Fulfilled my primary purpose for coming to Los Angeles, which was to attend a wedding of an old friend. I was really involved with my church youth group when I was an adolescent and Y. who got married this past Saturday was a really good, and honest guide during my troubled teenaged years. I cried when I came through the church doors and I saw him in a tuxedo greeting people. I know it’s corny and expected but I was filled with a great happiness for him, only because I believed he deserved a good woman…and to all accounts, it seems he got one. And she’s cute, so there you go.
Last week, I woke up in my mother’s guest room, humping the bed. Must have been horny…and sad, because I was crying as well. I’d just had a dream about the doctor where we were married and he told me that he was leaving me for another woman. She was standing behind him but for some reason I couldn’t see her face, it was blurred, but I knew, instantly and unexplainably (as only in dreams) that she was older, skinnier, prettier and somehow more dark and sophisticated than me. And also, that he, irrefutably loved her. Loved her and therefore no longer loved me.
I never felt that kind of pain before, not even when I found out about his knavish dealings with J. Because some chord, which is underneath my sternum but not my heart, always throbs for him. Anyways, enough with the gush. When I was more awake and alert, I consoled myself with my usual skepticism– where the hell was he going to find someone more fucked up and complicated than me? And come on, I’m like Coco Chanel on class and sophistication.
Btw, I killed J. over several nights. The first night, I dreamt that I yelled and slapped her face, hard, and steadily. She was obstinate and did not bow to my assaults. The second night, I pleaded and screamed and accused. The third night, she did not appear. The fourth night, the frenchman died–got run over by a car, in the mountains, where I had planned a drug fest. I remember thinking that I didn’t know the appropriate reaction..for we had only shared the semblance of love. I can’t remember the rest of the nights because of all the booze, cocaine and smoke.
The Frenchman and the roommate flew into LA last friday in real life. We started everyday with several hours at the beach. We ate late and forgot that everything in Los Angeles closed at 2. We forgot this everyday of their stay and were relegated to karaoke bars most of the time. Last night though, we made an effort to leave the hotel by 10 pm and we stumbled into a strip club on sunset. That’s where I met Catherine, a statuesque blond with a runner’s body. She attacked the silver pole with acrobatic fury. I loved her humble tits and her wide, cobalt eyes that told me, Hey I’m probably high but I somehow got here. I watched her drape her body over the Frenchman’s and I got so flustered that I left the private room to have a smoke. Even now, I can clearly see his hands, timidly touching her breasts. Later, she took my fingers and grazed them over her nipples as I stared directly into her perfectly formed cunt. Her tits weren’t hard for me though, just tiny and soft like a child’s.
I left the strip club full of a bluesy sort of lust. I didn’t want to leave Los Angeles, I realize this now. I didn’t want to go back to Brooklyn and have to face the doctor, and all the history of wrongs behind him. The thing is, I didn’t even think of him once these past few days. I only want to hear the Frenchman’s frustrated si’l te plait’s and slow coming c’est bonne’s. I make no claims, I said to him in he darkness of the bathroom. And have no loyalties.
