Under many different phases of my being, I have looked into the stars and wondered whether the blanket pulled over our existence is a construction sheet with poked holes, or just a whole lot of white we can’t see (all of). I’ve looked at the stars like they are things that haven’t changed or haven’t moved, even while they are out there orbiting, collecting, and changing in size; combusting into life and exploding into death just as we are down here; thinking ourselves birds, or otherwise still humans floating looking down into deepest seas. And even then, we —the stars and I—would look at each other from a great distance and laugh at one another’s perspective.
I wonder if the Milky Way knows we have the same taste in men.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Safety Pins and Nipples
Her bare breasts were too close for comfort, the only thing covering her lower half, a tutu. You guys are the only ones my age, she told us, you can’t leave now. The party has hardly started. Her eyes were most likely attempting to make me flush, turn me on, keep me there. I was too busy staring into the adjacent room, a dark shade of crimson with low music playing and a cluster of twenty or so people all pulling at one another’s bare limbs, pumping and groaning all in a crowd. From what it looked like, there were some twenty year olds, some sixty year olds, everyone in-between. All fucking. People still do this? I said to Azara.
“I was told this was an underwear party,” Azara said.
The bare breasted girl giggled and said where’s the underwear? A sixty year old man, hair greased to the side, pulled out from the crowd of people, sweaty, and fixed the safety pins jammed through his nipples.
“Azara, where did you hear about this party?”
“Uh. The internet," Azara said.
“The internet?”
“The internet.”
“You look for parties on the internet?”
“No.”
“So how did this-”
“Listen-”
The man with safety pins in his nipples walked by in ass-less chaps. I could tell he was trying to tempt my breasts out of my shirt. Azara crossed her arms across her chest and shivered.
“Oh I’m listening,” I said.
“I just thought you could meet some new people…”
Chains rattled against the concrete wall to our left, as screens peeled themselves from the ceiling, unfolding in all of their glory, more naked bodies on display. Every one on the opposite end of the room stopped having sex for a moment and, as a collective, turned to the giant screens. The girl on the screen was bright blonde, the man a dark haired and hairy thing. I looked away before the screaming started. I suddenly noticed a man sitting in a small cubby behind us near the stairs leading into the carnal den, a stout, fat man in a white collared shirt and a thick mustache reading the New York Times under a sign reading, NO PANTS PERMITTED PAST THIS POINT. Behind him, a row of clothing hangers, some with pants, others with underwear, some, empty. I watched him reading the paper. His brow creased a little, taking in what must have been a catastrophic event. I looked back in to the other room and saw everyone doing a slow, naked waltz around one another, wondering if any of them even bothered to ask this man if we wanted to join. It didn’t look as if he was interested. I squinted at the headlines; all in Spanish. I thought about asking him what he was reading, until he looked up and saw me looking back at him and he winced. I would have winced at me too.
"Can we go now?" I said.
“I was told this was an underwear party,” Azara said.
The bare breasted girl giggled and said where’s the underwear? A sixty year old man, hair greased to the side, pulled out from the crowd of people, sweaty, and fixed the safety pins jammed through his nipples.
“Azara, where did you hear about this party?”
“Uh. The internet," Azara said.
“The internet?”
“The internet.”
“You look for parties on the internet?”
“No.”
“So how did this-”
“Listen-”
The man with safety pins in his nipples walked by in ass-less chaps. I could tell he was trying to tempt my breasts out of my shirt. Azara crossed her arms across her chest and shivered.
“Oh I’m listening,” I said.
“I just thought you could meet some new people…”
Chains rattled against the concrete wall to our left, as screens peeled themselves from the ceiling, unfolding in all of their glory, more naked bodies on display. Every one on the opposite end of the room stopped having sex for a moment and, as a collective, turned to the giant screens. The girl on the screen was bright blonde, the man a dark haired and hairy thing. I looked away before the screaming started. I suddenly noticed a man sitting in a small cubby behind us near the stairs leading into the carnal den, a stout, fat man in a white collared shirt and a thick mustache reading the New York Times under a sign reading, NO PANTS PERMITTED PAST THIS POINT. Behind him, a row of clothing hangers, some with pants, others with underwear, some, empty. I watched him reading the paper. His brow creased a little, taking in what must have been a catastrophic event. I looked back in to the other room and saw everyone doing a slow, naked waltz around one another, wondering if any of them even bothered to ask this man if we wanted to join. It didn’t look as if he was interested. I squinted at the headlines; all in Spanish. I thought about asking him what he was reading, until he looked up and saw me looking back at him and he winced. I would have winced at me too.
"Can we go now?" I said.
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