he came to visit us in school, beer spilled out of his pockets and we
hid him in the girls room and he drank his beer while we smoked the
grass he had brought for us.
once he was in a car crash and went through the windshield and
they took him to the hospital and shot him up with morphine and he
loved it so much that he did it again.
he said that he turned tricks in the bars in Philadelphia to make
his tuition so that he could go to Catholic school even though his
family was poor, he said that in a Catholic school they couldnt touch
his mind or fuck him up. he was our image of purity.
the night we graduated from high school Rona gave a party and
one of our teachers fucked one of our friends and she had a nervous
breakdown when he never called her again, until 2 years later when
he called her. then it got worse because he made her suck his cock all
the time and then would tell her that if she ever did it to anyone else
she would be a disgusting slut,
he didnt call Rona until she got married.
he and I had an even stormier story, before graduation he threatened to turn me in to the FBI for smoking grass and to take me to a hospital to watch junkies scream and vomit and he made a list for
me, he explained everything that would happen throughout life—
THERES ORAL INTERCOURSE THATS WHEN THE
WOMAN SUCKS THE COCK OF THE MAN AND
THERES ANAL INTERCOURSE THATS WHEN THE
MAN FUCKS THE WOMAN IN THE ASS AND THEN
THERES REGULAR INTERCOURSE THATS WHEN
THE MAN FUCKS THE WOMAN IN THE VAGINA—
thats what sex is, he said, thats what happens, he drew pictures to illustrate his points,
he taught me everything I know.
I never believed a word he said.
he was, according to our unspoken mutual understanding, going
to be my first lover but he turned into such a jerk, traitor, and
villainous turncoat that I had to look elsewhere.
S. of course hadnt been.
now the thing about this story is that, like life, it just goes on and
on, or, like life as we know it, it did for about 8 years which was 250
or so men, women, and variations thereof later, then I thought it
time to reassess and perhaps invent,
at some point S. was.
at some point, in Amsterdam, or on Crete, in London, or maybe on
a boat somewhere S. was.
at some point whenever I lay on some floor or bed or the backseat
of some car drenched in sweat, watching the light break, it wasnt
Barry Greenberg, or Rhett, or Noel, or some rotten high school
teacher, it was S. pure and simple, who had a nervous breakdown,
got fucked by a painter, became a woman, then a Bunny, then disappeared. vanished into thin air, which is here, there, and everywhere.
