CHAPTER 4: RHINESTONE COWBOY, AND OTHER EMPLOYMENTS


“All, all is theft, all is unceasing and rigorous competition in nature; the desire to make off with the substance of others is the foremost - the most legitimate - passion nature has bred into us and, without doubt, the most agreeable one.”

- Marquis de Sade



We’ve done this before. There is a recipe, and a script. I’ve known it by heart for five years. She likes it to be like the first time, every time. Not this time. Tonight, I copyedit.

“Your papers.”

I hand them to her. She scans them, and hands them back.

“You’re clean.” She insists on checking every time. I can’t blame her, and STD testing is cheap, but at the same time, I guess it makes me itch somewhere where my pride used to be housed.

“I take care of my tools.”

“What’s your price?”

“I don’t negotiate. I expect only to be paid what I’m worth.”

“That’s a dangerous way to conduct business. Do you make any money?”

“I do.”

“You don’t look it.”

“Perception is a matter belonging to the perceiver, not the perceived.”

“And how do I perceive you?”

“As a whore you decided to pay for.”

“You’re not worth my dime.”

“Why don’t you find out for certain?”

“What do you think you know?”

“I understand what’s needed.”

“You’re too young to understand.”

“And yet here I am, waiting to help you disappear.”

She breaks character. Because I make her. I let my eyes fill up with a person in that moment. Whom it is, nobody knows.

“Why do you always speak as if this were a script?”

“Because that’s the way this particular scene has always struck me. Scripted.”

“Are you tailored for each performance?”

“Down to the very last thread.”

“Show me then.” She slaps me. A first. I can feel the welts of her individual fingers burning and raising on my face. This will be my last meeting with Fayette. The unspoken contract has been broken. Ten large she’s paid me, every time. Easy as pie. And lawdy, does it pay the bills.

There are no clichéd leather or spikes. I am bound in soft straps from her nightgowns, hand and foot, but not anything I couldn’t rip my way out of. I wouldn’t allow the duct tape over my mouth the first time. Causes acne, so no go there. I told her I’d keep quiet instead. She liked that.

Just a woman in her underthings, doing what needs to be done to maintain some kind of balance in her head.

The pain recedes until the throbbing paces the beating of my heart. Behind my eyelids the interior world passes by in vermillion and sable geometric patterns, and I try to walk across them like forbidden lands, squeezing my way out the backstage door in my head, and I remember that this is not the place to be. This is not why I’m here. I’m wandering too much.

Feel the split ends of the bamboo unzipper your skin in tiny ruby pouts. Feel her taste your blood, tonguing the opened flesh. Feel it. Try not to let her see the quivering pleasure, she’ll take it for pain. I don’t want to squelch the fantasy. She wants to hurt someone, while simultaneously not having to believe that she’s actually causing any pain. Somehow the human mind regularly allows itself to accept two opposing versions of reality. Of the Truth. I learned this a long time ago, about myself. Thus, no movement, no whimpers. I am still, except for near-imperceptible breathing. I facilitate the lie she tells herself. That is what I am paid to do.

If she knew she was pleasuring me, she might even kill me. People like this have threads that snap in weird places. I imagine her standing over her ex-husband’s corpse, beating it over and over and over in her dreams.

Unformed and lethal things wriggle beneath the dermis of women and men in cultures not fit, nor accepting, of the animal tendencies we’ve barely had time to evolve from, and may never completely escape. Repression, in all its forms, creates backlash. The elysian human forebrain and its reptilian stem strive for balance against enormous odds. Extremes in pressure from one end, or the other, will always destroy a vessel. Even if it takes time.

It’s thrilling Tim, to look into a pair of human eyes, and see an abyss, however quickly it might close back up.

This particular client doesn’t enjoy caning me. It’s a necessity. Fayette goes away when this business begins. Normally bottled somewhere in her head, this is almost a complete Other, doing these things. Her only problem was a divorce. He didn’t beat her, didn’t leave her with children to slave over, and even conceded, obviously, a chunk of change. The problem I see in Fayette is that even combining her beauty with this spoiled, damaged shadow side he helped to create, there is still absolutely nothing interesting about her. He married plastic. Even this ‘therapy’ is pathetic. It’s like payback on the driving crash-test dummy, by the passenger dummy.

I allow it on my ass and the backs of my thighs. A little on my back. Who sees that shit anyway? If they do, well hell, I was abused as a child, quit asking fucking questions. I usually give the wounds a week or so to heal, before I go see anyone else, anyway. Definitely Neosporin for those. Don’t want morons who read the Da Vinci Code and think they know something to go believing I’m Opus Dei, or some medieval bullshit like that. Fayette’s only a quarterly income, so it’s worth the price. She forces herself to remain pacing the edge. She refuses to dive into obsession.

It’s not over as quick as usual. She’s pissed at me for breaking our bond. For pretending to be someone. She’s never realized that as I lay there, eyes closed, my flesh was reaching out toward the whippetwisps lacerating it. I relish every moment. I am thankful this final session goes the extra mile. I’m gonna miss her.

Fayette throws the money at me, and makes me pick it up bill by bill off the floor. I can’t help myself, and I laugh at her.

Something does indeed snap, but fortunately she doesn’t pick up any sharp items. My chuckles just chase her away.

Tim…I only wrote this to let you see the extent of things. For me, every facet fascinates. I know you don’t look to these ends. It’s not even the lesson in older woman etiquette I wanted. It ended up too short. And a little twisted. Maybe a lot twisted. Hopefully I’ll dig up another mature one for you at some point. Although, there’s the power of fantasy for you. Which was the main point. My entertainment’s covered for the next month. Which means written entertainment for you, in turn.

We’re Vegas-bound motherfucker. I can afford it now. All that’s left is some minor business.

I’m meeting my famous actress today.
Our rendezvous is at the French Quarter restaurant, at Santa Monica and Fairfax. The place is sweet. The interior is bright screaming red, and the wallpaper covered in white line-drawing designs of French Quarter architecture all over it. In the center stands a raised six or seven top area that almost resembles a gazebo, with ornate white railings and green plastic vines tracing all over it, radiating out over the restaurant. It’s attached to a hotel (though it is not a hotel restaurant), and an upper level circles the dining area so the ceiling is high and skylit, in addition to a gorgeous fountain, courtyard, and series of shops that connect to the dining area. The topper is excellent food at a more than reasonable price for the locale.

The actress I’m waiting on is the woman who subsidizes me. Her uses are not generally for my body, but instead, what little art I possess. I’m her ghostwriter. I guess this is the first time I’m letting you in on this. Guess it’s sort of shitty that I’m doing it now for the effect, rather than before, for the truth. But fuck it. I imagine you’re not that concerned. And hopefully you’ll think it’s cool or something, that I get to hobnob with Hollywood. That’s the desired effect anyway. I don’t really think it is. Cool I mean. But paying the bills is good.

I met her at a b-list wannabe party I weaseled or chiseled my way into, not long after I lit out from St. Louis. I’d only been here a few weeks, living in a storage unit, ‘cause I refused to mooch off the few friends I had in LA. I only wanted to get into their parties, not their lives. In one night, I did all the networking I’ve ever needed to do.

She wasn’t b-list, not at all. She was just there for a friend. She turned out to be a real person, because, well, she actually deigned to talk to me. We immediately sullied some sheets, but that was only a get-to-know-you, how-do-ya-do type of encounter. Her interest had been in the gab coming out of my gob. She’d heard me running my mouth at some other pretty thing at the bar. My interest was in her money.

She had garnered enough backing to start a production company, and nursed hopes of getting writer and director credits, on top of a fairly unspotted acting resumé. Calliope could act, and she could do business, but it turned out she could no longer write worth a damn. She had great ideas, but she’d read so many shit scripts over the last few years, and so little else, that whatever talent she once possessed had receded. But mostly, she didn’t have time to work on it. Tons of ideas, and everything suddenly arranged and at her beck and call, but no scripts.

No experience, no credentials, nothing, and she drew me up from the mire. I love her for it, I suppose.

I was young. Broke. She’s fiercely intelligent. Gorgeous. Cares about what she does. She doesn’t compromise her personal stance. All she did was give me a chance, completely on a whim. I delivered. And she’s paid me better than any screenwriter could hope for. I would not have this life otherwise. She comes to me with the burning, original notions. I refine them into stolen words.

I’ve ghost-penned three scripts under Calliope Ventralis’ name, two of which were released at Cannes, one that landed a Golden Globe for the lead. All she needs to do is sign the right director for the next piece, and we’re moving up from there. We’ve established legit Tinseltown street cred.

I haven’t had my picture taken but barely; I don’t go the few places I am invited. I don’t care for the effort of explaining myself, which is basically coming up with an elaborate (‘cause simple would be boring) lie as to why I’m there. I would never break Calliope’s trust. The few times I did go out early on, I happened to be reading Less Than Zero by Bret Easton Ellis, and it was all too real. I’ve never read anything more keyed into class and subculture, something so fully in the possession of the zeitgeist of a place. Trust me, LA hasn’t stepped too far out of the ‘80s. If you can see past the glittering sunlight and red carpets, there’s a not-so-quiet despair in this most young and materialistic of lands. Half the people are flesheating ghouls, and the other half are on their way. People are afraid to merge.

I noticed myself doing the blasé thing very quickly. A detached talking head. I retreated from any sort of scene, retreated from friends, and fell into myself. I made the decision to operate alone.

I’m wandering.

She shows. I’d been beginning to wonder. Famous people…

I order a dipped roast beef on a baguette, and French Onion soup. It’s one of the best recipes I’ve had in my quest for the greatest of French Onion soups. Go to the French Quarter Restaurant…you won’t be disappointed. No, this is not a plug. I just dig the place.

She orders some carb-conscious salad business, and a Pinot Grigio. She already looks a bit sedated. Giddy, even.

Her suit today is absenceofgod black, neatly cut with sharp angles and subtle, razor-thin pinstripes. Honey-dipped blonde hair pulled neatly up into a bun, knife-edged spectacles to match the suit – she looks to be all business. Except that vacant thing going on in her eyes. She’s not normally like this.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you,” she asks.

“Only for a little while.” She has the next completed project already in the vault so I don’t really know what this is about.

“I wanted you here, when we start shooting. It’s only 3 days from now.”

“You know I don’t enjoy being around it, Calliope. You tried this last time.”

“And you know that I don’t mind you being around, right? You don’t have to stay away because of the arrangement. Hell, we’re having pictures of us taken right now. They’re wondering if we’re fucking as we speak. And I don’t care. You don’t have to be alone all the time.” It’s Valium, because she pops another one.

“Why are you doped to the gills? And aren’t we lovers, on occasion?” I’m kind of concerned for her.

“Don’t worry about what’s wrong with me. Worry about what’s wrong with you. Everyone but you is worried.”

“What’s wrong with me? That I can’t simper to the assholes you entertain? And who’s everyone? None of your friends know me, except for Milly.”

“It’s that you have no use for anything. You don’t care about anything. The new script is a strong fucking story, and you don’t even want to see it come to life. That’s pathological. It’s wrong. Especially when you know we’re going to do it justice.”

“Then why have you and I been working together all these years? Do you really think that about me? That I just don’t give a shit?”

“We work together because you’ve never failed me. You’re fucking…good…man. But for you…I pay you. That’s the only hold I have on you. You’d have moved on a long time ago if it weren’t for that big big paycheck.”

“You think that’s all this is? I respect you. You put me here. People think you’re brilliant because you are. I like helping you. I like the association, even if it’s a secret one.” I know where she’s going now…we’ve had this conversation before. Woman suffers a massive guilt complex over being rich and famous. One of the few I’ve known that does.

“I don’t deserve it. I’m stealing it from you,” and she plays guilty footsie with me.

“No, you’re buying it. And there’s nothing you can take from me, Calliope, that I didn’t already taken from someone else. Christ. Eat up, the food is great.” People are taking notice of us, naturally. She’s been a name in this town for going on ten years. I want to get out before the autograph hounds and paparazzi are in my soup.

I consider reaching out to soothe her. I think a kindly disposition has also been a crucial element of my success. I may not give a Fuck, on many levels, but I don’t want people to hurt. That’s never what I’ve been about. There’s so much more to gain by helping them grow, instead of regress.

The problem is that pieces of them get stuck to pieces of you. And sometimes they make you grow. I keep my hand in my lap.

“I want you to come back with me today. You’re going to float in my pool, drink Wild Turkey, and get in bed with Milly and I.” Milly is her latest girlfriend. Calliope doesn’t make any bones about her multiple alternative lifestyles. She’s an admitted user and abuser of several vices, but at least she’s not selling self-help or religion to anyone. Her movies have never been family films, and she’s respected as an actress with serious chops, whatever her personal life may be. She can maintain whatever reputation she pleases, as long as it doesn’t interfere with her public performances. She’s got status. She earns her wage in box office and rental payback, because she’s replayable. Captivating. You want to watch her over and over. You’d never know that she spends a good number of nights blitzkrieged out of her skull.

I have. Watched her over and over, I mean. We’ve taped ourselves. Those tapes are amongst my most sacred treasures. It was her secret gift, in return for mine. It’s one of the things I love best about her. She has a sense of fairness. Of right and wrong. A perfect symbol of her trust. And she’s right. I would never allow anyone to see it. Could never do it to her. That’s the most brilliant thing about her, for me. She sees me.

And I can’t deny her. Now. Ever. Lunch is finished in quick fashion, and we retire to her respectably sized estate in Malibu, just north of Zuma beach. Couched on the other side of a little hillock just off the sand, her driveway leads to an inlaid set of unsmoothed stone stairs that take you to her rectangular quasi mansion….more like a ranch house virus, that expanded way too far horizontally, and had no ability to replicate vertically. Around the outer edges of the house proper and pool, there is a “fence” comprised of pale silver stainless steel supports, and opaque aquamarine glass rectangles. The pool’s an abstract amoeba, and has the signature raised hot tub that spills off into it in a flat, clear waterfall.

Her basement is massive, and damn near empty. She uses it as a dance club, constantly changing and removing the decor, inviting untold glitterati into an ever-morphing, luscious domain. Royalty have chilled out in that basement. Famous motorcycle racers. Politicians. She told me she even had Ginsberg and Pynchon in the same room once, long before I came along. The basement has been great for building contacts. I’ve met countless people down there, and been able to take a glimpse into the rotten intestines of this town and its business.

I sleep down there fairly often. I like the enormous darkness of it at night. It’s my third home. Although really, my second, considering I haven’t been back to my first in some time.

The Wild Turkey thing wasn’t fair. I haven’t yet assimilated the death of the Good Doctor. It’s only been a few days. She knows this. I still wonder, had we not let this proto-Antichrist slither into our White House not once, but twice, if Hunter S. Thompson wouldn’t still be with us. It’s rumored he despised G.W.B. and company with a rancor that exceeded his legendary hatred of Nixon. The death of one of the last gunslingers by his own hand has loosed a feverish, exponentially amplified scream at the swine that will echo in any history that matters.

In Saevio Pax, Bubba.

I’ve considered doing an homage piece for the publication (sorry dude, can’t release the info, I write under a pen name, and telling even you would be blowing my cover), but fucking Randy (the fucking editor) hasn’t talked to me for two fucking months now. Honestly it may have been of my own doing. I dimly recall having spilt some ugly verbiage his way at our last martini mixer. But bugger that guy. I’ll save my shameless idolatry for someone else to buy.

Calliope sends Delberto out to make me a sandwich there on the spot, next to the pool, allowing me to choose from piles of lunch meat, cheeses, veggies, and breads on his tray. He’s like a mini-Subway. I slap the sandwich artist’s ass as he goes, just to make him wish. Well that, and the cabana boy doesn’t have the Gobbler, or three mojitos under his belt. Everyone deserves a little afternoon delight.

Milly isn’t wearing any clothes. She hasn’t been, for the three months she’s been skulking around the place. She’s unendurable: flaunting and preening, like most Los Angeles transplants that are far too aware of their own beauty, and little else. Unlike most of them, however, she’s fully aware of what she’s up to.

She hails from some sphincter the Midwest calls a town. I drove through it once, Ass-Neck Kansas, or some such business. People that move out here get sucked in too fast, and whatever used to make them decent and agreeable in the heartland becomes something despicable and soulless. Pupils dilate into dollar signs, and I know some of those flesh-and-blood Barbies have luxury car hood ornaments tattooed around their twats. A girl from barely anything or less comes out here and gets just a sniff of the riches….there’s no coming back. She’ll never want anything less than the Cristal, from there on out. You hand a girl a fluteful from a $400 bottle of Bollinger Blanc de Noire Vieilles, a fine and rare bubbly, vinified from Pinot Noir Grapes, and she turns it down claiming to drink only Cristal. Only in this town my friend. Only here.

But this girl sparkles. She’s not a day over 18, and I’m having a definite Phoebe Cates moment as she shimmers in a sun that’s working on taking my buzz a staggering step beyond. I manage not to dump the sandwich or myself off the raft as she arcs into the pool.

When she surfaces and smoothes filigreed golden hair back, water beads in tiny rainbows across skin unmarred by time or stress. “I can see your balls,” she laughs. I shrug.

Calliope has been getting a massage the entire time I’ve been here, and I’m beginning to wonder when it’s going to be my turn. My phone rings, and I rudder myself over to it on the poolshore, careful to mind my beverage. Milly spreads her arms wide and arches her back to lean against the edge of the pool, taking in the sun. Just not fair. The choice then becomes phone or drink, as the raft bucks me. I commit the party foul.

I like my phone, the Samsung SCH-i730 – a Windows-powered pocket PC with Microsoft Office installed, a full keyboard, Bluetooth capabilities, along with a wi-fi receiver so I can get on the net anywhere there’s a hotspot. They just came out with an upgrade recently that expands the wi-fi to complete broadband access damn near anywhere in a major metro area. If I wanna know about spelunking in Grenada, I wanna know about it now. If I need to type a couple eureka-style pages when I’m on the road, I can. I try to never be without what I need when inspiration strikes.

It’s how I’m writing these letters for you, for the most part. On the phone, fast and heavy and close after it happens.

“McAlister’s Collision Center, We Meet People By Accident,” I sputter on the answer, water leaking out of all orifices. My precious technology was the only thing that didn’t go under. Milly finally stops laughing at me when she dives to retrieve my sinking rocks glass trailing brown whiskey wisps in the clear water. I watch her wavery form snatch it and resurface, hardly hearing the voice on the other end.

“So now I’m fucking my boss,” the voice on the other end finally says.

“Do you need an estimate on that, ma’am?” It’s Jaqueline. She’s upset.

“Yes, I do. Guess what he is.”

“Well, if he’s your boss, I’d estimate…a lawyer. You still work at the firm, right?” To my delight and distraction, Milly has extricated herself from the pool, and is currently performing the role of Gorgeous Naked Girl Rolling A Joint. Uncredited, of course.

“He’s married, that’s what. Married!. You know what this means don’t you?”

“That you’re about to lose a man half his estate….oh, but wait, he’s an attorney. So what the hell are you worried about?”

“That’s just it. Hell. I’m going to Hell.” Sometimes I wonder if Jaqueline wouldn’t have ended up as some mad prophet nun if she’d have been born in the Middle Ages. She’s Agnostic in mind, but antiquarian in morals.

“You’re one tiny carbon unit in a vast universe who made a decision questionable even as a movement of free will, as it’s based in a system of biomechanical checks and balances, never-ending variables and circumstances, and informed by a rule-set that we’re not even sure is the right set of rules. If he cheated, the marriage was already going down the toilet. Are you going to be eternally damned and tortured for being the final catalyst in an electrochemical reaction that probably began somewhere with her throwing out his old t-shirts? I think not.” How’s that for reassurance? Word to your mother.

Jaqueline calls me when she makes a move that makes her worry about her soul. I’m the only person she knows who won’t be outraged, but will rather cheer her on instead. I’m the only person she knows who makes her feel less of a sinner. I’ve been trying to get through to her for years Tim, that we can’t inhibit ourselves with these oddly concocted social mores regarding good and evil, sin and god-pleasing deed. I know you’re not as stubborn a study.

“Scarlet Letter all over again,” she slightly slurs. She’s drunk this time. I learned not to talk to her when I’m drunk. Last time she diddled a widower. He was still wearing the ring. I called her Hester Prynne at the urging of some really good gin. Not too slick.

“Because we’ve stepped back in time a few centuries? Have you checked the divorce rate recently? You may have an exceptional rack, but they aren’t setting the precedent for discontent in this guy’s life.” No lie, Jaqueline’s got fantastic talent upstairs.

“So what then?”

“So take it for what it’s worth. Get expensive dinners on the cheap. Know that you have job security. Ha! Just try not to hurt anybody any more than they need to be.”

I may be a proponent of not mindlessly injuring someone…but injuring someone that needs it is another story entirely. Some people beg to be taken down a peg or five; some need tragedy; some need cruelty in order to learn to be kind. Never hesitate to help someone hit rock bottom if they need it. This is not one of those cases.

“Are you ever coming home again?”

“Jaqueline, I have to go. And don’t worry about the devil. If you see him, give him my address. He’ll be much more interested in coming my way.” Hit the END button before she can answer because the joint is finished, and perfect. Milly waves it at me.

“That what they teach you Kansas kids, besides anti-Darwinism?” Despite the fact that Milly is distasteful to me in principal, the day-to-day reality is that I really would like to blast her in the can. Without Calliope around.

“You already know I give the best head west of Thailand.” I’m not currently at liberty to debate that point. So far, she’s right.

“Meant to ask, you learn that on the football players?”

“Corn-fed boys, best kind. Hosses, they call ‘em, back home on the farm. It’s their girth, that really teaches you how to take it. You’re a relief in comparison.” She smiles oh-so-sweet.

“Ooooh, Burn,” I reply, suppressing a true moment of injured manhood. She just ridiculed my piece. Fuck her…even if her cannabis is top notch. I can smell it from here. Don’t care…I’m going to the house.

Okay, no I’m not. That shit was funny. Milly’s not bad. I think I’m actually jealous of her and Calliope. Two at the same time is also not that bad. I need to not throw a wrench into the works because I somehow feel left out. Getting drunk enough to feel feelings was not on the agenda today.

“Take care of business,” and I hand her a lighter. Dunno where that lighter came from. Narrative trick probably.

And we smoke, two kids taken under the wing of some surreal starlet, sucking up the SoCal dayglo sun, without a care as to what happens next. The ultimate thrust of which, I hope, is a complete disconnection of care or concern for What’s Going To Happen Next. I think part of the key to not aging, is to not project the future. If all that’s happening to you is Now, and you’re not waiting for Then…then no time is truly passing. Our perception of time is absolutely rooted in our consciousness. Ever lose yourself reading a book, walking through a museum, shopping for clothes? Time exists only as we experience it. Peter Pan isn’t a lark - he’s a lifestyle.

“Do you ever wonder what it would feel like to run a Ferrari 200 miles per hour into a brick wall? That split second, right before you lose consciousness, when you’re just this side of being liquefied?” She doesn’t look surprised by the question.

“I almost jumped off my roof when I was sixteen, but I decided it wasn’t high up enough. That I couldn’t get that feeling, and I’d probably just end up crippled. I ran away instead.” She hands off the J.

“What does it feel like…,” I hesitate, to draw the heavily crystallized indica into my lungs.

“…to make something into nothing,” she finishes.

“I can see why she dates you,” I try to squeeze the words out around the potcloud inside me. She chuckles while I choke.

“You call this dating? I’m a flesh and blood blow-up doll,” she puffs smoothly twice and hands back.

“Least she doesn’t fold you up and put you in the cabinet,” I bogart.

“Oh, quit crying. We’ve both had shittier jobs.” She gives me the eye for bogarting.

“You’ve had jobs,” I question, continuing to bogart.

“You don’t have to be so patronizing all the time.” She looks hurt now, so I desist my hogging of the joint.

“Defense mechanism,” I mutter.

“Big man to admit you’re threatened by a teenybopper,” she teases, waggling the remainder of the roach at me.

“I’m threatened by anybody prettier than me,” I say, which is true.

“I’d laugh if you weren’t too twisted to be anything but deadly earnest about that. ‘Cause that was some fucking cheese.”

It never hurts to lay out a little cheddar here and there. It helps take away some of the glitter from your operation, because she knows if you’re too shiny, you’re an emotional liability.

Shit…I better not be trying to woo Calliope’s piece…

Sweat beads lick narrow trails down her shoulders and neck, into her cleavage. Why am I even trying to…this is a foregone conclusion. Sorry, Tim, we just have to get around this, and we’ll be back on track. Vegas is where we can learn things. These dabblings are too involved.

“Do you ever get tired of knowing you live off someone else’s indulgence?” She means in the general sense: your landlord, gas company, power plant, manager, CEO, capitalism, big business, government, religion, your parent(s). Calliope.

“My whole life is about the indulgence of someone else. Bodies or minds, one way or the other.”

“Blah blah dee fuckin’ blah. I get tired of it. I don’t want to live here much longer.” She crosses her arms as if she’s pouting. So much for waxing poetic with a teenager.

“How are you going to live? Move to the Valley and do porn?” I can see that the thought has crossed her mind.

“Fuck no,” she lies.

“Good luck finding another way out,” I jibe.

“Thanks for the encouragement,” and now we’re having a father-daughter moment.

“I could put on a show for you if you want. Or I could do you a favor, and remind you of what you’ve got. You have no schedule, other than her occasional desires, and all your wants are met. Do something with it. Gratuitous freedom is rare. And what kind of a fallback plan do you have anyway? Hacking your own way ain’t easy. Especially if you’re not even done, much less begun, with college.” Danny Tanner’s got nothin’ on me.

“I could stay with you,” she chirps. So this is the angle. Bad angle.

“Oh? Ha! Sorry. Not likely. I live on my own for a reason.”

“You wouldn’t help a teenage girl in need,” she breathes, hand sliding closer to her pristine vagina.

“Not one that creates her own problems,” I say with very little finality.

Calliope motions to us from the big picture window in the den.

“Time to pay the piper,” Milly smiles, thinking she’s getting her chance to convince me I need a roommate.

The threesome is pedestrian, and uninteresting. Calliope sees that Milly and I are different today. More connected. And so she ruins the beat, the pace, the everything. She can share her trophies, but only so much. Milly’s good. Great, in fact. But overzealous. And fake. I hate fake.

How sadly predictable.

I leave, but not before Calliope can lay one last errand on me I’ll have to run, before I get out of town. She can’t even hand it to me herself. She has Delberto do it right before I’m out the door. Doesn’t even give me a warning. Just like the production company, for Ms. Ventralis, it’s all about creative control. She needed to remind me just where I stand – which is not a place where I’m allowed to go co-opting her girlfriend. A place where the kid who lives in her garage, and makes me sandwiches, delivers me marching orders.

I kick off the PCH, and pump the Mitsubishi Lancer Evolution she bought me after the Golden Globes through some obscure mountain paths in Malibu, heading back for the Valley. The 276 horsepower turbocharged engine keeps my nuts happily tickled, and the 4-wheel drive viscous limited slip differential keeps my ass on the slithering roads. The air up here is deceptively fresh. It’s just that there are more trees on the mountains. The smog isn’t any less poisonous.

Driving this car as it should be helps remind me that selling out, and being an errand boy, could be worse. And besides…driving’s more than half of what LA is all about. It makes me feel at home.

CHAPTER 3: ON SONIC RESONANCE, AND MOBILE PHONE ETIQUETTE


“In memory, everything seems to happen to music.”

-Tennessee Williams


Never answer the phone if it’s a woman calling. Ever.

The following information/advice is explicitly not to be followed until after a non-embarassing number of dates and outings. Don't show up on the second date toting a 5-disc set of your heart poured all over the place with your favorite songs, you fucking geek.

Also, please note that the proceeding applies only to non-audiophiles. If she’s got two turntables and a microphone, and you’ve got no tastes of your own, you’re up shit creek. If you’ve got no taste in music, bloody well fix yourself. Get to the local used audio guru’s corner shack, study those orange crates full of vinyl, and don’t hesitate to ask questions.

So then, mix tapes are god. Yes, I know, this was already reviewed extensively in that Nick Hornby book. I would like to reiterate. Especially with the advent of CD burning and mp3 players, mix tapes command even more nostalgia, even more mystique. Now, your ladyfriend will have to listen to it at home, ‘cause who the hell has a tape deck in their car, or carries around a Walkman from 1989? Hell, she might even have to go buy an old-school boombox or something, if she’s interested enough.

This conspires to make your maneuver exceptionally intimate, because she’ll almost assuredly listen with interest, ‘cause she had to work a little harder to get there. Hopefully she’ll play it paired with a cocktail, or while reading some Rumi. This enhances the mix tape experience, according to numerous subjects.

You have to have kept tabs well enough to remember who some of her favorite musicians are. Check all the stations on her car radio when she’s using the ATM. Try to ferret out whatever painful pop crap will probably be on her lips. (An intelligent woman who also likes good music is a hole-in-one. Consider carefully what you do with her.) Obviously, raid the CD tower/binder if there is one. Or, you may have to intuit some things, if she isn’t entirely aurally inclined. Which means you have to think about her personality, which means you have to know something about her personality. Achtung! I can’t stress it enough.

Tim, I know you have a decent collection, but still eclectic, and not that big. The easiest solution is busting out some massive illegal downloading – stuff that’s generally wonderful, meaningful, romantic, popular, rare, etc, and keep yourself a library readily available. If you know what she likes, track down acoustic and remixed versions of her favorite artists’ songs – a sure win, and that internet’s full of them. Using digital files, you can burn a disc, and then record from that, or get a line-out hookup direct from computer to tape recorder. Either way, it’s quick and painless: with a pre-made playlist, you don’t have to sit around switching CDs to make the damn tape. Seems like you went to all this work, but took no time at all.

Make sure to include just a little of your own music, that you might later play in the car. This encourages her to enjoy your music, making the radio even moreso yours when it counts, and it’s the personal touch that seals the deal. That, and a handwritten label. Never type anything out. Give everything to her in your own scrawl, even if it is only half-legible.

Music is unsuspect and perfect in every way as a tool. If you can, at all, learn where her tastes lie. You can set mood after mood with your choices. Have some bitter songs onhand, just in case you’d prefer the radio to say your piece instead of having to talk. She’ll listen. Gather some of her stuff to prove to her that you’re learning to love the things that she does. Music can make, break, completely define a relationship, unquestionably.

Create a playlist or ten for ‘intimate moments’. Play it. Regularly. Cheap way to teach the pelvis some rhythm. I swear, one day, I’ll be able to bust a mean Hokey Pokey.

Besides allowing all white boys to get funky, the Pavlovian response is unbelievable, and damn near indispensable. Just think, a song you’ve fucked to night after night suddenly comes on the radio during a road trip. Instant Road Head. I’m exaggerating, but the concept applies in multiple scenarios. All you need to know is that it increases your chances of public and private indecency exponentially.

Concerts are also memorable, life-impacting moments. I’ve been to more concerts than I’ve thought to count. But I remember each one I’ve attended, rather distinctly. And that’s despite how fucked up I was, which was generally balls to the wall teeth-grinding gnarly. I do concerts the right way. If you can work them into your budget and repertoire, do so.

Tested and Approved: Years later, if that band is coming through the town she’s living in, and you want some free digs that come with pre-equipped with ass, arrive with two tickets. Single or not, she may very well give it up. If you’re not getting the vibe, ditch that noise immediately and troll the local bars.

Alternately, if you’re still really into her, there is something to be said for fucking in a hotel room, as opposed to her room. It lends this surreal, near-movieish quality to it. It’s more anonymous, more degrading even. The room itself is transient, and the act easily loses any tendencies toward grace, suddenly more recognizable for its baseness. The rawness of chemical indulgence screams to be unleashed in these nameless, faceless units. Shell out the scrilla for a hotel room, when Buck needs a night on the town. Mr. Wild will thank you gladly.

If ever there’s one a little too demure otherwise, she will allow you to debase her in a hotel room. That is, if she’s to be debased. But don’t hesitate to exercise the illusion of authority, once under those circumstances. It’s the great unspeakable fantasy. The one religion forbad long ago, and the one that the cult of Hallmark Love shuns: The removal of personality, of restraint, and informed action… surrender to the hypnotic draw of flesh in a place captured outside accountability with the single swipe of a credit card. Copulation for sheer sensation.

But always mind yourself. The only authority you have is what she gives you. All of this is nothing without consent. In fact, it cannot exist without consent, and nor should you, if you act without it.

Music…we were talking about music.

A moth ate songs – wolfed words!
That seemed a weird dish – that a worm
Should swallow, dumb thief in the dark,
The songs of a man, his chants of glory,
Their place of strength. That thief-guest
Was no wiser for having swallowed words.

Riddle me that, Batman. The problem, I’m encountering, of course, is the inevitable spiral into bullshit rumination. Anything I write is sodden with pilfering. The steam runs out because the engine of my generation lies only in experience; there is no creative spark, no divine pneuma. The paragraphs inevitably become my life played out in pseudo-significant dramatics, only to lag into the shittiness I see when I review anything I’ve done. I have not been extraordinary. I’ve not said anything extraordinary. And I swear Timmy, I’m trying to make something special for you here. Trying to keep you entertained, all the way out there in Hell.

Despite the intensity and detail of all these sensations, I am a shallow well of memory. The attempt to lend shape and form simply becomes a thincheap shell under which there is no embryo, no egg salad sandwich, no nothing. Experience for experience alone is not living. You know more about what I’m trying to talk about than I ever will.

Shit mon ami…I’m trying here. The cogs and pinwheels are out of concordance. I’m sure you guessed that by now. I’ll serve it up as a warning. Don’t fall too far down this hole. Find one you can compromise on, or learn to live as a shadow. One or the other.

I recommend techno if it’s up her alley. Can’t really go wrong. Good beat, no distracting lyrics. You have to throw other music in, ‘cause that’s what’s on the radio, and you want that random sexual memory initiator working its magic whenever possible. But techno generates some of the best bounce.

Turn the radio down for her if she wants to talk in the car. Maybe not all the time. Maybe not when The Who are on. But otherwise.

Learn to play music. Guaranteed sex appeal. But if you do, fuck you, ‘cause you’ll land more women than I ever did.

Let’s keep moving. This chapter worked conceptually...it was a brilliantly devised Plan of Action, containing considerable amounts of Pertinent Information. But I’ve evidently lost track of what is, and isn’t, music.

Remember what I said about the phone. They’ll learn to leave voice mail.

A BRIEF ASIDE, NOT REALLY CHAPTER 3: WHAT ARE YOU, A PUSSY?


“In 22 seconds, I could break your fucking spine. In 22 seconds, I could pinch your head off like a fucking insect and spin it all over the fucking pavement. In 22 seconds, I could put 22 bullets inside your ridiculous gut. What I seem unable to do in 22 seconds is to keep you from fucking up my film.”

- Eli Cross, The Stuntman


What do you do with your spare time? Are you hitting the gym? Reading your Men’s Health? Do you know what’s exhibiting at the Louvre, the Met? Did you read the last Gore Vidal book? The Dalai Lama’s most recent? That one about the autistic kid and the dead dog? Mitch Albom’s latest transformative best-seller? Do you know what happened in the stock market today? How about today’s Times, Washington Post, BBC news…Al Jazeera? Do you listen to NPR? Do you know what’s on Broadway? Who won the last round of Tonys, Oscars, Palme D’ors? Nobel Prizes? Pulitzers?

Do you know your wines?
Do you know when certain vegetables and fruits are in good season?
Do you know any jazz?

Do you have this month’s most popular argyle pattern? Are you even aware of the specific sets of colors and shades you should be wearing, based upon the time of year? Do you know this, Tim?

We devour the Image. The things we eatup are Branded, Packaged, Advertised. The Cult of Personality.

You are no different, my friend. The way you wrap yourself, the sell that comes out of your mouth, the things you own – they are your fucking foundation. Your bedrock. Like it or not, you are going to have to work for it. You are going to have to pay for it. Accept the fact that you should go to a salon, you should beg for a natty gay man to cut your hair, and you should be happy to fork over no less than $50 for it. Why? Why, you ask???

Because unless he’s a cruel snatch, no self-respecting gay man will give you a bad cut. In fact, he’s nine times out of ten going to know what will look best on you. Count on it. Beyond that – this is your hair we’re talking about, dude. It’s the frame on your grille. It’s like how a spoiler can make a boring car look a little more exciting. Or fucking ridiculous. You’re not a boring car my friend. Make optimal use of everything you’ve got.

That’s what the gym is all about. You know this, of course. You’re a bad man. But if we’re laying down ground rules, I can’t leave this stuff out. You don’t even have to hurt yourself all that bad, to stay this side of paunchy. Just stay on top of it all the time. Make it like brushing your teeth or jerking off. It’s not so much work to have scruples with your eating habits. If you take time to figure it out, there are scores of reasonable dishes to be had. Everywhere, foods that do nothing but good things for you, and actually satisfy both appetite and palate.

Cooking for yourself is hands-down your best bet. Following a recipe is like putting a fucking chair together. Follow the directions, it’s done. That’s it. Just get yourself a book. If you have no creativity in you whatsoever, you never even have to think about cooking. Just do what you’re told. That is granted you have an attention span that will allow you to cook something without burning it. Take your Focusin™ kids, follow the recipe directions, and voilà. The addiction to eating out is squanderous, and dangerous. You rarely know just how much butter, oil, sucralose, salt, MSG, mouse excrement, etc, they allow into their food. Not that you fare a whole lot better at the grocery store, but at least it’s a little better. Look up Lance Armstrong’s diet. That shit’ll get you through the day.

And that’s what it’s also about. Getting you through the day. The month. Through cancer. Through a mugging. A car crash. Through abandonment in extreme temperatures and terrains. It’s all about surviving clowns and cannibals.

Why not know how to keep on truckin’? How to do the best for yourself? I don’t understand the difficulty here that people have with not only being healthy, but actually possessing a legitimate survival instinct. Our enemies aren’t razor-incisored predators anymore. They’re cancer. AIDS. Broken hips. Avian Flu. Alzheimer’s. FAT!

Then there’s pure circumstance. Accidents.
(and of course anyone of Middle Eastern descent as well)

Reading magazines. Purchasing one food over the other. Finding a few hours in one or two days to cook enough food to last you an entire week. Making the effort not to remain stationary for days at a time. Doing yoga. Going to the doctor. Not sleeping with girls in navy towns.

I cannot process how it’s perceived that these things are more difficult than finding out about and suffering a malignant anything. Doing chemo. How is jogging worse than a triple-bypass? How is not watching television from endofwork till timeforbed harder than sacrificing your attention-span, memory, and personality? How grueling is it to do a few word puzzles and actively support stem-cell research?

Those are just the basics, to me.

As far as I’m concerned, really, why not know how to parachute at 20,000 feet? Why not snowmobile, ski, snowboard, wakeboard, waterski, jetski, hydroplane (and control that shit), biplane, aeroplane, helicopter, and so on, and so forth? Why not learn it all, if you can?

True Memory:

The long parking lot off of Sublette Ave. Technically it was on The Hill, but I don’t know if they have the Italian flag fireplugs all the way down that way.

Anyway, snowing, breath fogging the windows in the ’86 Nissan Sentra hatchback, innocuous brown, hardly any pickup, and oldass tires. Remember dude? Remember?

About two football fields long, plenty of room, get a little speed and yank the parking brake, cutting extreme left or right on the wheel, depending on the light poles. Long slides. 360°. Even the 720°, once. James Bond and shit. That, and running off the road with Dave so many times in the old Eagle Talon(Redbandit), taught me a thing or two about the physics of small car slides on pavement.

It saved my life. Heavy rainstorm way out Highway 40 on the way to Mizzou, wind and some bad 18-wheeler slipstream sent me skidding two lanes sideways. But I knew how to yank and finesse the wheel, I knew just how to pump the brakes, and I came through clean and unbroken in the middle of heavy traffic. It was all the proof I ever needed.

I would know how to fire weapons with accuracy.
I would know how long I could survive without food, and water.
I would know how to kill ninjas if they snuck into my bedroom closet. Sneaky fuckers.

I fish. Hunt. Learned to clean and cure (though I have no taste for it) all manner of game.

I know what mushrooms not to eat. I also know which mushrooms to eat – Go Psilocybin!

How to navigate via starlight is important. How to put a condom on correctly is crucial.

I’ve got Kung Fu.

Why am I going on and on and on, you’re wondering no doubt. I imagine you have plenty of these already under your belt.

What I’m talking about here is a commitment to Living. To Life. Any woman will sense this. From the cut of your well-muscled gib, to the rakish angle of your hat, to your jaunty Marathoner’s step, she will know that you are a creature of infinite drive and resources.

Not only is this an irresistible quality, it’s as goddamned spirit-affirming as it gets. You know you’re doing your best. You know you’re feeling your best. And you know you’re looking your best.

That’s what I’m talking about. Willis.

CHAPTER 2: DON’T FALL ASLEEP AFTER THE ACT!!!!! (OR DURING…)


“Don't have sex man. It leads to kissing and pretty soon you have to start talking to them.”

- Steve Martin


You’ll come out like a champ. Offer her a glass of water even. Sounds like a lotta work eh? Just don’t go overboard. She’ll think you’re creepy. TELL her that you had a good time. With a little more lyricality than that. Don’t expect her to know so by the spunk dripping from the used prophylactic in the corner. That little gooey exclamation is only good enough for you.

On a tangent, I highly recommend ordering condoms from the Internet. They are cheaper in bulk, like everything. And every man should need condoms in bulk, right? Goddamn right. Having that many will motivate you to use them. Do not keep them in your wallet, car, cell-phone case, shoe, any other retard place, unless you’re looking to procreate. Get a fresh one every time you go out. Don’t install it in the 5th change pocket unless it’s big enough not to scrunch the shit out of it. The integrity of your Johnson, and its freedom to do as it pleases, are of the utmost importance.

Don’t talk about your puppy Charley or your first trip to the zoo while you’re laying there in the afterglow. Just touch her lightly, maybe interlace legs a little. If she wants to talk, let her know you’re still conscious to listen. Make some response, but it needn’t be much. This can get more elaborate later in the game, and if you’ve established a precedent, be prepared to suffer. The ruse, however, remains worth it. If god forbid you should get that far, it will result in nice Christmas presents. After a sufficient amount of time has passed, kiss her somewhere not on her face, and roll your ass over.

Be personable in the morning. Even if you’re not. Leave your phone number, or Pizza Hut’s, depending. Don’t take hers unless you’ve actually been connived into taking a serious fancy to her. Leave it up to her. They like that control. And as annoying as multiple calls may be, that’s what caller ID is for. So many girls have had so many guys not call, and jerk them around, and yada yada yada, by turning the tables just a little and giving her what she feels she’s been giving out all this time, you’ll stand out. In a few hours, you may have ended up being better than any boy she’s ever dated.

But don’t be perfect. Never be perfect. Aside from it being suspect, most of the interesting ones need a touch of the bad boy, a touch of the jerk. Miss getting the door at least once, throw a glance or two at what could have been another woman, make nice talk, but give her smiles laden with most of what you know, move a little too fast at least once. There’s a fine line…creep or Casanova, and I would never claim to be the latter, but I’ve gotten along well enough by trying not to be the former.

All these things cross my mind as Susannah makes murmurs about going to the bedroom, and I murmur back that I’d like to have her right there in the living room. That I’d like to wake up with some rug burns.

The clothes slide off like they were never there in the first place. That primordial touch… the first brushing of full flesh to flesh, the way…she stops. What the fuck?

“Shit, I almost forgot. Wanna do some blow?” Susannah’s eyes darkle twinkly, and there is something tentacled and fierce just below her pupils. Maybe not so nice and normal; the blow question isn’t much of a question.

I check my nostrils. Only the right one clear, all of a sudden, like every time I gear up to do this. I think the left side is afraid of cocaine. Which is odd in itself, because uppers are a true rarity for me.

Naked, she sprawls across that burgundy carpet, a pale splash of flesh, as she cuts a few rails for us on the glass table. She fingers herself with a dab of the white powder right after she does her first line, arching an eyebrow and half a grin at my own nakedness. A tiny, pleasured intake of breath. Unexpected again, and so fucking hot. I have to restrain the very lizard-brain impulse to fuck her through the floor.

The drug is clean, painless. Good stuff. Like a shot of novocaine in the upper lip, the whole front of my face goes buzzing numb, my thoughts transmuted to crackling Tron cars racing each other. I wonder what her clit must be feeling right now…and since I’ve gotten a clean view of clean goods, I’m comfortable wondering what the number 5 coke and pussy combo tastes like, and if I can get an apple pie, instead of fries with that.

Let me tell you a story Tim. Down at Soulard, in the open-air market, as a child of no more than five or six - one of three or four legitimately clear memories I have of the grandfather I knew. I don’t remember anything about the day other than the ride in the manual transmission pickup which he was getting too old to handle, and this one thing: A barrel of peanuts. My grandfather talking to a friend, and he sees me eyeing the peanuts. He looks to the owner of the booth, who is doing business with someone else, and whispers to me, “Go ahead, he ain’t lookin’.” Free peanut, grandpa approved and certified.

I am a Thief.

And I’ve never felt sorry for it.

Peanuts, candy, food, baseball cards, books, anything I could steal from any of my jobs, money, drugs, accents, swaggers, nervous tics, traits, knowledge, hearts, and even souls. Though I wagered for those. Still…wagering against me in billiards is not a fair wager, so it depends upon your views of sharkery. I maintain that I stole those scraps of paper on which teenagers drunkenly, laughingly, signed away their everlasting spirits. I thought it was a good joke too.

Over a decade later, I still have those souls in my wallet. And I wonder what’s happened to those people.

Even my words. What pays my bills. Elements of everything I’ve read, people from every step of my life. I take it, make it my own, and sell it for what it’s worth.

This is the whitehot center of what has brought me success in these endeavors. I take from every encounter. I learn. Every person a scroll in a foreign tongue, and for every one deciphered, the easier the next becomes. I’ve made mistakes merely to see the reactions. I have set in motion months of emotional turmoil, just to see. I thrive on what I find. So much in our condition pushes me to delve deeper every time.

There is nothing more wonderfully delicate in this world than this animal too aware of itself. There is nothing more gratifying than opening that awareness further, to see what butterflies are folded inside these caterpillars.

But in the end…no matter what I have given or helped you see or become, still know that I have taken more away than I ever gave.

I am a Thief.

I steal Susannah’s breath. And allow her to borrow mine. I let her feel the length, breadth, and width of me. I open myself, because I am not cruel. Tim, one should never be cruel. They will after all, in time, become your characters. And who else can you love, if not the prototypes for your poor players?

Nothing else strikes me as does their singular beauty. For all my pursuits, glimpses into esoteric subjects and pleasures - distractions and diversions galore - the study of one woman eclipses all these things. They gather depth and clarity, their personalities defined by layers and layers of emotional scarring and mending. They feel the world so…acutely.

It may take one or two bad memories to create a brute, or a ticking time bomb of a man. Women are statistically, in comparison, hardly ever serial killers, rapists, or criminals of a psychopathic thread. Women mend. It’s men that are weak.

But that doesn’t mean something vile or hurt or wild isn’t left after we’ve done our impish, primitive damage. The last guy tinkered with Susannah’s thinker. Her face, her mannerisms, personality, and décor - all red herrings to draw away from this vein of poison shot through her. She may truly not even remember it exists until a glass of wine turns into three, and suddenly, gosh, there’s a bag of narcotics stashed somewhere in her spice rack.

There’s something more violent in her approach than I expected. And the violence is towards herself. She wants someone to touch her demon. Because it’s newborn. She wants to see what it does. What it’s for.

I’m a more than willing guinea pig.

Oh, speaking of scars, cultivate them. Physical ones, not emotional. They make great stories. If you get an appropriate wound, don’t do Neosporin. Pick at it. You’ll look worn, weathered, basically like a man. A good alternative to actually being a blue collar thug (There is a distinction, between blue collar, and blue collar thug. I’m not here to offend any Teamsters, or my own genealogy for that matter.), is looking like you were once a rough and tumble man. They want you to fix the sink as much as they want you to spigot sweet nothings in their ears.

The crudely jagged rip across my shoulder blade from a nail I staggered across at a wet t-shirt frat party; the slivers criss-crossing my fingers from shards of a shattered window I broke; the bleached white line from my first toy wagon in the depression on my upper lip where god supposedly whispered the secret and then told me to shut the fuck up about it: they all become evidence of this time I was attacked by a guy with a knife, and escaped. Sometimes it was by my father. Sometimes it was this hobo in New Orleans, the second time I went for Mardi Gras. Sometimes it was an ex. People think it’s really fucked up if your face has been cut. It doesn’t have to be even remotely disfiguring, but suddenly, your face is absolutely precious. It survived vicious assault, still to be beautiful. Or something like that.

Skid marks from rollerblading have become motorcycle accidents. A deep gouge in my right ass cheek, from an ill-considered gymnastic maneuver in a catering hall kitchen, has been an arrow I was pierced with. The white hairline tracers up the backs of my legs, from an icy soccer season and lots of slide tackles are remnants of a tumble/slide I took down part of a mountain, skiing naked on a dare.

You’re a reader. You know what people do, what their descriptions of it were like. Expand your life experiences, to whatever end. Your past is your own picture to paint.

The second round is finished, and Susannah is temporarily spent. Her shadow is nothing like mine. Hers, for the moment, is content. Sated with bruises and teeth marks, and even the rust of blood drawn from my chest, tiny ribbons of my flesh under her fingernails. The carpet is rough and pleasurable beneath my back, as I stare to the ceiling, watching the fan tick tick tick slowly round. My heart fires a relentless goose-step beat.

Relish the feel of her sweat mixed with mine cooling salty on my body. I tasted someone else’s heartbreak tonite. Again. Pleasure, in trade for your pain. Give me yourself so I can make you my own. Let me tear your worldview out by its extremities, and imprison it in my pen. It’s a fair deal for a few hours of feeling wanted and needed, isn’t it?

“Does it ever stop,” she asks. I figure she means the coke.

“We can sweat it out, if you want.” Half-spoon her suggestive-like.

“No, I meant the messes we make.”

“That’s a little heavy.” I hate this. It invariably ends up as revealing. One thing I can never really compromise is my ethos…so they usually end up seeing little bits of me. The ones left that are tangible, anyway. I don’t like being asked deep questions. I’m not a sharing person. But I also can’t help but answer. They deserve something from me. Endorphins alone just don’t cut the mustard with most women.

“I don’t think it’s beyond you.” She does some convincing with her ass against my privates.

I am too easily convinced. Endorphins work just fine for me.

“Why call it a mess? Why not just call it experience, and move on? If you’re not stupid, it’s a mistake you’ve learned not to make again. Nothing more. Just be glad that you won’t be fooled a second time.”

“Why does it always have to be about picking yourself up?”

“Because we’re born not knowing shit about a world our predecessors made infinitely complex. You’re bound to fall on your ass. Repeatedly.”

“It should get easier.”

“You can’t assume that. The older you get, the closer the actual difficult parts. Dying hurts. You have to learn to run with the knowledge that everything you love will be taken from you. Just like the other sacrificed gods, just like Jesus, just like whatever tiny or huge fall you’ve just taken: you never understand the sweet, if you don’t know agony. You die little deaths so you can come back tempered by the flame. It’s either that or allow yourself to be unmade.” The coke is waaayyy making me ramble.

“I don’t want my spirit refined. I don’t buy into that Eastern Zen koan the world is suffering crap. I just want the world to stop working against me.” She’s paying too much attention. And wants answers I’ve spent a lot of time digging for.

Sometimes they will see you for what you are. I’ve made a mistake here. I’m getting lax in my judgment. However, it’s far too late to bail gracefully.

“Stop believing that it’s suffering,” I tell her. “We have more control than we think. But rarely the courage to exercise it. Just by stepping sideways, looking at ourselves from a different viewpoint, we can completely change the way we think about what happens.”

“Where do you get off with this optimistic dogshit? I know it’s empty in there, “ she says rapping knuckles on my man titty. “Why do you think I dumped my bag for you? ‘Cause I saw that you don’t give a Fuck. I knew what you were thinking about me. I wanted to talk to you. Nihilism, Agnosticism, Fuck Youism whatever, give me something that isn’t predicated on false hope. I know you fucking know something I don’t.”

She’s looking me in the eyes saying this, and it’s not fair, because I wasn’t ready. My guard is down, of late, and I cannot fathom why. I knew this was too easy. I’ve more than finished with this vanity. These last maneuvers and reminiscences are only for this guide you requested. Sheer business. I shouldn’t be faltering like this.

I will come through on it. You deserve that much. Trapped on a boat for two years might leave one a bit bereft in these departments. I want you to be happy, mon ami. I want you to be the scribbler and the lusty lothario you want to be. But when this is complete, I’ll quit this tangled web.

“What I believe for myself, and what I believe and want for other people, are entirely different things. I wouldn’t wish thinking the way I do on anyone. I meant what I said,” is how I finally reply.

“Just as long as you’re not feeding me lines. I know the score. You’re smart…the first smart one I’ve talked to…maybe ever. I just wanted to know you were really saying something.” She gets the first genuine smile of the night, and sees that she’s clawed her way under my skin.

“The only choice is to move forward, regardless of our feelings on the subject. Otherwise you get wrecked all over the freeway. I’m sure there are at least a few people who you’re partly responsible for, that wouldn’t want you to finish life as asphalt burger.” More self-help prattle. But she seems satisfied.

She cuts up more coke. There isn’t anything else to be said. The brutal intent is out there, spoken, burned into backs and knees on the rug damp with our heat. Our psyches splinter and rethread in lipbleeding kisses and urgent rhythms. Two vampires drawing from each other, it’s finished too soon, and we cringe from a morning dawning with harsh green-edged light.

After a few glasses of water and the Teletubbies, we make pancakes. Thinking feels like chewing glass, so a powerful Bloody Mary accompanies my flapjacks. We eat and talk about the dying plants in her kitchen. A brief kiss, that feels too intimate. Too much like she’s on the verge of asking me to stay. From there, the hollywoodhillzhaze swallows me. I wait for the next assignment or opportunity.

I will not see Susannah again.

CHAPTER 1: THE DARK ART OF NOT BEING A MEATHEAD


In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said: "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter - bitter," he answered;
"But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart.”

- Stephen Crane



My ending the night by violating this brunette pixie is a fact already come and gone in my mind; an exertion enjoyable, to be sure, but nothing of lasting interest or concern. What remains keenly within my consideration, however, is how many licks will it take to get to the delicious center, Mr. Turtle? Very nice skirt. A tip-off. The top is always game for debate in regard to her outlook on getting pillaged and plundered that night. Look to the bottom. See what she’s wearing over the money spot. Or money slot. Depends on who you screw.

Among the many options in life, I’ve narrowed mine down to two: Being a Fucker, or getting Fucked. What’s in between is hemming and hawing. As would any reasonable, self-respecting creature, I prefer the former to the latter.

Tim, ask, and you shall receive. Here is an account, first person, firsthand, from which I hope you can learn. A grimoire if you will. I aim for a close-to-true rendering of this practice that has brought me little but misery. Find your joy in it, if you can. I know it’s what you think you’re looking for. The sweet end to a sour tour of duty.

First, mon ami, you have to find yourself a place or three. Look for upscale/trendy, but not too trendy/upscale. Girls, or women, looking for a night out to boost morale will often start somewhere…like here. You know this place, even if you haven’t been. Conjure the Central West End: ivied, iron lattice-work and uncomfortable chairs. Even the psychotropically smeared scenes of Venice and Tuscany from that ‘60s throwback who paints vinyl and gives away the vari-colored albums for spare change. It’s all there. Now throw that locale into SoCal, add some adobe in pastel, and you’ve got your picture with a cheap rhyme to boot.

You’re looking for something low-key, where she could be having coffee, or preferably an adult beverage, alone, without feeling dateless. It’s a place people go before they go out. It’s a place to read a book or the paper. A place where Harry could meet Sally, over and over again.

Make it open, airy, where even if a man were to seat himself with her, there are still people on the sidewalk passing the patio the whole night to keep it comfortable. Make it non-threatening. Females, whether they’re willing to admit it or not, are threatened all the time. Even if they don’t see themselves as victims, other people inevitably do, and many of them are all too wary of that fact. Finding a comfort zone immediately draws down a number of perimeter defenses. Major thoroughfare, non-threatening, and not overly expensive. This is the way men such as you and I, for whom the “club scene” is repellent and redundant, negotiate our ass. Conversation and deduction, because we’re not Patrick Swayze enough to dirty dance into Baby’s pants.

Don’t ever waste your time and money in the posh places unless you’ve got a reason to be there. You’re only kidding yourself, unless you’re really not kidding. And the line between your desperation and the total confidence required almost doesn’t exist – good luck walking it. The answer is simply never to be that hard-up for cash.

Anyway, that’s what she wants, when you find her here. A man (or woman if you’re not careful) to notice her. Subsequently sit down with her. So she can conjure her lonely lie about how her girlfriends were bitches and decided to go to a club instead, or how she’d stopped over after work and gotten engrossed correcting papers, studying for the LSAT or GRE, losing herself in a lonely pasta, yakkity yak, variations on a theme, all of which translates to: I Don’t Feel Like Sleeping Alone Tonight.

So she can feel a little bit better about herself. That’s all it really ever comes down to.

You just have to read it right. Almost completely shot pedicure, hair’s about 3 weeks overdue for new coloring, and you know she’s in a rut. You can probably hedge your bets on the lawn not having been mowed in a fortnight or so. Her sitting here is impulse. She’s out to break a routine, to attempt to give in to the random, but doesn’t really believe anything’s going to happen. Hence the half-assed attempt. The unplucked eyebrows. The complete lack of jewelry or adornment. You have to be the random. The unassuming. The guy she sees, but doesn’t see her. Fantasy-building is key in mounting any offensive of this sort. Having something to do encourages this process. It gives her an imagined window into your interior life. Certainly look disinterested. Even if it’s scribbling on a napkin. A pen is a must, at all times. Initially indifferent/preoccupied, for this particular type of setup, is crucial.

Already, just by practice, intuition alone, I know she relishes having the backs of her knees licked. I know that she loves the way she looks with her glasses off ‘cause she likes to pretend she doesn’t know she’s pretty, and that she’s not long out of a shitty relationship. Her body language is clearly ‘cautiously open’. Look at the tilt of the shoulders, the slightly scrunched posture, the need to run and hide battling this feeble attempt to keep herself open to change. Look how vulnerable that pose is. Someone has bent her spirit, but not broken it. She doesn’t look abandoned. Just lost.

Pay attention. Each variable throws a tumbler in her chastity belt. It is Man’s great lament, and failure, that he fails to realize the tuna taco opens not with a mere skeleton key. The Divinia Commedia? Faust? The First Folio? They’re all about tail gained and lost, tail never gained, tail it turns out you didn’t want to gain, or tail gained, lost, and regained. Don’t let yourself be the next victim. Don’t ever do the pining, the mooning, the sighing. You might retch out a masterpiece, but you’ll probably end up fellating a .12 gauge pump action Winchester.

Such morally dubious motivations are not for everyone, but if you want to be a scribbler and a well-sated man, if you want this elbow-deep immersion in humanity, you must Love The Pursuit. Above all else. Love, in its sundry and subtle forms, should permeate everything that you do. Let her Feel The Love, Timmy. She doesn’t need to know why you love leaving flowers, cooking with flour, and deflowering. All she needs to know is that you love doing it for (to) her.

I know you’ve thought about using the Internet. This does not qualify as The Pursuit. The taste will go quick. Trust me. It leaves nothing to the imagination…nothing to instinct. I suppose, it’s a loss of the chase, for me personally. For a lot of others I’ve spoken to (these are people of our ilk, my man, listen to me here), it strips away that sense of actually having accomplished something. If you’re going to match your zodiac signs, turn ons and turn offs, ‘fav’ books and movies and other such trifles, you know…save yourself the trouble. Slip her some Gamma Hydroxybutyric Acid instead, and have done with it. What’s the fucking point if there’s no challenge to fucking? If you’re too lazy to perform date rape, go buy a robotic vagina. They make them now. They’re even self-moistening, unlike some real vaginas.

Here we have flesh. Life. Something to interpret. Not a bulletin board of her personality. Only subtle clues. For instance, she has the Kabalistic Tree of Life inked on her left foot, just peeking out from under the sandal strap. Probably thinks no one knows what it is. Most of the good ones adore stuff with deeply layered meanings. Get to know your runes, your myths, your Asian scripts, and your dream interpretation. Any extra insight is one step closer.

A tat on the top of the foot hurts like a bitch. Nothing but skin and bone down there. So she’s tough, or she made a damn poor choice that made her cry. Shit, I’d cry. Then again, she might be a masochist. If so, surefire fun in the sack. Only fuck a sadist if you’ve got mommy issues to work out. Either way, she stuck it out till it was done. That’s the telling aspect.

I’d like to shift her inside, get that little over-sweater off to see if there’s any more art. Tattoos on any woman, provided she hasn’t made previous COPS appearances, can potentially tell you volumes. A true woman…one truly worth your time anyway, reveres her body. For us, it’s just this meaty suit we clomp around in, trying to have fun with. With the fairer crowd, it is generally not so. And I’m not thinking about thick chicks with hot pink beansprout dreadlocks sporting ink sleeves depicting battle scenes from the Silmarillion, or some twisted business like that. I’m talking about personal concepts of beauty and power conceived from within, elegantly etched without. Sigils and talismans to ward off conformity.

She removes her glasses for the first time, and I see that she’s done a better job on the makeup than I thought. The dusting of silver blue eyeshadow, dab of lip gloss; she’s definitely trying to fly below the radar. A woman dresses up, and the visual and verbal raping begin. It’s unquestionable. A mere flash of cleavage will set most any homo erectus, well…erect. But for a woman to go incognito as it were, low-maintenance, and have someone be attracted to her “natural look”, her “inner light” and all that jazz, it’s a secret hope, and a rare sort of confidence booster.

Tori Amos or Ani Difranco - one of the two are a sure go for this gal. Her bo-ho chic purse reeks of indie-rock and wine and Brie parties. But it doesn’t go with her outfit. She’s got that insanely thick, curly hair – not an afro – but dripping fat curls that are almost impossible to straighten or even negotiate with. Looks like she tried having a talk with them. It’s braided and woven up into some sort of crown deal that’s beginning to fall down, dangling ringlets all around her face. She’s had it up that way all day. Her look was planned as messy-cute-professional, but she was running late to work. Hence the mismatched purse and the awkward librarian glasses.

The specs are thick and dark-rimmed. Maybe tortoiseshell. She’s got another, sexier pair she intended to wear today, but couldn’t find in the morning rush. These are her Don’t Hit On Me Unless You’re Serious Glasses, also known by my preferred moniker, as the Clark Kent Maneuver. You can always tell the difference between Clark Kents, and the very carefully considered optical apparatus on the face of a girl prettier with her glasses on. Girls prettier without will plunk down damn near any dark-framed plastic on their heads, and call it a day. They only have them on for the taking off anyway.

And then, the ever-present dilemma – the line that doesn’t sound like a line. I’ll agonize over a lead to a pick-up more than a lead to an article anytime. If she’s going to fall in lust(love?) with you, it’s crucial that the feed doesn’t sound like it was tenderized and marinated before you served it. Because she’s going to remember it, guaranteed, if you get past the first thirty seconds. They always remember the first night. You have to bleed authenticity from the get-go. All of a sudden you, out of the throng of assholes that have sleazed by her condescending gaze, must transcend, rise above, be the true, the honest, the swoon, the Boy she’s been looking for all this time.

Learn to believe your own lies. If you’re going to own it, anyway. It’s a lot of pressure. You’d be surprised by the amount of times I’ve chickened, track record considered and all. You know, Timmy, I’m honored you came to me. I have a lot to show you.

She’s firing up her iPod, selecting a playlist of morose or bittersweet songs. It’s obvious she hasn’t made it to the motivational, or independence inspiring stage yet. Breakup is fresh on her. I’ve gotta come up with something. Anything completely self-immersive is bad. If you’ve made your decision to go forward, don’t let the target get too involved; you’ll just end up an unwelcome intrusion if she’s visibly shut herself off from the surroundings. Receptivity can go from 100% to zero in no time at all. There’s a fine line between you being a happy coincidence, and you being a freak. You have to stay on top of that shit.

What’s she reading? What’s going on tonight? Why are you here by yourself? Who are you? All questions you’ve let slip by the wayside, and now the crucial moment has arrived before you even expected it. You have to be ready to be ready on the fly. But besides being experienced, I’m lucky tonight. Latch onto Luck’s pigtails whenever that fickle bitch flounces by.

A woman with a book makes for an easy approach. Most instinctively don’t want to offend or repulse… and talking about literature is a perpetual asexual In, so at least 3 out of 5 times (this also depends on the city and the book), count on a reader not to shoot you down immediately. Again, I emphasize, this hinges on choosing wisely, based on the evidence at hand. If she’s sucking down a Candace Bushnell novel, and you’re not a CEO or some heartofgold butch master carpenter with a trust fund big enough to live the lifestyle in Manhattan, don’t waste your fucking time. Unless you’re up to play a farce. ‘Course keep in mind, playacting only lasts so long if you don’t have the Prada and the Benz and the Frank Gehry furniture to back it up. Alternately, if you’re looking for a night at the carnival, and she’s reading some bunk romance drivel with fuzz-lensed Olympian deities clinging to each other on the cover – dive in. It is my hope, though, that you’ll go for someone reading something aside from mind-fluff. Go for the challenge. Shoot for the chick reading Knut Hamsun. Or Bukowski. I want to meet a woman that isn’t ugly, that reads Bukowski.

Most will be immediately flattered that you’re interested in their opinion. A woman who wasn’t a literature major, with whom you’ll talk about literature, will certainly have her intellect stroked. Those who were literature majors are generally stigmatized by the fact that most of the courses and literature professors available in a university curriculum are overwhelmingly male-dominated. Any male willing to openly engage (Engage, not dominate!), a woman in such conversation automatically gains points by proxy; being well-read only furthers your cause.

Odds are this one was a Lit major. The corners on the book are dog-eared, some of them bent in to mark passages, and the occasional bit of green highlighter jumps from the page. If she was only moonlighting in a literature class, the book would probably be new, or close to it. She had this one long before a class came along. A girl sporting this season’s thousand dollar Kimono Mink Hobo Coach bag doesn’t have or buy grubby used books, unless she’s a bookworm.

In addition, a woman reading a book (Excepting the following [Extremes to be avoided]: anything blatantly New Ageist, Feng Shuist, Scientologist, South Beach Dietist, Self-Actualizationist, The Bible or related religious tracts, US Magazine [or any offshoots thereof], or anything relating to female *giggle* empowerment *giggle* via cross-pollination *giggle* of maneating, money-grabbing, and heartmelting vulnerability *giggle* under a tough independent exterior *giggle*), is going to be more worthy of your efforts. You, the bibliophile, know this. It ups the ante. The larger a woman’s bookshelf, mon ami, the more unattainable she becomes. The common roads close, and uncommon ones open. And as Blake says, the crooked roads, are roads of genius.

There is a particular genius in personality, especially women’s. This effect of the mind, the collection of information and sensation and everything else that sneaks in and gets spewed back out – it is most often the shaper of human events. Even of Fate. All we ever have to act on are our own perceptions. If we are able to perceive the complexity of the female personality, which is really not so complex, but rather moves in a free-form fashion qualitatively different from the typical masculine arrow’s flight rationale, we can feed her the information she wants, and elicit the responses we require. That is provided she is not a complete anomaly…as many of them dangerously are.

Talking about women requires more qualifiers than anything I’ve ever put a pen to.

I recommend reading Maureen Dowd, in addition to whatever else you’re doing. She’s a preeminent political commentator/op-ed columnist for the New York Times, but also, one of the savvier writers around, even if she does suffer from a penchant for self-promotion. (But who doesn’t?) Dowd appeals to both sexes, unless the girl’s a Republican – and what the Hell would you be on a date w/ a Republican for except a spitefucking – she’s damn funny and astute, and on top of that, your average gradschool twentysomething is going to be impressed that a man has any use for a woman’s views in politics. The little things go a hell of a long way. It’s amazing in our so-called liberated society, the Y-chromosome oppression that they feel. The smart ones, anyway. I mean, I can throw you a pattern, a fucking outline that will work for years to come. You can be the ghost of a quote unquote enlightened man, and land more trim than you can handle. It’s all in the delivery.

Though it’s not necessary, I prefer a fully developed character. There are a few at my disposal. Obviously, the same asshole will not work for every project.

Please Note: Being physically attractive and/or fit, intellectually and/or humorously dexterous, or simultaneously displaying cash and class are crucial to the aforementioned, and henceforward notations on The Pursuit. You have to do something to make yourself worthwhile, you fucking slob.

Not you Tim. I know you’re worth their time sweetheart. That’s my nod to the punk-shit teenagers peppering classmates and teachers with gunfire because their balls are blue to the brim from wallowing in mediocrity. Shave your face, get a tan, rock a natural hair shade, wear something in the color spectrum, and maybe you can stuff that fucked up postmodern hormone-ridden angst into some virgin creamsicle. That’s what being a teenager is about. Drinking beer, getting laid, and driving around. I can build a computer from the ground up, but log off www.imapussy.org/futuresociopath.htm and do something before your brain and morals unhinge, fuckbag.

Sorry about that. I had not realized, dear friend, what a fine platform from which to shout things this could become. I haven’t worked on anything in a long time, that has anything at all to do with me. Which means you’re probably going to get way too much of me. Here’s to hoping it doesn’t cramp the entertainment. If nothing else I figure you can use a good read, something familiar, while you’re out there.

Fornication is a good thing. A necessary sin, because it gets the evil out. A place to put your burdens. Remember this Tim: No matter what they want to make you think, unless it results in HIV or a non-treatable VD, sex is a winner. I know you’ve got cookie crumbs of Catholic guilt in your bunk. I sure do. I still want a shower after knocking boots. Every time. For future reference, this is a suggestion often met with fierce opposition, unless they’re invited. Sometimes even if they are invited. Most women do not want to have to note your desire to wash them off, directly after your most intimate moments. ‘Course then again, you might not have that problem at all. I’m a bit of a clean freak.

Ha. Knocking boots…

Oh, look, the brown-haired girl is about to drop the ball. She puts the iPod down and opens her bookbag, and her USC shorts fall out along with her biology 101 book, a paper with the name Susannah at the top and a ton of change. All I could ask for, and a little bit more. She’s reading Fahrenheit 451.

It shouldn’t be this easy.

“Did you just start at USC?” I hand her an errant quarter and the biology book. I didn’t have anything particularly slick prepared for this unexpected boon, so I go with the obvious.

“My second degree,” she replies. She’s about 29. A sly smile to help her realize the starting college thing was definitely an underhanded compliment.

“Did you miss biology 101 first time around...?”

“Completely different major.”

“What changed?”

“Repeated failure, followed by financial woe.”

“You’re, let me guess…you look like…a Susan. No, Susannah?”

“You saw that on my paper.” She’s unimpressed and sharp. I like it.

“I didn’t even know you were there. You’re the one that started throwing quarters at me.” A silly gamble that pays. She grins.

“A bullshitter,” hair flip.

“Not professionally,” snarky smile.

“What do you do professionally?” Wow, is she going for the jugular already? She hasn’t even asked my name yet. What is it this time, I have to ask myself…and you have to get some practice in to ask yourself a question while you’re in action. I’ve no problem with it, no visible hesitation. But my brain hesitates. It’s been doing that lately. My tongue nearly strokes the truth.

“I’m working as a PA by day, and moonlighting as a technical writer for the astrophysics department at UCLA. They give me their mumbo jumbo, I turn it into something almost readable, and post it on their webpage. Boring, right?”

“Only if you make it. How boring are you?” Watch for this. If she ever turns a harsh 180° on a charming self-deprecation, drop them and go full force on the confidence. Not overconfidence. No compensations here, my friend. Just confidence. Self-deprecation can be a device for dropping insecurities, and the woman who isn’t interested in cutely/kindly refuting your negative claim about yourself is a woman who’s progressed beyond the petty/easy games. A woman of this sort will certainly opt for her finger over the Ken doll crotch you just replaced your cock with, if you continue to insult yourself.

Susannah’s actually got this little elfin, smartass cute thing going on. The way she wiggles her toes in her sandals when she talks is adorable. Her upper lip quivers a fraction when she listens, and that’s already about killing me. A tiny, well-placed nose stud I hadn’t seen. I need to get the prescription on my contacts adjusted. The night vision is going a little.

“For the moment, I’m only as boring as you make me,” I shoot back at her. Tim, I want to take this opportunity to thank you for being one of the people who have consistently assisted in the witty banter department. Scintillating wit rarely fails.

“Is that a challenge?” She flushes a bit. Another lucky bit of cheese. Very good. She’s a bit of a romantic at heart. I grab her book and enjoy the worn softness of it. It’s an early edition.

“Ray Bradbury…but it’s also a classic. Not really hardcore sci-fi, so you’re probably not a dork. You could be reading it for anything. Work, school or pleasure?”

Ray Bradbury is highly underrated among the literati. Check him out Tim Meyer.

“Pleasure. And I am a dork. I was a lit major my first time around.” Three-pointer drained, nothing but net. I love it. Plus I got her to say “pleasure”. The brain is not, at all times, as complex a machine as we would fancy it. I just fired a neural network that set off a series of conscious and unconscious memories and sensations, associated with pleasure. That’s just this side of hot breath on the back of her neck. She blows at the little curlies dangling in front of her face. I love that too.

“That’s why the money hurts. I hear you. Liberal Arts degree’s hardly better than having a GED. I did journalism, with a minor in technical writing. I used to read a lot when I was younger. Don’t have much time anymore.”

Lie. I was a lit/psych major. But no one ever needs to know that. Getting me back into reading is something she can work on. A project to latch on to. Most looooove to nurture, even if on the surface it might seem otherwise. Figure out how to sow the seeds early.

“You like the book,” she queries. She likes it. A lot. She’s hoping I do. She’s busted the spine to being unreadable.

“It’s fantastic. The girl in the beginning of it that makes the fireman start questioning what he’s doing – her character’s just…striking, in that sterile world,” I say with the deep conviction of my unimportant and unstudied literary opinion. “I love the way Bradbury wrote her.” But she thinks I’m talking about her. Every word that rolls from your lips…man…they wonder about it. Make her think it’s her you’re talking about. And make it good stuff. Always.

She drinks conversation with her eyes and you almost don’t see the rest of her as you keep on talking. It’s a danger, to fall into these things. To swoon and sway. But hold on to the thought that you may very well wake up alone in the morning on any given day, and you’ll be fine. Never get too attached, old hoss. They disappear. And it is generally preferable that you, and not she, get to pull a Jimmy Hoffa act.

She chatters on about the book. I slow things down, let her noise recede to , and take in the bouquet of the wine she’s drinking. Know the menu at your location(s). It helps. Always let the liquor flow. Ordering her another glass of the same is a breeze. We talk about the book some more.

“So what’s your excuse?” I finally ask her. She’s cautious, guarded. Keep things light, funny, no pressure. Watch to see if the eyes darken.

“Pardon?” She knows what I mean, and there are no warning signs.

“I’m waiting to go see a movie, and I wanted to get a couple drinks. Yes, I’m drinking and watching movies alone. Sad, I know. What’s your excuse?” Push a little. Assert your position.

“Why are you seeing a movie by yourself?” She sips, shifts, looks away dismissive.

There’s the so-slight hardening of the gaze we’re looking for. Beautiful sidestep Susannah, thank you for striking at the bait. Now I know not to pry, and you can continue to feel comfortable. Anonymous even. You’ve verified it’s what you want. My black tshirt is slick against my taut body, and I know why she’s recrossing her legs, her third glass of wine lending even more heat to her blushed cheeks. She does not intend for this to be a lasting encounter. She’s in need something less chaste.

I highly recommend working out before you go out. It optimizes and cleans out your body, makes your clothes fit better, and you look healthier. Sweat clears your pores so they can more readily release pheromones. Plus you’ll be more limber, if and when you choose to bump uglies.

If they don’t want to give out any info, but they’re still smiling and nodding when you talk, you’ve probably snagged yourself an extreme short-termer. If they’re not answering your obvious get-to-know-you questions, they’ve either got something to hide, or they just want to borrow you for the night. That S word really haunts the fringes, even for the enlightened ones. If you’re someone she can talk to about herself, then you might potentially be someone special to her. The less of any type of attachment she makes to you, the less she’ll feel like that S word. Funny how that works. For me it’s just the opposite. But I’m certainly of the opinion that I can get to know someone pretty well in a single night. I think lots of men are that way. It’s the rare woman who’s that comfortable. At least here in the US. As you well know, mon ami, outside our American Puritanical confines are an entirely different landscapes. Europe and beyond are whole other projects, too ambitious for the likes of me.

There’s a question to answer. Try not to lose threads of conversation. I know I personally have a hard time keeping focused. Hold onto things she says, reference them later. Then she’ll know, by god, what she says is important to you.

But most importantly, stay on top of that conversation. It’s no good to drift off.

“I got this habit of going alone when I worked as a movie reviewer on the college paper. I’m sort of ridiculous about it. I collect all my ticket stubs.” That was fucking true. Shit. But something else she can work on, if she likes movies. Most women think that’s sad (be careful, some might consider it pathetic), going to the movies alone.

“What were you going to see,” Susannah asks with interest. Going to the movies alone actually reminds her of…her.

“They have a midnight showing of Breakfast Club down at the Arclight.”

“You’re shitting? Really?” She wants to tuck the too eager I Wanna Come words back in her mouth. Everyone anywhere near our age loves that flick. It is not showing at the Arclight tonight. God bless Hollywood, however.

“It’s some private screening. A buddy of mine gave me his ticket. It sounds pretty posh.”

“Oh, that’s exciting.” She looks ready to retreat. Just like that. She thinks I’m bailing, and it’s going through her head that I really did just want to talk about burning books and dystopian futures. She suddenly remembers to take her glasses off for effect, and reaches, but then stops realizing I hadn’t gone for her with the glasses on, and her fantasy is busted for another night, and that she’s just a loseruglyfatbitch with a tumbling hairdo, going home to an empty house again...

Not so. All in the delivery. Timing is everything.

“But…I could skip that…Susannah. ‘Cause I’d rather stick around, if you’re going to be here. We could stay here. Rent the movie. Drive to the beach. Whatever you’d like. Molly Ringwald will be a teenager forever.”

She kills the last of the wine in a swift gulp. Calculated. She can drink. The glasses come off. Yeah, she likes the black tshirt. But still there’s hesitation…she looks at me wondering, wondering how, so quickly, she could possibly trust me. What is it that’s going to make it okay, and safe, to allow me into her own domain in the short matter of an hour or two of knowing me?

“What are we going to do?” She’s seriously considering this question.

“I’m not sure. There’s plenty to get up to in this town.”

Aw shiiiit, I have an answer. Providence is working for us here. Fate and Luck want you to share in this little Furburger Helper I’m cooking up for you. Tim, I told you normally it wasn’t this easy. I dig into my bag, and pull out my own book.

“Hey, I almost forgot about this. Kind of funny, actually. Have you ever read this one,” and I hand it to her. It’s Something Wicked This Way Comes, another Bradbury gem I had buried in my man-bag. Perfectly timed, perfectly suggestive…absolutely perfect. How ridiculous is that? But it’s going to close the discussion. We like to read the same kind of stuff. For readers, sharing tastes is usually a very intimate connection.

“No. I think I’ve seen the movie,” she replies, visibly(drunkenly) upset at not having read it.

“Take it. Some of the best nostalgia money can buy.”

And she knows now this meeting was no mere accident. That the gods have express-mailed her a new chance…someone she could dive into. She only wants a night, though now she knows she could be happy and comfortable for a long time with me. By sheer accident, I have chosen my props well this evening. Well, it was actually by the smell. There’s a certain smell in the air, more back in St. Louis, but still here in California too, that tells me when it’s time to read Something Wicked. It doesn’t hurt to be reminded, at least once a year, of the deliciously terrifying imagination of a twelve-year old boy looking in dark corners for dark things.

“If you want, we can rent the Breakfast Club, and go to my place,” the suggestion in her voice thrums at a different timbre now. Here it comes. Her roommate(exboyfriend) is out of town. We can do as we like.

“My roommate’s out of town. So we can get a bottle of something and do whatever we want. It’s getting a little late to go anywhere else, anyway.” She’s already got it in the bag. There’s no need to stretch for it, I want to tell her. It’s only 11 PM Most nights I don’t start this early. But that’s okay, I’ll cut her some slack. She’s clearly out of practice.

There will be a locked “bedroom” door in her apartment. It’ll be the office/study, where some of his boxes still linger. She wouldn’t be taking me home if the wound wasn’t fairly fresh. She’d want me to take her out, or maybe come to my HQ. Tonight she wants to drink and fuck his stink off the place.

Turns out the bottle is not a bottle of wine, but a bottle of Patron. There’s nothing better than someone that will party like you do. We don’t bother getting the movie. But I do remember the limes. Limes are important.

Tim, when you go into a place, in this situation, look to the deadbolt. If there is a deadbolt, be sure it gets thrown. In a breakup, the doorknob key is often left with the displaced person in case there’s a need to leave only the knob locked so the departed party can get in, while the person who stayed is hiding at a coffee shop or bar somewhere. So don’t just get the knob. Throw the bolt.

The deadbolt is considerably more solid against a few more moments of battering. If there isn’t one, sleep lightly or not at all, ‘cause he can get in real easy. The night a fresh freedwoman decides to move on, assume the ex will show up drunk and belligerent – this has always been a statistically significant probability. If and when this screed begins to turn things in your direction, learn to fight. You may end up getting your ass beat, but at least you won’t have gotten rudely stomped. Even getting one punch in for every five of his counts on the personal Pride-o-Meter.

Upon further consideration, keep to your laps around the track as well. Running away has never failed me.

When your intention is to dissect a person, you ask yourself cause and effect questions. A person is comprised only of his or her experiences. There is little to nothing else (depending on your spiritual disposition anyway), outside that neural network that informs their response mechanisms. Personality typing can be helpful, but ultimately it doesn’t mean shit. Astrology is more telling than you’d think, but still useless. (Take a crash course regardless; the percentage that know their astrology is ridiculous.) Only the eye for detail can achieve what we aspire to.

Everyone’s got a specific set of instances they connect with love, hate, sex, male, female, desire, attraction, rejection, revulsion, etc. Your game is henceforth Connect the Dots. You can’t stereotype, generalize, or typify. It will never work when seeking out rare quarry. And if you ever forget that they’re people, and not just these details, well, then you’re even worse than me. We’ve no right to pick anyone’s locks, unless they’re getting something in return for what we take. Even if it’s not equal. But that doesn’t really matter. What’s valuable to us is not necessarily valuable to them.

Draw lines from the too-white crosstrainers in the corner to a dusty bike in the entryway of her apartment, to the gym membership on her keychain. Peruse her ripe, but not even close to oversized ass, and you have an idle to moderate weight watcher. The best kind. They whine the least and are easygoing about their bodies. The chubbiers ones often don’t want to fuck with the light on. The fit ones cringe away when you touch them certain places. Such circumstances do little for the libido.

The fanatics and the lazy, though both irritating, do have their uses. A fanatic can be made to feel good with minimal effort, as long as you’re careful not to fuck up and do the opposite. This makes life easy. Plus, they’re oftentimes a first class lay. There is much to be said for a girl who knows how to run an elliptical machine. Alternately, a lazy one can be connived all the time into staying behind as you do other “active” things. These girls’ confidence can also be shattered to useful effect, whereas the fit girls will usually just go apeshit.

Draw lines from physically confident Susannah, from our inferred ease with her body, to former athleticism and/or sexual experience. Most people, to be comfortable with their bodies, usually know how to use them for something. If she moves easy, there’s a reason. Foreknowledge of prior sexual experience can often lead to quickly gratifying some of your more esoteric desires, knowing you might not have to step as lightly around them. Sexual confidence often translates to personal confidence, which can mean a less demanding, more emotionally satisfying and evenly keeled relationship, should you decide to take it to a second date. If you like that sort of thing.

Depends for me. You know that. Once upon a time, you didn’t get a second date unless you were a mess. I needed to know that it would be a hell of a ride.

I get the notion Susannah isn’t terribly messy, as I enter her apartment. Sleekly modest, almost stark furnishings form contrast to her bright and biting personality.

Occasionally impetuous, perhaps, bringing someone like me home, but not troubled in the head. And that’s all right. As far as I’m concerned, I’m done with the crazies anyway. I’ve kept tabs. About one in four to five have been bugshit whack jobs. As a good man named Lowery I once knew used to say, “Bitches is crazy.” Check yourself homeslice. You will get your shit fucked up, son. None of which is to say I blame the poor ladies for their eventual treachery, or don’t sympathize with them. You’ll deserve it.

The following rumination is all aside from the acknowledgement of the required chemicals that promote and support childbirth and already justify occasionally inexplicable female moments:

Civilations haven’t yet geared themselves toward what’s going on inside the female species. It’s way too much. They’ve got more DNA to sort out than we do. They’ve watched us slaughter their children since time out of mind. Plus, they’re in the process of evolving to dominance, as nature and the Y chromosome conspire to put an end to the tragedy Man, and his hero the Conqueror Worm. The genes that make up males are falling off that one differing chromosome, lessening generation by generation. Our gender is genetically disintegrating. Eventually, male won’t be an option, unless the women want us to be.

I’d replace me with a vibrator.

Females are coming to literal, physical, spiritual dominance in an across-the-board patriarchy (an ascension which creates problems in and of itself), because their outlook is more conducive to preventing total disruption of our ecosystems. Of our economies. Of our lives. Men are the slashers and burners, biting the hand that feeds. This is Darwinism at its most sublime – the earth, life, evolution, creation itself, all much higher in the food chain than Man, has begun to strike down the upstart to put the whole organism back into balance.

All of which conspires to straitjacket a woman…any time, any day. They are much more the victims and the conquerors of their emotions and bodies than we are. It’s simply part of their biology. While most days, we can trudge numbly through our existence, for almost all women, the most regular of days have been miracles to get through without lashing out, breaking down, or dying from the sheer joy of it. You must take this into consideration. You must raise your sensitivity level to hone in on their sensitivity level. It is in this way that you can almost always manipulate or avoid the situation, all to your advantage.

I make my way quickly to the bathroom. Always do this, first time in a woman’s territory. You can catch her half-naked, in a sense, if she wasn’t necessarily expecting to bring someone home. You may see various products, prescriptions, unguents, etc, all of which can give you an idea of what’s going on. Make sure you know which antiobiotics and beyond that fight VD. Check the trashcan to see if there’s female sanitary debris on top, first thing, so you know what you’re dealing with. Is the toilet seat up? Piss on the porcelain rim? You always want to be aware of a potential male. Look in the medicine cabinet, for sure. Is there Valtrex, Monistat, Ortho Tri-Cyclin, Xanax, Lithium (ran into it once, I swear, but she was a bit older), Ritalin, Zoloft, Paxil, Wellbutrin? www.webmd.com is all I’ve got to say about that. The appearance of any number of medications, depending on your mood, can be a definite indication to GET THE FUCK OUT if necessary.

I scored tonight. Bras all over the bathroom. She had a hard time deciding. Which means it’s probably nice underneath. Trashcan points to probably not on the rag. A HUGE bottle of Percocet just sitting there, begging, and two go down the hatch. Wine and tequila (a bad mix to start), might make three painkillers one too many. My night’s about to get real smooth. She also has no anti-depressants in the cabinet. Bonus. Hopefully they’re not in her purse.

I see that she whitens her teeth, uses good hair products, has a clean privy, and maintains regular dental hygiene. Floss in the trashcan. The Virgin Mary would be proud to take a pizzle in here. What we have here Tim, unless I’m mistaken, is a perfectly normal, sane, healthy young lady, maybe even stricken with a touch of OCD in the clean department. Just the specimen I was shooting for, for this intro. We’ll visit some of the more difficult cases later in our study.

“You’re doing a shot with me,” she calls out. Here’s the kind of girl I used to write about in my adolescence. As I burgeoned into…well, let’s be honest, my madness…I dreamt of women who could keep pace, who could play quarters and horseshoes like one of the boys, and fuck till dawn. And yet, they could dance, or prance, or sing real pretty. Hard on the outside, gooey on the inside, just like me. Just like everybody, right?

Yeah…that was back when you and I both still had some illusions.

“You know…you’re getting me to break my own rules. I don’t usually get drunk with strangers. Strangers are not good people.” That’s a bullshit lie. I get drunk with strange motherfuckers all the time. But it’s all about making her experience unique. She’s one of a kind. Each one. Every time.

“Not even sensuous, mysterious strangers?” She’s being facetious, thankfully. Playacting the role of the drunken one-night stand. I hate it when flirtation hits too high a blood/alcohol ratio, and becomes painfully laughable. About as arousing as your grandmother’s centerfold in this month’s issue of Juggs.

The apartment is littered with the fiddle-faddle of a few days’ laziness. A cozy aura, in spite of the Spartan design. A place I could get comfortable.

“You know I was just thinking that Cat in the Hat poster speaks volumes of mystery,” I reply. It actually looks stylish, well-framed, to her credit. The couch and love seat are these low slung black faux leather deals with reflective tube framing on the outside, and sharp squared-off edges. Circular glass sidetables supported by similar tubing topped with a 5X7 each, one black and white of an old farmhouse, the other in Kodacolor circa 1974, of a deflating hot air balloon on the ground.

The coffee table is a chunk of rectangular, rough-edged glass seated on four flat black rocks. Under the table is a thick-looped burgundy rug. There is no television. The ex either took it, or she removed it after he left. From the size of her bookshelf, I’d guess it was the latter, ‘cause it looks like she got to keep everything else. Probably bought it herself. Probably why she asked me about my job right off the bat. He was a deadbeat.

The rest of the apartment (though I haven’t yet seen her bedroom) isn’t necessarily anything to speak of, but this living room whispers serenity. She’s someone who understands and appreciates the potential solemnity and calming effect of a room. One might infer then, she possesses an appreciation for the sacred, whatever her sacred may be. This is something you can play on, if you aim beyond this evening. Consider fucking there. In the living room. Really violate the space.

If it’s sacred, it’ll be a rush.

If you feel that an evening must needs continue unquestionably, you should have at least two objects in your possession that you will feel comfortable leaving behind. You should prepare this ahead of time, in case you’re feeling extra lonely before you go out, you know, like you need to talk to someone or something, and you’re for sure going to want to go for more than one date. My preferred plants are necklaces and or anklets, used books, and/or a shred of paper with some obscure, non-romantic, but damn good poem inscribed upon it. If you’re good enough to write your own, do it. Otherwise, scour a poetry anthology from Scandinavia or something. Just try to make sure she won’t recognize it.

These are items I have found most women feel obliged to return, regardless of whether they planned on seeing you again or not. The necklace or anklet could always be sentimental, and the poem could very well be your own. Many couldn’t let an original piece become hers and hers alone, if you’re an actual talent. In this way, you will supply yourself with another chance to take another angle. This doesn’t apply for everyone. Make the jewelry disposable. Don’t be attached to the book if you leave one. Some see through the plots and ploys, and keep your stuff, ‘cause there are some, though few, who are out there having fun too.

And fun is what it’s supposed to be. We do the shots of Patron. They slide down easy. The difference between lowly cactus piss, and fine tequila, is about the space between Reno and Vegas.

We’ll get to Vegas, Tim Meyer, we’ll get to Vegas. You’re almost finished biding your time in the service of our esteemed nation. Your goals are in sight, enlistment almost up, and Debauchery and I (I’m letting him crash on the couch till you get here.), await your return. I have an overwhelmingly gay desire to sing “Hold On For One More Day” this very moment.

She asks me why I’m living in LA and I tell her that the weather here is where it’s at. And that I’m secretly a down-and-out hack freelance writer, just like every other jackass in this town. I ask her where she’s from, and it’s Iowa. Some no-name bohunk town in our beloved Midwest.

The hack writer thing is true. Still waiting on my next fucking assignment.

We play twenty more questions, her prior hesitations wiped away with blue agave. The Percocet are loosing themselves waves, and these overtures are easier to play as the liquidity of my thoughts ripples outward. Dab a droplet of tequila from her lip, reach out and touch her hand briefly as we discuss whatever new book it was that we were both supposed to love, and the locks begin to make that clicking I’m looking for, her shoulders loosening. We sit on her super-cool sofa.

She’s here because she took a lot of drama class. Because it’s not Iowa. Because her collection of movies (equal to her books apparently…television must be in her bedroom…), always seemed better than summers riding in horse shows and doing dance class, which she never got very good at. Hollywood is where things happen, so that’s where she went.

Except Hollywood turned out to be dirty and cold, even in spite of the weather. And they make the movies behind walls she can’t climb over. Behind doors under which her screenplay won’t fit. Because she hasn’t finished it. Because it’s 300 pages long now. Because everybody has a fucking screenplay.

And because the palm trees always looked so cool in Beverly Hills 90210.

They do look cool. I’ll support that assertion.

I wonder how many women in this place have told me a near exact replica of that tale. I don’t know if I could count. Then again, I may just have an inner magnet for Midwestern ingénues. Regardless, a place like this…you have to find out how to be someone, or you start turning into everyone.

We talk about high school, and how things had more clarity back then. Before freedom began to be something we vaguely acknowledge the President pontificating about, rather than something we spend our time looking for. High school was all about straining toward escape. We are both able to lament what we have escaped into.

It’s not hard to see why she’s yearning for that pre-lapserian state from those few sweet years before prom. Erase this stark and empty apartment, put her back where stuffed animals were okay to have in bed, and boys were just boys and not predators, and you broke up with them long before they could ever cheat on you. Put her back where being popular, and not finding oneself, was the concern. It was easier that way, when Saturday night meant exploration, and you could come back with more and more every weekend, instead of losing pieces of yourself each monotonous day.

Childhood haunts infest each of us. Places where it would be easier to be, than here. Exploit them. Make up stories about yourself, as you go, that mirror hers. Being able to share something from that most sacred of times can superglue us to another person. It’s an easy fishhook. Watch for it, and cast that sucker straight for the lips, when you can. Yeah, those lips.

Her knee touches mine of its own accord. And stays. Van Gogh decorates her kitchen. Hints of Paris here and there in the decor. She may speak French. I recommend picking up the basics in a few languages, most notably Spanish, Italian, French, German, and Latin. Latin helps with everything. Abroad, and at home, there is always something overtly attractive about someone who’s multilingual. Even if it’s just a little.

It’s a black lace thong. She hasn’t been careful with that short little skirt. If you do this often enough, you’ll get to the point where you notice the change in the breathing pace, you’ll feel her heart beating faster in your temples, and even the scent from both mouths will somehow become more viscous, vital.

Grip her arm at the elbow, forceful, lean her in, slide to the hand, gentle, breathe for a moment, give her the option to recoil for a split second, and then attend to your business. I find a mix of controlling and softer caressing movements will generally produce the desired results. Let her feel held, but not trapped. At least until that breaking point, when you whistle in your pal, ol’ Buck Wild. Everyone wants to be FUCKED. Sometimes they just don’t realize it right away. You have to coax it out. And only let Buck do his business when it’s right.

The first few moments are all about establishing boundaries, of which you, naturally, have none. So you pretend her boundaries are your boundaries, and that’s what you’ll respect. You have to be subtle, feeling it out. We are now in the limbo between science and art, and I can give no more than your instincts will afford you.

I can tell you that often, cupping your hands under her jaw early on, and drawing her in gently for a passionate finish will render her much more under your finesse. Convince her of your sincerity, your commitment to the moment, and your overweening lust for her. This way, you’re less likely to be deterred by abrupt regrets or blunt refusals to go beyond that certain point when she realizes she’s might be nothing but a moist and toasty bun for Mr. Meyer's wiener.

No one, in their heart of hearts, is capable of believing that relinquishing control and “chasteness” to a true moment of passion will render their moral character in question. Our endorphins are too powerful in their persuasion for that to happen. Use the chemicals. While you kiss her, run your hand up the outside edge of her thigh. Remain only suggestive at first. The word is coax, not cram. Touch innocent spots that might be good ones. The back of her neck, behind her ears, elbow and knee pits, crook of the neck, collarbone, shoulders, etc. Be patient with your own sense of urgency. Be sensitive to how she moves, which way she turns, if she squirms away when you touch a part she may be uncomfortable with. The point, in all of this, is to develop a quick physical rapport.

You want it to seem like you already know her body better than she does.

It is in this way that you will open her up, and potentially bring her back to find out what else you know. Only by creating the opportunity can you become skilled in the first place, so do everything you can to teach your fingers and your tongue the necessary talents when you have your chances. I haven’t had too many say No to such extended attentions.

Index and middle finger insertion with thumb on clit is a fairly solid approach, but even that is a skill in and of itself. It’s difficult to teach the thumb not to be a barbarian at that angle. Yes, they’ll want it rough, but only after you’ve reminded them. That might take a little while. Gentle, light, feathery, these fill their skin to the brim, get them spasming and begging and moaning, because it’s all such an agonizingly wonderful tease. I’m sure you’ve encountered a tease before Tim. It’s exquisite, until left unfulfilled. Make use of that exquisite, and then deliver on the deal. If she’s taken you this far into her sanctum, she deserves an orgasm, even if you don’t get to rock out with your cock out just yet. Unless she makes it perfectly clear, leave it up to her to take your pants off. That places all the responsibility squarely in her hands.

You almost always have shitty prior experiences on your side, if you’re doing things right. And you won’t believe the points you’ll get for not immediately trying to impale her. As much as you despise those meatheads who so undeservedly get laid, that you talked about in your last missive, they’re out there making things easier for us. I’ve known women who haven’t gotten more than five minutes of oral action from a man in their entire lives. I expect at least half an hour or more on a blowjob for it to even begin to approach acceptable. Little things, mon ami, little things.