Someone Else's Secret Diary
First entry of the year. I was hoping to open with something more inspiring, more meaningful. (Today I filed a cabinet. Or, perhaps, today I ran a mile?) On the seventh day in the year of the monkey, I hit the sofa and the flashbacks hit me right back: ecstasy, part-time lesbians, bottles of cognac, millionaire golfers, threesomes, a refrigerator with nothing in it but last year's feta.
"An erection? Now?"
He looks me in the face and responds promptly, "I get turned on by how much you understand me, really understand me." This must be a line out a movie; and this is the part when I bat my lashes like Cameron Diaz. Men in their mid-twenties, men in their mid-thirties, men in their mid-forties— none of 'em, none of 'em ever too old for an erection.
Saul's father shot himself. And Saul found him: that big, broad-winged eagle from his childhood, wounded and slumped in an arm chair. Blood doesn't stay fresh for long, so when Saul finds his father, the blood is brown. In his hand, a middle-aged steely revolver from the forgotten 1990s — a decade of genocide and war. After pillaging and raping and hating, eventually they found the target and bull's eye: the space between their own eyes.
I drop next to Nikolai. "You're totally fucking punk, baby. So fucking punk." Am I drunk? Yeah maybe. He continues, "we have no assets to lose." I watch him get down on his knees and kiss my hips. A marriage proposal.
Excerpts from the work, Conversations About Paradise.