yup.  And he tried to kill himself by jumping out of his
window."
     "Oh my--"
     "Rich.  He lived in a rancher."
     "1600?"
     "You gotta love it."
     "Paul, what do you think of this?" said Karen.  "Girls who
smoke, fuck."
     "Heh.  I got no problem with that."
     "Rich," said Karen, "tell me something about Howard.
     "Hey," said Howard.
     "All right, what do you want to know?"
     That Ozzy Osborne song, 'Mam, I'm coming home' was on MTV.
Paul grabbed the remote and muted it.
     "You know," said Paul, "Almost every song they play on MTV
that has the word 'mama' in it would be much funnier if the changed
every 'mama' to 'mommy'."
     "My God," said Maria, "you're right."
     Paul unmuted the television and Karen tucked a foot under her
and said, "Something I don't know, something adorable, something
embarrassing, anything..."
     Howard stretched out on the couch and Karen was playing with
his face.
     "All right, what do you want to know?"
     That Ozzy Osborne song, 'Mama, I'm coming home' was on MTV.
Paul grabbed the remote and muted it.
     "You know," said Paul, "Almost every song they play on MTV
that has the word 'mama' in it would be much funnier if the changed
every 'mama' to 'mommy'."
     "My God," said Maria, "you're right."
     Paul unmuted the television and Karen tucked a foot under her
and said, "Something I don't know, something adorable, something
embarrassing, anything..."
     Howard stretched out on the couch and Karen was playing with
his face.
     "All right.  When we were little, like until I finished grade
school, we would always watch cartoons with my dad on Saturday
mornings.  He still loves then, especially Inspector Gadget.  Well,
it would be my dad on the right side of the bed, me on the left,
and How in the middle.  But here's the thing:  Howard would usually
conk out by eleven or so and take a nap.  But he couldn't fall
asleep in my parents' bed unless my dad was holding his foot."
     Karen giggled.
     "I don't remember any of this," said Howard, turning red.
     "He'd say, 'Hold my foot, hold my foot.' and my dad would.  I
think he felt like he needed to be anchored in that big bed,
because he could sleep even if my dad was just holding a toe.  But
if my dad let go, Howard would wake up and be very scared, like he
was drowning.  I remember him saying, really quickly, 'Hold my
foot, hold my foot'.  That the kind of thing you're looking for,
Karen?"
     But they'd already disappeared.

RICHH



                            ELLEN

     We had a cousin of Karen's staying with us.  Her name was
Ellen.  She was fat and on Prozak.  She'd just gotten out of the
hospital<at any given moment, a good third to half of Karen's
family are in the hospital.>  Ellen was anorexic, then bulimic,
then bulimic-hold-the-purge.  Then she was depressed.  Then she
tried to die.  Now she was on Prozak.  Karen had somehow convinced
Ellen's parents and he doctors that it would be a real mistake to
send Ellen back home.  She needed a change of scenery.  She should
stay with us.
     So she did.  She and Karen had been very close as girls until
Ellen had to move out of New York when her father was transferred.
As it turned out, Ellen was not the living, breathing buzzkill that
she had been made out to be.  She was always smiling and
laughing and telling some of the rudest jokes we'd ever heard.
     "Ellen," said Karen, in a short terrycloth bathrobe, "Rich,
How, Ree, come on, let's play something.  We all hit the living
room at about the same time and it was funny because the opening
credits to the Simpsons were on.  At first, Ellen was a little
wary of getting stoned because of the Prozak, but when she saw how
we washed down Lithium with vodka, she changed her mind.
     "Oh God," said Howard, "Check this shit out.  We were watching
this special last night, about the terminally-ill. And--"
     "Oh...myGod," said Karen.  "That was a piss."
     "At the end, as the credits were rolling, you heard this
doctor doing a voiceover.  He said, 'When we are presented with a
terminally-ill patient, we as doctors have pretty much shot our
collective wad."
     "No way."
     "Yup.  You get the feeling someone doesn't know what a certain
salty idiom means?"
     "You think?"
     "It was too funny."
     It was the door.  "I'll get it," said Karen.  It was Josh.  He
and Erin had had some kind of fight not long ago and that was
pretty much that.  Despite his looks and easygoing charm, Josh had
problems keeping a relationship going for more than a few months.
It always depressed him.
     "Hi Josh," said Ellen.
     "Hi Ellen."  He sat down between Maria and Howard.  Ellen took
a sip of a Coke out of a McDonald's cup.
     Karen was playing with Howard's hair.
     "You guys are so adorable," said Ellen, the end of her Coke
gurgling.
     "You know anything about papryomancy, Josh?" said Howard,
pulling some pot out of a bag and onto Hotel California.
     Howard handed Josh some papers.  "It's the ability to prophesy
through contemplating the way people roll.  Go ahead, roll a
joint."
     "Wait a minute.  Gravity's--"
     "Yup."  Josh took rolling joints as seriously as he did his
painting.  He used two papers, had to be Jobs.
     "Um, How, listen.  I can't card off of this."
     "What's wrong?"
     "It's gotta be Europe '72.  I mean, Don Henley..."
     "But Joe Walsh..."
     "Good point."  So he began.  It's useless to describe, it
happened so fast.  In about twenty seconds, he was caressing his
perfect joint with the flame of a Bic.  I took the joint from him
and looked it over and showed it to Howard.  "This line here.  It's
long, isn't it?  Does that mean--"
     Howard shook his head, and he and Josh both said, "Length is
usually intensity, not time."
     "You gonna light that thing or you gonna worship it," said
Karen.  Howard threw it at her and Josh winced.  "Hey.
Hey...that's my baby."  Karen lit it.  "Oooh," said Karen,  "Ellen
has the hottest story.  Tell em."
     "Tell what?"
     "You know.  The school one."
     "Karen.  I can't.  I--"
     Karen passed her the joint.  She took a deep hit and held it
for a long time.  No one actually saw her exhale it.
     Josh said, "Go on, tell."
     Ellen said, "All right.  When I was in eleventh grade I went
to this fucking Catholic school.  It was a complete nightmare.  But
it was weird.  In eleventh grade I was going from anorexic to
bulimic and for a few months there I looked awesome."
     "I remember," said Karen.
     "I was a psycho bitch from Hell, but gorgeous.  I got all
sorts of action.  I had some kind of chemical problem, too, because
I was constantly, constantly--"
     "Some things never change."
     "--horny.  And evil.  Very evil.  Me and these two other
girls, we had this little evil club and we would pick out certain
freshman girls and decide to make their lives miserable.  And we
got to be damned good at it."
     Howard put on some Joan Jett.

       [Well I don't give a damn bout my bad reputation...]

     "Okay, well, there were these two blonde Barbie Doll girls
that we really couldn't stand.  Ugh. We talked about these two
constantly and what would be the perfect thing to do
to them.  Finally we came up with a plan.  Maggie, my one friend,
slipped this rolled-up joint into one of the girls' bags.  Then,
we took turns spying on them for the rest of the day.
     "Well, connected to the gym was like this shed thing where
they kept like old equipment and stuff.  No one went in there
except it was the one place where you could get high safely.  No
one ever went in there, the door locked, and all the smoke got sucked
outside.  The shed had these doors that led outside too, out
towards the parking lot, only these doors hadn't been opened in
years and had this big chain lock on the outside of them.  Only we
had come by the school that weekend and Maggie had gotten a hold of
a pair of these mongo boltcutters that her dad had.  He was a
volunteer fireman.  The chain was all rusty anyway and real easy to
cut with these.  So we were ready."
     Josh got up and grabbed a bag of fig newtons from the fridge.
     "So, to cut to the chase we saw them head towards the gym
between classes, we headed outside, Maggie threw open the doors and
Anne, the other girl snapped this SX-70 camera she had.  We took
their joint and held them there and smoked it while the picture
developed.  It was beautiful.  A perfect picture.  Both of them,
looking extremely 'caught', with a joint passing between them.
They both started crying and we made a big show out of putting the
letter into this envelope that was addressed to one of the
sisters.  So, I said, if you don't want this dropped in the
mailbox, meet us here Saturday at one for your punishment.  Since
it was like, only Tuesday, they had almost a whole week to stew on
it.

     Howard put on an album.  Brownsville Station--Yeah.
     'Smokin' in the Boy's Room' was the song.

     "So Saturday rolls around and my parents are gone for the
weekend as usual and we drive up to the school and there they both
are, sitting on a step.  They got in, all red-eyed and nervous and
we drove them back to my house.  The whole way they're like, 'Where
are we going', 'What's going on', all sorts of annoying shit.
Maggie pulled out that letter and said, 'Where's the nearest
mailbox, El?  'Oh, there's one right around...here...,I can pull
right up to it.  I did and Maggie rolled down the window and put
the letter halfway in and the girls started crying and begging, 'oh
no no no, please, don't.'  Maggie let go of the letter and caught
it before it slid in.  She did this a few times.  Finally she let
it drop into the mailbox and the girls really freaked out.  The
one, Becky, threw up, I think.  Maggie just laughed and pulled the
real letter out of her bag.  'Good thing there was no stamp on that
one.  Now *this* one, on the other hand...'  Then they both
promised to be good and we drove back to my house.
     "We all sat down in the living room, except we made the two
girls stand in the middle.  'Take off your clothes,'  Maggie said."
     "HeLLO!" said Josh, somehow unrolling a fig newton.
     "They just stood there, dumbfounded.  'You heard me,' Maggie
said again.  Take em off.  She was good at this.  Could be a real
Nazi if she wanted to.  She pulled the letter out of her purse and
said, 'Listen, this can be easy or hard'.  You can do what we say
and take your punishment and afterwards we'll give you this or I
can drop it in the mail right now and you can both be kicked out of
school.  They whispered something to each other and started
undressing, down to their little bras and panties.  'All of it',
said Maggie.  'Everything.'  They took off what was left and then
they just stood there, looking like idiots."
     "Josh, what the *fuck* are you doin' to that newton?"
     He had unrolled it perfectly and was shaping the gooey part
into an animal.  "I hate fig newtons.  I just like playing..."
     "Nice fingers," said Ellen, distracted.
     "Story, El?"
     "Oops."  She swallowed down a newton.  "Okay, so now these
girls are there, naked, scared out of their minds.  Maggie says,
'You ready, girls?'  'Ready?'  'Yes.  We want to see you make love
to each other.'  The girls started crying again and we were all
just getting high and laughing and Maggie stood up and took off her
belt.  'Well,' she said, 'Then you've got a choice.'  And then she
looped it and snapped it.  The girls shuddered a little.  Maggie
walked over to them.  'Oh, it's not so hard.  Look, just face each
other--'  She turned them so they faced each other, 'Put your arms
around each other...move close...good.  Now kiss.  No.  A good one.
Tongue action.  Close your eyes.  Look,' said Maggie.  'It's easy.
Watch.'  She spun the smaller girl, Becky, and pulled her to her
and kissed her hard, like a guy.  Then she moved her hands all over
the girl, over her back, around her ass, everything.'  It was hot.
She had to hold Becky up, because Becky looked woozy.  'Okay, look.
Ellen, come here.  Help me with this.'  You girls sit down.'  We
pushed on their shoulders until they sat.  'Good.  Now move close.
But scissor your legs.'  We arranged their legs until they were
right up against each other, clit to clit.  'Now how does that
feel?  I said, how does that feel?'  'W-weird,' said the taller
one, Janet.  The other one was just crying.
     "'Okay,' said Maggie, 'Stop bawling.  Both of you, relax.  If
you play along no one outside this room will ever know and
everything will be fine.  Besides, it's not exactly torture, you
know.  In fact, Ellen, Sarah.  Show these two what I'm talking
about.  Come here.'  We did, and we took off our jeans and just
left our panties on and we showed them what we wanted them to do.
'See', said Maggie.  It's not going to kill you.  Now both of you,
put your palms on the carpet behind you, lean back, and lift your
butts off the ground.  Good.  Hey,  I think this one's digging it.'
She was talking about the taller one, Janet, who had either
resigned herself or was genuinely going for it.  'How does this
feel?' Maggie put her finger in her mouth then pressed it against
Janet and slid it down until she found her clit.  'Nice?'  She
nodded.  'Well, I don't think your friend here thinks so.'  Maggie
whispered something to Janet and Janet shook her head.  Then Maggie
lowered her head to between Janet's legs and I held Becky up so she
could watch her friend come.  Then, we stretched out Becky on her
back and Janet went down on her.  After a long long time, Becky
stopped crying and started moving her little hips.
     "Now *that's* a high school," said Josh.  "Did you really give
them back that picture?"
     "What are you, crazy?  We tormented them most of the rest of
the year.  Between classes.  In closets.  In the bathrooms.  Oh we
had a blast, until I went nuts and had to go into the hospital.  I
mean, towards the end we were bringing along our boyfriends, other
girls, all sorts of people.  It was hot."
     "Sounds it."
     "But then I got all fat--"
     TLC was on tv with their song 'Ain't Too Proud to Beg'.
Howard said, "I'd do TLC before En Vogue."
     "Really?"
     "Well, by 'before' I mean 'in front of'."
     "Ah."
     Maria grabbed Howard and Josh and they disappeared.  When they
came back, Maria had her acoustic guitar.  Josh sat down by Ellen
and gave her a Wint-o-Green Life Saver.  Maria tuned up the guitar
and a bowl was lit and passed.
     Maria said, "Got a hold of this Harry Chapin songbook and
Howard and I learned all the songs.  This one's my favorite.  It's
called 'A Better Place to Be.'"

     Howard sang softly and Maria strummed.

      [It was an early morning bar room,
       And the place just opened up.

       ...

     Josh stayed over and they were a couple after that.  One day,
Josh was over for breakfast.  Ellen was downtown at a pro-choice
rally.
     Josh said, "You know, I went to high school with this guy,
Mark.  He was over my house for breakfast one day and I poured a
couple bowls of cereal.  I poured milk into mine and was about to
pour it into his, but he said 'Stop.  Don't.  Just put it in a
glass.  Thanks.'  I asked him why he ate his cereal like this, he
said cause that's how they bring it to you in restaurants."
     "Whooosh."
     "He was bright, too.  I think everyone has like at least one
thing that they do or say that's stupid, but that they can't think
any other way about."
     "I believe in Santa Claus," said Howard.
     "You can't get pregnant if you do it standing up," said Karen.
     "Irregardless of societal norms, I will serve Cook's Champagne
and sit on the same side of the table as my date, and think myself
very debonaire."
     Maria said, "There are no integers n greater than 2 and x, y,
z > 0, such that x to the n + y to the n = z to the n."
     "Oh fuck all of you."
     "How's things with Ellen?"
     "She asked me if I thought she was too fat the other day."
     "What'd you say?"
     "I said, 'Too fat to be an Olympic gymnast?  I'd have to say,
yeah.  Too fat to be a Green Beret, almost definitely.  Too fat to
kiss, too fat to adore, too fat to desire--not even close."
     "Good answer."
     "Damn good."

RICHH




              WHY SHE'LL NEVER WORK ON MADISON AVENUE

     Heard that advertising was like $850,000 for thirty seconds
during the Super Bowl.  Also heard that one company had spent its
whole year's advertising budget for one spot during the game.  So
we watched, looking for smallish companies.  Turns out to be Master
Lock, and the commercial was soooo lame.  They didn't even shoot a
bullet through a lock like they used to.  Pathetic.  So we were
thinking, what could they have done better so we'd really remember
it--turn Madison Ave. upside-down.  So, Karen says, "What if
someone like Jessica Hahn, someone wild, no, Sean Young, yeah, Sean
Young, was in a big bed, all tied up and spread-eagled, but instead
of cuffs or ropes she was tied down with chains and lots of Master
Locks.  And just as the guy raises the cat o'nine tails, you hear
a car pull up and she says, 'Shit, my husband, get me out of this
quick!'  Cut to husband getting out of car--big guy, we only see
him from the waist down.  Cut back to guy fumbling with key, which
falls into a heating duct, out of reach.  So then the guy tries
hacksawing, hammering, shooting the locks off.  Nothing works.
Jumpcut between him sweating, trying to get those damn locks off,
and the big sneakers of the husband as he walks up the stairs.
Finally the door opens and we see her husband--Charles Barkley.  Oh
yeah, and I forgot, the guy with the whip--James Woods.  Now
*that's* a fucking commercial!"

                 NEW GAME & MED-SCHOOL BREAK-IN
     "When I was in tenth grade," said Karen, "a bunch of us found
this van in a parking lot.  It was unlocked.  We looked in the back
and there was like a ton of videotapes.  We looked at the titles.
They were all porn.  So we divided them all up and would meet every
week or so at someone's house and watch theirs.  Only this one kid,
Alan, swore he had the all-time best one and he was saving it.  He
wouldn't tell us what it was, only that it was heavy on oral sex.
Finally, we all met at his house.  There must have been like twenty
or thirty of us there, because we had all told our other friends to
come by too, to watch this 'ultimate porno flick'.  So it was
pretty evenly divided between girls and guys when Alan announced
that he was starting the movie.
     "We asked him what it was.  He said he'd asked his older
brother about it and he'd said it was super-hot.  Alan said he
hadn't even watched it yet, wanting to save it.
     "It's called 'Head Cleaner', he said, and started to play it.
     And sure enough, that's exactly what it was.
     "Ha."
     "Rich," said Karen.  "Tell me something dumb Howard said."
     "Hey.  Don't call me 'dumb Howard.'"
     "In eight grade, I played racquetball constantly.  I was
playing Howard one day and he noticed that much of the game was
actually spent chasing after the ball, preparing to serve, etc.
That you spent more time doing this than actually playing the
game."
     "Ok..."
     Howard put on Hey Lewis.  "Sports".  Ugh.
     "So anyhow one day he mentioned this to me and I said, 'Yeah,
it's funny you should say that.  I read that they did a study, and
you know how long an 'actual' game is??  Minus all the bullshit??'
How long?  he asked.  Four seconds.'"
     "He bought it?"
     "Hook line and sphincter," Howard said.
     "Howard," said Karen,  "I heard that if you stretch out your
intestines end to end, it's over 500 miles long."
     "I heard that," said Maria.
     "And if you add up all the hair you lose in a lifetime--2
million tons."
     "Easily.  People don't think..."
      Paul said, "On the average your heart pumps enough blood in
an hour to fill a small non-decremental above-ground pool."
     "With sliding board!"
     Paul lit some hash in a bowl.
     "New game," said Karen.  "We need a new one."
     "All right," I said.  "I got this one off the net.  From
Inanna.  It's called 'I think I'm but I'm really'.  Her example
was, I think I'm 'More than a Woman' but I'm really 'You're So
Vain."
     "Hee."
     Maria said, I think I'm 'Life in the fast lane' but I'm really
'Truckin'."
     "I think I'm 'Hopelessly Devoted To You' but I'm really 'Love
the One You're With'"
     "Ouch."
     Paul passed the bowl and said "I think I'm 'Scarborough Fair'
but I'm really 'Glass Onion'"
     "Ha."
     "Okay, said Karen, "I think I'm Wagner's Ring Cycle but
I'm really 'Wake me up Before you Go-Go."
     "Continuing that theme...I think I'm 'Ride of the Valkyries'
but I'm really chopsticks"
     "Hey Howard, Dominus told me that ginger ale was less dense
than water.  And that a friend of his filled a pool with ginger
ale.  And he drowned.  You can't float in it."
     "Fuck you digitally.  By the way, I think I'm 'Little Red
Corvette' but I'm really 'Slow Train'"
     Ellen said "I think I'm 'Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress' but
I'm really 'Baby Got Back'"
     Pam, Paul's girlfriend, said, "You know those friends Paul and
I had over last week?"
     "Sure."
     "Well, we were giving them the tour of Penn Campus.  Took them
to Franklin Field.  I said 'This is the oldest two-tiered football
stadium in the country.'  Then Paul said--"
     "But I hear Harvard is trying to build an older one."
     He was pelfed with jetsam.
     "Paul," said Karen.  "I heard you broke into the med school
when you were at Penn."
     "That was second semester."  Paul rolled a doob and lit it.
"I had been spending most of my time--"
     "--on academic probation," said Karen.
     Howard silenced her.
     "Most of my time with a high school pal, Neil(his real name).
It was a Friday night.  We had spent the afternoon hollowing out a
block of ice.  We put in a bottle of Finlandia and kicked back.  My
room was littered with emptied Schmidt's tallboys, indecent low-
angle Polaroids, assorted publications of the Yearling, and carpe
diem."
     "Paul," interjected Maria.  "In 'Blinded by the Light', what
does he say in that one part?"
     "Cut loose like a deuce."
     "Toldja."
     "But Manfred Mann..."
     "He said 'Strung out Like a Douche' which is just silly, but
it stuck because from douches it's just a short hop to tampons...
     Howard queued up 'Greetings From Asbury Park.

        [ Madman drummers bummers and Indians in the
          summer with a teenage diplomat
          In the dumps with the mumps as the adolescent
          pumps his way into his hat
          With a boulder on my shoulder feelin' kinda
          older I tripped the merry-go-round
          With this very unpleasing sneezing and
          wheezing the calliope crashed to the
             ground
          Some all-hot half-shot was headin' for the hot
          spot snappin' his fingers
             clappin' his hands
          And some fleshpot mascot was tied into a
          lover's knot with a whatnot in her
             hand
          And now young Scott with a slingshot finally
          found a tender spot and throws his
             lover in the sand
          And some bloodshot forget-menot whispers
          daddy's within earshot save the
             buckshot turn up the band ]

     Paul was allowed to continue.  "So we're pretty tight by this
time and Neil and I decide to some exploring."
     "Spelunking?" said Karen, uncrossing her legs.
     "Shush."
     "We wandered off behind the quad and found an open door to the
med school.  It was darker than it ever was.  And later than it is
right now.  We walked in, thinking that we'd get stopped by a guard
and politely escorted out at any moment.  This never once happened.
It was so cool.  We just started going in and out of unlocked
rooms, foraging for souvenirs.  Neil especially coveted an aorta.
Slowly we built up a cache of contraband.  However, we could not
get our hands on a human skeleton.  We kept picking out items that
we wanted and leaving them in small conspicuous piles in the
hallway since we knew this a one-trip deal.  Ever so often we heard
footsteps and ducked into a doorway or an empty room.  This was the
same time Penn was getting a lot of heat for the whole abusive
animal research thing and we were certain that we would get
connected with that.  Somehow."

        [ And she was blinded by the light. Cut loose
          like a deuce
          Another runner in the night. Blinded by the
          light
          She got down but she never got tight, but
          she'll make it alright

          Some brimstone baritone anticyclone rolling
          stone preacher from the east
          He says: "Dethrone the dictaphone, hit it in
          its funny bone, that's where they
             expect it least"
          And some new-mown chaperon was standin' in
          the corner all alone watchin' the
             young girls dance
          And some fresh-sown moonstone was messin' with
          his frozen zone to remind him of
             the feeling of romance ]


     "Pass me the salt n vinegar chips, How."
     He did.  And filled a bowl.
     Paul continued.  "Neil had his mind set on finding the morgue.
This conjured up nasty Coma images in my mind."
     "Coma-Chameleon?!"
     "How, you used to work in a hospital, right?"
     "Yup.  They called me 'coma ward Romeo'."
     "I used to be a gypsy," said Karen.
     "Shut.
      The fuck.
      Up."

        [ Yeah he was blinded by the light. Cut loose
          like a deuce
          Another runner in the night. Blinded by the
          light
          He got down but she never got tight, but he's
          gonna make it tonight

          Some silicone sister with her manager's mister
          told me I got what it takes
          She said I'll turn you on sonny to something
          strong if you play that song with
             the funky break
          And go-cart Mozart was checkin' out the
          weather chart to see if it was safe to
             go outside
          And little Early-Pearly came in by her
          curly-wurly and asked me if I needed a
             ride ]

     Back to Paul.  "We found a laboratory of sorts and added three
caged rats to our booty.  We'd been in the building for some time
now and were getting nervous.  We formed an escape plan.  First, we
collected our assorted piles and decided what we could carry and
what we would have to torch.  I grabbed the rats.  We both donned
pairs of asbestos gloves(a good find!), and carried triple-beam
balances, canisters of noxious dooty(a great find!), and Sony
Trinitrons.  Neil also had assorted shinbones, dangling from his
waist like an evil tutu fringe-hula-skirt-thingee-deal-hookup.
They clapped together as he walked, accentuating the
preternaturally feminine sway of his ballast."
     "Where the hell did you learn to talk like that," queried
Karen.
     "Eton."
     "No doubt."

        [ Oh, some hazard from Harvard was skunked on
          beer playin' backyard bombardier
          Yes and Scotland Yard was trying hard, they
          sent a dude with a calling card, he
             said, do what you like, but don't do it
          here
          Well I jumped up, spit in the air, fell on the
          ground, asked which was the way
             back home
          He said take a right at the light, keep going
          straight until right, and then
             boy you're on your own ]

     "So we made it back to the ground level, where we find our
means of egress has been sealed off.  Chained off."
     "Yikes."
     "Barangus!"
     "The search for a new exit provided us with the night's
biggest catch--"
     "A cadaver!?"
     "We only wished."
     "Some Dilautid?!"
     "In your dreams."
     "A klein bottle?!"

        [ And now in Zanzibar a shootin' star was ridin'
          in a side car hummin' a lunar
             tune
          Yes, and the avatar said blow the bar but
          first remove the cookie jar, we're
             gonna teach those boys to laugh too soon
          And some kidnapped handicap was complaining
          that he caught the clap from some
             mousetrap he bought last night
          Well I unsnapped his skull cap and between his
          ears I saw a gap but he'd
             figured he'd be all right

          He was just blinded by the light. Cut loose
          like a deuce
          Another runner in the night. Blinded by the
          light
          Mama always told me not to look into the
          sights of the sun
          Oh but mama that's where the fun is ]

     "Good tune."
     "I think I'm 'Born to run' but I'm really 'Time'."
     "Time?"
     "You know.  The Floyd song."

        [ Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day
          You fritter and waste the hours in an off hand way
          Kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town
          Waiting for someone or something to show you the way ]

     "Ah."
     "So no klein bottle, no cadaver, no dilautid, What did you--"
     "We found NITROUS!  Lots of fucking nitrous.  The motherlode.
We each rolled a canister noisily out a cervix exit."
     "Cervix?"
     "Service.  We made it to EARTH.  then we bought like a zillion
plastic trash bags.  Only then did we head home."
     "Yowza."
     "The nitrous lasted all of a week, as we sold most of it for
profit."
     "Back to the med school?"
     "Bingo."



-------------------------------------

This file is what i do to bad net.erotica that i find.  i add all
the stuff in <>


                      CRUEL TO BE KIND

     I was rock hard.  She kept going.  I wanted to enter her.  I
wonder if. . . Why not?  <Why not indeed!> There's only one way to
tell! <all right, *two* ways, but dammit where the hell am I gonna
find a syringe *and* a Beta version of "Drop Dead Fred" at *this*
hour?!>  I grabbed her wrists, and held them comfortably out to her
sides at shoulder level.  She tugged lightly<heck, who wouldn't?>.
I held her there.  She looked up at me, fascinated.  <All right,
perhaps that's too strong a word.  Intruigued?  Nah, still too
strong. Interested?  Nope. Nauseated?  Bingo!> I slid down to enter
her. <This makes sense, since at the moment I was in the bunk
*over* hers.>
     As soon as my head entered her, she let out a gasp. <Or was it
a fart?! I sniff the air, fascinated.>  She breath became
gasping.<!!!!!!!>  She only did that when she was near!  <All
right, let me see now, she breath only becomes gasping when she is
near?  I think I got it now.>  Wow.  <*I'll* say> I slid into her,
<SAFE!!> and backed off <Shit, I missed the bag while rounding
second.  Shit shit shit!>.  Her body arched to follow me. <She, of
course, remained behind. ??!!>  I sat there. <And can you blame
me?>  She slid down so that only the tip was in.  Then I pounded
into her as hard as I could.  Shudders wracked her body. <Quick,
slip a pencil under her tongue!  Quick!!>  Her eyes were open, but
did not see.  <My fingers type, but sentences do not I form.> I
pounded again, shudders issuing forth from her groin.  <Soon, her
groin was putting together subjects *and* predicates and was
forming complete sentences!.  At first I was concerned about her
groin's reliance on the subjunctive but hey, I think, groins??  Who
can figger em?>  On the third pound<well, to be precise it was 3
pounds, two ounces, and the question was, "What's a henway?">, she
arched into me with a WHUMP <Is *that* legal?>.  And again.  I felt
like I was going to pound right through her.  I felt WHUMP! <And
heck, who hasn't felt WHUMP! at one time or another?>  Like I
NEEDED to pound right through WHUMP her <??!!>.  Brooke squeaked
out "I'm coming!"<Or was it her more articulate groin?>  She was
warm.  <Well, from all the WHUMP who wouldn't be?>  WHUMP! <See?>
And tight and and. . .Oh!  Yes! <I know *I'd* be Yes after all that
WHUMP!>


     I woke up to find her gazing at the ceiling, a blank look in
her eye. <well of course, silly, this is the eye that did not see>
<And on and on and on...>




                  CRUEL TO BE KIND #2
Cynthia meets the BANKER: Part I<hey, does that mean what I think
it means...>

    We meet for the first time in a crowded subway station in
Manhattan.  I, a successful investment banker<read:  white guy>,
dressed in only the finest<Esprit *EVERYTHING*!!>.  You are dressed
in a beautiful white evening dress that just barely covers your
ass<yes, I believe most evening dresses *are* waist high>.  We get
on the train together just casually exchanging <demonic
stares>glances and I find I seat<funny, I always find that I seat
best near the emergency exits, but I'm a big ole scaredy-cat> in
the back. You are forced<by Ilsa, SHE-WOLF OF THE SS!!> to stand in
front of me holding a handle attached to the subway car<is good
that it is attached, yes?>.  People are squeezing you from all
sides<testing you for freshness>, it is 5:25 and everybody is going
home for the<hell of it> evening.  It is a normal trip home you
think<you *THINK*!> until you feel a hand caressing your ass ever
so gently<"Stop that, Thing!  Shoo!!">.  You think to yourself that
somebody probably brushed up against you<and you check yourself for
missing jewelry> but it continues with more intensity<alacrity!>.
I am going to make this lady come<down, way way down>, I think
devilishly to myself<because thinking to anyone else is just plain
stupid> as I rub your ass, just enough<hmm, how much *is* just
enough?> to make you wet for my future plans<of world domination!>.
    You can't believe how <unpleasant>hot this train has suddently
become.  I procede to step two of my plan<destroying Fort Knox,
making my gold...>.  I run my fingers down your leg so slightly
that you barely feel them<thanking God for small favors>.  When I
get to the bottom<of things>, I slowly work my way back up to your
awaiting tunnel of love<oh my.  Bad, *bad* thesaurus.  Next time
try 'crescent of longing' or 'sulphurous pit'>.   I am not too
surprised to learn that you aren't wearing any panties<Had you
figured from the git-go, missy.  You hoo-er!>.  I keep thinking to
myself<having been so successful at it in the past> what I would
love to do to this beautiful creature if there weren't hundreds of
people around<and so many laws on the books>.  I procede to put my
hand on your bare ass under your dress<my God it's not a cantaloupe
at all. It's a HUMAN HEAD!>.  I can feel the heat<the heat between
you and me.  Dig if you will the picture...> your body is
<ir>radiating.  You Jump<with a capital J!!> when I run my finger
between<the trembling lips of your purse, fumbling around like a
doofus until I find> your checks<JACKPOT!> giving you unmesurable
pleasure<as I am good at what I do.  DAMN GOOD!>.  I feel your
wetness emminating<close, Skippy, but the word is spelled
'O--O--Z--I--N--G> from your steamy<crescent rolls!> cunt.  I
gently carress<the beauty bar with bath oil> your pussy and flick<a
boogie your way> your clit with my middle<FUCK> finger.  You push
your hips out to me <as if to drop a child?> to enhance your
pleasure<ah.>.
     Just at this moment, I pull my hand away and continue to read
my <National Enquirer, cause I likes to read about Bruce
Willis!>Wall Street Journal.  I wouldn't want you to come that
easily?<interesting punctuation there, Flapjack.>  You can't
believe this unbelievable pleasure has ended so abruptly<I just
hate it when that happens. To *you*!!>.  "Damm.  Just when I was
about to come<to my senses and spray you with mace>.  Oh well.  I
will just have to finish the job myself when I get home<in
*BED*!!>," you think to yourself<following my lead> as you peek
over your shoulder.  You see four men sitting behind you all
within<mocking distance> reach and all looking at you<r purse>
except for a hansome wall street type<read:  white guy> reading his
paper.  You quickly rule him out and decide it must have been that
dirty minded old man with the sly<and the Family Stone tape
playing:  I--I--I  like everyday people...> grin.  You give him a
quick<synopsis of "A la Recherche de Temps Perdu", but you only get
to Swann's Way> smile, after all you haven't been this hot since
the time your <warning:  ridiculous male fantasy to follow.  You
have been warned> older brother's friend sneaked into your room and
woke you by licking your pussy<Poor pussy, poor pussy cat> or the
time you walked in on your brother while he was masterbating<nice
'e'> and coming all over your virgin panties<as so often doesn't
happen>.  The subway stops at your exit<on the Jersey turnpike?>
and you are disappointed that you have to get off<get it?>.  You
walk two blocks and enter your apartment feeling along the way that
you are being followed<by that same man who's been STEALING YOUR
THOUGHTS!!>.  You quickly go to your <Russian>dressing table and
withdrawl<"Ah do declare!"> your handy artificial <leg.  Amp
fetishists ARISE!!, careful, careful>cock, unfortunately the
batteries<all of the virgins> are dead.  You go to the bathroom and
turn on the water in the tub to HOT, the same condition you are
in<clever boy>.  You take off all of your clothes and just as you
are about t<o> get in, the doorbell rings<"Dear Penthouse Forum,
I never thought I'd be writing one of these letters to you, but
something happened to me the other day.  I was in the shower when,
to my surprise, the doorbell rang. Expecting a big shipment from
Frederick's, I threw on a towel and ran to the door.  But the towel
caught on something and fell off just as I opened the door.  If you
could have seen the look on the paperboy's face...">.  You have a
lovely body<for a fat chick> and are a bit of <a sideshow freak>an
exhibitionist so you procede to the door completely naked with your
dildo in your left hand.........<in New York City.  In 1992.  Ok.>

Part II

I am pleasantly surprised when you answer the door wearing only a
white shirt<excuse me, but we need a ruling here on 'completely
naked'  Wow, who woulda thought--'completely naked':  wearing only
a white shirt>. I can see that I did my job well by the hardness of
your <heart!--Quarterflash>nipples.  "Can I help  you?" you ask.
"Yes, I am the man<in the Tidy Bowl commercial and I was just
wondering...> from the bus who has a job<and a whole bunch
o'schoolin'> to catch up on.   Take off your <apprehensions>shirt
and lie<to the net> on the bed."  Excited and a little bit afraid,
you do as I ask<because I'm good I tell you, DAMN SO!>.  I walk
over and inspect my prize<a set of steak knives, but only if I go
and look at a time-share in Taos, which *is* lovely this time of
year.  Heat without humidity...COUNT.  ME.  IN!!
WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!>, you are 5'6"<I
learn, from the growth chart on your wall> with a very firm<tract
of land> body and average size<iq.  Hey, Mensa's loss is
literature's gain!> tits.  I stare into your beautiful blue <toilet
bowl water.  I *am* the Tidy Bowl guy, you know>eyes.  I pull out
<a>blindfold and tie it around your <wrist, as I am
*special*.>head.  "I am going to give you the longest, most intense
orgasm that you have ever had."<Oh, I swoon!  I can't stand it.
Take me you beast, you delicious, beautiful man, take me, harder,
harder, hurt me, yes!>>  Your lips are so <lip-like>beautiful, I
feel I must <run my forefinger between them and make you go B--B--
B--B--B--B--B--B> taste them.  Just as you are really starting to
get into <"Hard Copy">our kiss, I stop and <flip off the tv>begin
to place you on your other sexual level<??!! P-K4, level two!  Mate
in four!!  Barkley, I didn't know you played chess.  I don't,
Deanna, I don't...>.  I slowly run my fingertips slowly<excuse me,
did you say 'slowly'?  Just wanted to make sure.> over your body
starting with your neck and proceding to your <detachable>arms.  My
fingers glisten up and down your arms<like ten glisteny things, all
shiny and glistening>.   You feel yourself starting to let go<of
your bowels> and becoming extremely
relaxed<"Oops, I think I just made a poopsie oopsie">.  My fingers
then move over your chest making sure not to overly excite you<No,
that'd be *too* easy.  Too too easy.>.  They slide between your
breasts and I circle your <those same>breasts <like so many
vultures> with my fingertips and blow some <hot>warm air on your
aching nipples.  You shudder as I do this<as I'm good.  DAMN SKIPPY
I'M WITH IT!> and I procede to run my fingers over your stomach and
I kiss your stomach<appendix scar> as I do this.  From
here I run my fingers down your leg and back up making sure not to
touch you where you want to be touched<in *Tahiti*!>. My fingers
glisten your other leg<oh dem glisteny digits o'mine, what magic do
dey do...>.  As I work my way back up your leg, I plant<row after
row of perennials> one after another kiss<...of *DEATH*!>.  My
finger continues to go <slowly>up your leg slowly and I caress<but
it was 'carress' before.  Hey...> your clit gently as I
pass<water>.  I can see your body shuddering so I flick your
clit<painfully with my index finger, hoping to shoot it across the
room!> roughly with my <forked>toungue.  "Oh yes! Lick my clit!  I
am about to come<Hee>.  Lick it, please<please would you just
don't!!> lick it."  With that I know I got you where I want you<in
*BEDLAM*!!>.  I stop, grab your arms and tie you to your bed.
"What are you doing?  I was  just about to come.  Please make me
come.  I am so hot, I need to come." <Hee.  Am I a master of
dialogue or fucking *WHAT*!!??>
     "Don't worry," I say, " you will come when I want you to and
not before<I RULE THE WORLD!!>."  I  kiss your pussy<poor pussy
cat> and leave.  You can't believe this is happening to you<in
space.  At *this* hour.>.  You  are tied to your bed and can't move
a <loooooove>muscle.  Luckily I don't have to work tomorrow you
think to yourself<you're getting good at that, I see>.  You stay
awake for hours waiting for that man to <be arrested>return.  You
would do anything to relieve the heat that had built up between<the
surface of the Earth and the Ozone layer, but then you think 'fuck
it.  Let Carl Sagan worry about it.  Me, I've got an orgasm to
do!'> your legs.  Alas<verily, and forsooth!> you fall
asleep<ZOUNDS!>.  You are awakened the next morning with sounds of
mens voices.....

     <PARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRTYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!>


                 CRUEL TO BE KIND #3
"Can I have a <piece?>sip?"

"Sure."

Michael sampled a few drops of the foul-tasting diet softdrink,
basking in the beauty of the cute blond freshman from whom he had
bummed the sip. He and Steve had come <together, only a few minutes
before, wrapped in the sweaty envelope of their own maleness> a few
minutes late into the numerical analysis lecture and Michael
picked<his nose> the two seats near the back only because of the
cute babe<chick, skirt, bird? whatever it is you bimbos call
yourselves in these politically-correct times> with the soda.

"Thanks," he said handing the can back.

"No problem," she smiled back<and then very conspicuously wiped off
where the can had touched his lips>.  She had perfect white teeth
Michael noticed<their perfection only enhanced by her braces>.
Without the glasses she'd be a model<prisoner>.

Michael took out his <MAMMOTH COCK?!>clipboard<oh, don't make me
wait for it, you big tease> and started copying the first two
boards of linear programming equations.  The blond glanced at the
paper he was writing on and noticed that the subject, lecture
number, date, and topic headings were pre-printed on the otherwise
blank graph paper. His handwriting was fast but neat and he used a
template to draw colorful diagrams<like an idiot>.

"Another nerd," Karen sighed disappointedly<excellent adverb that>.
"Too bad;<no semicolon needed> he had the body<of a TB victim> for
it," she thought to herself<since, she'd learned long ago, thinking
to someone else was just plain stupid>.  Karen had just broken up<a
cookie into the hair of the girl in front of her, laughing
maniacally and disrupting class> with her third boyfriend in as
many <decades>months.  The guys up north were either drunk frat
boys<oooh, what a burn> or boring nerds<"But all we nerds ever
think about is sex.">.  The obnoxious yankee sitting next to
her<George Steinbrenner?  Billy Martin??  Don Mattingly??> was
cute<not Steinbrenner then> but didn't even have the time to notice
her<not Martin then.  Mattingly it is!>.

As soon as the bell sounded for the break, a pandemonium of folding
desks and babbling voices erupted<as pandemoniums are wont to do>,
drowning out the end of the professor<'s> lecture.

"You a computer person?" Michael asked the cute blond
alluringly<Oh, I'm just SO sure.>.

"Not hardly; I'm a civil engineering major<"Aw heck, I'm just a
girl, you silly-billy.>," Karen told the obnoxious yankee.  "What
about y'all?<Nailed that accent.  The kid is good. DAMN GOOD.>"
"Biomed," he replied gazing into <the vacant hollows that were>her
blue eyes.  The pupils weren't round<but rather trapezoidal>; She
had weird eyes, he thought<Charlie manson eyes?  Marty Feldman?>.
The pupils dilated as she <slipped into a coma>looked at him and
Michael's heart skipped a beat<Oh dat crazy beat of love>.  He had
just read in "Popular Psychology" that pupil dilation meant
physical attraction<or, as he'd learned from his extensive biomed
training, one of the first signs of shock.  He found some blankets
and then panicked, boiling water and tearing up sheets like a
dolt>.  Here was his chance to lose his <chance of getting into one
of the better med schools>virginity.

"Thanks for the soda.  You busy for <the rest of your life,
honey?>dinner?"  he asked matter-of-factly.

"Um, er... no," she stammered<Heck, what girl wouldn't stammer from
the overwhelming sexual power of the COLLEGE VIRGIN??!!>.  His
question took her completely <as she'd predicted>by surprise. "I
live up the hill<in the old Bates Motel> and usually take my
supper<from a bowl marked "Girl"> at the Jenson Commons."

"Great accent," Michael thought<marvelling at his own mastery of
dialect>.  "'take my supper'  Ha!<DAMN GOOD>"  She sounds like a
<poorly-drawn caricature of reality?> dixie bell<ah.  of course>.
I wonder if she had a debut<pronounced "dee-butt"> and lives on a
big plantation at home<and if her grandparents owned slaves and if
she had fantasies of an uppity nigra exacting his revenge upon her,
JUST LIKE ME??!!>.

"Jenson's food must be better than Leutner's on north campus<roots
his story in reality.  No points off.>.  Hows about I pick <my nose
again and then pick> you up for an early dinner and then we catch
the movie at the film club?  It's a gonna be a <pasty?> great
film,"  he rambled<oh the self-deprecation.  You know what that
does to me, you big galoot.>.

"Well, I don't rightly know<Oh the humanity!>.  We were never
introduced," she said slowly.

"Come on<my fist, BA-BEE.  I'll make you a WOMAN!>.  You can bring
your roommates and friends.  It'll be <an orgy of Dionysian
proportions> fun," he assured her.

"Well I suppose..."

"Great.  Where do you live?" he asked.

"Well I do declare!<Um, check please. Yes, we're through.  I said,
'CHECK PLEASE!'>  I don't even know <the depths to which you'll
sink> your name."

"Michael Wilson, from Philadelphia<A homey. From Philly?!  My man!>
Pleased to meet you."  Michael offered his <boogie-filled>
hand<kerchief, as is the southern custom>. "Karen Lou-anne
Hammaker<Heck, her name's almost as believable as mine!  Well, I do
declare...>.  Pleased to meet you, Mr. Wilson," she said regaining
some composure.

"Please call me Michael<and call me...ANYTIME!  DAMN GOOD!>," he
said smiling broadly<like an encephalic>.  "Where should I pick<my
nose?> you up?"

"I live in the Morely dormitory.  I can meet you in the lounge
there at 6:30.  Will that be all right?<+5 points for not saying
'alright'>"

"That's<I'm> a little late<so I have to see my ob-gyn at 4>.  The
film starts at 6:30.  What about 5:30?  Is that too early?"

"No.  5:30 will be fine."

The word sounded like <"Canandaigua"?>"fahn" when she spoke it<and
he pitied her her speech impediment>.  Michael couldn't help
smiling broadly at <the shiny thing that so delighted him>her
beguiling southern accent.

The film was an excellent Swedish adventure story called <"Big
Nordic Girls in Chains">"Man on the Roof," and had short slices
of<pepperoni, and ham, and sausage, and> Swedish life including
some steamy sex<OH BOY!!!!!>.  Michael took her hand<and put it
between his legs.  "FEEL MY DESIRE, BA-BEE!"> at the beginning of
the film and massaged her <cervix>fingers and <spleen>palms ever-
so-lightly<oh, just ever-so>.  By the time the film was over she
was very <annoyed>wet.

"Come on, I'll walk you home," he said as the lights came <he
pulled his fly> up.

"Thank you."

They held <up a liquor store>hands during the walk and talked about
school, professors and the <pasty>film<that fills you're mouth and
you awake with the worst breath of the day.>.  When she unlocked
the dormitory door, he came inside <in a brilliant foreshadowing of
the events of the next hour>with her and followed her wordlessly
<Thank God for small favors, she would later say, in a different
context>up the stairs to the suite<:Judy Blue Eyes>she shared with
four other girls<OH YEAH!>.

No one was in the common living room when they arrived and they
went into her tiny <pink canal of love?>bedroom.  Karen closed the
door and gestured for Michael to sit on the tiny bed<Well, that's
how *he* interpreted her outstretched middle finger at least>.  She
sat next to him and without a word they embraced and started
necking<??!!  SOON, HE KNEW, THEY'D *PADIDDLE*!!>.
Michael had problems<that years of therapy hadn't been able to
resolve> breathing when he was <underwater>kissing a girl.  Though
he had had a lot of practice petting<animals at the zoo> and
necking<but his little brother didn't count, did he??>, he could
never get his breathing right<he tapped his finger on the oxygen
gauge but nope, still not right>.  He somehow couldn't breathe
through his <ever-runny> nose properly, and didn't want to exhale
in the girl's mouth<for fear she'd EXPLODE!>.  It made him nervous
and he took uneven, raspy breaths<much like Charlie Manson did just
before he murdered Sharon Tate.>.

"Relax," Karen told him <and shoved an inhaler of poppers up under
his nose. But, since he was a mouth-breather, they had no effect>.

Michael pushed her down onto the bed<pulled out a knife and said,
"Party time, Sweetness!">, kicked off his shoes<and sat right down,
loosened up his pretty French gown> and climbed up<the fire escape,
eager to continue his night of bloodletting> next to her, after
which they resumed the necking<soon they would VO DEE OH DOE DOE!>;
he concentrated on breathing regularly through his nose<yechh>.
Soon his hand wandered down<Thing-like, to the floor below> to her
blouse, roughly massaging her breasts<stopping, doofus-like, to
plant numerous light karate-chops all over them creamy twin
hillocks>.  Then he put his hand on her jeans and started<rifling
through her pockets> <watch this next bit:>boisterously massaging
her vagina<HOLY SWEET JESUS, did he say what I think he said?>.
Karen had no objections<your Honor> and <the cross-examination>
continued their hot french kissing<if you say so>.  His
<sandpaper>touch was quite rough<"Damn," he thought, "next time
bring Fine.  Nay, Extra Fine!"> and he was applying too much
<vaseline.  To her eyebrows??!!> pressure, but she had gone through
worse<Lotsa virgins out there, she thought. Why me?!>  Sensing no
resistance<from behind?!>, Michael started to un-button her jeans.

"Do you really want to do this?" she asked him <praying he'd
chicken out>earnestly.

"Yes," he said seriously<and her heart sank>.

"No regrets?" she asked.

<"Yeah, I've had a few, I've travelled each, and every bi-way.  But
more, much more than this, I did it my way."  "Shut up," she
begged, a finger in each ear.>

"Of course not."

She started undressing quickly and efficiently<thinking, oh God,
let it be over soon.>  He had to hurry to catch up with her.
Before climbing under the covers he noticed her creamy white skin
and red pubic hairs<Odd, he thought, for a blonde girl>.

Michael had never been in bed naked with a <nother doofus> girl
before and didn't really know how to begin.  He had often
fantasized about sex, of course and was determined to try
cunnulingus before mounting<Jesus Christ, is everyone Alan
Buttfucking Alda?!  Note here:  this never ever happens.>.  After
roughly and inadeptly<adverb police, um> massaging her erect
<penis?!> nipples and very wet <blowhole?>vagina, he slid down the
<fire pole>bed and started licking the <Dalmatian they kept at the
station.  Spark they called him> opening of her vagina.  The taste
made him nauseous<nauseated.  He's already nauseous.> and he almost
threw up<his hands in exasperation> his dinner<nice.  real nice.>.
He did not stop, however<no, they never do, do they?>, determined
to do it right<which they never ever do>.  Every few seconds he
searched for her clitoris with <a map and compass> his tongue but
couldn't find it<oh you> and went back to licking the opening of
her vagina and vulva just above it<eventually spending a half hour
at her navel.  A perfect innee, he noted, as she snored>.

Smiling <Disgusted>at<with> his eager <all-too-typical>ineptidude<a
typo, true, but a damned cool word, and perfectly apt, too.>, Karen
finally pulled his face up to hers<leaving a bloody trail across
her belly> and kissed him long and <pointlessly> passionately.  She
positioned his body<in front of a bulls-eye and pulled an arrow
from her quiver, notched it, and drew> on top of hers and spread
her legs<obscenely> in missionary <an awkward>position.  Michael
had no idea how to orient himself<in zero gravity.  But heck, who
really does?> to enter her dripping cunt.  He lay on top of her
patiently waiting for <it all to end> her to get his cock inside
her<getting discouraged as she picked up a novel and began to
read>.  She had to do all the <pretending.  DAMN THESE SOCIETALLY-
ASSIGNED SEX ROLES, she thought, and could feel her consciousness
rising like so much yeasty bread> maneuvering with his weight
clumsily on top of her.  She finally <called it a night> settled
his cock into her cunt and thrust her hips up <in despair>
<a>rhythmically.  Michael picked up the <pieces of his shattered
life> rhythm after a few strokes, but got carried away and his
<absurdly-small>penis came out.  He helped her get it back in and
started pumping<YOU UP!> again.  After a few minutes of fervent
rutting, his cock came out again<DAMN SMALL!>.  He was getting
better at finding her cunt<You could hardly miss it, he thought,
gaping, hellish maw that it was> and got it back in himself.

Soon after he put his penis back into her cunt he was again
delightedly pumping fast and hard<Okay>.  Before long, Karen
was<nodding off?> moaning in orgasmic ecstacy<DAMN GOOD!>.  Michael
hardly noticed<"Who cares?" he thought, laughing boisterously> and
couldn't believe at first that she had climaxed<Probably because
she clearly hadn't>.  He slowed<showed> his <lack of>rhythm <by
humming an old Big Band tune>.

"Are you through<YET!>?" he asked <doing a killer Steve
Martin>innocently.

"Yeah," she said, grabbing his shoulders and pulling him
closer<Glutton for punishment, eh?>.  Now that she was
concentrating solely on keeping his cock inside her<which, given
his obvious shortcomings, was no mean feat.>, Michael's
inexperienced thrusting was easier for her to <ignore>control.  In
a few minutes, he was ejaculating, grunting <ape-like>softly as his
cock spat hot <invectives>semen deep<well, define "deep"> into her
vagina.

"Do you want to try again?" he asked shyly. <since I fucked up so
badly the first time?>

"I suppose," she said<drifting off>.  She could feel that his
penis<was somehow retreating, like a Sumo wrestler's> was still
hard inside her vagina and it did not feel like it was getting any
softer. She had never made love to anyone as <unskilled>young as
Michael and wondered if all virgins had the staying power<DAMN
GOOD> of this one.

He started pumping<WHUMP!> again slowly, kissing and licking
her<ear, much to her consternation> lips softly. Soon the rhythm,
intensity, and <peer>pressure increased of his coital
plunges<ouch>.  Karen pushed her pubic bone against him hard at
each inward thrust<no doubt>.  In a half hour<Oh, come *on*> she
was moaning again.  This time Michael felt her shudder and the
realization that she was having an orgasm<and the realization, as
he recognized the tsetse fly on his arm, that he had somehow
contracted malaria> made him suddenly very hot.  In ten<count em,
10> quick, forcefull strokes he was exploding again, amplifying<+5
for interesting word choice> Karen's pleasure and prolonging her
orgasm<minus 5 for the lie>.

Karen noticed that Michael was not <now> sweating<profusely
convulsing.  Then she spotted the tell-tale dead tsetse fly and
laughed, thinking, "Hey, you dip the stick, you gotta pay for the
oil."> or even breathing hard, another new experience for her<oh
please>.  Her over-sensitive <and conceited> vagina felt that his
penis was still hard inside her<*NOT*!> and it was a bit
irritating<as was he>;  this time, however, she felt it getting
softer.

"Thank God for small favors" she thought to herself. <And small
peckers, she added, rolling it between her thumb and forefinger.
So small, so rubbery.  How funny it must feel!>

When his penis shrank somewhat<smaller than he'd hoped>, Michael
withdrew<the question and rephrased it, so as not to "lead the
witness"> and carefully rolled <a doob!  Fire it up, man!!> off
her.  He held her close, kissed and cuddled with her a few
minutes<as he'd heard these bimbos liked> before speaking.

"Thanks," he said haltingly.  "If you couldn't tell<and honestly,
how could you?  I, like all virgins, am good, DAMN GOOD!>, that was
my first time<"uh, with a girl," he added, sheepishly>."

"And your second, honey,"  she drawled affectionately<Oh the
humanity!>.
They smiled and talked about grades, engineering core courses,
marriage, numerial<sic> analysis, and the human condition<as one
often does, just after sex>.  At length<albeit a short length>
Michael got bored<of her, of her roommates, of all females, slowly
coming to realize his true nature>.

"Do you want to try again?" he asked <stupidly, as if *she* were
the one who'd failed> timidly.

"My my, Michael, but you are a virtuoso virgin<um...excuse me.>,"
she teased him. "Let's see if you're really up to it."  She reached
down and started rubbing his cock with her <sandpaper>palm.  Her
deft manipulations betrayed her <sluttish nature>experience and
Michael speculated about hand jobs she had given boys in High
School.<and grade school.  and strangers at bus terminals.  and...>

Michael's penis rose to the occasion<A pun!  How precious!> and in
a few minutes he was on top of her again, driving his cock into her
vagina<like a man possessed> hard and hurredly<sic>.  In fact his
<white boy lack of rhythm> and pressure<to succeed> were not very
pleasing to Karen who basically just lay there submissively<like a
good lil' girl>.

"How ya doin?" he asked after a while.<Ugh.>

She pecked a little kiss on his lips and pulled her knees up<until
she almost broke his jaw> to give him deeper penetration.  The new
position and deeper penetration put more pressure on his cock<Oh
the pressure, the pressure, the pain...>.  Each stroke brought him
unconsciously<?!> closer to ejaculation.  Unprepared for the sudden
sensual amplification<???!!!>, Michael suddenly realized he was
about to ejaculate again.

"I'm going to..." he said<"Pee", he added, but too late>.  His cock
spurted hot semen deep into Karen's sore cunt and he grunted
ecstatically.

"Should I go?" he asked groggily a few minutes later.

<"You just went, moron.">

"If you don't, you'll be the ninth guy to sleep here this
semester," she replied brightly<??>.

"You mean I can stay?" he asked enthusiastically.<Man, ah jes'
loves dem adverbs to death.>

"Sure.  Move over and give me some <Seconal> covers."

He woke up the next morning with Karen in his arms and a hard, hot
cock poking at the covers.<But quickly he realized: IT WASN'T HIS!
IT WAS, (gulp), *HERS*!!  AND IT WAS HUUUUGGGEEEE!!!!>  He gently
fondled Karen's breasts, blissfully staring at her beautiful <lacy
underthings; just the kind his mom had never let him wear> face and
long <stringy>sensuous hair.  Still half asleep, Karen blindly
fumbled under the covers and brushed against his huge <hunka hunka>
burning<love> erection.  She befuddedly<!!STOP THE PRESSES!> pulled
him on top of her, and for the fourth time in his life Michael was
joyfully copulating<...with a GIRL!!>.  In five minutes he
exploded<covering the walls and ceiling with...nah>.

"I'm sorry," he said apologetically.  "Are you close<to your
mother? I sure am!>?"

She actually was starting to get aroused<Hmmm>.  She kissed him as
he continued to pump his dick in and out<if only he were *inside*
her>.  However, in a few short minutes<50 seconds each.  Go
figger>, his erection subsided.

"I'm sorry," he said again forlornly<Man, gotta update my
Webster's.  ASAP.>.

"But I enjoyed it, Michael," she said <lying through her perfect
teeth> cheerfully.

"When's your first class?" he asked, changing the subject<Oh
really, hadn't noticed.>.

"Ten o'clock.  Why?"

"I have to be at Strosacker at eight for Logic<I'll say.>.  Come
with me to breakfast?"

"No thanks.  I'd really rather get some more sleep."

Karen smiled affectionately<the adverb man strikes...AGAIN!> and
watched him get dressed.

"I'll call you <Big-butt>," Michael said on his way out.

In fact, he never saw Karen again<OR SHE HIM!!>.  She avoided
him<like the plague that his type are> in classes, and never
returned his calls.  He learned later that she dropped out of
school and went to live in New Orleans<doubt it>.  Eighteen, and
no-longer<um, two words next time.  Trust me.  I'm on *your* side.
Honest.> a virgin, Michael faced the task of finding a girl friend,
or at least a sex partner<bastard>, with a new and pleasant<skewed>
perspective.


                  CRUEL TO BE KIND #4

        She again started kissing me, that wonderful tongue playing
intricate  games in my mouth.<Go, chess, SimCity, Railroad
Tycoon...>  Her hands unbuttoned my shirt and started caressing my
chest and occasionally venturing down to my stomach and the start
of my  pants.  My cock was straining and almost screaming at me to
get started.<I juste *hate* when it does that.  It's so
embarrassing, especially like at the opera>   Tentatively I reached
out and cupped her breasts.<Good thing I always keep a cup in the
glove compartment!>  She moaned, reached both  arms behind me and
crushed herself against me.  I almost passed out!<How *was* I gonna
explain that to the police>  This  was too good to be true!<In
fact, it's not!>  No begging or  pleading, just someone who wanted
it as much as I.  Somehow I got her shirt unbuttoned and began
caressing her  breasts.  MAGNIFICENT!<Not her breasts, which were
kinda floppy and were criss-crossed by these dark blue veins--but
MY CARESSES--DAMN WAS I GOOD!>  She broke our embrace, reached
behind and  unsnapped her bra.  She smiled at me as her breasts
tumbled free<and smiled again as I reached down to the car floor
and retrieved them for her, which wasn't as easy as it sounds--one
had gotten wedged in under the accelerator>, grabbed my  head from
behind, and pulled me down to those globes<I quickly identified
North America, Asia, Sri Lanka, Brazil--THANK GOD I'd paid
attention during map skills in high school>.  I was lost in between
them<But since, as I just mentioned, I knew my way around a globe,
I quickly located my longitude and latitude and returned safely to
my car.>!  I kissed and sucked her tits, going from one to the
other<sometimes from the latter to the former, sometimes not--I was
A FUCKING NATURAL!!>, slathering  them with my tongue without
touching her nipples<DAMN I'M GOOD!!>. She lay back moaning,
crushing my head to her breasts<I was at first concerned when she
did this because of well, my steel plate, but then I thought,
caution...TO THE WIND!!!>.  Finally, I began running my tongue
around  her nipples first in large circles which gradually became
smaller until my  tongue was flicking across her nipple<Which I
like to affectionately call "Magnetic North">.  Slowly, I drew the
nipple<I think she got annoyed when I'd suddenly stop and begin
making pencil sketches but I'd forgotten my Polaroid and I wanted
my buds back on the ship to know it had finally happened.> into my
mouth and began to suck on it.  The pressure of her hands on my
head  increased and I tried to suck as much of her breast into my
mouth as I could<I couldn't make it past the equator, but I did a
nice job on Canada, Russia, Greenland, Iceland, and most of the
Scandinavian countries.>. I  went back and forth between those
melons driving both of us into a frenzy.<Honeydew, cantaloupe,
cantaloupe, honeydew, eenie meenie miney moe, 2 bits 4 bits 6 bits
a buck, BOY WAS I EVER HAVING FUN!!>
        By this time my dick was in extreme pain.<My guess is this
had something to do the fact that I'd caught it in my zipper after
I'd peed back at the bar.>  I new<You old.  I new.  I got whole
life ahead of me.  You.  You old.  You one foot in the grave.  Me
shoveling it deep.  Heapum green I was.  Nay, AM!!> I had to do
something  to relieve the pressure but felt I needed to do more to
please her<So I gave her the fifty bucks she'd been asking for.
That took a lot of the pressure off *me* and it pleased *her*
considerably.  DAMN I'M GOOD!>.  I remembered one of my shipmates
telling how he preferred cunnilingus before entry to help excite
the woman and reduce the amount of stroking required  for her to
reach orgasm.  And believe me, I was determined that she would
also reach orgasm<I hadn't earned the nickname 'Alan Fucking Alda'
for nothing, you know.>.  I began running my tongue  down her chest
to her  stomach and back to her breasts<I don't know why; I just
did.  Who thinks at a time like this?!>  I was curious if she
wanted me or even  would let me go down on her<So I had her fill
out a copy of the 1000 question purity test which I had in the
glove.  Now I knew.  SHE LIKED IT!!>.  Taking her louder moans as
an un-official endorsement<Interestingly, official endorsement
could only be provided through the express written consent of major
league baseball.  But I digress.>, I began to undue her pants<And
they were due for it--Believe you me.  I know about these things.>
She lifted her ass<With the help of the winch I always kept in the
back seat, just in case...> and helped me pull her pants down and
off<This, incidentally, for all you "First-timers"
[snicker,snicker] out there, is much easier than the old "*up* and
off" technique favored in the sub-continent.>.  I began to go lower
toward her cunt when she  pulled my head away, looked into my eyes,
and asked "Do you know what  you're doing?<*Clearly*, lady.  Now
will you let me do my thang?!  Sheesh, some people...>"  Not
wanting to spoil the situation by saying something stupid<Like "I
prefer the later, more serious Woody Allen to his older works by
far.  Allen the auteur doesn't even exist for me until 'Interiors.'
Did you fart?  Lady, there's only two of us here and I know it
wasn't me."> I  simply nodded<off>.  "I thought you were a virgin?"
she asked<Boy, am I good or what?!>.  I mumbled  something about
reading a lot<Encyclopedia Brown, Hardy Boys, Nancy Drew, Alfred
Hitchcock and the Three Investigators, Grit, Highlights for
Children...> and she chuckled in a very sexy manner<sexy until she
cut a nasty one and I had to open a window.> and said  go
ahead.<All right, not in those exact words.  What she really said
was, "Hey, it's *your* money," closed her eyes, and was quickly
asleep.>

        <I splashed some cold water on her face, then> I again
lowered my head to her stomach and continued running my tongue
around the area<The Seychelles, I believe it was, or perhaps the
United Arab Emirates>, occasionally dipping below into her
panties<Thank God I had that ice cream scoop, which I always kept
handy ever since I saw "Stripes".> and  dramatically increasing her
moans<Yes, somehow *I* was increasing her moans, forgetting in my
heated frenzy that *I* and not *she* was the subject of this
sentence, the length of which was way out of my league.>. I grabbed
her panties<?!> and slowly drew them off<More pencil sketching>.
She twisted in the seat so that her head rested on the passenger
side arm rest with her legs spread on the seat (thanks mom for not
letting me buy that sports car!<And for not laughing when you
caught me masturbating to an old issue of 'Young Miss', or even
questioning why I'd subscribed.  I love you mom.  You'll always be
MY BESTEST GIRL>).  Starting at her knees, I ran my tongue down her
legs<towards her ankles?!> to  where her cunt hairs just started
tickling my nose.<Now there's some long-ass cunt hairs!!  I love
you wherever you are, my ZZ Top one-night girlfriend. [sigh]>
Knowing that I should start at her clitoris (thanks to "Everything
You Wanted To Know About Sex But  Were Afraid To Ask" <But shit,
I'd forgotten all about "Monty Python's the Meaning of Life" and
shit, I've even got a cool Monty Python quote in my sig.  Shit.
You DON'T start at the clitoris.  You DON'T start there.  Please
forgive me, John Cleese.  Please?>), and the general location<Just
South of the Honduras, if I'm not mistaken and [heh heh], I *never*
am, in matters of love.>, I used my tongue to explore  until I
found it<Of course, the big downward-pointing tattoo on her mons of
an arrow helped me find it too, as did her insistent pointing and
numerous screams of "There.  No, not *there*.  THERE.  Look, you
moron--RIGHT HERE!!  No, that's the perineum.  No, *that's* my
garter.  NO, that's an appendix scar.  NO!  Shit, hand me that
flashlight...">.  I started flicking her clit with my tongue and
sucking it into my mouth<Occasionally removing it from my mouth and
reattaching it to her body>.  She arched her hips, grabbed my head,
and crushed it against her cunt<*This* time, I was genuinely
concerned about that steel plate.>.  Whatever I lacked in
experience I tried to make up for in effort.  I kept sucking gently
on her clit, my saliva mixing with her juices<cranberry, apple,
thank God not too much citrus.  Citrus gives me gas like you would
not believe>, until she was  soaked. Leaving her clit<on the dash.
I didn't want to lose it *again*> I began tonguing her vagina.
Taking a  deep breath<and saying two Hail Marys, three Our Fathers,
crossing myself, making out a will, and donning a snorkel> I shoved
my tongue as far into pussy as it would go<ALL THE WAY TO MEMPHIS!!
Hallelujah!! Sweet motherfucking Jesus H. Tapdancing Christ on a
shingle!! Shee-it!!  Come to papa, baby.  Mama needs a new pair of
shoes. Come on seven.  COME ON SEVEN!>.  She mashed my head<like so
much yeast> against her moaning<Yup, she mashed it against her
moaning, smeared it against her sighing, and flattened it against
her farting.  I can alliterate with the big boys now--Take *that*,
Billy Mahoney!> saying, "Jesus, a natural pusy eater!"<Damn, if
only I could spell like I cunnilinged...  Well, God had to save
something for the rest of you when he made *me*.  Unfortunately,
what he saved was a superego.>  Hearing that drove me wild<I
bucked, I kicked, I screamed, I foamed at the mouth.  She yawned
and lit up a True.>!  I began thrusting my tongue in and out with
short trips back up to  her clit<Just day trips, so I didn't need
to pack much.>.  I just couldn't get enough of it with her moaning
how good it felt and kept fucking her cunt with my tongue.
        Finally, I'd had enough.<And heck, can ya blame me?!  19
years old and I'd just HAD ME A *FEAST*!!>  Not that I couldn't
continue doing that<told you I was good, DAMN GOOD!>, I  just
couldn't take the pressure on my cock<Not performance pressure;
sheesh, I'M GOOD, but rather her tightening a pair of lock-jaw
pliers.  Chicks, who can figger em?>.  Breaking her iron-like grasp
on my  head<with a well-aimed bonk from my ball peen hammer> I
pulled back and began taking off my pants<slowly, ONE FUCKING PALE
SCRAWNY LEG AT A TIME!  Make the bitch wait for it!>.  She smiled
at me and said  "Now it's my turn."<God bless her little heart.>
"NO!" I almost screamed<Because she was firing up some sort of
portable lathe thingee she'd kept in her purse>, "I couldn't take
it!"<Which was a damned lie. I'M GOOD, I TELL YOU.  DAMNED GOOD!>
She smiled knowingly at me and laid back down on the seat again
spreading her  legs<all over the seat, cottage-cheesy deposits of
cellulite hanging off the edge and oozing towards that part of the
seat where, if you reach your hand in really far, you can find some
loose change.  Or an uneaten piece of hard candy>.  This was it.<A
WHOLE PACK OF LIFE SAVERS.  UN-FUCKING-OPENED!! DO YOU HEAR ME??!!
WE'RE TALKING JACKPOT HERE.>  The moment of truth!<Doubtful.>  I
knelt between her legs and she reached down and grabbed my
cock.<??!!>  I almost died!<But she called 911 and some EMT's
arrived.  Next thing I heard was, "CLEAR!  5 cc's Lidocaine,
STAT!!">  Just having someone else besides me touch my cock was
fantastic<Oooh, that delicate hint of self-deprecation just makes
me all skweky inside.  I could LOVE this man>.  She stroked it back
and forth a few times muttering "it feels sooo nice!"<Mutter,
mutter, mutter, grumble, grumble, grumble>  Grabbing my cock, she
pulled me towards her and down to her pussy<Boy, was I having fun
or what?!>.  Without letting go of my cock, she  slowly worked it
into<a rich lather?> her pussy<ah> grabbing my ass with her other
hand<No doubt.>.  I  couldn't believe the sensation!<that her
heavily-calloused hands could create>  Rosie Palm and her five
sisters NEVER felt like this!<More self-deprecation!  Oh, I swoon.
Catch me, big boy, I'm falling.  Hard.>  When she had all of me in
her<curled up in her womb, sucking my thumb, kicking myself for not
strapping that board to my ass, like my shipmates had told me to
do.  Shit!  Shit!!>, she let go of my cock, grabbed my ass with
both hands, and moved her hips up and down against me<Seems
reasonable.  No penalty.>.  At last I  was fucking a woman!<Well,
you know...A woman I *wasn't* related to.  Sheesh, *that* doesn't
really count.  *Everyone* knows *that*.>  I started getting carried
away<by those danged EMT guys.  "I'm okay," I said.  "Really.  I'm
fine."  Then I gave her this knowing look and added, "Just *fine*.
Wink wink, nudge nudge, know what I mean, nod's as good as a wink
to a blind bat.  Eh, eh?"  She, disgusted, cut one.>  and thrust<my
dagger> with all my strength against her<but shit, it was only a
dagger of the mind.  Shit shit shit.>, her hands on my ass pulling
me deeper into her pussy.<"LOOK OUT BELOWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!">

        I knew I couldn't take much more of this<Nor, I suppose,
can you, dear reader.  Well, too fucking goddammed bad.  This is
*my* story, MY DAY IN THE SUN!!!  YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!>
Feeling an orgasm start<in the car next to ours> I  shouted
"STOP!"<I'm good at barking out orders, eh?  Chicks eat that shit
up.  Like to be ordered around.  I know about these things.
Remember?  I'm good, DAMN GOOD!>  Too late<*I'll* say.>, I started
coming inside her but held myself very  still hoping I could
control how much I came<Practicing the difficult technique of the
yogi masters, called Kamalatraratherthansutra>.  She looked up at
me<with those big green eyes and I knew it was a spell she cast.
She's just a devil woman, with evil on her mind.  Just a devil
woman.  She's gonna get you from behind.> and asked  "Did you
come?"<to the right place?  Boy, *I'll* say.> "A little"<one was
all I had.  Still do.  But shit, it's the motion in the, uh, you
know, not the size of the, uh, penis?>, I replied.  Smiling<through
brown-yellow teeth>, she stroked my cheek<much as one would do to
an idiot child> and asked "Do you want to stop?"<C'mon lady.  If
you ain't learned nuthin tonight at least know this:  I'M GOOD!
DAMN GOOOODDDD!!!!>  I shook my head no and started stroking my
still hard cock inside her.<See?>  Now I understood one of the
benefits of being 19<and eligible to vote.  ROCK THE VOTE!  Side
note:  I voted for Reagan that year.  And again four years later.
And I'd vote for Nixon if *he* ran again.  Sheesh, one fucking
mistake.  Lighten *up*, people>,  healthy<that is, until tomorrow,
when I suspect urination will be most unpleasant.>, and incredibly
horny<Clearly>:  once just wasn't going to be enough<Not for
meeeeee. I'm SUPERBOY.  WATCH ME FLY! WHEEEE!!!!!!!>  I also
noticed that the first 'little' orgasm seemed to deaden the
sensations in my cock<as did the lidocaine the emt guys injected
into the head, laughing, saying it was, "uh, standard in these
sorts of things."  Then they high-fived each other and lit up a
joint.>.  Realizing I could now fuck her without<skill?> worrying
about coming too fast, I went at it with a renewed gusto<Damn
Good.>.  She looked at me and moaned "I don't  believe it!"<But
what she thought was, "I can't believe it's come to *this*">  My
ego soared!<Hers plummeted.>  I was Tarzan dominating Jane!<More
like Boy dominating his own feces, fascinated by the texture and
still-tasty bits of corn> I was the  fulfillment of the male
image!<Holy shit?!  Did I read that correctly??!!  Yup.>  Marlboro
Man look out!<Tomorrow I SMOKE!!!>  I'm riding this mare to the
sunset!<Beating these here steed to fucking death!>  I kept up the
pace<as I'm good, DG.>, going in and out<just like it said to, in
this here book.>, as deep as I could<China Syndrome?!  Could be.>,
her writhing and moaning driving me to animal passion that almost
scared me<Nah, it was really just that fleck of yellowish spittle
that extended from my mouth to hers.  WHY WOULDN'T IT BREAK??!!  It
unnerved me, I tell you, and I am not a boy, nay, MAN, that one
would wish to unnerve.>.   Her hips thrusting back at me met my
every stroke with equal, passionate  force<If only I'd known then
that that force was pure, unadulterated hatred.>.  Suddenly, she
grabbed me around the hips with her legs, and sinking  her teeth
into my neck<*Now* I understood.  And pulled out the garlic I wore
around my neck, just in case...>, began to come.  Her vagina<ooh,
I just love it when you talk clinical to me.  Say cervix.  Say
pudenda.  Say ragged, battle-weary labia!> clamped down on my cock
and I could feel it pulsate in rhythm to her body convulsions<I
*said* I needed Lidocaine!  STAT!  You hear me?!  Supersedes all
other fucking tests!!  STAT!!  Shit, we're losing her.  CLEAR!> as
she became  lost in the throes of her orgasm<Or, he said,
maniacally rubbing his hands together, HER DEATH!!>.  I couldn't
believe that I had actually done that to a woman.<Without holding
a gun on her.  But like I have to tell *you* that, savvy reader.>


        She held on to me long after the orgasm subsided<despite
her obvious distaste>, my cock still hard  inside her<Oh yeah.
Right.  Not.  So much not.  So very, hugely much NOTTTT!!!!!!>.
Finally she relaxed her legs and let me pull out of her.<Bitch.>
I didn't  want to leave that warm, marvelous cavern but my <air
supply was dangerously low.> arms were shaking from  holding myself
up<Damn I'm scrawny.>.  I sat back on the seat with a silly grin on
my face<This made sense, as I've always been sorta "special":
drooling, flatulent, giggling girlishly at shiny things...>.  She
sat up, saw the grin, and chuckled "Well, how was it?"<"Ride ain't
over yet, bitch", I wanted to say, and then take her roughly,
passionately, like some animal found in a young girl's dream, but
clearly prose of that sort is beyond me, so...>  Still grinning I
replied "WOW, it's a lot better than I thought!"<Ah, that's more my
speed.  And pretty danged clever too, if I *do* say so.>  She
laughed and snuggled up to me, her breasts pressing against my
arm<of their own volition, since she was squatting outside the car,
expelling my squiggly, vile intruders.>.  I lit a cigarette for
both of us<Marlboro Man,  TODAY!!  We're coming to
America...TODAY!> and we sat there in silence<she and I, in
silence, with nothing left to say...> smoking<Capri 150's.  DAMN
I'M COOL!>.  She finished half of hers and snubbed it out<on my
neck>.   Leaning back against me, she started stroking my thigh and
said "Well, we  can't go with you only having a little orgasm.  How
about a big one?"<Oh Christ.> I was shocked<but it hadn't helped.
ECT treatments, Prozak, Lithium, nothing ever helped.  Till they
removed some ugly, nasty forebrain.  Ptooey! See ya, icky frontal
lobe.  Good riddance!!> My high school escapades previously
mentioned always ended with  one orgasm no matter how good it
was<DG, in fact.>.  Now here was a woman asking if I  wanted
more.<Yeah.  Okay.>  I don't think I can relate the male ego boost
that occurs even  today upon hearing that!<Nor can I form that
thought into a coherent sentence! Ask me do I care?  *NOT!*  Yippee
ki-yay *this*, world.  I'M GETTING MINE!>  I looked at her, nodded
and said "I don't know if I  can come again."<Or if I can solve for
x in even the most basic of equations, of the form 2x = y, for
example.  But I digress.>  She looked me in the eye and said "Let
me worry about that."<SWEET HOLY HEAPIN' BE-JESUS!  DID YOU *HEAR*
THAT!!??>

        Using both hands she gently forced me back until<I said
'uncle'> my head lay on the  driver's side armrest<my tongue
caressing the open ashtray as it had her mouth.  The ashtray won,
hands fucking down.>, my legs spread<obscenely> on the seat.  Being
obviously of a vengeful nature<my first clue were all the little
notches on her pearl-handled Colt;  my second was the mummified
penis she wore around her neck.>, she began running her tongue down
my legs and around my  stomach being careful to avoid my
crotch<since that area smelled really really gamey>.  I moaned and
writhed under her ministrations<Good word.  No penalty.  All right,
minus five points because he thought it had something to do with
running a school>, thrusting my hips involuntarily into the
air<like a complete doofus>.  Finally, after one tongue excursion
down my thigh<Hmmm, tongue excursion?  Glad *you* said that.>, she
began tonguing my balls<with her tongue, as I recall>.  She went
back  and forth between them getting the hairs soaked with her
saliva<and mine.  You'd forgotten I drooled, hadn't you?> .  She
suddenly  stopped, looked up at me, and took my left testicle into
her mouth<I begged her, 'Next time, could you please leave it in my
scrotum?  Please??  Bitch.>.  She<chewed it like one of those grape
bubble gums you buy for a dime at the supermarket, you know,
they're real hard at first but once you split em they chew easy.
Well, just like that.> sucked on it softly<Sorry, my mistake.> and
stroked it with her tongue<and a carpenter's plane, and I sighed as
curls of my testicle floated softly to the ground where they formed
a happy pile.  Vengeful bitch.>.  Letting it slide sensuously out
of her mouth<and under the seat.  Damn I hate it when it goes under
the seat.  And you can't return em, cause they got spit all over
em, so NOW I'M STUCK WITH THREE THOUSAND DOLLARS WORTH OF CAT TOYS,
GIMME THAT, GIMME THAT, WHHEEEEEEEEEE...>, she repeated with the
right testicle<then repeated like a Howitzer.  Mental note:  no
Mexican for her on future dates.  And there would be many, heh heh.
Clearly, she'd be back for more of *this* action.>. She went back
and forth between them, sometimes using her mouth to 'fuck' my
balls<if you say so.  After all, you're good.  DG.>, sliding them
individually in and out, in and out<then, like juggler Michael
Davis, stepped outside the car and spit them alternately into the
air, deftly recatching them in her mouth.  Bitch was good.  DG.>.
She stopped, and taking a deep breath, took both balls into her
mouth at the same time<Yup, DG.>, gently stuffing them in with her
hands<much as you would cram plums into your mouth if you were
going for the Guinness record, WHICH SHE HELD, thank you very
much.>.  The sensation was overpowering<as was that odor.>.  My
cock felt more engorged  with blood than ever before; bouncing up
at the sky with every beat of my heart<DEBBIE GIBSON WROTE THIS!!
Damn, that's 'Foolish Beat'. Well then, Taylor Dayne>.  I squirmed
repeatedly underneath her which seemed to drive her into a
heightened frenzy<Damn.  If only I'd a known the word 'heated' back
then.  But I was just a young pup, whatcha gonna do?>.  She kept
sucking on my balls like she couldn't get<out of the car fast>
enough, her eyes constantly open and watching my reactions<and
glancing at her watch.>
        Suddenly, she pulled back slightly and let my balls pop out
of her  mouth<GIMME THAT GIMME THAT.  DAMN!>.  She began running
her tongue up and down on the underside of my cock<like when we had
to run "suicides" to make the basketball team.  I didn't make it.
Their loss, eh?  Look at me now!  WHHHHHHHHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!>.
Occasionally she would wrap her lips as much as possible around the
side of my cock and suck it or stroke her lips up and down, pausing
close to the head<to breathe some pure oxygen out of a tank she'd
asked one of those EMT guys for.>.  She opened her mouth and placed
my cock inside on her tongue rubbing it all around without closing
her mouth<and, consequently, biting it off.>.  I'd only seen this
done in porno movies<More self-deprecation.  Look no further,
sailor, I IS YOUR WOMAN NOW!!> and experiencing it was almost
unbearable<for her, I imagined>.  She grabbed my  cock with her
hands and closed her mouth about the head, slowly sucking it in
until she had about half of it in her mouth<the other half on the
dash, right next to her clit>.  She kept it there, sucking on it
like a popsickle<grape, no, cherry, no, Tahitian Medley.  That's
it:  Tahitian Medley> her eyes glued to mine savoring my every
reaction<Fear, loathing, hatred, disgust, nausea> She closed her
eyes<and clicked her heels together three times> and started
stroking her head up and down on my straining cock<"Please God, let
it end," she silently wished.>, going deeper and deeper with every
stroke, until finally<CHINA SYNDROME! YUP.  FOR *REAL*!!> all of my
cock was buried in her <sepulchre by the sea, she my Annabel Lee.
I, a doofus.> mouth.  She ground her face against my stomach<until
it was a bloody pulp>, twisting her head back and forth<trying
desperately to remove *all* the skin>, then returning to fucking my
cock with her mouth.  This  sure wasn't going to take too long<It
was just that good.  Or was that me?>.  Nothing in my previous
experience could  possibly prepare me for this<Except, of course,
that towel-snapping incident with a couple of the older sailors
that we won't go into here>!  I could feel my balls
swelling<swelling, bigger, bigGER, KA-BOOM!!>, getting ready to
expel my <vile>juices<all over the inside of the car>.  I grabbed
her head and twisted it up<until her neck snapped> without removing
my  cock<severing it in her mouth like a moron> and told her I was
going to come<to grips with my own troubled childhood.  RIGHT HERE!
RIGHT NOW!!>. I thought she would pull<out her revolver> away and
let  me come in<my own face like I always did at home> the air like
in high school<"Smells Like Teen Spirit"??  Bingo!> but I was
wrong<as I often am>.  I removed my hands from<my pockets??> her
head<oh, I see.> as she mumbled a negative<actually it was more
like she shook her head violently from side to side and said, "NO!
NO FUCKING WAY!  I'M OUTTA HERE, PASTY-BOY!!  Don't need this
shit..."> and increased her sucking up<to my authority> and <Rock
Lobster down>down.  Again I grabbed her <neatly severed>head and
started helping her up and down on my cock<cause I'm a sick fuck>.
The pressure kept increasing and increasing until suddenly<I
screamed<"Demons, you vex me!  There, there, tear up the
floorboards, and put an end to the beating of HIS HIDEOUS HEART!!"
She of course, nodded nervously, and fingered her Colt.>, I began
to  come <to>!  She thrust her head down on my cock, taking it as
deep as before<Deeper, in fact, stopping only when she broke her
nose on the transmission.  Silly bitch.>.  I  shot jet after jet of
come into her throat while she continued to bob her head  up and
down on my deeply engulfed cock.  It was like I couldn't stop
coming<to grips with my own fear of failure, my hatred of my
father, my lust for my mother, the fact that Steven Segal got Kelly
Lebrock, Jeff Goldblum got Geena Davis, and all I'd got was the
clap> and she couldn't get <away from me fast>enough.  As the
flow<of bs> lessened, she pulled her head back and began running my
still spurting cock around her <bloodied stump of a>face.  The
muscles in my body were shaking from my tensing them.  Finally I
stopped and she took my softening cock back into her mouth, gently
licking and sucking it<SO VERY HUGELY MUCH *NOT*!!>.  She used  her
fingers to wipe off her face and sucked off the collected
come.<Ditto.>  We both  fell<short of our parents', and society's,
expectations?> asleep<oh>.

        I woke up about an hour later, saw the time, woke up
Mary<but not Virgin heh heh you get it you get it?> and said  "I've
got to get back on board ship.<*I've* got a deck to swab thank you
very much.>"  We dressed<up as idiot children for Halloween> and I
took her home. I laughed when it turned out her home was only three
blocs<Soviet?> away from the bar.  I asked her why we didn't go to
her house and she said she didn't want  her husband catching<my
disease> us!  I couldn't believe it<Well that makes two of us.>!
I asked her if we could get<this smell off my fingers> together
again and she smiled at me and said <"Not!"> "Who knows?  You can
find me <under> at the bar."  She kissed me<off> tenderly and
walked into her house.....

        I went back to the bar after we got back into port about 2
months later but she never showed up.  I drove by her house but it
was up for sale<Sheriff's sale>.   Nobody at the bar knew what had
happened to her or when exactly she left<except this one guy who
said she hanged herself with piano wire while screaming something
about 'Sin'">.  I'm happily married now with a wife that fulfills
my every fantasy and desire  so I have no need to look for another
woman<You catch that "no need" bit?  Kinda endearing, ain't it?
NOT!!>.  Still, I guess you never forget your first experience<with
your own sex>, especially one as wild as that one was<I'm glad
*you* said it.>.  I hated waiting until I was 19<Like I had a
fucking choice.> but in hindsight, it was well worth it!  The
message?  <"A child is born, with no state of mind, blind to the
ways of mankind.  God is smiling on you but he's frowning too,
because *only* God knows what you'll go through...It's like a
jungle sometimes, it makes me wonder how I keep from going under>
Don't  discount older women<Or then *everyone*'ll buy one, even the
poor white trash with their Double Coupons--I've got your double
coupons.  RIGHT *HERE*!!> Their capacity<to tolerate stupidity> to
please<ah> can be overwhelming and their capacity to give<two shits
about what sort of idiot they fuck; and their ragged-out,
episiotomy-enlarged twats> can be bottomless.
---------------------------

                      CRUEL TO BE KIND--#5


     I was walking through the Arnot Mall.  It is not a mall, but
none of the locals will tell you what it IS.  But it is NOT a  mall
(or a cinema 10), It even SAYS so.  Whoever named my town  "Arnot"
deserves to be shot.
     <??????????????????????????????????????????????????>
     It was almost closing time on a Tuesday, mid-August.  There
weren't many people around, just the usual japs who never seem to
leave<ouch>.  Do they LIVE here or something?  Have a cot in the
back perhaps?<And what if we *did*?>  Or is it just that they look
the same.  Then again, I have that problem with blacks and
orientals. I can't tell them  apart until I get to know an
individual<Oh, shut up>.
     Well, walking around, I did see a few good looking girls<oh,
I'm sorry, I mean chycks.> Mind you, girl-watching wasn't what I
came there for, actually I just needed a few more pairs of
socks<Heh.>.  But while I was walking, I might as well enjoy the
sights, right?  As a matter of fact, here comes<da judge?>...
Hey!  I KNOW her!  It's Brooke!  And...she looked hot enough  to
KILL for!<Say that again, Otis.>  Her blouse was white with vibrant
blue zebra'ed through it<oh ick>.  I LIKED that top<I did!>.
Something looked ODD about it the first time that I'd seen Brooke
wearing it<Now I realized what it was.  It was the two holes cut
out of it so her breasts could poke through.  Odd thing that.
Makes you go hmmm.>.  It took me a while to see a man hidden in the
center of it, front and back, like a soldier camouflaged in the
jungle<Or like a story camouflaged in *this*.>.  T'was<the night
before Kwanza?> neat of the designer.  White and blue stockinged
legs swished her zebra'ed mini-skirt back and forth<as legs are
wont to do>.  A matching outfit.  With the way she looked?  I think
that the fashion designers have us pegged to a tee<Yup, the way the
pants have *two* legs, the shirts *two* arms--TO A *TEE* I TELL
YOU!>.
     Brooke DID have good taste<before the head injury.>.  And good
looks to match<her *outfit*!!>.  She's 'bout<oh the pain> average
height, 5'6".  She's real in shape<whereas she is irrational in
color>.  I guess that she's into aerobics or something<Yeah, *or
something*.  Heh heh.>.  She's an odd mix, part Swedish, part Thai.
She got the best of both<A liberal abortion policy and great beef
sate?>  The facial look of the Swedes, with the look of a permanent
tan<My mistake.>.  She usually keeps her long black hair in a
braid<All right.  I can live with that.>  It flowed down her back
like a gentle waterfall, almost to her waist<eek!>.  I rather
enjoyed the way that it swung back and forth in rhythm with her
statuesque walk<'statuesque' adj.  resembling a statue.  Brooke's
kind of a stay-at-home gal.  No, I'm *not* being fair.>.  Her semi-
slanted eyes<Thank God not 'fully-slanted' or I'd just *never*
recognize her> gave her a look between coy and mysterious, and she
had the ability to be both<when, for example, she hooked.>.
Perhaps I should explain<Um...>  I met Brooke in Magic, Witch-
craft, and Sorcery<Sounds like a cool Gen-ed.>.  Sounds like a cool
Gen-ed, right?<Well, yeah.>  Yeah,that's what I thought too<I
*thought*...>.  It was boring like you wouldn't believe<I believe,
I *BELIEVE*!!>.  The teacher was the main cause of THAT one<Man!>.
Seeing Brooke was one of the few reasons that I showed up<The other
being my  fascination with Satanism.  The Necronomican is real, I
tell you--REAL!!.>.  When I did that is<Oh I just loves the way you
do that funky "is">.  The attention given to that class was...not
one of my higher academic achievements<Like composition, for
example.>.  I got a B-anyway<Because I'm good, DAMN GOOD!>.  Brooke
and I talked a bit in the back of the class<Just a bit?>.  Ok, more
than a bit<Thought so.>  Knox 20's<my gelatinous basketball shoes>
big enough for people to get away with that sorta stuff<Why would
he lie?>.  Four hundred seats will do tat to a boring class<And I
*do* believe in tit for tat.  I think you hear me knockin,
Brooke...>.  I really liked her, but I couldn't ethically go after
her<After all, I am ALAN BUTTFUCKING ALDA, you know.>.  Brooke was
goin' out with this guy named<Bob?> John<ah>.  I never met
'em<heh>, but talking to Brooke, it sounded like he was a
dishonorable schmuck who was shafting her big time<And dammit, that
should be *MY* JOB!!>.  I thought John should be dumped real quick,
and dumped real hard<Tough guy.>.  As of May 19th, the last day of
finals, she still hadn't dumped him.  I don't know HOW he got away
with what he did<Do the words 'hung like a rhino' ring any bells?
Yeah, Marc, I think you hear me knockin...>
     Anyway, Brooke's a Dance major, Journalism minor<Ok>.  She
wants to write for the New York Times Art Section after
graduation<But I told her, she's got to change the OBJECTIVE line
of her resume to something better than "To laugh and jump and play
and sing.">
     We're both from the Elmira area, albeit<!!> a 1/2 hour drive
from each other.  I didn't get her phone number during the semes-
ter<not frequenting any of the bathrooms in which she'd scrawled
it.>.  I sorta regretted that<after I saw how happy the hockey team
looked that one day.>.
     Awakening from my daydream monologue<!!>, I saw that Brooke
apparently didn't notice that she was striding right toward
me<albeit statuesquely, so I had plenty of time to duck and cover.>
She did look nice in the outfit<nice>.  And a small gold anklet
bouncing above the ankle strap to her white pumps<whatever.>.  A
nice touch<for a *girl*!>.  *sigh*  I have "this thing"<in my
naughties> about white stockings.  Mark <Word>up another one for
those designers.  "Doesn't she look nice?"  I thought<like a
pregnant grandmother>.  "And scared out of her mind?  Something's
up."  I moved toward her and waved.  She finally saw me.  I could
tell.  Her face brightened from scared to desperately
clinging<Sweet Jesus.>.
     Using my vast vocabulary and exquisite mastery of the Eng-lish
language to it's fullest, I seized the moment<carped the diem like
a mother.>.  "Hi Brooke, what's up?"  Well, EXCUSE ME for being an
ENGINEER<!>

     ...<on to the NAUGHTY BITS!>

     Through her sleepy haze, she muttered, "Do whatever you  think
will make me relax.  Feel nice."<Ok...these are called Tuinols...>
     "o mote it be<!!!!!!>.  Relax, this shall be legit<!!! Can't
quit now...>."  With new-found devotion, my hand rubbed up her
back<??>.  Flesh on flesh allows me to do a lot more things than I
could through a shirt<ya think...?>, small as hers was.  Such as
drape my fingernails over her skin, dragging them<by "them" I mean
of course the curls of skin that my nails dug from her pretty back>
up and down, like a light scratch<call it what you will>.  It
always made me relax when Maritza<my sharpei> did that to me <but
I'm "that way">, and so I did it to Brooke.
     I dragged my fingernails up, skipped over her bra strap<like
some great skipping thing>, then continued on top, reversing
directions, skipping over the bra strap again, and down<AM I A
FOOKIN' NATCHRAL OR FOOKIN' WHAT??!!>.  I did this a few times.  My
hand again slid up her back, coming to rest on the bra catch in the
middle of her back.  I whispered "Legit"<for no obvious reason>,
then undid the clasp.  Bra straps only DO take one hand if you're
coordinated<especially like, if you put your foot flat against the
spine, grab that bear and PULLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL!!!!!!!!>.  Take
my word for it, I have experience on these type of things.<CUH-
LEARLY!>
     My hands continued their massage of where her bra strap used
to be <See??>.  Keeping my word, I avoided massaging her inner
thighs and the like<For Brooke was blessed with numerous thigh-like
appendages that grew from her body at odd angles>.  I figgered that
she wouldn't relax at that<As I am good.  DAMN GOOD!>.
     The massage lasted for an hour and a half<*that* long??>.
Yes, THAT long<ok, ok, I believe you.>.  When I was done, Brooke
barely pulled herself up into a half-sitting<half-castigating!>
position to face me.  She was half asleep<and I was about to do
somethin' 'bout that other half I was...> with a satisfied grin on
her face, I couldn't very well blame her, now could I?<No, but you
could hold my hair back while I retch.>
     I placed my hands on the sides of her<toilet?> breasts<my
mistake>, saying in the same innocent whisper, "Tell me if this is
non-legit."<Shee-it!>  I then grasped as much of her bustline as I
could in each hand, carefully avoiding the nipples<LIKE THE PLAGUE
THAT THEY BE!!>.
     First I put pressure with my thumbs<against her WINDPIPE!!>,
then with palm, then my fingers, in a circular swirling motion<much
as I do in my car, in the winter, when the inside windshield fogs
up, and I try to rub a hole in it, so I can see.  Oh, *you* know.>.
I gauged the reaction<With an anemometer??>.  Brooke smiled, then
dreamily murmured, "I like it."<the *slut*!>  So I continued.
I liked the feel of her breasts rolling through my
hands<detached as they were, like two detached, rolling things.>.
I wonder what it is about the female breast that so enthralls the
male<could it be...SATAN??!!>.   Breasts are just the right
consistency.  They just FEEL right<Marc, there's someone here I'd
like you to meet.  Her name's Jenny.  Jenny Jones.  No, she's not
married to Wayne Gretzky.>.  Probably the same thing that makes a
koosh<!!Gezundheit!!> so addicting.  But to thing<sic> that
biochemical reactions are based on this type stuff...<Wow, to
think...Like just, like oh wow, you know?>
     "Uh, Marc?  My bod's thinking that this is straying from  your
'legit'"<Aren't they just the skwewkiest coupla kids y'ever did
see??>.  A sly smile came over her.  "Perhaps we should  continue
some other time.  This IS my brother's house an' all."      "Yeah,
ok."
     We each went to check on Anissa<Brooke's familiar>, who was
sleeping contented-ly<Thank God for Tuinol.  And hyphens!>.  And
oh, so cute.<Almost a shame she has TO DIE!!>  Then we sat down,
and turned on the TV to watch The Late Show.  Then the Late, Late
Show.  And then the Much Too Late Show.  Halfway through the Much
Too Late Show (I forgot the REAL name of it<Thanks for the tip,
cause I been lookin' through this TV Guide near an hour and...>),
Brooke's bro returned, and we were free to take the hour-long trek
back to Bright Balmy Buffalo<That's funny.  I'm from normal
parents.>.  We slipped out of the house before I fell asleep.
When we got into the car, Brooke dropped me<with a right to the
solar plexus> a glance.  She  wanted me to continue the massage
some other time.  And she'd be  looking forward to it.  It's a good
sign to be able to read someone else that well.<Just *one* of the
advantages to being *SATAN*!!>
     The ride home was quiet.  By the time I was on the Thruway,
Brooke was in Dreamland<but not for long because, as soon as we
pulled onto campus, it was, HELLO *NIGHTMARELAND*!>.
     We finally arrived to Ellicott (the dorms).  Brooke was
sleepy, so I walked her back to Spaulding Quad, and tucked her
into bed<And no, I did *not* "forcefuck the slut", you sillybilly>.
    We woke up the next morning, arms entwined<in actual twine.
Damn my prankster housemates.  DAMN THEM TO HELL!!!>.  Seems like
I  hadn't made it back to my room.  Neither of us minded.  Scarily
enough, it was dawn<Um, hi Dawn, I said, before she shot us both.>.
And we were awake.  College students, awake at dawn.  Is something
WRONG with this picture?<Giggle.>
     I turned to Brooke.  "Ain't love GRAND?<I got two words for
you:  JD Salinger.  Catcher in the Rye.  Oh, you say you read it?
But only because you'd heard the guy who shot John Lennon was
carrying it with him??  Why, I oughta...>   Last night was...quite
enjoyable."<Oh how you are!>
     "Marc, you have a nasty habit of<picking inside your ears>
understatement."
     An idea came into place<But *where* to hide the body??>.  I
needed to go shopping today<Lessee, I'll need a trunk, a hacksaw,
some olive oil...>.  Condoms, sponges, something<really tight
bikini briefs?>.  "Brooke?  How 'bout we shower, we eat, and then
we do something?<Like *FUCK*!!  Do you have any plans for <WORLD
DOMINATION??!!  *I* do.  I got them from Alex Trebeck.> the day?"
    Brooke started thinking<Ain't she cute when she thinks?>.  And
so did I.  One more question for her.  "Brooke?  How many people on
your floor are awake now?"
     She gave me an answer with a face to match.  "Are you kid-
ding?  On THIS floor?  HA!  Nobody will be up until noon!"
     "Then shall we shower?  You wash my back, and I'll wash
yours?" <OH THE HUMANITY!>
     She thought about this one.  "Aye, m'lord, we shall<See
above.>.  But if  anything happens, THIS WAS ALL YOUR IDEA!"  She
grabbed her shower bag and a towel, and headed out the door, trying
to contain a <wet fart?> giggle<call it what you will.>.  I
followed her into the women's bathroom.
    Brooke stopped by the shower stall, tensing and wondering  what
to do.  I looked<popped> her right in the eye, and started to
massage her shoulders.  We just looked into one another's eyes
until  I leaned over, breaking the trance with a gentle <knee to
her midsection.  She doubled over, then straightened, allowing me
to plant a> kiss on her lips.  I KNOW she thought, "Oh yeah!  He
loves me!  It can't be all bad!<Even if he is...*SATAN*!!>"  I
continued planting gentle kisses on her lips, and she loosened
up<as sluts are wont to do>.
     I started to gently lift her T-shirt, but she held it
down<with surgical staples>.   "Marc?  Do you mind going in first?
I'm just not used to doing this sort of thing<with a *human*!!>."
    I gave up with a shrug.  "Neither am I.  Come in whenever  you
want to," hopping into the stall.  I undressed and started  the
water<in *that* order>.
     But two minutes later, her hand swing<sic> back the shower
curtain, and her face peeked by.  "I can't believe that you're
doing  this.  That WE'RE doing this!  Turn around."  I did so and
she<strapped on this mongo anal reamer.> started to soap my back.
    *sigh*  The simple pleasures in life.  Nice warm
shower<Nixon's coming.  Four dead in Ohio>, with a loving woman
carefully cleaning your bod<It is TO HURL.>.
     When she stopped, I turned back around to face her.  Yes,  the
simple pleasures in life<rolling a boogie around, the aroma of
one's own flatulence, proving Fermat's Last Theorem, trisecting an
angle, squaring the--> .  I tan-looking woman<you, you Jane>, water
cascading down her unclothed body.  And Brooke didn't even have tan
lines<MERCY...>.  Brooke smiled back.
    "Turn around<grab your ankles and think of England, sweet
thing.  PAPA'S FOUND A BRAND NEW BAG!!>."  I tried to say it in the
same sweet voice that she did for me<doofus that I be.>  Then I
returned the soapy favor<in bed>.  The simple pleasures in life
indeed<inDEED!>.  A loving man carefully cleaning your bod...   8-
)<Shee-fucking-it.>
     I made sure to scrub her back thoroughly<as it was filthy.>,
then cleaned my way down her hips, then her thighs.  Maritza<my
sharpei> preferred to clean her own privates<with her *tongue*!>,
so I didn't try on Brooke<I don't think she'd have fit, anyhow.
But she *was* roomy through the hips.  Hmmmm.  Fava beans... roomy
through the hips...yeah, Brooke, I *know* you hear me knockin.  And
you *know* I'm comin' in.  And I'm bringing a sewing machine and a
big bottle of chianti.>.  I continued down her legs, soaping her
shins, then between her toes.  Nope<no toejam.  SOL again.>.
Brooke wasn't<spayed?> ticklish<ah>.
     I joined my two hands, my fingers forming a ring.  "Please
insert arm for proper cleaning procedure to initiate."  Chuck-
ling<with remorse>, Brooke did so.  My hands went from her
shoulder, sliding down her arm, to her hand.  The nail polish still
looked nice.  I meticulously cleaned her hand, rinsing it.  I bent
down and kissed it<*GOODFUCKINGBYE*!!> .
     I resoaped my hands, and made a ring<meat grinder> again.
Brooke smiled and inserted her arm<which I'd numbed up with
Novacaine>.  I cleaned her other arm, again kissing her
hand at the end.
     I resoaped my hands once again<re>, and started at her shoul-
ders, cleaning my way down her sides.  Now for the fun part<a high-
volume, hot/cold enema with double bardex nozzles...THAT'S RIGHT--
NO LEAKAGE!!>.  I worked my way up her <now-distended> stomach.
  The look in her eye told me that she knew the only logical
conclusion to all of this<And she looked longingly at the toilet.>.
I made sure to clean her stomach lowly and dutifully.  Very slowly
I cleaned her stomach.  It's strange how she was only standing
there, yet her breathing and pulse quickened so much<Probably had
something to do with the 5 quarts she was holding>.  I'll just have
to give her a massage to calm her down ay?<ay ay>
     Before I arrived at my destination (no Twin Peaks jokes
here!<none taken>) I planted a kiss, right between her <pendulous>
breasts<dugs>.  Then I looked her in the eye and resoaped my hands.
It had been some time since either of us had said anything -nothing
needed to be said<if only you *meant* that.>.
     I put my hands on her bustline, lowly<bug that I be> circling
inward.  The spray coming over her shoulder washed the soap from my
hands quickly, but neither of us noticed.  I had my hands on some
highly addictive breasts<yup...she was an iv drug user and she was
lactating>, and Brooke claims that someone was distracting her at
the time.  Can't imagine who it could be...<SATAN??!!>
     Brooke leaned back against the wall.  My hands spiraled
inward, kneading as they went.  Then got to the nipple with a
flick.
     "Oh!"  Brooke gasped.  So I did it again.  And she gasped  all
the louder<ALL THE!>. Finally realizing that Brooke was clean
there.  I have her a tentative lick<and I have here an ordinary
deck of playing cards...>.  When I licked her nipple, I felt
Brooke's hands on the back of my head, gently pressing me against
her<awwww, that's sweet>.  I continued licking and sucking, happily
fulfilling the male addiction to the female's breast<that's
heinous.>.
     Brooke held my head tightly, pressing my head against her
breast as she slid down the wall<leaving a shiny, gelatinous trail
that I knew would be a bitch to clean in the morning.>.  The warm
spray was hitting me in the back as I hungrily licked and sucked,
alternating breasts<eeny meeney miney hey Moe>.
     Brooke's hands guided me upwards.  My tongue lashed out,
wiggling its way inside of her mouth, meeting no resistance<I found
out later this was because she had told a lie in her native
country.>.  Because<of this lie> her tongue was en-route to mine<in
a box!!>...
     We frenched for quite a while, heating up<a natural herbal
laxative on the stove.  We neither of us are regular.> as we did.
Brooke suddenly stopped.  "Uh Marc?  Do you mind, uh, quickly
finishing up?  I'd like to, uh, finish bathing alone?"<uh, I have
this, uh, problem...>
     I smiled, and made my best attempt at the one minute
shower<pits, anus, ba da bing ba da boom see ya...>.  "I'll be in
the room when you're done<for!>."  I took her sudden desire to
finish alone as a high compliment<as I am an utter doofus>.  I knew
what she'd be finishing before she finished her <*NAILS*!!!>
shower.      When she entered the room, she looked a lot more
relaxed  than she did in the shower<Yup, the tuinols were kicking
in...right on time.>.  I sat on the bed, trying my best to hide my
<tiny boy-thing?> proud smile<ah>.  She walked around, trying to
look busy<soon, she had alphabetized all of last year's notes and
had prepped an end-table for varnishing>. Neither of us knew what
to say<Gosh golly>.  I don't have Maritza's seduction ability; her
way with words<Know thyself.>  I gave it my best shot<oooh, this is
gonna be great!>.  "C'mere."<BARANGUS!> I held out my arms, having
Brooke sit on my lap, then enwrapped her win a wonderful hug<Oh my.
I just get all gwunky inside when I see a sentence that defies
parsing...>
     Brooke immediately tensed<like a schoolgirl before her first
pelvic exam>.  As she realized that I was interested only in
romance, she relaxed<the muscles in her throat, allowing me to...>.
The sex was done<Shit!  I blinked.>.  For the time
being<Oooooh...scary>.  Sex is like a <500 dollar a day coke
habit.>  It was a way of resurfacing at the oddest times<Yup.  I
heard *that*!>.
     After a bit<gag was applied>, I returned to my room.  We each
had some work to do.  I tried to study, but I don't even remember
opening up a book.  I knew that what was on my mind was not located
in those books<but rather *these*>.  It, or she<or...IT!>, was in
Spaulding<Gray> Quad.  Three minutes later,  so was I.
     I knocked on her door.  "C'mon in," she replied<replied?  to
the *door*?  Brooke's a *special* girl, ain't she?>
     She was decked out on the bed<in all her finery!>, wearing a
conservative blue dress and white stockings<and she had a pair of
stethoscopes around her neck, and was pulling on a white latex
glove...>.  I intentionally avert<i>ed my eyes from her legs, nice
as they looked<That would just be too, too easy.>.  That would be
the problem.  Too nice.<That would be.>
     Her books were laying<!!> closed on the desk, barely shifted
from where they were two hours ago, when I left.  I looked at the
her, then at the books, then back at her.  "You too, huh?"<or
rather, you two>
     She stammered<like a Cub Scout speaking before NAMBLA>, "Well,
I was just about to sit down and get going on some<crystal
meth>...Yeah.  Me too.
     I walked over and sat on the floor next to the bed.  Brooke
shifted over toward the wall.  She offered me some bed<"Would you
like some bed?>.  With an offer like that, I couldn't refuse<Heck,
who could?>.
     As I laid<!!> down, her legs slid against my legs, clothed
only in shorts.  We smiled at each other, and snuggled up to one
another<That's sweet.>.  All during this, her legs were unwittingly
sliding up and down mine<Stop that, you free-thinking autonomous
limbs, stop that this instant!>.
     She stopped, looking me in the eye.  Then deliberately
pressed her thigh up against my crotch.  Yep, I was hard<full stop>
all right<exclamation point>.  My eyes were wide and glazed
over<yup, the crystal was kicking in>, the whole nine yards.   I
gave her my best "Oops.  I didn't MEAN to do it smile!" smile,
then muttered, "You feel rather nice."<Oh the inanity!>
     Brooke reached down to my <man-cannon?> member.  "Why thank
you."  She  tried flattening a certain protrusion back between my
legs.  I bucked forward, pressing against her hand.  A natural male
reaction, I assure you<Why the *fuck* do you--ah, never mind>.
 Brooke smiled, and innocently tried tucking it back again. And
again I bucked to her touch<5 bucks, in fact.  it was all I could
afford.>.  Since it wasn't going down<but *she* was, and soon!>,
she tried with longer strokes<as opposed to the TIA's she'd had
before>.  I wrapped my legs around hers, pressing against her.
With her hand traped between us, the strokes became a definite
fondle<A definite!>.  Through the <purple>haze, my eyes saw the
smile on Brooke's face, seeing how she was getting me SO excited by
<something> doing so little.  So it DID work both ways<and it cuts
like a knife...>.
     At this point, I was practically humping Brooke's leg<like
Mariza!>.   There's just no other word for it<Well, there *are*,
only I don't know them>.  She stopped me.  "Wait here a sec, I need
to <take a wicked, noxious dump> go to the bathroom."
     I tried to be calm as she got up, smiled, and walked out the
door.  I was proud of myself.  I was able to let her go.  She did
INDEED look gorgeous, but with her out of the room, I was able to
calm down a bit<by masturbating feverishly into her naughties
drawer, glazing two potpourris.  Damn I'm good.>.
     She walked back in a few minutes later<toilet paper trailing
from the back of her skirt>, laying down next to me.   She looked
me in the eye, then brushed her stockinged leg along mine.  Again,
my vision narrowed to a<the> glazed stare<of a psychopath pressed
up against the window of F.A.O. Schwartz(sp?)> at Brooke's sweet
innocent smile<that smile I would ERASE!>.  With the slow down
stroke, my  deep breathing began<and I checked the inside of my
wrist, where I'd written down my mantra, "Knish">.  Brooke's
innocent voice was saying something to me.  "Yes Marc?  Is
anything...wrong Marc?"<Is it your willy?>
     She cuddled up next to me, running her legs back and forth
across mine<soon, she had a small fire going.>.  Or were mine
snaking across hers?  I couldn't tell, I wasn't in control of
either pair of legs.<oh lawdy>
     As she rolled<a pinner> onto her back, I thrust into her.  I
still had my shorts on, as she did her dress, but lust had taken
over<Parse *that*!>.  She arched up to meet me on each stroke.
 With all of the pounding, her dress had ridden up<like a window
blind.>.  I pulled her dress out of the way.  She was still wearing
her thigh high white legs<!!>.  She put her hands on the clasp of
my shorts, looking at my face for permission<but all she saw was
"Guilt">.
     Definition of a man torn<um...Jerry Garcia eyeing some hash
brownies?>  .  Much as I wanted to, responsibility came first.  I
managed to get out the words, "No.  I can't.  No entrance without
protection."<Please shoot me now.> Life can be a bitch at
times<Yeah, like if you're starving or being tortured or you're an
over-privileged college twit who has to <gasp> wear a condom.
Yeah, life really sucks sometimes...>.
     Brooke smiled at me.  "What are suitemates for?"<Get serious.>
She was serious.  Ten seconds later, I was bare<and yes, I shat in
the woods>.
     I slowly slid inside of her.  I let out a sigh.  It felt  like
I'd just returned home after a few month long journey.  So  welcome
it was to be back.  And it felt so right and so good.  It
surprised me that Brooke was already wet.  Maritza would've taken
a while in this case <by "this case" I mean by the prospect of
lowering her standars enough to sleep with a doofus like me>.
I pumped in and out of Brooke.  She was in a state of shock  from
the new emotions<"Is this *it*??!!" thought Brooke.>.  In short
order, my body left its gift of love<feces> inside of her.
When we had both recovered, Brooke said in an amazed whis-per, "So,
that's it.  That's what the big thing is about.<What a fucking
rip!>"  She  wasn't downplaying it, the vocal inflection said
otherwise.   She  mused, "Awfully short, <aren't you?>wasn't it?
Now you roll over and fall asleep?"
     "Well, yeah," I replied.  "Consider it a compliment.  You  had
me VERY excited!  But then sometimes guys can..."  I tensed  up my
member, still inside of her.
     She gasped and twitched, as if hit by an electric shock<in
fact, that's exactly what it was.  I kissed my trusty taser>.   The
feeling of stockings again.  Brooke smiled.  "You have your  cock,
and I have my legs<??  You have your Gloria Gaynor tapes, I have my
soapdish>.  I'm glad to see that I can excite you as much as you
excite me m'dear."  She idly traced her feet up and down my legs.
I could feel myself getting larger and larger inside of her,
firming up with each stroke.
     I started humping up and down once again, thrusting in and
out.  This time, Brooke bucked up to meet each plunge that I  made.
Staring down at this gorgeous woman splayed out beneath
me<gorgeous, simply girgeous> made me feel so wonderful.  Seeing
the love that she had for me shining from her eyes made it
exquisite; timeless.  Even past the point when<the meth really hit
home and> her figure blurred from view.
     This time the action lsted<sic> quite a bit longer, but the
results were wonderfully similar.  Yes, the suitemate's protec-tion
was used that night<oh good.  They won't breed.>.
     We hugged in a deep embrace.  I gave her a tender peck on  her
smiling lips.  "Women just don't know how it is.  Every  muscle in
your body is absolutely bushed.  Even ones that you  don't use.
They feel as if I'd just swam the 500.  Except more tired, and all
over.  You don't mind if I crash out, do you?"      Brooke smiled.
"Go ahead<Mr. Oscar Fuckking Wilde>   .  No, I guess that I don't
understand.  I'd like to.  I'd like to know everything about you.
Goodnight Marc."
     "Goodnight Brooke."
     <"Good night, Saigon
       Good night, Mrs. Calabash.
       Night, Mother.
       Good night, John Boy
       Good night, Irene!">

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
(PART II)
Wha?
                                                What time is it?
I don't want to open my eyes to find out.
                                               What day is it?
  There's someone next to me.
                                               This is good.
         Do I want to wake up?
                                   Or fall back asleep?
                      I don't know.
                                        It's Sunday.
                            That would be Brooke.

<Yowza!>
-------------------------------------------

RICHH
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