Fragments

This is when I think of him:

When I brush my teeth
Eating an avocado
In the cities of New York, C_____, N______, Chicago, Louisville and Ann Arbor
In the state of Mississippi
At rest areas
In sex shops
While driving long distances
While shaving my ass
While brushing my hair
While toweling off after a shower
As I wake up
As I go to sleep

***

Looking across the table at Beautiful Girl and Zurich, her skin so smooth and soft, his eyes so blue, her laugh so lovely, his face so open and unguarded (rare). I sniff the beers they try, none of them suit me, Miss Half-OJ-Half-Ginger-Ale-Please. I will see him soon, outside of her company. I will see her soon, outside of his company. I will see later but still soon my best friend, a continent away. My best friend has also recently broken up, finished by her get-over-the-previous-bad-relationship-boy, finished the contents of her liquor cabinet and the contents of her medicine cabinet in one go, not enough to do the job. I call her, I tell her, wait for me. We’ll bring boltcutters and jump from Hornsey Lane Bridge together, the city spread out before us. I am only half joking, only half cheering her up. That’s the half that would never choose plummet-to-a-sharp-stop as the means. Nor guns, gas, water, automobile. Not sure enough, too messy, too protracted, can’t stand not being able to breathe. (Might as well live, right DP?)

I’ve never been drunk.

I’ve never been high.

What I am is addicted to drama. Addicted to mattering, meaning, having the cock that tells me so.

Maybe coke would be less draining. Probably more expensive. Maybe not.


***

I am in the company of others 24 hours a day, and have been since New Year’s. Down side: hard to carve out time to write, to connect with lovers, to think, to be all moody. Up side: hard to carve out time to be all moody. Hard to inconvenience others with feelings, tamp them down, bottle them up.

I am sharing a bed with Beautiful Girl – in the night, I lie with my head next to hers, smelling the scent of her face cream. I am too tired, too tiny, too alone to wrap my body around hers, throw my arm over her shoulders, place my hand on her belly. But even so, her smile is the first thing I see in the morning. I head for [the workplace] with a carload of people, we go inside, we work together in a way that makes me remember how I love my work. Power Girl is there beside me, and Beautiful Girl, and Secret Scientist and Hairline Boy, and all of us are focused, intent, something larger than us is happening, something larger than can happen alone.

We share dinner together, passing back and forth to the salad bar, we cluster by the restrooms chatting in little groups. Zurich is heading out to meet a friend in the city, he hugs me, he leans in and whispers, “I’m not shooting myself in the foot am I? I’m not missing out on you-me time?” No, I tell him, this time, no time alone. Next week? Midwestern City? We make tentative plans.

I am ridiculously pleased.

Power Girl's Guide to Getting Free* Drinks

*so long as you are a fairly attractive girl with good fashion sense and a sparkling conversationalist.


*******

Yes, Gentle Readers, it's time to kick off your weekend with How About Now?'s first-ever post from a guest writer. Power Girl speaks, as it were, and hopefully you will be the beneficiaries. And yes, this does work better for women, but if there are any brave Gentle Male Readers out there, I'd be curious to know what happens if you give these (ahem)well-researched techniques a shot. I turn the floor to her:


*******
POWER GIRL'S GUIDE TO GETTING FREE* DRINKS: TIPS


TRAINING
Have yourself a merry little workout at the gym, (the kind that leaves you with more energy vs. snoring on the beer-spilled table, and not so strenuous that you can’t move the next morning should you need to make a quick panty-grab-power-walk of shame,) then make plans to go out with your fave gal pal. The pump-up from the gym should give you a general glow that carries with you throughout the night. Make sure to shower part of that glow off before going out.

Gal Pal: Choosing the right friend is important; the dynamic between you and gal pal must be such that you can carry an intelligent conversation about nothing for several hours at a time and with ease; you don’t want to have to try too hard.

The magic number is two. You and gal pal. No dudes, no tag-a-longs. Three is intimidating, and most guys only fly with one wingman. Also, most men are TERRIFIED of women. Recent discussions with male friends and strangers have revealed that the male gender is threatened by the female gender on the basis that women have the ability to hurt men, and men are terrified by the prospect of getting their delicate little hearts broken. This had never occurred to me before, partly because I’m uber considerate of my significant others feelings and wants and desires and would never do anything ever in the world to hurt them (read: doormat), and partly because I lack general common sense. I’ve lacked it so you don’t have to. One lady is desperate, two chicks = safe and inviting, and three is a girls night out. Want drinks? Two chicks.

Physically you and gal pal should both be incredibly attractive and fulfill two different types, i.e. boobs vs. long and leggy. Great smiles and warm laughs a must. Also points if your hair is drastically a different color, so long as it’s not red. Redheads buy their own drinks. Unless they are being paid for their time (read: sex). Then they better damn well be having-their-drinks-bought-for-them-you-cheap-bastards. If you are a civilian red, grab a bottle of peroxide, stat. Blondes have more fun.

Don’t bring your Mom. She does not qualify as your gal pal, no matter how much you love her (read: no matter how much liquor she’ll pay for), and it will only lead to cock blocking later.

WARM UP
At home getting ready: while gal pal rants once again on speakerphone how she needs to just casually date someone to take her mind off ‘the one’ (you know, ‘the one’ who screws her over time and time again, when will my bitches ever learn?), pop two slices of leftover Hot-n-Ready pizza in the microwave and start the bath water so it will be scorching when you hop in. Rummage through your closet and select no less than five complete outfits, and remember to throw a timely “Yeah!” and “Uh huh.” and “He’s such a douche-bag.” to gal pal so she doesn’t catch on that you’re totally fazing her out. Don’t feel too bad about this. Hang up and hop in the shower. As you rub-a-dub your body and face, visualize the no-less-than five outfits and create quick hair and makeup schemes for each. When thoughts of your recently failed relationship creep in the shower with you, and the ghost of him haunts you about how you really blew something beautiful and true, kick it all out ASAP. While you’re at it, purge your soul of all deep thought. Let it wash down the hair-clogged drain. Tonight is about being a vapid, fun-loving hottie, and there is not enough room for you and sentimentality in your tiny, time-efficient bathroom (you know, the kind where you can BM and wash your hair at the same time). Don’t bother washing your hair; it will only smell like smoke when you get home at 4 in the morning.

A quick towel dry and you’re ready for your fashion parade. Try on several of the outfits before realizing that all of them look like you’re trying too hard, especially the almost-too-short skirt. ‘Tis the season. So DO NOT WEAR: Tank tops, halters, tube tops (never, never wear tube tops), shirts with glitter or sparkly sequins (unless a retro piece, and then you better have removed the shoulder pads), things that show too much cleavage, shirts that show midriff/midback. These fashion faux pas all scream cheap trash and date rape, and if you’ve gathered anything from Mandy’s blog, I hope it’s a sense of self-worth. You are probably worth more than the clearance rack at DEB. Remember, you don’t want to look like you’re TRYING too hard. These girls are ALWAYS trying too hard.

Dig through your recently dirty clothes and find that new top you just bought and only wore once. Give it a smell test. When it passes, grab another funky shirt and go for a trendy layering look. Change your pants. Change them back. Just wear jeans. You don’t want to look like you’re trying too hard. Mascara, liner, shadow, designer boots (minimal, if any, heel), and, the finishing touch...


The MAGIC hat: Wear a hat. But first, rules: One and ONLY one of you should be wearing an hat on any given outing otherwise it will look like you and gal pal are exactly the same and you coordinated what you were wearing to match and that is totally trying too hard. Also, it helps if the less sparkling of the two conversationalists adorns the headpiece; don’t let ego get in the way here. The hat gets the notice, the head keeps them buying. Wearing a hat can even hide the fact that you aren’t as clever. It’s a mask, a shield, bright red wool shrouding you with mystery and rendering you all the more desirable. Trust me, trust me, trust me, I don’t know WHY the hat works, but it does. If you aren’t getting at least five “nice hat!”-s a night, you need a new hat. I recommend something brightly colored that doesn’t blend into your dark surroundings. Nothing with twinkles or jewels. Vintage ok but don’t take it too seriously. Don’t match your shirt; you don’t want to blend into yourself. I usually go for red (don’t wear purple).

The entire process, from the moment you enter your apartment to the second you leave, should take no more than 25 minutes. Any longer and it will APPEAR like you’re trying too hard.

PREGAME
Race out to gal pal’s neck of the city and rescue her from some drab engagement: bland family dinner, bad first coffee date, baby-loving-conservative-band audition hell… It’s good if your friend has a prior engagement. Creates a sense of urgency and excitement for the rest of the evening– oh, the getaway!

Go into the first dive-bar that’s open on a Monday night. Realize it isn’t as dodgy as you had hoped, and note the general lack of clientele. The fat chick and her lax beau playing KENO aren’t likely to ask what you’re drinking. It’s your turn to buy the first round. Ask gal pal what she wants, knowing you’ll end up with 2 of what you want anyway. Paying with a credit card? Close it out immediately. You’ll be on your way to somewhere else as soon as the last swig is swallowed.

When a gaggling group of already-wasted-at-9-and-a-half-pm girls comes in (most of them will be overweight and wearing ill-fitting clothes that show too much skin, all of their shirts sparkle in some way, and they are trying way, way too hard), switch tables. Do not feel bad about this; their squealing is irritating and damaging your important (read: pretentious) convo with gal pal, and their aura of desperation might be contagious.

When the first drunk man of the evening (there will be several) trips and lands at your feet, and you debate whether or not to help him back up, and he looks up and says, “Wow! What a great hat!” and you think, “Wow, what a great …straggly patch of chest hair,” actually say, in an exuberant voice to match his, “Wow! Thanks!” No sense in being ungracious. Chug the last of your brews with gal pal and hightail it out of loser central. Never stay in the first bar. It shows you settle too easy, lack taste, and have nowhere better to be.

PLAY BALL:
Drive to the new indie bar with the open mic night in the outskirts of town. Pray there isn’t a cover. Wonder why you feel a bit woozy after one beer, then remember the pizza you left in the microwave. Grab some popcorn and a table near the back. Not the very back, that’s reserved for skanks who are so drunk they make out with you AT the bar. You don’t want to try that hard. Your friend’s round, she’ll come back with the microbrew special.

Bait, set, trap. You have: No mothers, one hat, two hot chicks that are obviously having a marvelous time, and a table for four with two empty chairs in a really happening joint.


Remember, you are not looking for a good time; you’re already having a good time. Occasional eye contact/smile/nod with potential drink buyers is always encouraged, but your table, and your conversation with gal pal, is THE place to be, and THE thing to do. If you have followed these tips carefully, the rest will take care of itself, and you and gal pal will be drinking a la free the rest of the night.

The secret is in the set up; the game is gravy. Relax with your gal pal, don’t get caught trying too hard, and you’re in like Flynn. He’d buy you drinks too.

Zurich (now the words)

Zurich (now the words)

In the car, on the way to Decaying Midwestern City (aren’t they all?), I say, “It’s nice to get to know you better.” I have cancelled a business meeting that would require taking my own car for exactly that reason. He says, hand on the wheel, jeans, black t-shirt over the shape of his working arms, his chest that looks as though he makes his living in a way that muscles his chest (he does), “There are a lot of things I’m protective of.”

“There are banks in Zurich less protective than you,” I say, and smiling, move my hand above his knee.

Two years ago, we knew each other casually. He invited me to a private place at his work, kissed me, lay me down in a hot, dim space, pulled my soft shorts to one side and went down on me. He wasn’t dressed in a way I could return the favor. Later that night, I met him in his hotel room, breaking my not-in-my-hometown rule, the sex was fantastic, our manner to each other stiff, neither wanting to commit to the first “I like you” words, both wary of giving away too much to our new, meanly witty acquaintance.

What I remember: the room was a handicapped room. I had met Lover in the same room two weeks before, the vagaries of coincidence. Zurich fucked me for a long time, mish, cowgirl, from behind with his cock big enough that I cried out and pulled away, puzzling him when I asked for more. We sat in each other’s laps, face to face, inside and wrapped around each other, his favorite, intimate and apart at the same time.

Zurich sends me a Myspace survey, the e-equivalent of the note in sixth grade, Do you like me? Check YES or NO. I answer the questions, delighted that someone’s interested, filling in the cute, the silly, the sexy, the banal.

1) Your Name: Mandy

3) Single or Taken: N/A

4) Favorite Movie: Run Lola Run

6) Favorite Music: Crappy pop on the radio, stuff Power Girl plays in the car, Peggy Lee

7) What word or phrase would you say best describes you? Right now I'm really referencing "thou shalt not bind the mouths of the kine that tread the corn" a lot.

9) Rate yourself out of 10 as a person and explain why? 7. Smarter, prettier and more talented than average, but with a slight egotism, deceitfulness and selfishness problem.

11) Tell me one odd/interesting fact about you: Won fifth grade spelling bee. Has secret recipe for pork chops.

12) First impression of me? Asshole. But really attractive.

16) Would you feel comfortable sleeping next to me? You're a little warm, but overall, yes.

17) Would you let me bake you a pie? Strawberry-rhubarb, please.

19) If you had 1 day to spend with me before I died, what would you want to do? Practice [job-related skill] and fuck.

I Myspace him back. He answers as fast as I did.

1) Your Name: Zurich

3) Single or Taken: I am my own man

4) Favorite Movie: Robocop

6) What word or phrase would you say best describes you? Bitter acerbic wit

7) Tattoos and/or Piercings: none

8) Why did you add me? Trying to get my round 2 with Mandy

9) Rate yourself out of 10 as a person and explain why? I am a 6...I was much higher once...but I am not the man I used to be...

10) Tell me one memory we have shared together: Overly warm dark place... and I kissed you and gave you oral sex...and you said "thanks"... I thought that was cool.

12) First impression of me? In a hurry...trying to impress...think she might be attracted to me or very chatty...hard to tell.

14) If you didn't know me, & you saw me in the street - What would your first thought be?
Great smile.... even upsidedown

19) If you had 1 day to spend with me before I died, what would you want to do? Skip the [job-related skill] swim and fuck...

A few months ago, he catches me at a bad time. More recently, he stalks more cautiously, makes me feel wanted and not just demanded. We have a business reason to get together. Phone calls are brief and in company. I text him:

Sorry to be distracted, underslept. I’m genuinely looking forward to seeing you.

He texts back, me too possible naked time! and follows it up with that was supposed to be a question.

I watch him work. He is authoritative and solicitous, a good combination. We’re reserved, polite, professional.

Today, I turn up at his hotel, as invited. He greets me at the door in a shirt and towel. I step out of my shoes and his hands are on my back, his mouth on my mouth. A teen comedy plays on the TV, an idiot blonde drama queen wreaking havoc all around her while the men in her life scheme to calm her down. Zurich is on me, in me, around me, his cock as long as Lover’s and hard, hard, hard, widening at the base and leaving me sore inside and out. The feeling of mild pain as he presses into the back wall of my pussy is what pushes me over the edge. He comes silently, and immediately gets up, flushes the condom, puts on his pants – he hates being naked, I don’t know why, he’s beautiful. I do know why, he’s recently not fat anymore.

We drive. We talk, more in this 90 minute drive than ever in our cumulative time together. It’s not deep, just personal. Which, for him, is the Marinas Trench. Which, for me, lets me lower the wall of don’t-let-him-see-you-be-weak-he’ll-stab-you-and-laugh. Which is probably what he’s afraid of, too.

“I’m all go,” he tells me. He’s not the type to flirt, to take turns in the game, he’s the type to take you up on a mild offer, the casual bait for a long play snapped up and there’s Zurich in your boat, holding you in your own net. Quick like a bandaid, pain or pleasure and at least it’s done, at least you know.

The hotel at the other end of the trip is a marble-lobby throwback to the days when commercial travelers stayed here for weeks at a time. Our room is grandly called a suite, the air conditioner is a wall unit mounted at floor level and cools only the space between the bed and the window. It’s hot even by the open window. The fetish club is in the basement, at the bottom of a dizzyingly fast elevator ride. He has changed into another black shirt, this time with collar, black jeans, boots. I have agonized over the Suitcase of Potential I brought with me, finally deciding, you can never go wrong with schoolgirl.

In the club, the ceiling is barely above our reach, the dance floor lightly thronged with hot goth girls in outrageous outfits. I hadn’t known what to expect, it is the Midwest after all, and I’m surprised at the range of clothing choices – there are the goth girls, a large contingent of black trench coats, a medium-sized schoolgirl quotient (at least I guessed the dress code right), and a group of what look like older frat boys in shorts and t-shirts. I’m bemused that there’s apparently no dress code. When the DJ announces that the participants in the fetish show should go backstage, all the hot goth girls leave the dance floor, thus solving the disconnect.

We watch the fetish show. There’s a scene with anime girls frolicking and then being attacked by a giant scrotum monster (there’s a fuzzy grey suit and two guys with one penis-shaped arm each involved), at which point they reveal themselves as Sailor Moon and one girl scares off the monster with a metal-bikini grinder act (she uses a grinder to shoot sparks from her steel bra). There’s a threesome where the two guys hook up while drunk and carry off the girl to parts unknown, via the one foot of wing space at the side of the stage. There’s a fire-eater who blows fireballs under the scary low ceiling and does body lights off a “slave girl”. There’s some sort of whipping act that I turn away from. In between, the slave girl crawls across the stage floor with scene title cards in her teeth. It’s interesting, and parts of it are amusing and even entertaining, but it’s not sexy. It’s not just the legal distance between groins and mouths, or the lack of connection between the “slaves” and the “dominants,” it’s the disconnect between reality and play-acting.

When I turn away from the whipping scene, I see a couple leaning against a square concrete pillar under the low ceiling. One of them is a young man, college-age, stocky and gentle-faced. One of them is either a boyish young woman, or a girlish young man in drag. (S)he’s in a tank top, a knee-length cotton madras skirt, flat sandals. He’s in the ubiquitous black jeans and black t-shirt. Her back is against the pillar, he leans into her, kisses her hair, her ears, her neck. Her face is sweetly upturned, her eyes closed, and there is the look I know, I remember, the look that says, you like me. I like that you like me. I’m not a little girl anymore. It’s the sexiest thing I see all night.

Very Idiotic Provincial

I’m surrounded by lesbians. Short, chubby lesbians. Tall, rangy lesbians. Old Lesbians For Change. Softball lesbians. Punk lesbians. There are more crewcuts than I can shake a stick at, and frankly, not much in the way of lipstick.

On the way back to VIP, flash my bracelet, Security in an orange shirt calls at me. It takes me a minute to realize what she said was, “I’ll have to frisk you first,” and a second minute to realize it’s flirting. She’s a foot shorter than me, rosy cheeks, sleek grey bob, smooth unlined skin and great tits on a buxom body, waist vanishing as she approaches fifty. Later, I flirt with the lesbian comedienne, the big name anchoring the show, joking that all the hot chicks out there are making me bi-curious. Nothing says Pride Day Celebration like a hetero whore, right?

Here’s the thing. I don’t “get” lesbianism. It’s not that I don’t support anyone’s right to be with whom they are born to be with. But I don’t “get” it in the way that I don’t “get” what it’s like to be black. Just as I can only get a glimpse of what Big City Lover or Circus Guy go through in their daily lives, and they can only speculate what it’s like to be in mine, I don’t understand how the feeling of wanting can be wanting women only. Beautiful Girl tells me, “I love being with a woman, but I can’t imagine living without cock.”

Um, ditto.

I felt really, really provincial and kind of homophobic when I kept catching myself staring at the lesbian couples. Not the gay ones – I don’t know why it’s different, maybe because they are already “not me”, what with the testicles and all. But the women, the strong and beautiful women, were a herd of ten thousand zebras, giraffes, gazelles (and the occasional warthog) around one very confused and outnumbered lioness.

Gala

(since Beautiful Girl has been visiting lately...)


This is the Hallucinogenic Toreador, which means, the bullfighter that you see in your imagination. Can you see the woman in the blue bathing suit on the yellow raft? That’s Dali’s way of saying that the tourists are ruining Port Ligat. And here, where the artist has signed his name: Gala Salvador Dali. He wrote his wife’s name first, to show that she inspired all of his paintings.

In Museo Sophia Reina, the labels are less explanatory than my fifth-grade self on Student Docent Day, my whole gifted program class each given a painting to memorize, me with the longest one, a page and a half single-spaced. The parents and teachers and the unsuspecting public subjected to our practiced spiels followed floor paths of red and green tape from painting to painting, stopping off at the ones with a sweaty-palmed grade-schooler standing in front, carefully not fidgeting in our dark pants and white shirts. Beautiful Girl and I have only two days in Madrid, Friday afternoon to Sunday afternoon, and we are not going to waste it on minor paintings by minor artists, for us it’s the Lichtenstein special exhibit, the Guernica room, Dali, only as much as our attention spans can handle before going back to the hotel for siesta, late dinner, coffee, and the street of clubs that beckon with Spanish techno and Euro techno and American techno which is really Euro techno at its heart, remixes and dance mixes and Kylie, Kylie, Kylie.

Here, there are three Venus de Milos. Notice how they fade into the background and become less complete. This is Dali’s way of showing that classical art is disintegrating, and it reflects his earlier painting, The Disintegration of the Persistence of Memory. The first Venus de Milo is next to the cliffs. See how the fabric draped over her hips is also part of the cliffs, and at the same time, it makes the cape of the toreador.

I say to Beautiful Girl, do you want to see a bullfight? It is Spain, after all. She does not. I do not. I've heard you have to buy a really expensive ticket to get a seat in the shade, and we are both nearly broke, I’m charging the hotel on my card and Beautiful Girl can pay me back in the fall. She would be shamed if she knew I wrote that, as much as she loves me, as much as she knows she would do it for me if the situation was reversed, as much as we are the kind of friends who do that for each other, there is still shame packed in the imaginary backpack she still carries despite her transition to a rolly suitcase, to big-girl luggage, to traveling in skirts and the pretty heeled thong sandals that hurt her, so she will not look like a hippie any more. Beautiful Girl is also a vegetarian. Compromises have been made in Morocco, where it is almost impossible to get food that is only vegetables, you would think that a couscous country would have dishes that are only vegetables and grain, but even the lentils are flavored with fat. A bullfight would not be a compromise. It would be a capitulation. I wish that I felt as strongly about something, that I was able to stick to my guns on one thing, one lousy thing that I wouldn’t give in on, no matter what.

The toreador has a pink cape, with gold sparkles, and the curve of the arena above him is also the curve of his hat. Here, below him, you can see the bull, his shape emerging from the cliffs. The straight lines sticking out of the bull’s shoulder are banderillas, long spears with hooks in the end that the bullfighter’s assistants use to distract the bull and tire him out. The bull is kneeling, which means that he is very tired.

Guernica, what we came for, the one thing in Madrid I really want to see, is huge and in black and white, a surprise. I have been imagining blood and gore and Bosch-like excess, but it is spare and cubist and terrifying. Beautiful Girl comes over to me, and says in a whisper, “It’s Picasso.” I don’t know why she’s telling me this, is it a joke I’m not getting? I give her the “and?” look. She says, “You’re looking for Guernica. This is by Picasso.” I say, “Beautiful Girl, Guernica is the name of the painting. I know it’s by Picasso.” There must be something in my tone (shame again), because she looks around at the room of people gazing at Guernica, gazing at a painting finally freed from bulletproof glass with the change of government, a painting whose commissioners’ sole instruction was “Make it big,” a painting famous enough to be our reason for this museum, and says “Oh.” I have already shamed her once, refusing to put our things in a pay locker when there was a free coat check, saying in front of the clerk who almost certainly spoke very good English, “They’re employees of a national institution, they don’t make their living robbing bags.” In Morocco, it’s a legitimate worry.

Later, I shame her yet again, walking down the street, handing her a condom just in case, saying, “Maybe I should be passing over my vibrator instead?” She shushes me and scolds, “Mandy, you’ve got to stop assuming that no-one here speaks English!” I say, “I’d say it in New York.” But that is later. That is on the way to the airport, on my way back to Prague, on her way to the Prado that turns out to be closed on Sunday afternoons. How do you go to Madrid and not see the Prado? How do you go to Amsterdam and not see the Rijksmuseum, to London and not the Tate or the British Museum? In the end, it’s not really what we’re there for.

Notice the collar button here at the toreador’s neck. It’s painted so realistically that most people think it’s real. You can see that it’s not by moving to the side of the painting and looking for the edge of the button. Below the button is the toreador’s tie. See how the vertical dark line of the tie leads your eye to the blue water below. The water is in the place that the bull’s blood would be, but it’s a swimming cove in the cliffs instead.

We see one more room of paintings after Guernica, that’s all we have the eyes for, we’re cloudy with images and need ice cream to revive. But we’re here, and we might as well, room 12 has the Dali’s and the other Spanish surrealists. I recognize them from down the hall, the first glimpse through the doorway. There’s something snobbish in knowing a painting’s artist from across the room, I can do it with Vermeer and Hals and Renoir and Monet (Impressionists are easy) and sometimes Judith Leyster although of course the opportunities for recognition there are much fewer, but Dali is the easiest. It’s not the brush strokes or the colors or the subjects alone, it’s all of those, recurring images, recurring themes, the nurse from boyhood and the cliffs of Ligat and the Venus de Milo and drawers in bodies and Dutch merchants and Gala, Gala, Gala.

We stand for a long time in front of Bust of Gala, her head an island of light in the low right, the rest of the board black as ink. I softly read the signature aloud, “Gala Salvador Dali.” Beautiful Girl looks at me, and I say, “do you know why?” I hope to ask the right question, I hope not to shame her yet again, to presume ignorance instead of enlightenment as is my wont. She does not know. She would like to know. I say, “Gala was his wife. He wrote his wife’s name first, to show that she inspired all of his paintings. As if she was part of him.” Outside the museum, we eat ice cream, Magnum bars with truffle and dark chocolate and the tiny paddle-shaped stick inside after the last and best bites. When we sit on the bench, the men turn to us like sunflowers as they pass. I cannot kiss her, so I take her to a sex shop filled with the same plastic as Amsterdam, equally out of our price range. I cannot kiss her, so we siesta from eight to ten at night, dress, make up, tell each other you’re beautiful, you’re beautiful, you’re beautiful.

At the first club, I realize, this is what the man feels like. She’s lovely and fun and smart and I can’t keep my eyes off her breasts and while part of me knows she’ll welcome it, I’m afraid to kiss her in case it’s wrong, in case it wrecks everything. We hold hands, we dance together, we see the sunflowers turning towards the only blondes in the bar. We walk, hand in hand, to the big club, the twelve Euros cover even with our discount flyers club, the club we really cannot afford to go to. We’re on my money. I am already planning to tell her not to pay me back until the fall, I am already hoping drinks will be bought for us. They are. And in the end, we walk home as the sun rises. I make Juan Carlos say the “star light star bright” rhyme in broken English and Catalan, and she falls behind with Santiago, so far behind they finally call us on Juan Carlos’ mobile to find out where we are. We are on the way to the hotel. We are in that hazy morning place after dancing all night. We are safely away, safely averting danger, the kind of danger that comes when you kiss someone you really like instead of someone you met in a club.

Here is the curve of the toreador’s face. His chin is the stomach of the second Venus de Milo. His nose is her breast. His eye is her face. Below his eye, you can see a single tear. Perhaps he is mourning the fate of the bull, or perhaps he is sad that the tourists are ruining Port Ligat.

Bubblegum/Peppermint

Wow. Girls. They’re just so soft.

I spent the time before my second appointment in a state of mild agony. All the myths and fears about the vagina came up. Would it smell funny? Would it taste bad? Would it reach out with horrible tentacle teeth and suck me in like the Sarlac monster? (I freak out my gay friend S. by making my hands into a jaw with finger-claw teeth and making biting motions). I call Lover and a male friend for advice.

“You know what feels good to you, which is a huge head start. All girls are different, but it tends to be variations on a theme. And you pay attention to your lovers, which is the rest of the battle. If she makes a noise when you touch her that way, do it again. Then do it harder, softer, and in circles, then on to a different part but coming back later.”

And

“Just let her know that you love being with her and want to make her feel good. Really love her before you ever go down there. The more she feels like you really enjoy being with her, the better it will be.”

My day of mild mishaps continues as I drive to meet Shortish Guy and Hot Bi Chick. I leave a little late, my phone is still out of minutes, I get off at the wrong exit and have to turn around. But I do, eventually, make it to the Midprice Hotel, and there they are. Room 234. King-size bed, Jacuzzi tub, Shortish Guy smiling nervously as he opens the door, and Hot Bi Chick lying on her stomach on the bed, tight jeans, tight low-cut t-shirt, bronze spike heels with thin chains along the instep.


She is, in fact, hot. A little heavily made-up for my taste – I’ve heard Pam Anderson is gently lovely minus a few layers of spackle – but tall, shapely, pouty-lipped, multiply pierced and visibly tattooed. When there's ink on your wrists, it’s a pretty solid “f--- you” to Corporate America. I think, I’m sure she’s got more piercings…and I’m about to find out exactly where they are.

I stay focused on her, wary of any jealousy issues. I’ve taken off my leggings from under my long brown suede skirt, taken off my shoes, and I sit by the bed, resting my arm on the spread, my head near hers. We talk about shoes – always safe. They give me a glass of wine. I don’t drink, at all, but it’s clearly special to them, her favorite wine, and I wet my lips with it and hold the bowl in my hand. She complains that it “needs to open up,” which gives me an excuse to wait.

Hot Bi Chick takes the lead.

“I’m wearing too many clothes,” and with that, we all get naked. I try to step in and help her take off her shirt, but we all just shuck. She’s lovely. Completely shaven, soft little tummy, gorgeous breasts in a boring white bra – after all, she doesn’t have to impress, I’m here for her pleasure. She wants implants. I think she’s crazy. “I want them to be more like each other, and more in the middle.” Symmetrical and centered, says the writer in my head, realizing that no, honey, you don’t want implants, you want $10,000 of corrective surgery, Lindsay Lohan style, “$10,000 breasts are worth $10,000 because they look free.” Nevertheless, they are lovely. And the other piercing is clitoral hood. At least it will be easy to locate.

I kneel between them on the bed, him I could take or leave, she’s looking more appetizing by the minute. I lean in and kiss her lips, soft, gloss-coated, her tongue darts into my mouth and I gently suck it. I kiss her eyes, the corners of her forehead, the tips of her ears, licking the outer folds, her earlobes, moving down her neck and smelling her perfume, something I recognize but I can’t put my finger on. She’s responsive, enough that I wonder if she’s faking, but I’m the hired help, why should she bother? We’ve already talked about hey, if it’s not working, let’s laugh and do something else. I move between her breasts, the valley smells of more perfume, she says she put it on since it’s a special occasion. They are so soft. They overflow my hands, the nipples small for her size and gently pointed, very pinky-brown. I do the thing that men do to me (some women must like it or they wouldn’t keep doing it, right?), holding her breasts together and moving my mouth from nipple to nipple, sucking, licking, biting the amount I suspect a pierced girl would like. She moans. Shortish Guy talks dirty – he has checked in advance, can he talk dirty, can he slap her ass, my answer was yes, just don’t call me c--- or whore. She leans up and sucks my nipples, dark red-brown lip gloss rings my nipples. I kiss her neck again, licking with the tip of my tongue up one side and under the curve of her jaw. And I can feel it’s time to head south…

Her belly yields under my hands, I hold her hips and lick her navel, there’s a hole where she used to wear a 2-gauge ring. It’s a big hole. I kiss the inside of her thighs and lick her hip creases, she’s moaning and wiggling under my hands. She tastes, first, of deodorant – girls who shave completely use it to keep down razor burn. I make my tongue a point and slip it between her labia, first sliding upward, then returning to my starting point and using my tongue flat. She tastes like me, that slightly sharp taste from inside, and like nothing – like skin that’s been washed. Once I lick away the sharp, there’s no taste at all, just the slight sense that it’s not the inside of my mouth I’m licking. I think of all the times I’ve lain on my back and wished for a broad tongue doing something repetitive, firmly, and aim for below the piercing.

“Oh, God, she’s so good…” Hot Bi Chick moans. “Guys just want to eat the whole thing, girls know you have to stay on the clit…” Shortish Guy talks dirty some more. He’s not really relevant at this point, but I look up from her pussy and smile with my eyes so he won’t feel left out. She comes remarkably fast. I wonder if she’s faking, but she’s shaking and moaning. Feeling her legs convulse around my head is incredible, it’s one thing to bring off a man, but this is like discovering fire, so far minus the liver-eating bird part. We rest.

“Think there’s another one in there?” looking up at her, my head resting on her thigh. Shortish Guy says, “You want her to eat that hot little pussy again? You want that, don’t you?” Hot Bi Chick nods. I’m thrilled. It’s like Christmas morning the year I finally got a bike instead of a letter from Santa explaining how many older boys and girls were ahead of me on the list, thanks for the cookies, see you next year.

This time, I slow down a little, if I’ve made her come (or care enough to fake it), it’s ok, I didn’t suck. I toy with her clit ring in my teeth, gently tugging it while sucking softly. When I slide my finger inside her, she’s tighter than I expect, and I make a mental note to compare at home. I make the beckoning motion to hit the front wall, if the G-spot exists, I’m there for it. Her eyes half-close, she starts to moan again, and she spasms around my finger, she’s definitely not faking. (I realize as I write this, I want to fist her.)

We turn to him. Either they use condoms for everything, or her “I make him by non-lubricated, they taste better” is to make me feel less like the help. She sucks him while I lick his nipple. I suck him while she kisses him. We both lick his cock, kissing each other around it, I make a mental note to tell this to Guitarist, whose number-one fantasy is two mouths, one cock (his). Shortish Guy talks dirty some more. He’d be fine but for the money on his own. With her, I’m having a great time. It’s fun! It’s sensual! It’s hot! Go Team! She mounts him and rides until she comes again, I kiss her and hold her from behind, “you’re so hot, so beautiful.” I change places with her, I hope I’m close to as tight. She kisses my neck, she rubs my back, she kisses him. “You know,” I say after a few minutes, “Normally I’d just fake it at this point, but I really do want to come.” Shortish Guy talks dirty, Hot Bi Chick kisses me and holds my breasts from behind, it’s a lot like the thus-far-all-male scenario involving a pool table that is my sure-fire ‘come now’ fantasy. I do. Loudly. It’s a big one. They like it, they are only mildly surprised.

“Let’s let her rest a little,” he says about me. She straddles him again in reverse cowgirl and I watch her ride him, tell her how hot it is, how beautiful she is. She says she was watching the same thing while he fucked me. “Your turn to do the work,” she tells him, and he folds her in half and takes her on her back, fucks her hard while I whisper in her ear, hold them both. We end up finishing him by hand, Hot Bi Chick kissing him while I stroke him hard, minus condom. “That's the most I've ever seen you come” she says.

She runs the shower for me, I leave it running for them, my money’s on the TV, it was easy to earn, almost a bonus. They talk together in the shower. I muse on how it’s better to get my money at the end, then I’m not as worried about hiding it. Before I leave, she asks if I would ever do an overnight with them.

Damn straight.