Chapter 8

Perspective (Part 2)

12/15/05

And I have a new objective: to bone the shit out of my housekeeper. I want to make her feel alive, but just for a moment.
Infinite.
Free.

I just want her to look at me looking at her, looking at me, and think—
If only someone my age could love me this way.

And I’ll love her, but in the wrong way. I’ll make her feel infinite, but covet a swift death. I’ll make her love me in a fake, story tale way.
Pretty Woman.

So this is my new victim, raped by time and age, vulnerable, because she doesn’t know what else to be.

Name: Rosa Marie Sanchez Rodriguez
Age: 37
Height: 5’1
Weight: 120
Eye Color: Brown
Hair Color: Brown
Perfume of Choice: Lysol with bleach
Book of Choice: Pablo Neruda: 5 Decades, A selection.

Not like any of this matters anyway, but she was going to be my guinea pig. I was almost at my apex.

This is going to be an easy task; my housekeeper has been walking in on me masturbating for the last three years, so much so, that she doesn’t even get startled when she enters my room. She just lays my clothes on the bed, gives me my daily pills, and leaves the room. But every-so-often she will glance over my shoulders as I we complete our morning rituals. And this is reassuring because I know she wants it.
True Life: I had sex with my housekeeper.

Then, one day she comes in with my clothes and my daily pills, and I ask her to have a seat on my bed. She complies. So I push her down and straddle her. I draw lines with my fingertips across her body. And she smiles, but says nothing.
And I know I’m in.

And there I am, with my penis between her thighs, eyes closed, pretending she’s some sort of fugitive, as if fucking her is something illegal. And she puts a pillow over her face to silence her screams, but I quickly remove it because I want to see her face. And when she comes, she has a weird twitch in her right eye.
And I come.

And she makes me breakfast: steak and eggs and fresh squeezed orange juice.
She loves me that much.
My parent’s don’t even love me that much.
Sometimes, when I’m having sex with her, I feel as if I’m fucking a prostitute. My parents are paying her to have sex with me and then make me breakfast.
And I come.

And she makes me lunch: a turkey sandwich with Muenster, extra mayo, and no crust.
She loves me that much.
And sometimes, when I’m having sex with her, I imagine my parents walking in on us.
My mom yelling, “What would Jesus think?”
My dad yelling, “Son, you can’t just have sex with the maid; you have to be more discreet than that!”
And I come.

And she makes me dinner: Peking Duck.
She loves me that much.
My parents aren’t even at dinner.
My mom is upstairs watching reruns of Law & Order.
My dad is with his mistress of the month.
Like father, like son.

Then, one day I catch her stealing from my mother’s jewelry box—a pair of Tiffany earrings and a blue sapphire diamond necklace. She looks at me and silently tells me to just ignore it. Walk away.

Then I yell at her, “You can’t just steal from my parents! That’s not right!”
But she tells me to shut up and forget about it or else she’ll sue my parents for sexual harassment (in Spanish of course). She was using me as much as I was using her.
Revenge is a bitch.

And I’m thinking—
How do I regain control?

And there I am, having sex with another girl in my bed.
My housekeeper walks in with my clothes and daily pills and screams, “Ay Dios mío! Ay mi madre!”
And her daughter covers up. But I continue to thrust and ram and thrust and ram and thrust.
And she comes.
She’s got that same twitch in her eye.
And Rosa screams.
Then I come.

And Rosa runs downstairs to grab the telephone.
She starts yelling at the local police, “Ay Dios mío, mi hija esta violajando!”

And I sneak behind her with a cloth soaked in ammonia. And she passes out.
“Hello?”
And I grab the phone.
“Hello? Is everything alright?”
“Yes sir, this is Hayden Santiago, I live on 10 Beech St. My maid isn’t from this country and accidentally dialed the wrong number. She meant to dial her cousin in Mexico. I’m sorry for the miscommunication.”

In this type of neighborhood, if you say everything is all right, then everything is all right. No questions. No comments.
I wonder if he could smell the bullshit over the phone.
Thank God he does not speak Spanish.
“Ok son, have a good evening.”
I hang up the phone.

Now she’s comfortably asleep on her hardwood bed.
And I plot.
And her daughter enters the living room and screams, “Ay Dios mío! Ay mi madre!”

And I force her to help me put her mother in my trunk, because that seems like the right thing to do. Rosa’s body is dangling in my arms, limp and lifeless. I didn’t mean to foreshadow, but sometimes I just can’t control myself.
Control is like a cock—sometimes it’s hard.

We put her into my father’s black Mercedes, which was spacious and comfortable enough for any hostage.
I didn’t know what else to do; I had already taken the incentive in a syringe. So I card a line on the dashboard and prepare for my long, exhilarating night. I take a line of Addies.
Ginsu Sharp.

2am

And we drive along the New Jersey Turnpike at 95mph, the windows down, the music blasting. And I make her go down on me, threatening her with a knife I bought at the Salvation Army roughly three years ago during my vintage, non-conformist phase while her mom is asleep in the trunk.
Non-conformists are just conforming to non-conformity.

And “Stairway to Heaven” comes on, and I’m thinking—
Is life just a game of Chutes and Ladders?
Infinite.

And she cries the whole time, but I figure I can use the tears as lube. And her mom is now awake in the trunk.
And she’s screaming, “Dejame salir. Dejame.”

And her daughter is crying; her boo hoos add a nice touch to Robert Plants’ piercingly beautiful voice.
Background Music.
And her mom is screaming, and she’s crying, and I’m swerving across the highway, now doing 110 singing a duet with Robert Plant.
And I come.

And she cries, and wipes her mouth.
Beauty really does Come from within.

Then, I pull out a tape recorder from the glove compartment. I press the record button and start shouting into it, trying to speak over all the unnecessary commotion.

“My name is Hayden Santiago—” I begin, but the stupid bitch sitting in the passenger seat interrupts me. “Shut the fuck up, bitch!” And I continue to shout into the recorder, “My name is Hayden Santiago—” And I’m interrupted yet again by her senseless screams. “I said shut the fuck up! If you don’t, I’ll stab a hole in your throat and fuck your voice box!” I’m not sure if that’s possible, but apparently she thinks so because she doesn’t say a thing afterward. And I persist, “That is who I am, but not what I am. My desire to burn and destroy, rape and pillage anything beautiful is rooted so deep that I no longer see the world as abject, ugly, but rather measure everything along a spectrum—a wavelength of beauty.”

Then—in between sentences—I look through my rearview mirror, doing 110. And there are lights flashing—blue and red and blue and red. Now I know I’m fucked.

As the police quickly approach the car, I take my foot off of the gas.
And she’s crying, and her mom is yelling, and The Doors are playing, and I’m thinking—
“This is the end.”

And I’m thinking about my parents.
My mom yelling, “You’re going to hell.”
My dad yelling, “You got love stains on my leather seats.”
And I’m thinking about my mug shot.
Should I gel my hair or mousse it?
And I’m thinking about what I’d wear to my court hearing.
Armani? Yves?


2:25am

I quickly force my mind to come back to the present. I’m thinking about an excuse, an explanation. But at this moment, any bullshit I come up with doesn’t seem worthy of such a fucked up situation.

And I’m thinking and she’s crying and her mother's kicking and yelling and the lights are flashing, but the car ride is smooth.

And the two cop cars whiz right past my dad’s Mercedes, both doing about 130. And my apprehension subsides, just a victim to the moon They were racing. That is what State Troopers do at two am. They race on the turnpike at 130 mph.

And I’m laughing and she’s crying and her mom is kicking and yelling, and I am feeling—
Infinite.
We pull over to the side of the road near exit sixteen, and I hear people screaming in the distance. The Giants are playing. But I’m pretending as if those people are cheering for me. They’re all watching me. They’re all rooting for me.

And I get the shovel.
And the girl.
And a hole is dug.
And here we are, in the midst of a murder, knee-deep in New Jersey filth, the Meadowlands, panting, sweating, freezing.

2:45am

I open the trunk and Rosa attempts to attack me. She’s kicking and biting and yelling like a rabid dog. She loved me once, but love hurts…so I hit her with the shovel.

The kicking stops.
The yelling stops.
The cheering continues.
And a hole is filled.

And there are no witnesses, not even God.
And I’m thinking about perspective, and the daughter’s crying bloody murder, and the crowd is cheering for me, and the mom doesn’t say a word. And Mick Jagger is singing in the background—
“Fade to Black.”

Chapter 8

11/25/05

Perspective

Level 1

The high is kicking in—that intense rush of whatever.

I’m walking along Broadway passed the continuum of lights—luminous, incandescent. The burning disco that is New York City taunts me; it dances across my peripheries, leaving me mystified, mesmerized.
An industrial Babylon.

My friends are laughing and pointing as if they were Asian Tourists as they pretend to take pictures of billboards and monuments.

Me, I’m just standing there, breathless, amazed by the ridiculousness of it all, the absurdity of such relentless pretentiousness.
We are America! We are bigger and better and flashier than every other country.
And I’m starting to feel it.

Level 2

The lights become even more alluring, more effervescent, more vain. They begin to pulsate as if they are breathing. Inhaling. Exhaling. With a blink of an eye, everything illuminates. Three-dimensional patterns flicker past my pupils. My eyes begin to throb, in rhythm with my heart.
Dub dup. Dub dup. Dub dup.

I’m looking at my friends, looking at me, looking at them. And their yelling, and I’m laughing, and Rams is crying, and I’m thinking. I’m thinking—
What can I do to give myself purpose in life? I need something to help take the pain away, this overwhelming, compelling truth that I am nothing. I exist merely to expire, subject to this disease called mortality.

The Purpose of psychedelics for man is to divulge to himself that which is impossible to expose while in a lucid state because these latent truths are unconsciously imprisoned by fear. It is a sort of deconditioning. And fear is but a knave, unscrupulous and brimming with vices, hiding in the shadows and ready to strike whenever it deems necessary. The problem with psychedelics is that sometimes fear is rational.

And I’m thinking—
I love myself too much to commit suicide.
I worked too hard for this body to allow it to wither and decay.
And I’m thinking—
Does this hat make me look high?
And I’m thinking—
Why not take another. Mask the truth. Get perspective.

Level 3

And I’m looking through this kaleidoscope I call my eyes and I’m seeing colors; I’m seeing figures and shapes—triangles and rectangles and quadrangles—twisting and turning like motivated wheels as my pupils continue to pulsate. And I’m looking at Deemo, and he’s peeing on Rams, who’s crying.

And Deemo is yelling, “I’m not a fag!”
And they’re all looking at me, looking at them, looking at me. And I’m thinking—
Who do I have to fuck to get some perspective around here?

These shrooms aren’t doing it. I’m not coming to any conclusions. I want something that satisfies me. Death satisfied me. It gave me perspective—the forcing of deception, the stealing of someone’s innocence—it all made me content.

And I’m thinking—
I cried for weeks after Diana died.
She could’ve had a nice thrown in heaven, but now she’s lying in a bed of fire in Hell. Don’t worry Diana, I’ll be with you shortly.
And I’m thinking—
Who do you have to blow to get a drink around here?
And I’m thinking—
I hope God is entertained.

Level 4

And I’m looking at my feet, and they’re melting into the ground.
And the taxicabs are whizzing by, and yelling at me, “Hey kid, your feet are melting!”
And the buildings are yelling at me, “Hey brown eyes, you’re making a scene!”

And I’m looking at Teez, and he’s grabbing Deemo's ass, and Deemo is peeing on Rams, who’s crying.
And Teez is yelling, “Hey! Watch it!”
And Deemo is yelling, “I’m not a fag!”
And Rams is just yelling.

And I’m looking at them, looking at me, looking at them.
And I’m thinking—
Look is such a weird looking word.
And I’m thinking—
I need a new objective.
I need some purpose in my life. I want something that satisfies me. And I’m thinking about Rosa, my housekeeper. I’m thinking about having sex with her and convincing her that I can show her freedom. I can liberate her. I can make it seem as though this country has something to offer. And then I’d be content, and then I’d have perspective.

And I’m thinking—
This bridge is too high for me anyway.
Why jump when I can fly?
And I’m thinking—
Are these Shitake?
And I’m thinking—
Why not fuck for the sake of living?

Level 5

And I heard this story once. This kid and his friends took shrooms and they started to hallucinate. They found a lawn gnome in the middle of someone’s yard and decided to take it home as a souvenir. They took it to their friend’s house and locked it in the shed. And after level 5, their highs started to diminish, that intense rush of nothing. And they forgot about the lawn gnome. A week later one of the kids went into the shed to get his lawnmower; and there, right there in the middle of the fucking shed was a little black girl, dead.
True Life: I’m a drug addict.
And he finally understood the power of perspective.

And I don’t know who I am. I feel one with the buildings and the streets and the lights. I feel one with the taxis and the vendors and the crackheads. I feel their pain, their truth, and I know that it is the only thing that is real. I know the only way I’ll be fine is if I have sex with my housekeeper. And I’ll destroy her life and her abstractions of love—story tale, counterfeit love.
And it’s all coming into perspective.

And I’m looking at my friends, looking at me, looking at them, looking at me, just drowning, dying.
And Rabbit is pushing Teez, who accidentally grabs Deemo’s ass, who accidentally pees on Rams, who’s crying.
And Rabbit’s yelling, “My bad.”
And Teez’s yelling, “Hey! Watch it!”
And Deemo’ yelling, “I’m not a fag.”
And Rams’ just yelling.

And I’m thinking—
It’s all about perspective. A little black girl in a shed.
And I’m thinking—
I’m never doing shrooms again. That is a lie.
And I’m thinking—
Why not destroy someone else’s life? Just to give them perspective. Just to give me perspective.
A little black girl in a shed.

Hooker In Vitro (Part 2)

06/27/07

And I’m at a Sexaholics Anonymous Meeting, sitting next to this fat fuck in heels, just observing my surroundings. They’re all here: the nymphomaniacs, the necrophiliacs, dandrophiles, sadomasochists and pedophiles.

I’m listening to stories about dogs and peanut butter, fruits and vegetables stuffed in unorthodox places. We’re all sitting in a large circle inside some dilapidated church and I can see Casey and Allison and Sara and Alex, the usual suspects. And Mike, that prick. I’m looking at faces and forgetting names.

Then, in a moment of pure poetic ecstasy, a woman rises from her seated grave, a sexual goddess, a modern day Daryl Hannah. She’s wearing a translucent blouse and nothing else. Her blonde locks sway as a subtle breeze passes through the cold, uninviting room. She’s elegant, refined, poised. She’s a heavenly shade of pale.

And when she speaks, it’s in a solemn, labored tone that plagues the room with such swiftness that its prey is left to wallow in its vague intensity. The words seem to bleed from her mouth as the knot in her throat twists and turns until she begins to choke on her words. Her voice, gasping for air. Her words, drowning in their own solemnity, swimming in bile and angst. Yet she sounds divine, angelic even. And she talks of despair.

“…And I can’t seem to figure out why I’m there, again, dressed to get fucked. And I keep drinking because guys keep buying, and, before I can even grasp the gravity of the situation, I’m reaching under my skirt—my eyes closed, my hands rubbing the thin fabric of my panties. And I’m wet.” And as she illustrates, she rubs her barely visible, fuzzless peach, which—I can only imagine—is fairly moist by now. She continues, “I head over to the bathroom and open the middle stall—a nightly routine. And I begin to rub my pussy, getting myself ready for what's about to happen. I hear a knock on the stall, five knocks, and I know it’s time. I open the door and a guy one comes in, takes his pants off, turns me around, and enters me from behind. He knows the routine.” I witness as Shame swathes her face when she quickly realizes she’s getting off. And she takes her hand away from her coral pink rose and cautiously persists, “And this continues until I’m clutching the toilet, ass up, sweating and bleeding from everywhere, just vomiting, while the last guy ploughs through my field with such musical repetition. And in between my liquid spews, I’m yelling ‘oh yea, that’s the spot. Fuck me harder. Harder.’ But last night was different. It’s in between my screams that my mind goes numb. I plunge into a world of blank sincerity. I’m drowning in a perpetual nothingness that seems to engulf my entire body. I’m reaching for salvation; I’m gasping for air, but no one’s there to help me. No one seems to care.”

As she finishes this last line, someone hands her a tissue. She dries her dilated eyes. She then looks up at me and the pain just flutters about, without intention, yet finds its way into my eyes. And I catch myself, an emotional mess.

And she continues, “And I’m stumbling towards a colorless light and I see myself. I see…me, a beautiful wreck. It’s more like a—like a warped interpretation of me. It’s as if I’m looking inside myself. I’m journeying deep beneath the surface, beneath the Gucci dress and eight inch incentives, beneath the peach foundation, beneath all this meaningless cover-up—the lies, the happiness, the certainty. It’s more of a not-so-fun house mirror image of myself.” And she dries her eyes again, takes off her heels, and brushes her disheveled, blond hair somewhat flirtatiously, then mutters, “And there’s this unsettling pain that castes itself into the destructive fire I call a heart. And all is illuminated. It’s a curious light that tries so desperately to find the truth that’s underneath. I’ve been flipped inside out and put on display for all to see. And it hurts, and I’ve come to this distinct realization—I am a lie, a fabrication of the truth that I, myself, have created.” Then she puts her heels back on her petite, pale feet, fidgets around with her hair some more, and cries, “And it feels as though I’m crying floods. I’m crying rivers and oceans, just drowning in my own superficiality. And then, in the two blinks of an eye, I’m pulled out of this image, back into the real world. Well—well it doesn’t seem that real anymore. And a man is standing over me and he’s shouting in the distance ‘Are you okay? Miss, are you okay?’ And I can’t seem to find the words, because I know that I’m not. And it was this night I realized that I’ve been fucking and fornicating with every man I meet, trying to create some sort of…connection, something to make me whole, but I’ve merely given birth to mendacity, to deception. My womb has created a generation of empty beings, callous and cold, fucking themselves to an early grave. And that’s a lot to have on my conscience. I just need something to live for, something more than just a few quick pelvic movements in some shithole bar bathroom. I need some truth.”

And she looks at me, gives me a wink, and sits down.
That son of a cunt.
She’s good. She’s…a worthy objective.

The counselor says a few words and begins to look around for another victim, another tortured soul. He looks at me and tells me to stand up.
Fuck.

I realize, at this point in time, I’m going to have to come up with some sort of story, some ingenuous reason as to why I’m here.
And I’m searching this endless labyrinth of a mind and it’s coming to me. I find that the truth is the best lie.

He says, legs crossed, biting on the end of an I Love Jesus pen, “Tell us your name and the reason why you are here.”
And…Action.

“Hi, my name is Alex Sanchez and I’m an alcoholic.”
Everyone laughs.

“That’s very funny Alex,” he says, clearly not amused. “Please, continue.”
“Honestly, sir, I don’t belong here,” I say trying to rationalize. “I’m not a sexaholic.”
“I can tell; I think it was the furry cuffs that gave it away,” he retorts smugly.
Dammit, I can’t seem to get these things off.

“Okay, okay. Whoo…here goes nothing,” I say as I shake my hands exaggeratedly. “My name is Alexander Sanchez, I’m twenty years old and I’ve been getting off since I was fifteen. Let me see, I don’t want to forget anything. Hmm…I’ve fucked one hundred and twenty-three girls since my first lay. I’ve taken a girl’s virginity, I’ve fucked my housekeeper, her daughter, I’ve committed adultery—on a number of occasions—I’ve gotten someone pregnant, I’ve fucked a beggar, a lesbian, a transvestite, a girl in surgery, and some old ass delusional granny. Oh, she died while I was inside her by the way. I pretty much just wait in my room until some girl knocks on the door, fuck her, and then send her off. I masturbate probably five times a day and I think about sex constantly. I must say: I live quite a fulfilling life. I’m a walking orgasm.”

“Do you think this is a joke, Alex?”

“No, I think it’s pathetic,” I snap back. “Everyone here is trying to find some sort of sexual salvation. Everyone thinks that they just want a normal life: one point five kids, a house in the suburbs and a life of monogamy. That’s so far from the truth you’ll need a telescope to see what’s outside that bullshit world.” I look at the rest of the room, at the casualties of this war on sex, and say, “Everyone here does it for the thrill, the rush and the uncertainty that comes with it. Because, you see, when you finally find that stability you’ve been so desperately searching for, you also find pain. You get a chance to sit back and look at how insignificant your life is. You realized that you’ve allowed society, this American Nightmare, to control you. You see this as an addiction, but no, it’s a way of life. It’s something that makes you feel alive, averts you from this compelling truth that you are going to die. Everyone here is just going about it the wrong way. You’re all allowing your desires to control who you are. No, it is you that must have the control. You must define your own destiny. You can live until it hurts, or fuck until you feel eternal.” And now I’m on a roll; whatever insecurity I had subsides and I feel like Jesus preaching his sermon on the mount as I say, “You are infinite, you are your own creator, and until you realize this, you’ll be nothing more than a stack of matter, a tree just swaying in the breeze, never really going anywhere, allowing this gust of ethics and morals to control which direction you sway. You are living according to someone else’s rules. Uproot yourself, journey through the jungles of uncertainty, and find a place where the wind doesn’t blow. Find your own Garden of Eden, and there you shall find immortality. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got deeper things to fuck. Thank you. And oh, by the way, my number is 780-1720, if any of you girls want to feel truth,” I say with a wink and a smile.

I leave that dilapidated shithole. As I’m walking down the street I notice about twelve people are following me. They’re all looking around as if the world they are seeing is something foreign to them. And I know they have never seen it in this light before. Oh, that moonshade brings upon us such elegant perspective.

As I’m heading over to catch the 1-train back to my room, I get a call; it reads, ‘Unavailable.’ And I’m hoping it’s her.
“Hello,” I say anxiously.
“Hello Alex, meet me on the corner of Christopher and Bleeker,” a deep, seductive voice bellows.
“Should I bring anything?”
And there’s a long, pregnant pause. I can only hear her urgent breaths and the vexatious sounds of the city—cars and streets and people. And we’re all screaming for, “Perspective.”
And the phone clicks.

As I arrive, I see my sexual goddess basking in the night’s cool, relaxed ambiance. The streets are a midnight black, an intimate party, but deception and pain are the only one’s invited. A single lamppost shines upon her frame. She’s standing there wearing an obnoxious fur coat, smoking a cigarette, waiting to be devoured. My objective—

Name: Savonne James
Age: 28
Height: 5’8
Weight: 125
Eye Color: Blue
Hair Color: Brunette
Perfume of Choice: Chanel Number 5
Book of Choice: Valley of the Shadow

And together, we are going to find perspective. She looks at me, her eyes wandering up and down. She’s sizing me up. She’s analyzing.
“Care for a cigarette?” she asks, seducing me.
“Sure,” I say casually as she hands me a Virginia Slims. “So where’s our destination?”
“Right up there, sweetheart,” she says, never breaking character.
“Sweetheart?” I ask, unhappy with her choice of cigarettes. “You don’t know me very well.”
She titters.
“I was going to say the same to you. Come.”
“Oh, I plan to,” I whisper.

And she ashes out the cigarette with her eight-inch incentives and I flick mine onto the street to let it slowly burn out—die.
And I’d kill to wash my hands right now.

We walk into this elegant apartment complex and pass by a set of elevators. “I love taking the stairs,” she says. “I find I do some of my best thinking there.”
We walk up a few flights and I say, “So, what are you thinking now?”
She pauses, stares at the region below my waste and says, “I’m thinking about how big your cock is.”
And I laugh.
“Well, don’t worry; I’ve never left a girl unsatisfied.”
She stops, takes another gander at my physique and says, “I don’t doubt that at all, Alex.”

She smiles and opens the door to her apartment—an elegantly designed suite, inundated with paintings, murals, statues and books. Often, in New York, I find myself amongst the intellectually elite, the yuppie intelligentsia.

She sets her keys on top of the counter and takes off her obnoxious fur coat.
“Would you like something to drink?”
And I’m already drunk; I didn’t think I’d be able to make it through the SA meeting sober, so I downed about a fifth of Jack beforehand. But fuck it; my liver will be worthless soon enough.
“Scotch, please.” I pause for a moment, thinking about the way I want mine prepared. “Straight.”

She sits down next to me on her Parisian leather sofa and hands me my drink.
“So, Alex.” She looks at me with unspeakable intrigue. “What is it that you do?”
“I’m a healer,” I say ambiguously.
“A healer? Don’t you say?” The curiosity bites fervently into her salacious mind as she asks, “What sort of healing do you do?”
“I heal the forlorn; I heal the empty, the lonely, the social pariahs.”
“Now, is that what you think I am? You think I’m lonely?” she asks defensively. “As you so politely put it.”
“I think anyone who invites someone up to her apartment without formally meeting them is lonely. We’re all searching for some sort of connection, to anyone, anything. So it’s safe to say you’ve invited me here to provide you with some sort of comfort.”
“Stability?”
“No, no” I say in between sips of the smooth—definitely expensive—Scotch. “I’m not here to show you how insignificant you are. I’m the exact opposite. I’m a change in pace. I’m a new experience. I’m…circumstantial.”

“So what type of circumstance do you think I’m in?”
I take out a vile filled with two gram bags of cocaine and ask, “May I?”
“Of course.”
“You?” I say as I card several lines on her chic coffee table. “Well, you’re at some sort of crossroads. You’re waiting on a corner, hoping some wandering soul can point you in the right direction. Now, I’m not here to point you in what I think is the right path; I’m just here to give you the map. It’s up to you to choose.”

“And what makes you think I’m ready to change?”
“Now change—”I take a swig of my scotch, snort a line of powdered heaven and continue, “Change is a funny thing. It can be compared to its material, tangible counterpart. We all hate change; we try to avoid it. We put it aside, imprison it in the confinement of our choosing. The truth is—we all need it in order to survive. When we acquire the right amount of change we can finally get what we truly want.” I snort two more lines and hand her the hundred-dollar bill. “We’re all just vagabonds out on the streets begging for change. But we really need to just get off our fat, lazy, pathetic asses and instigate. We control our own destinies.”

“Sounds a bit cliché don’t you think?”
“Actually, to me, it sounds quite revolutionary. It’s just so easy to say it, but to actually indulge in it, now that’s something truly radical.”

She takes my glass and places it on her marble table. She grabs the neck of my shirt and pulls me closer to her. Our lips, strangers, merely hovering over each other—they’re just dying to meet.
She whispers to me, “I think you might find that you are the one who’s going to experience change after tonight.”

And our lips meet with such force, such brutal, nocuous force that somehow compels me to back away.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, her nipples desperately trying to rip a hole through her translucent dress.
“I think you’re underestimating how fucked up I really am.”
“Well those handcuffs hardly leave room for ambiguity,” she titters.

And she guides me to her bedroom and throws me onto the bed, her nipples peering at me through her thin blouse. Her frame—skeletal, model-like. Her eyes—sapphire diamonds that illuminate the obscurity of the room. She’s a fallen angel, a rogue being waiting to devour my infinite soul. Horns replace the halo that hung low above her head.

She slowly, but elegantly, crawls over my body, her pacing reminiscent of the hands of a clock. She uses those hands to draw lines across my frame. She’s calling my penis to attention. She’s hitting the right notes in this musical coition. And soon she’ll be playing my flute, a classical rendition of Lucifer’s Tragedy.

A symphony rings across New York drowning out the sounds of the cars and people and streets. They are no longer screaming for perspective because they have found it here, in her.
And that’s where I am.

And she rides me with such elegance, such stylish sophistication, that I start to feel as though I’m not dressed for the occasion. We osculate with an urbanity that can only be accompanied by a wave of violins and lyres. The whole time, she is staring into my eyes and whispering—
“Do you feel it? Do you feel that, Alex? That’s change; it’s entering into you and burying itself deep inside your soul. It’s infiltrating your bloodstream and it’s swimming through your veins. Remember this moment. This is your turning point. There’s no going back now.”
And I know exactly what she’s talking about.

And I wake up to that ostentatious star, that peeping tom, just ogling me from a distance. I look over and Savonne is sitting up, smoking a cigarette. I don’t remember getting off. I don’t remember much. I don’t even feel any different.
I sit up and wipe the sleepies from my eyes.

Savonne looks at me with those devilish, angelic eyes and says, “Care for a cocktail?”
“Isn’t it a little early to start drinking?” I ask, still not fully awake.

She looks at me and laughs. She pops a couple of pills into her mouth, washes them down with a neat martini and says, “Don’t worry, once the change settles in, you’ll want one.”
And I know exactly what she’s talking about.

She drifts off the bed, naked, perfect, and hovers towards the bathroom. The shower turns on and steam escapes from the crack in the door. She sticks her head out and, with her index finger, she beckons me—using the same finger motion that one uses to tickle the necks of babies. But not the same finger motion I would use in a couple minutes to make her feel immortal.

“I’ll be there in a minute, beautiful,” I say while trying to collect my thoughts.
You see, my mind is wandering, much like the water vapors that swim through the modish room. I quickly pick up one of her medicine bottles and read the description.

Drug Name: Atripla
Active Ingredients: 600 mg of efavirenz, 200 mg of emtricitabine, and 300 mg of tenofovir DF)
Dosage: Take 1 Tablet, orally, once a day. Do not take with food.

The name sounds vaguely familiar, so I grab the next bottle.

Drug Name: Combivir
Active Ingredients: Lamivudine and Zidovudine
Dosage: Take 2 300mg Tablets, orally, twice a day. Do not take with food.

Zidovudine, also known as AZT, is a common drug used by HIV and AIDS patients, just one ingredient in her cocktail.

Shock begins to attack the very hub of my existence. It infiltrates my bloodstream, swirls around with such pretentious splendor, and finally camps out in the very depths of my being.

I throw the medicine bottle onto the floor, turn on the radio, and, in a drunken manner, sway to the bathroom where I find Savonne, naked and vulnerable.

I enter the shower and began to rub her shoulders. And as The Fugees are playing ‘Killing me Softly’ I’m filled with a brief sense of satisfaction because I find this edition more appropriate than Roberta Flack’s version.

I steadily move to the small of her back and wrap my hands around, bringing them up, past her soft, wet breasts and closer to her neck.
I caress her nape and say, “Do you feel it? Do you feel that, Savonne?
I turn her around and I begin to press my hands heavily against her neck. She starts to gasp for air.
Between gulps she screeches, like an old transistor radio, “What are you doing, Alex?”
“Do you feel that, Savonne? That’s change.” My grip matures as I persist, “It’s entering into you and burying itself deep inside your soul. It’s infiltrating your bloodstream and it’s swimming through your veins. Remember this moment. This is your turning point. There’s no going back now.”

And I can feel the life just escaping from her palpitating body. I can feel her pain, her dejection, her sorrow. Killing someone is just like kissing them—you can see right into their soul. And the control is almost intoxicating. After a few screeches and palpitations, she falls to the floor, lifeless, immortalized.

I quickly begin to wash her body. I rinse her vagina so that there are no signs of my DNA trapped inside her. I clean the tub so that it is spotless. I wash my prints from the medicine bottles, the glass of scotch I drank last night, the couch, and anything else I had touched the night before. I grab the sheets, glass, and medicine bottles and place them in a large black duffle bag. I grab her lifeless body and throw it into an oversized garbage bag. I put my clothes back on and take the bags with me.

The bags in hand, I catch a cab to the only place I knew no one would find it. A place where things are brought to die. The place where it all began.
This place in the ways.

I had the cab drop me off in the heart of the Meadowlands and then I burn the bags and all their contents. The flames dance in the daylight. The sun just watches me from afar, witnessing all that I had done.

And I walk away from the fire and ashes, like a phoenix; I am reborn, my soul, anew.
My writing is mass murder. Basically all I do is dash down the street, pen in had, and fire blindly, as fast as I can pull the trigger, into the crowd. And these are my subjects; to me they are all just walking bull's-eyes.

My name is Hayden Santiago. I am a murderer, an artist—my specialty—not creation, but destruction. And in the same respect, I am a healer. I heal the forlorn; I heal the empty, the lonely, the unaccepted—and Savonne, I know, will never hurt again.

Chapter 18

Hooker In Vitro (part 1)

06/26/07

So here I am, dick-deep, in the middle of an orgy and I’m feeling it—that rush of whatever. I’m about to bust a semi-truck sized load into this beautiful bohemian when I look over and realize this guy is staring at me. He’s drilling this bitch that’s hooking up with the slut that I’m fucking from behind, and he’s staring right into my eyes. I quickly look away, but I can still feel his lurid eyes looming over my entire design. My finger movements and thrusts start to slow down until I’m just standing there with wet fingers and a droopy dick. One girl keeps shouting for me to thrust harder, and the other girl is slapping me because she’s about to climax and my fingers are politely suspended inside of her. And he’s still staring at me.

I stop everything entirely and I begin to look at him. He has this eerie smirk that swathes his face as he continues to drill that bitch. And I’m angry as fuck.

“Whatcha lookin’ at buddy?” I say as I look away from the chaos that is beneath me. And taunting him I continue, “You want some of this. You want my big cock in your fuckin’ ass?” Is that what you want, you fuckin’ fanook?” And I use that term only because the word fag just isn’t kosher to me. There are times when I can be PC.

“Whoa buddy—relax,” he says as if everything is copasetic.
“No you fuckin’ relax!” My anger manifests into something that I don’t understand, something I’ve never seen or felt before. “I don’t appreciate you oglin’ my goods while you’re dick-deep inside of some bitch. You’re makin’ me feel real uncomfortable right now. So I suggest you close your eyes or focus on that whore you’re fuckin’ or I’m going to come over there and beat the shit out of you till all the blood that’s in your dick is pouring from your fuckin’ nose.”

And the girl looks up, sweaty and winded, and says, “Who you calling a whore?”
And spent from the situation, I slip out of her gracefully. The sound of bodily juices escaping her vagina silences the room as I say, “You know what? Fuck this shit; I don’t need this queero peepin’ at my masculinity while I’m trying to get off. I’m leaving.”

The girl I was fucking looks up at me and says, “Fine, we don’t need you.”
I bend down, look her in the eyes and say, “Fine, but don’t forget who made you come. A fuckin’ dildo can’t hit the spots my dick can.” And I bend down even lower until my eyes are fixed on her sagging breasts—victims to gravity—and say, “I control your orgasms, so keep screaming, but it won’t drown out the daunting shriek of insecurity.”

Mike, Allison, Casey, Alexandra, and Sara, they’re all recovering sex addicts. Every Wednesday night after their meeting they all meet up at Casey’s and collectively fuck until they’re spent. Their second pole, Matt, moved to Phoenix so I’ve been filling in for the last two months, if you know what I mean. It wasn’t much of a commitment since Casey lives right down the hall from me. She’s the one who invited me in the first place.

Casey’s been going to SA meetings for the last year now and says she’s really making improvements. She’s been trying to get me to come for months…to the meeting that is. But, I know, I’m no sex addict. What I have is different than what anyone there has. They’re all just a bunch of sad, lonely saps looking for answers in pubic holes. They’re unable to control their desires, so they attend these senseless gatherings in an effort to acquire some sort of sexual salvation. No, what I have is different. It can’t be cured with prayers and a thirty second hug. I’m curing my illness; the process is what gets me off.

I walk into my room and trip over a suitcase; it’s Greta’s money. I pick it up and lay it on my bed. I open the suitcase full of cash, put on my gloves, and begin to lay it, vertically, on top of my satin sheets. Fives and tens, twenties and hundreds—dead presidents just staring me in the face. Thousands of eyes just looking into my soul.

I close my eyes and I can see her—Greta; she’s nailed to a cross. Her only garments are a crown of thorns and a light sheath that covers her frame. A beam of light stretches from behind the hills and shines directly upon her design. Her breasts, unable to hide, begin to perk up as a gust of wind swims smoothly through the air, and envelops her body. And I’m starting to get hard again. It all seems so symbolic. And I know what I have to do now.

All of a sudden, I hear a knock at the door. It’s Casey; she’s naked. So I let her in.
Still winded she says, “Sorry about what happened back there. Mike can get really into it sometimes.”

“No worries,” I say assuredly. “I’m just a tired as hell and I want to get some sleep.”
“Oh, oh definitely. Right. Sure. I completely understand; it’s just—” She pauses for a moment and waits for me to say something, but as I continue to look at her, she spastically persists, attempting to drown out the effects of our awkward silence, “Well it’s just I really needed someone to talk to and well—you know—the only talking that really goes on in there is a cacophony of moans and a few oh babies.”

And I’m staring at the cash on the bed, then I’m looking into her eyes—they’re blue. I give her a long t-shirt so she can cover up as she strips down.

“Whoa…what’s with all the cash? Did you just rob a bank or something?” she asks half-jokingly.
“You could say that.”
She pauses for a moment to determine whether I am just being facetious and says, “And the furry cuffs?”
“Long story,” I say, keeping my mask on for insecurity purposes.
“You’re quite a peculiar one, aren’t you Hayden?”
“I’m different than most people, if that’s what you mean. So…what’s on your mind?” I ask, alluding to the fact that I want to be left alone, but doing so in a civil manner.

And she pauses. She wants to articulate this the best way she can. She takes a deep breath and says, “Well…it’s just…I’m sick of lying to myself. I’m going to these SA meetings and I’m listening to all these people talk about how they fuck anything that moves. They have sex in airplane bathrooms and Cadillac Devilles and confession boxes. And it all just seems endless to me. A bit pointless,” she says slurring her words, talking like a Valley girl. “When does it stop? When do they get better? They never explain their motives for doing such things. It’s always because they’re horny. They can’t control their urges and they fuck and they fuck and they fuck. It just seems more like a drug than anything. And I’ve tried going cold turkey; I’ve tried fucking in moderation, but nothing seems to work. I can’t go to bed at night without a special friend to keep me company, whether that be some random guy I picked up at a bar or a six-speed vibrator. I keep a pocket rocket with me at all times. I mean, if I’m on a train, alone, I’ll take him out and get off,” she adds in an attempt to show me show her depth. But I know that everyone is just a prime number, having no common factor except one. And she pleads, “I need to know why people do this. I need to know why I do this. Then and only then can I be cured…I think.”

And I respond, “Find the reason and then kill it at the source.”
“Yes! Exactly!” she shouts, now unreservedly excited. “And I know you never go to the meetings. You seem to be handling things differently. And I dunno…maybe I need a change in perspective. Maybe I need to find another way of going about things.”

She’s a quirky girl, overwrought with anxiety. Her words tend to spit out at a cheetah’s pace.
And I solemnly respond, “That’s exactly what you need.”

“So indulge me for a minute,” she says eagerly. “Give me perspective.”
“Well…it’s not that simple. I can’t just pinpoint a specific reason for why I do what I do.”
“But you know why?”
“Yea.”
“So just tell me how you...I dunno, came to that discovery. Just tell me anything that’ll point me in the right direction.”

“Just have a seat right next to Benjamin Franklin and I’ll explain everything.”
I head over to my desk and pop in a few methamphetamines; it’s going to be a long night. Then, I grab a dutch and a few nugs of Jack Herer and start to roll a blunt.

“You see—” I take the plastic wrapper off the blunt and continue, “I’m writing a book.”
“What about?” she asks as she rests her head on her hands.
“I’ll get to that,” I say. “Now listen, before you can fully grasp my mental workings I’m going to have to tell you a little bit about my past. I’m going to explain to you every sexual experience I’ve indulged in that has given me perspective—that has had a significant impact on me as a being, as an individual.” I unravel the cancer paper from the blunt, lick the edge of the outer leaf, take it off, lay it on my desk, and continue, “I need you to understand that the things I’m about to tell you might be a bit shocking, a bit gruesome,” I say, trying to scare her as I unravel the second leaf, sprinkle in two grams of weed and a quarter gram of coke, rewrap the blunt, and lick it closed. “I need to know that you aren’t going to freak out and call the police or anything. You understand? You can’t tell anyone else about this.”
“I understand.”

And here we are, sitting amongst our founding fathers, smoking a fat woobanger, discussing perspective, discussing control. I’m telling her every single detail, every fucking occurrence; I’m paraphrasing my book. I’m testing the waters. And she doesn’t seem to be bothered. She’s unaffected. Fuck, she’s intrigued. And it is at this moment that I feel alive. I feel the same way I felt after telling my story to my late roommate; I feel eternal.
Infinite.

Now imagine this feeling on a massive scale. Imagine: the moment I publish this book, people all around the world are gaining perspective. Not a different one, not a new viewpoint—they’re gaining perspective. It is unique. It is absolute. After understanding this, people will know that it merely stands alone. There are no other ways of viewing life. There’s the wrong way and then there’s truth, not truths, but truth. And then all will feel eternal.
Infinite.

And we’re fucking and talking until that great burning ball of nothing swaggers across the sky and obnoxiously threatens our pupils, giving us nothing but a brief realization that the night is over. And we both know these sorts of deviances can’t be done in broad daylight.
Another sleepless night.

When you have no problems sleeping, you constantly witness the death of each day's life. But when you have insomnia, you are always present for its rebirth. Ay! There is nothing more galvanizing than a sunrise, even when you are too exhausted to move.

She scurries off wearing nothing but my Led Zeppelin t-shirt and a newfound perspective on life. I head over to my computer and begin to type—

And death seems, at this point, so innocent to me. It hides in the shadows as to not show its vulnerability. And yet, I have found such an innocent peace, which burrows its way 6ft in the ground to drown the sound of the deceased. Now, I control the very fucking soul of this irreparable beast. Death be not proud, at my presence, you bowed, for my vengeance is loud to say the least. Death, your effect is trite, for you do not fright even in the thickness of night. But I will live on, eternally, in the words that I write. Death, you cannot hide from that swaggering ball in the sky. Your creator’s a whore, you shall be no more; death thou shalt die.

Chapter 16

4/29/07

Mrs. Robinson


I wake up in a cold sweat, breathing heavily, naked. And I look to my left—it’s the monster, she’s fast asleep.

We all have monsters in our closets, but I have one in my bed.

It is at this moment, I realize that my arm is trapped beneath her silky frame. And I’m thinking about my therapist. I’m thinking about the endless list of crude sexual acts.
The coyote.

Not Call Off Your Old Tired Ethics— the sex worker activist organization, whose soul purpose is to decriminalize prostitution. I’m thinking about a different coyote. It’s what you do when you wake up next to a horrifically unattractive broad after a long night of drinking. You realize you’re arm is trapped underneath her, and the only way you can give her the slip is if you gnaw off your own arm. But I don’t want to get blood on my sheets; I just bought them.

Yet, I have been in this very situation countless times before, and I have a particular, foolproof method.
The Tuck and Roll.
I begin to hold her close, and then gently roll her away, while pushing my imprisoned arm against the bed. I move with her, rather than push her away, that way she stays asleep and I’m able to free my arm—the only thing that’s asleep at the moment. Yet, as I’m attempting this method, the phone rings something loud and obnoxious.

She wakes up and looks at me with those fiery eyes and her aptly scorched countenance. I’m too sober for this, for her.

I wipe down my phone with a sanitizing wipe and answer it. It’s my father; he’s crying hysterically. And in between pants and wails he tells me that my grandmother is deathly ill; she’s in the hospice and my father wants me to go and visit the Crypt Keeper.
I assure him that I will and hang up the phone.

“What’s wrong?” sleeping ugly asks, now wide-awake.
“It’s my grandmother, she’s going to die,” I respond nonchalantly.
“Well are you going to go see her?” she asks as if she believes I truly have any real human emotions, as if I care.
“No.”
“Well—well why not?” she asks, unable to fathom such candor.
“It’s part of life,” I say. “She should’ve died decades ago.”
“I think you should go. It’s the least you can do; she’s your grandmother,” she says unconvincingly.
But I just want her to leave.

“You’re right, I guess. I guess your right. Fine. Fine I’ll go visit the old hag.”
“Do you want me to come, you know, for comfort?”
She came last night—that was…sufficient.
“No that’s ok; this is something I need to do for myself,” I say admirably. “I’m going to head out now.”
“Ok, well do you want my number, to call me in case of anything? To talk about the book even?” she asks desperately, like so many others.

And…Action.
“No—no it’s better that I just remember you for who you were last night, not for who you really are. That…well that doesn’t concern me. Good luck though.”
“What about a quick one before you go?” she persists.
“No…I’m too sober for that right now,” I say without ever looking back at her, at my past.

And I leave her there naked, with her smooth, silky skin and her ugly insecurities. A beautiful swan—now an ugly duckling. And I leave her there with the pattern of pain meticulously stitched across her face. It wraps her soul, topped with a bow, left under a fucking Christmas tree. I think she understands the book now. And I leave her there to sulk in her own shame, so that she knows to never fuck with me again, to never make me feel helpless again. That car accident made me realize the control I have over my own life can be taken away. It’s fleeting; it was fleeting.
Never again.

As I enter the hospice, I am bombarded with the stench of disinfectant, piss, must, and the metallic smell of blood. It reeks of death.
What’s a four letter word for fecal matter?
But I’m drunk as hell and my dick burns from all the hand sanitizer I put on it during my drive here.
I pull out some more hand sanitizer and generously apply it to my hands and arms. Then, I put on my famed pair of gloves.

I’m walking through the main room and dodging old people dressed appropriately in hospital gowns and slippers. The slit in the back reveals their old, wrinkly butts, drowsy from the exhaustion of life. The sagging of their asses is much like the growth rings of a tree—the more they droop the older they are.

And I’m lost as shit, because my grandmother is delusional as fuck. She has changed her name about three times since I was born and I have no idea which celebrity she thinks she is now.
She was the one who had shown me the beauty of Ayn Rand, James Joyce, John Steinbeck and George Eliot.

I’m wandering from room to room, peering through door cracks, and seeing old men beating off to Baywatch, waving bottles of Viagra in the air, praising the magic blue pills. I see elderly women knitting quilts with Nazi signs surreptitiously lining the outer edges of a message—I love my grandchildren. Love dressed in the costume of a heart.
What’s a seven letter word for irony?

I’m stumbling from room to room, my breath reeking of Southern Comfort—such an appropriate name.

I get to room twenty-three, and I’m thinking about symbolism. And there, in the cold, uninviting room is a woman in her seventies, looking at a photo album—snapshots of her life. She doesn’t seem to notice me. I wait a few minutes; I observe her from afar. I’m searching for the right moment to enter into her life.
A trail of tears travels from the base of her eyes and meanders down her cheeks to the edges of her lips. She sniffs.

I enter slowly and stand directly in front of her hospital bed. She never looks up. Another trail forms.
I sit down at the foot of her bed, never saying a word.

She coughs and utters, “They don’t visit me anymore…my grandchildren.” She never looks up, and says, “My oldest, he and I used to go to the shore in the summer. He would run around, the sun shining over us, and he would collect shells and sticks and he would build these intricate sandcastles right along the edge of the beach. He would spend hours building and shaping and molding. And I would watch him from a distance, observing the progression of his masterpiece. You know, I find that to be the most beautiful part—the process. It’s where the artists are most vulnerable. They’re looking deep inside themselves, past the lies and the façade and they’re finding something unique, something worth sharing. They’re finding themselves.”

I take out a clove cigarette.
“Do you mind?” I ask politely.
“No dear…actually may I have one?” she asks in an attempt to seem youthful.
“Of course,” I say without hesitation, knowing damn-well that if she’s in this place, she’ll be dead any moment anyway.
But I’m praying to a heedless God the cigarette won’t kill her.

And she coughs something mighty and continues, “And when he finally finished his work of art—his sandcastle—he would look at it with great appreciation. He found a peace in himself that wasn’t there in the beginning, and he would smile—this big beautiful smile—and then do nothing. He realized his work was finished and he would just sit there and do nothing. And a few hours later, the tide would come inching in until it reached the gates of the castle. It would pillage his masterpiece, leaving behind nothing but a mound of sand, a few scattered shells, and some sticks poking through the dune. And that peace disappeared. I could see a bright, glimmering pain in the twinkle of his eye. Then, he would get up and start all over again.” And she ashes the cigarette into a cup of tapioca pudding and continues, “You see—you have to understand—an artists’ work is not immortal. Everything in life has an end; everything dies. A few strokes of paint on a canvas or sticks in the sand can’t change that.”

And I’ve found my new objective; I want her to be a part of my masterpiece. I want her to be a few strokes on my canvas. She’s nearing the gates of death and I want her to experience pain one last time. I want to give her my perspective before she dies. And her life will be but a few lines in my work of art, a few sticks in the sand, before the waves come and take her away.

Name: Greta Cubicula
Age: 76
Height: 5’1
Weight: 135
Eye Color: Blue
Hair Color: Grey
Perfume of Choice: Formaldehyde
Book of Choice: A collection of photo albums.

And it’s all about perspective.
She hands me a picture of her grandson and says, “You know, you remind me a lot of him. You have that same look in your eyes.”
I’ve never seen this woman before.

She hands me a picture of her husband and says, “And this is my husband, William, recently deceased. Look at his eyes; he’s got that same twinkle.” She looks admirably at the photo, which is in black and white, and old, but—for some reason—survives in good condition, which is more than I can say for Greta. “I loved him…love him.”

I look at the picture and I see this youthful man, reminiscent of a young James Dean, with perfect teeth and a head full of hair.
A white smile in a dark room.

I put out my cigarette, take off my gloves, and wash my hands in her sink.
She puts out her cigarette in the uneaten tapioca pudding and continues, “He was the most beautiful man I’ve ever met. He was strong and audacious—much like you. He had a cock like a stallion. We would spend our nights just making love…fucking till the sun came, until we came.”
And I’m caught off guard. I quickly learn that this woman is nothing more than a perverted grandmother. A freak in between hospital sheets.

“Have you ever practiced tantric sex?” she says without thinking twice.
Now I’m beginning to feel comfortably uncomfortable.
“No ma’am, I can’t say that I have.”
“Please, call me Greta.”
And she talks like my grandmother.
“Okay Greta—”

“You see, the thing about tantric sex is, its very fundamental features revolve around the experience of subtle energies within our sensual incarnation, and the accessing of these energies both to enhance pleasure and challenge our egotism into its dissolution. You see, tantric sexuality often cultivates ecstatic consciousness as well as increased spiritual awareness of this erotic consciousness that pervades our human embodiment as well as everything that contextualizes this embodiment.”
She sounds like a sexual Britannica. A licentious Webster. And I think I love her.

“The key element you want to accomplish here is to have both partners climax at the exact same moment,” she says, illustrating her words using hand motions. “This does not necessarily involve coital communication so much as it requires a remarkable sexual understanding between two sensual beings. It transcends this concept of just getting off, this notion of external pleasure, into a realm where ecstasy becomes internal, ethereal.”

And I’m at half-mast. I realize that it’s time for me to step up my game, play the role.
And…Action.
“You know, you’re a very beautiful woman,” I say in a familiar voice.
“Oh, thank you young man, you are very flattering, but you don’t have to be so nice. I know that I look way beyond my years,” she says, her excitement now transforming into melancholy. “I’m nothing more than a lonely woman wrought with depression.”
And she breaks down.

“These damn wrinkles drape my face…they mask the beauty that’s underneath—my youth; they cover up my contentment. I’m in no place to acquire the gift or the grace of a face lift.” And she looks up at the ceiling, trying desperately to capture the tears at the base of her eyes so that they stream back to their source, but cries, “You see, the world’s a lonely place, my boy, dreadfully lonely when you’re old.”
And I’m thinking—we’re all connected, intertwined.

“You see, Greta, it’s not about outer beauty to me. Much like tantric sex, it’s about this—this inner magnificence that generates an understanding between two sensual beings. You see, when you close your eyes, your partner is flawless; your partner can be anyone,” I say, trying to sound like her. “But it is at that point of incision that everything on the outside is meaningless. It is at that moment of coitus, we transcend that notion of external beauty. I can see you for who you really are, and that’s all that matters.”

“Young man, you’re trying to seduce me.”
I laugh.
“Well, aren’t you?”
“I’m merely trying to have a suitable conversation, that’s all.”

She looks at me with those wise, kind eyes and says, “Do I know you? I don’t recall ever meeting you, but there’s a vague familiarity that presents itself when you’re in the room.”
“I get that all the time,” I say while winking with the same wise, kind eyes.

“Well, why are you here?” she asks with such impatient curiosity.
Unable to answer I respond, “Excuse me?”
“Why are you here? At this hospice, at this moment.”
“Well, I don’t really remember why. I guess—I guess it never really was that important,” I lie, sort of.
“Then, I’m glad it wasn’t. You know, no one ever visits me anyway. No one of importance. It’s nice to see somebody real for a change.”

“Real?” I ask, fearing for this woman’s sanity.
“Yes…real. For some strange reason I get visitors who seem, to me, to be nothing more than a figment of my imagination, as if the conversations we’ve had have all been dreamt up by me and my withering mind,” she says, closing her eyes, then opening them methodically, trying to convince herself I’m not just an hallucination.
“Well I can assure you I’m real. And it was a pleasure talking with you, Greta.”
“Do you have to leave so soon?”
“Don’t worry I’ll be back tonight,” I assure her. “I’ll bring you a nice meal and an exquisite bottle of champagne. But could you do something for me?”
“What is it dear?” she asks excitedly.
“Wear your hospital’s best for me. Slip into your best hospital gown and try and remember some of those tricks you were telling me about,” I say half-jokingly.
And I wink at her and she smiles, her tongue gazing at me through gaps in her teeth.
And…Cut.

Next thing I know, I’m driving down Boulevard East going sixty-five miles per hour, my head out the window, tears escaping my eyes, dancing in reverse.
What’s an eight letter word for boundless?
Next thing I know, I’m in my car on the Turnpike, sitting next to two bottles of Dom Perignon, one empty.
Transference.

Next thing I know, I’m swaggering down the hospice corridor, looking for a Greta Cubicula. No one has heard of her. And I’m starting to believe I really am going crazy. I am thinking that my lack of sleep has finally caught up to me. And for an instant, I feel like God, as if every event in my life up until now has been a tale of fiction—something I’ve created, as if I’m just writing a contemporary Bible. A neo-Old Testament. And I’m feeling infinite.

But at that exact moment of transcendence, I stumble into what looks like Greta’s room. Bottle in hand, I greet her with open arms and pants button.
And she looks at me cautiously and says, “You’re drunk.”
“So?” I ask, slurring my one syllable word. “I feel nothing.”
“It’s only temporary, my dear.”
“Everything is temporary remember Greta?” I laugh.
“Well then, sweetie, pour me a glass.”

I reach into my bag of goodies and hand her a Peking Duck in a doggie bag and two Percocets. She smiles. Then, I set out two champagne flutes and pop open the Dom. Her smile now engulfs her face.
“Let’s make a toast,” she shouts youthfully.
“To—to what?”
“To inner beauty,” she says, now screaming.
“To inner pleasure,” I shout at the same decibels.

And the flutes, they clash, as the champagnes splash, like waves, they pass until the last drops trickle down the side of the glass—remnants of our empty pasts.

And she handles herself now with a loose bluster that she once had when she was younger, more naïve. And I wonder, how old she is under that gown. But I want her now.
What’s a twelve letter word for destruction?

And the director yells, ‘Action!’
“So…Gret-t-t-ta…you going show me some of those moves?” I say like an old school, black pimp.
“Moves, my dear?” she asks, utterly confused.
“Hand me your glass,” I say in an attempt to regain my composure.

I fill her flute to the brim, realizing that I’m just not getting the part down. She kills the champagne in one swift sip. A sip that rivals a gulp. And she stares me down.

I’m staring up at the ceiling fixtures, then down at the waves of her eyes. I want them to splash down her sandy cheeks; I want to destroy whatever is left of the masterpiece, of her beauty. Right now she’s but a mere chalet in the sand, and I won’t stop till there’s nothing left of her. Not a mound, not a shell, not a stick. I’m going to give her but a taste of immortality; and at that moment of intransience, I’m going to drown her in her own ignorance. And she will finally feel the sharp grip of mortality.

And I grill her beautifully burning, aquatic eyes and say, “I want to make you feel young again…feel alive again.”
But just for a moment.

“Ah, now I know you’re just an illusion. A fabrication of the mind.”
And she thinks she’s playing God.
“I like the gloves; they’re very…fitting,” she says, attempting to give me a compliment.
“No glove, no love.” I shout in such a stupid, drunken voice.
She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t get it.

I set the glasses on the nightstand, lean in towards her and breathe in her loneliness. I lean in a little closer, my lips touching hers, and I taste her despair. My hands steadily move toward her mound and I feel her dejection. I know this feeling all too well. It’s the only thing real I’ve felt since my first love, my first true love.

Her head hangs back and she silently screams, the fictional words reverberating through the colorless room. And her breasts stare back at me, drooping like anemic flowers. And I enter her gracefully, slipping in with such ease, her rosebud moist like a virgin’s lips. Like an icicle on a grille. Verily, it’s the only thing that hasn’t really drooped with age. A gothic Vogel with cathedral shaped arches. A baroque pussy with elaborate drapery. Her hands clasp my arms; she’s holding on for dear life. And this could never be closer to the truth.

And my words echo, “What is it that keeps you from going, keeps you from quitting, just leaving this place behind?”
“I guess—I guess I’ve just been waiting for this moment…waiting for you to come back.”

And when you close your eyes, your partner can be anyone. But she doesn’t realize—the soul is still there, it still pervades this misty, calloused air.

Yet, she continues to scream, “Oh, William! I knew you’d be back. My stallion. My savior, my William.”

And she’s nearing the point of no return, and I’m whispering into her ears her requiem.
“I know what death is like; I feel it in my dreams—A rush of blood, a touch of love, a tearing at the seams. Bounded by the hands of death, just drowning in his voice.
I'm trying desperately to catch my breath, but my arms were lost at the deathly cost of a butcher knife's rejoice.”

And she moans.
And the eulogy continues, “So sell me what I've come to buy. How much does athanasia cost? A broken leg, a weepy eye, a heart that I, as a child, crossed?”
I’m digging deep; I’m razing her soul—mounds of dirt before an epitaph. Everyone just wants to be remembered. Remember?

And my macabre voice sings, “A word as simple as goodbye could suture this glowing heart of gold. And as riches pour from inside, I, decrepit, abhor the old.”
And the vultures they tap at her window. They salivate at the very sight of her elastic flesh. The vultures’ eyes grow wide, expanding like rubber balloons. The jet-black hue of the room, I think, soon became the same as a blink.

And the chilling choir chants, “I sip, in vain, from this fountain hoping to find my youth, but I couldn't find the helm of time, I only found the truth.”

And bubbles sway inside her IV. A medicated cauldron for the old hag. Lake Placid in a bag.
And the vultures croon, “So bade goodbye these hazel eyes, this age old lie is a grave demise. So pay the price and bathe in sighs, for tonight, the light hides from the skies.”

A Solar eclipse.

And for a moment, I shade the people who hate the sun’s disparaging rays.
And to the sun I scream—

You great ball of nothing in the sky, you’re just as shy as the clouds are high. No thank you, sun, I think you’re done, for I’m the one who knows who dies.

And I murmur to Greta, “And your last breath, it reeks of death. These bones are left, alone, bereft.”

And she collapses. And the electrocardiogram slows down till it’s nothing more than a few mounds on a screen.

And I whisper softly into her left ear, “Tell me Greta, is it God that chokes the hopeful throat to a celestial place, profound?”

And I whisper into her right ear—a whisper that rivals a scream, “Or does Mother Nature write the note to an apathetic ground?"

Here lies Greta Cubicula: A Pervert, A Loving Grandmother to No One, to Nothing, A Mortal.

And I’m remembering those sandcastles, and how much I hated the waves for ruining my masterpieces.

And her eyes roll back, while I continue to whisper, “I am the Sistine of all your dreams, my hands unclean, with what’s between. I am the codeine and you’re the fiend. I am the flat line on your machine. Your life—it is meaningless to me. Hayden Santiago, not darling, not sweetie, what you get is what you see, a figment of your reverie, a masterpiece.”
Satisfaction Guaranteed.

And I look over at the director, but he’s too speechless to speak.

The Invisible Woman

04/28/07

Just the thought of someone lying on an operating table, waiting with bated breath, counting backwards…
Ten…
And thinking about the pending events,
Nine…
And thinking—
“This is the last time I will ever look or feel this ugly.
Eight…
This is the last time I will ever hate myself.
Seven…
And when I wake up, I will start a whole new life. I will be reborn.
Six…
I will exit this womb of self-deprecation. I will no longer be the ugly ducking—this avian monster that people laugh at.
Five...
I will be a swan with long and elegant features, graceful in nature.
Four…
Cygnus Bellum.”
Three…
And I’m thinking about “the Desecration of Leda.”
And I’m shouting—
“Tuércele el cuello al cisne!”
Two…
And she’s thinking,
“I will no longer be ostracized!”
One…
“And people will want me.”
And…Dream.

And here I am, walking on the cold marble floor, observing the self-deprecators. I’m analyzing them with my peripherals—women with emaciated lips, drowsy breasts, corpulent arms, and weary cheeks—slight imperfections. These people, these monstrosities, give life to these deficiencies. They allow these flaws to control their lives. But I, Hayden Motherfucking Santiago, want to show them a life free of a scalpel’s fetters. I want to show them a life that they can truly have control over. They’re all just taxis, thinking that they are in control but really they are just taking the route that the driver chooses to betake them, never having power over their life, while I’m a bus, following a self-set route, controlling everyone else’s destinations, never allowing anyone to influence my expedition. I am my own compass.

And this country talks of freedom as if it's something profound and real, as if it is something we’ve obtained. Slavery has always existed and it still does today, even in America. We've traded in this practice of exhaustive labor perpetuated through slavery for a contemporary version that has been birthed through our lack of individualism, our need for constraints, our lust for morals. We are all slaves. We are slaves to trends, to advertisements (business propaganda), to morals and religion. We're slaves to our addictions. And freedom seems just as feasible, just as attainable, as salvation. We're all just using democracy as a 21st century Moses. And there we are, wandering through the dessert, building our own idols, contracting God-prescribed diseases, dying without ever knowing the true purpose of our journey. My slave name is Hayden Santiago, and I am a product of America.

As I look around the room I can see doctors—the Michelangelos of medicine—spend countless hours carving up their masterpieces. They take such unsightly things and transform them into something striking, something statuesque. A beautiful lie. These doctors allow people to externalize their self-hatred. I admire them for their control.

Everyone is just looking for a quick fix. Instant Gratification. We're all junkies with our respective addictions.
It’s perfectly normal to want to be perfect.

And I’m observing the women in the waiting room.
The overweight.
They’re depressed because they’re fat, and they’re fat because they’re depressed—a vicious exchange. They experience delectation through delectables. They spend their nights finding solace in their friends, Ben and Jerry, wrist-deep in a pint of Chunky Munky, waiting by the phone, wondering why he won’t call them back. And they eat, and they heal. And every night, they look in the mirror and cry—
“Why isn’t the diet working?”
And one day, having saved up enough money, they will come to this office and schedule a liposuction operation, because that will make them happy. They figure having a few tubes shoved into them beats hovering over a toilet for the rest of their lives. And I guess they’re right.

And I’m observing the women in the waiting room.
The models.
They’re upset because they didn’t get the cover of Maxim; it’s because their boobs aren’t big enough; they want a size C. They spend their nights finding solace in some random fuck, a dick deep inside of them, waiting for him to come, asking him what he thinks of their breasts, never wondering if he’ll call back. And they fuck, and they heal. And every night, they look in the mirror and cry—
“Why can’t my boobs be bigger?”
And one day, in between shoots, they will come to this office and schedule a breast augmentation, because that will make them happy. They figure having a tiny scar underneath their breasts beats living in a duplex in West New York for the rest of their lives. And I know they’re right.

And I’m observing the women in the waiting room.
The elderly.
They’re upset because their husbands left them for some twenty-one year old bimbo, probably one of the models sitting in this very waiting room. And they want to look young again. They spend their nights holding elegant galas, dressed in ’50s Chanel, finding solace in a bottle of 78’ Montrachet, wrist-deep in their husbands’ pockets, waiting in bed, watching Law & Order, wondering why their spouses are still at work at one in the morning. And they drink, and they heal. And every night, they look in the mirror and cry—
“Why can’t I be young again?”
And one day, while their husbands are away on business, they will come to this office and schedule a face-lift, and some Botox, because that will make them happy. They figure they’ve found a new definition of beauty in such meticulous destruction. The Puddle of Youth in a syringe. And it doesn’t matter if they’re right; they won’t live long enough to regret this mistake.

And I’m stumbling into the recovery room, observing the casualties of this war on identity. I see a room full of lies, full of self-loathing, full of desperation. It reeks of it—this yearning to be loved. The room is a heavenly white. The patients are divided by a single sheath—a cloud to shade the light, the truth, the epidemic.

As I’m swaggering down the isles like a fucking drunkard, I see this women lying there, reading Sylvia Plath, desperately searching for some kind of truth. And I’m hoping she only discovers pain. I hope she sees that everything she has experienced in her life is all that exists. There is nothing else.

Her face is shrouded in bandages, a conspicuous veil. Mummified, she sits there, nose-deep in this book, and I can’t tell whether or not she understands, but I’ll be happy to clear things up for her.
I approach her, in all my glorious splendor, and initiate a conversation, a sermon if you will.
“Any good?” I ask, pretending as if our acquaintance is completely unprompted.
“Excuse me?” she says in utter confusion and complete surprise.
“Is the book any good?” I clarify. “You’ve been reading it incessantly for the last few days, so I assume it must be faintly compelling.”
“Um, do I know you?” she hesitates, guarding the emotional fortress built around her heart.
“Hayden Santiago,” I say, pausing for a moment. “I’m just here to comfort a friend who has also just had some surgery done…I’m sorry; I just find this place to be a bit discomforting.”
“Yeah, tell me about it.”

She looks down at her book again, attempting to sever the ties at their source.
She sees that I am still standing at the foot of her bed, then tries to get up for a drink of water unsuccessfully.
“Here, let me get that for you,” I say, displaying human characteristics—acting.

She looks at me with kind, limpid eyes—the only thing that still exists unscathed on her pillaged face—and thanks me. As she stands up, I examine her frame. She’s tall, about 5’11, blonde hair, blue eyes, roughly a 36 C, with long, sleek legs, and tiny feet. She vaguely reminds me of Diana. And that’s when I know—this is my new objective.

Name: Aviya Simone
Age: 20
Height: 5’11
Weight: 120
Eye Color: Blue
Hair Color: Blonde
Perfume of Choice: D&G Light Blue
Book of Choice: The Bell Jar

I am absolutely certain this matters.
We start talking about Kafka and hopelessness, Hemmingway and suicide, Salinger and innocence. And we’re talking about the accident.
“—My face has never fully recovered from the incident, and neither has my self esteem.”
And I visit her everyday and we talk intimately about everything.
“—And I’m bound by this constant, this constant desire to love...to be loved, but this is a face even a mother can’t love.”

And she’s had facial reconstructive surgery, one of three. She knows she’s hideous, but from the neck down, she’s angelic. As she’s talking, I’m staring down at her perky breasts and her Barbie doll design. Right now she’s merely the blueprint to a masterpiece, an unfinished tour de force.
And she speaks (reeks) of regret.

“You know—”And she pauses briefly, fighting tears back, speaking in a labored tone, “I spent—I spent my whole life in size two evening gowns and bathing suits? I lived beauty pageant to beauty pageant, standing on a stage, awaiting judgment, lights reflecting my every flaw. It was as if I had died and finally reached the gates of heaven; I was waiting for God’s final fucking decision. Everything I had done until that time was to be evaluated objectively.”
And she takes a couple sips of water. She looks around for something to eat, grabs a cup of pudding and a spoon and stuffs her mouth through a small slit in her bandages.
And she says, her mouth full of pudding, “At that exact moment, nothing else mattered. Not the fact that, immediately right after the pageant, I would binge eat for weeks, stuffing this emptiness with partially hydrogenated oils. Not the fact that I spent so much time striving for affection I eventually lost sight of those who truly loved me—loved me for the person I really am, not this polished stack of bullshit with a tiara and an impractical longing for world peace.”
She puts the pudding down. She has light brown stains on her bandages that I find unremittingly distracting.

And she continues, “I didn’t realize how truly unattractive—how truly ugly I was on the inside until I became hideous on the outside. I wear a visible, tangible mask now, but the truth is—I’ve been wearing this mask all of my life. ”

And her eyes well up like grass in the morning, her tears like dew—beads of raindrops huddling politely upon her bandages.

And I’m looking for something comforting to say, but all I can come up with is, “Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask and he will speak the truth."
“Joyce?” she asks, now curious and slightly comforted.
“No Wilde.”
“Shit,” she laughs. “I should probably catch up on my reading.”

And I ask affectionately, “So, now that you’ve experienced this life-changing epiphany, why did you decide to have the surgery?”
“Because it just became too painful to bear, to look in the mirror and see that I gave up a large part of my life and I have nothing to show for it.” And she looks up at the ceiling, trying desperately to capture the tears at the base of her eyes so that they stream back to their source, but cries, “You have to understand—the world is a lonely place, Hayden; it’s dreadfully lonely when you’re ugly.”
And we find truth in pain.

“I agree the world is a lonely place, but we’re all monsters in our own way,” I say in a reassuring voice, desperately wanting her to feed, like a ravenous jackal, upon my lies. “We constantly try to hide it from the people we love, in fear that we might scare them away.” And, using calculated mannerisms, insincerely sincere eyes, and tight voice, I pitch, “But the thing is—the people we should care for are those who see behind the mask, those who stare the demon straight in the face and show no fear, no trepidation—the people who embrace our repulsiveness. Find yourself, or you’ll find yourself lost in your own lies, forlorn, in a recovery room, searching for the truth in novels and scalpels.”

“I understand but—but sometimes the monster inside of us is too...too terrifying for anyone to handle.”
And I know exactly what she means.

But I still ask, playing the role, “How so?”
“You know, I’ve never told anyone this, but, I’m tired—” And she chokes on the tears that huddle in the back of her throat and continues, “I’m tired of the lies; I’m tired of waking up in the middle of the night—in a cold sweat—reliving my past—” And she looks down now, at her body—the only thing left intact, but also the thing she hates the most and persists, “Feeling his warm, wet hands touching my body.” And shame fervently emits from her perforated bandages as she carries on, “You know…um…God—I can’t...I can't believe I’m telling you this, but I need to tell someone.”

I believe that life has a funny way of operating, of bringing people together. What she says next is the only thing I can truly identify with for some reason. But I’m not sure why.

“…When I was little, my father would...he would call me into his office. And I would come in and I would sit on his lap. I remember his breath reeked of alcohol—Jack Daniels, he was a slave to fucking Jack Daniels—and he would tell me how beautiful I was, and how much he loved me. He would tell me that when you love someone, you express it physically—uh, umm—sexually. He would tell me that this is the only true expression of love.”
As unorthodox as it may seem, agree with her father. I live my life by that reality.

“…And he would rub my hair and twiddle my blonde locks between his fingers. And his hand would steadily go down, rubbing my shoulders, touching my nipples. Then…fuck…then—” And she wipes the dry tears from her bandages out of habit and persists, “Then he would reach down into my bottoms and he would…he would…feel me. He would reach deep inside me, and I would cry. He would tell me to not make a sound, and I did. I did! I fucking did! I fucking did. I—”
And the lines on the electrocardiogram spike and fall, then spike and fall again. She begins to speak more fluidly, more maliciously, but eventually calms herself by gripping the paperback book using whatever strength her sylphlike hands could muster.

“And—and I would close my eyes and dream up something beautiful.” She looks favorably upon the ceiling, searching for salvation, and says, “Cause in the dark —you can imagine anything. You can create your own manufactured perceptions.” And she closes her eyes, as if to recreate that darkness and persists, “And I would dream I was in a field of daisies; I would pick them up and blow their pedals into the air, and the wind would take them away, up into the perfumed sky. I envied these pedals, their nomadic lifestyle, their transitory existence. I envied the very fact that they could just…expand into the air and leave the world they knew behind. And I would run into the bathroom and cry and take off my bloodied underwear. And this—” She pauses for a second, attempting to force the words past her lips. 'This was Love.”
And this is truth.

“And I spent my teenage years fucking any guy I found mildly attractive because I believed that that was love. That son of a bitch—my Hitler—he had such control over me. And I don’t know, I just want to get that control back. I want to have power over my own life; I want to be able to control my events. Do you ever feel that way, Hayden?”
“Everyday,” I say affectionately.
And I’m thinking about Lincoln and how he was such a naïve fool.

And I visit her on her last day of recovery.
“So, are you excited to leave this medicated heaven?”
“I guess,” she replies, looking at nothing but herself.
“Well…what’s wrong?” I ask, feigning curiosity, but not really.
“Nothing…it’s just…nothing.”
“Come on, you know you can tell me anything.”
“I’m still...ugly, Hayden. Nothing’s changed. I’m going to leave this place and everyone will look at me. They will look at me and laugh; they’ll whisper things—mean things, Hayden. Or worse, they’ll look away, as if staring at me is something punishable by God. I just want to be loved, in a real way, not in this pseudo-pornographic one.”

“Do you want to get dinner sometime?” I interrupt, making light of things.
“What?” She asks, looking genuinely confused.
“Do you want to maybe, I dunno, go out and eat, with me?”
“No,” she responds using an acquired tendency.
“What?” I ask, now genuinely confused.
“I mean, I just don’t think I’m ready to be put on display in such a public setting. I can’t just let everyone laugh at me as if I were some...some Dark Aged court jester. I’m just not ready for that yet.”

“We’ll, then, just come over my place and I’ll make you dinner.”
“Well—”
“Well…what?”
“Well, yea…I mean, yes I’ll come over,” she says with those kind, lonely eyes that aren’t accompanied by any visible facial expression. “By the way…I’ve been meaning to ask you, what’s with the gloves?”
“I’m making a fashion statement,” I smile.
“You think gauze will ever be in fashion?”
“If you want, I’ll help you start that one as well.”
She laughs.

And I leave her there, wrapped up like leftovers, waiting for someone to remember that she exists, that she wants to be devoured. I exit that hospital-white recovery room and head home so I can prepare for tonight.

And I'm at my dorm in NYU where I the only conversations I attempt to have are within the comfort of my comforters. The only agreeable and admirable thing about NYU is that almost everyone who goes there is as intelligent or as opulent as you are. You don't have to worry about dumbing yourself down, or pretending you have a scholarship, or that you can't go on the Spring Break Trip to Prague because you don't have the money. The only problem I have with NYU is that it's all about one-upping your peers; It's all about whose daddy has more money, or which season tickets you have, or who has the nicer BMW, or which part of the Hamptons you live in. Sometimes I wish I had gone to a liberal arts school like Vassar or Wesleyan. Then and only then could I dress like a fucking hippie bongo playing bum, talk analytically about how Dick and Bush are fucking up our country or whether Obama is the daigen we need right now, drive a fifty-thousand dollar car with the top down while listening to Hop Along, Queen Ansleis or Wilco, and fuck girls who are not interested in fucking again because they are probably manufactured lesbians who actually like dick, but as an act of non-conformity they pretend to munch rug because that's their way of sticking it to their bread givers, who are actually psychologists who don't really give a fuck and have actually did the same sort of shit when they were burning bras and protesting in the middle of Washington Square Park forty years ago. We all think we are unique but really everything that we are doing has been done before. So consider life just a grocery store of qualities and characters, if you want individuality all you have to do is walk down isle four and you will find it.
Yeah, I talk down to people...but it's only when I'm coppin' a beej.

My dorm room, redolent of a Parisian restaurant, emits a potent stench of paprika, cloves and oregano. A collegiate feast.

The doorbell rings and the girl enters my room—King Tut from the neck-up, and Yasmin Bleeth from the bandages-down.

And she’s aroused by the odor, the omnipresent scent of spices and sex. And she’s wet.
I place the food on my Ikea Sparkov table, and let the glasses of wine accompany them. I take her to my full size mattress and provide her with a place to rest her hips.

And I’m drunk as shit, I’m drunker than the time I had an in/out with the tranny. Before Aviya came over, I had a fifth of Southern Comfort. And I’m drunk. I’m to the point that—if I were in a bar, I would find that girl in the corner of the saloon—the one that no one’s talking to because there’s something wrong with her. And I would go up and begin to flirt. But there’s truly something epically wrong with her, you know, the type of girl who’s missing an arm or an eye, and she’s got an eye patch. And I’m just so inebriated that the eye patch is beginning to turn me on, to the point where I’m thinking—
‘Arrrrgh, shiver me timbers!’
To the point where that eye patch is causing me to pitch a tent in my trousers. And I’m digging it. I want her to find my buried treasure.

But I forget about the paper bag, I forget about the Pathmark procured mask that I had picked up for her. And the only thing I’m seeing is her beautiful, taut body. Her charismatic breasts and her fixed vagina. And I could give two fucks worth of jizz whether she’s a model or a soccer mom. But as I wrap myself around her casing, all I can see is her eyes. Her faultless blue eyes. Her model blue eyes. And I’m entranced. I gaze between the gauze, the Peruvian stitched sheets, and I’m captivated. They stare at me with such impenitent force, such burning intensity. And I feel it burrow down into my soul and it festers, and it manifests into a giant, glowing, vibrant fuck-of-a ball in the axis of my chest. And I’m spent.

Then, I’m lying on a grassy knoll, looking up at an ostentatious sun, breathing in this smug smog, and feeling this withering of precocious thought and subversive deliberation. And I watch the pedals drift into the caustic air. And they divide like vines, only to collide and intertwine at the very instance where time is no longer a moment, but a sign.

Yet, as I grab her breasts, her excited and agitated bosoms, I feel this instant connection, as if we have met before. It’s a connection that manifests itself deep within the spirits of two helpless souls, desperately trying to find control, but realizing they’re nothing more than a cog in this marketing machine: this endless apparatus that fucks itself into oblivion, this galvanized, eternal engine that processes shit into symbols and symptoms.
And we’re nothing more than nothing.
And we’re nothing more than a Nike sign glimmering in the sun.

My writing is in a constant, unwavering battle between realism and romanticism.

She's breathing hard, marathon hard, and awaiting the pending events. She wants to know whether or not I'm going to love her in that pseudo-pornographic way. And I am. But she’ll love it because that’s all she knows. She’s going to beg for my dick on a platter because of the way I’m going to indulge in her salaciousness. I’m going to over-fuck her with appetizers and let her chew on them with such rhythmic mastication.

Consider the foreplay, hors d'oeuvres, and sex, the main course—the fillet mignon. And she’s dying of starvation.

I’m forgetting the whole reason for the objective. I’m finding myself dick-deep inside of her, screaming for redemption, waiting to see whether or not she wants to know if her boobs are too small.
And we fuck, and we heal.
And I’m putting my heart and soul into it; I’m putting myself into it. But there’s only so much you can ease your way into. There’s only so much you can infiltrate.

And I graze her inner lining with my outer protrusion. I await her screams, her vocal beauty.
And mid-thrust it dawns on me; I want to see her face. I’m drunk as shit, I’m near oral ejection, and I’m about to spew my nights worth onto her frame—I’m smashed. But I want to see her face. I want her to know that I can witness what’s behind the iron mask; I can stare the demon straight in the eyes and I can smile.

I live the life of an undertaker; I spend my days banking on other people's misery.

And what’s behind her wraps is her monster, is my monster.
I unravel her gauze and realize—
Everyone is connected, unified.
In a world where MySpace and Facebook, emails and instant messaging, texting and BBMs plague the very sanctity of privacy, we can’t help but establish this connection. It can no longer be created through the very intimacies found through sexual incisions. No, it is now defined by a few words of text and tagged photos.
And “poke me” no longer holds any sexual relevance.

So I experience her repulsiveness; I know that feeling, that coveting of affection, of appreciation.
'I just want to be loved,' her soul cries.
Don’t we all darling?

I finally see who she is, and I see that we’re all connected, unified.
And I’m thinking of Diana, of the accident, of our accident. And at that moment I recognize that beautifully horrific face. That castrated, pillaged destruction she calls a face.
I say, “Three years ago, New Jersey Turnpike, 92’ Ford Pickup, do you remember that?”

And confusion interrupts her muffled screams.
“What?”
I reiterate sharply, “Three years ago, New Jersey Turnpike, 92’ Ford Pickup, there was an accident during a thunderstorm…a girl died. Do you remember that?”
And the pain wells up at the base of her eyes.

“I’ll never forget it. I will never forget that car or that highway or that girl,” she says, but never opens her eyes.

“And neither will I. You see—” And in between thrusts, I say, “I know exactly who you are, and I have known for the last week. And just now, I realized—”And I pause for a few brief moments—for dramatic effect. “I control you. I represent everything you’ve lost. I am your lack of beauty. I am your incessant shortage of confidence.” Still thrusting, still breathing heavily, I persist, “Right now, I am your scarcity of ambition. I am your continually diminishing self-esteem. I am everything you hate about yourself. I am your facial reconstructive surgery. I own you…I am you.”

But she just gapes at me with those smoldering blue eyes, those fiery sapphire pupils. And tears form—little phoenixes that flap their self-deprecating wings down her shell-torched cheeks and dissolve into the misty air, only to be reborn at the very flame of her eyes. And I devour her psyche.

“Love me…Want me…Consume me.”

And she keeps fighting, keeps fucking. But I don’t know who or what she is really screwing. Maybe she is raping her own dad. Maybe she is showing him what love really is. Maybe she is fucking me, never allowing me that testicle to penis satisfaction that I’m so desperately trying to acquire. She doesn’t want me to blast a hole into forever. It’s really a hole into nothingness, a fissure in the abyss. No matter how much I fill this hole, I can’t fill the void, that vacant mosque of a soul, an elegy to nihilism, her spirit’s requiem.
And our bodies clash, creating nothing—a Big Bang, annulled.

She screams silently—a scream that rivals a whisper, yet is loud enough to shatter glass.
And I collapse.
And she’s reborn, a beautiful swan. Cygnus Bellum.
And I find perspective.
“You know, I’m writing a book.”
And in between breaths, she utters, “About…”
“About perspective…about my sexual experiences…about this incessant desire to control everything.”
“Well…am I going to be included in it?”
“That depends…do you want to be in it? Do you want people to know your story, to know what you’ve had to go through, what you want out of life?”
And she whispers, “I want them to know everything.”
A whisper that rivals a scream.

And I sleep.