I'd like a plain simple car, a cerise
Long enough to have a bowling alley
in the back.
I want an old-fashioned house, with an
And an old-fashioned millionaire.
- Eartha Kitt
I am cat sitting again this weekend and, the same freakish thing as before, S. D. called from down the hall last night to remind me and even said the male cat's name and I’ve already forgotten it again. Some names are like that: boyfriends and bartenders, bylines in the New York Times, mayoral candidates, recently acquired pets. I keep thinking Bart but it isn't Bart, that's the name of my next-door neighbor’s little dog. Begins with B, definitely, but it’s nothing intuitive whatsoever—what does Freud say about this? Going for acupuncture later this morning, I have a pain in my side/back that isn't going away. Either a pulled muscle or a punctured lung, or cancer. A column due today for VICE. No idea for it whatsoever. Tracey said I should just print the email I sent her this morning. J. said, "Oh, just write about gay marriage, everybody else is." All right, I’ll combine the two:
I have no ambitions in the gay-marriage arena—nothing to write, either, unless something happens at the acupuncturist. Needle goes in wrong or Dr. Chen falls in love with me and fucks me on the acupuncture table frantically unable to restrain himself—that could be a porn movie. The first reel, “Bridal Shower”: Right after Dr. Chen comes on my stomach and wipes his cock on a Sani-Towel, I take one of those pedicabs from Chinatown, the driver mounts me in my vestibule after I give him a blowjob and continues pounding me like a dog all the way up six flights, comes in my hair kneeling over me while I suck his balls from the kitchen floor and slaps my face with his cock drizzling cum all over while I order a pizza on my cell phone. The pizza arrives just as the pedicab driver’s putting it up my ass again, the delivery boy instantly rips off his pants and attacks my other hole, dropping the pizza box on my back and flipping it open and helping himself to it, then a guy from Time Warner Cable shows up, starts eating out the pizza boy’s ass as two Jehovah’s Witnesses, both hung like Porfirio Rubrioso, burn copies of The Watchtower in the sink and take turns fucking the pedicab driver while he’s penetrating me and slapping pizza slices against my buttocks and I’m sucking the pizza boy, finally the Witnesses do a double-dick thing in my hole then pull out and shoot their spunk in my face, which is now completely drenched in cum like frosting on a cinnamon roll.
Reel two. Went to Richard Hell's book party at Fales Library. At least a dozen people I had not seen in 20–30 years, including Danny Fields, also Richard Bach, who told me he's written a memoir of being the Mudd Club's doorman for two years and remembered me coming out covered in sweat after a play I did there in 1979—an odd memory—I would’ve married Richard Bach in 1979, instead I was fucking an actor married to a South African woman who needed a green card, whose putative boyfriend, married to a different woman, also for a green card, was fucking one friend of mine while she herself was fucking another friend’s teenage son, none of these arrangements seemed at all peculiar at the time, frankly they still strike me as richer in narrative potential than gay marriages (who exactly gives a rat’s ass with mayonnaise about Rufus Wainwright, for starters) especially since I can’t even marry Ricardo. Which really would be interesting, or total horror, no telling which but nothing in between, for sure. It will be legal in Cuba very soon, long before a gay spouse can emigrate to the US, since there’s no federal thing here and probably won’t be until Scalia and the other four pinheads cash in their coupons. Last year, always the bridesmaid, I tried to interest several well-off lesbian couples in marrying Ricardo, figuring one of them would like to pick up a sweet beachfront property in Siboney through a cutout, in exchange for getting him permanent-resident status here, and giving him a little stipend. Of course he could just get on a plane, propaganda to the contrary, but then I’d have to pay for it, and him. Anyway, I would want to love anyone I married, but I would never, ever marry for love. There’s no percentage.
N. B.: there is an item buried deep in the Homeland Security Act allowing the government to fine you half a million dollars and put you in jail for five years if you or your new spouse apply for immigration status after contracting a “false marriage.” I have supplied several legally joined, heterosexual internationals with elaborately bogus photograph albums of their first anniversary parties, vacations, Christmases, and dinner parties with their in-laws, to show the federal inspector. It’s exhausting to do all that set dressing, to say nothing of them having to ape intimacy in front of the Feds, scattering underpants and bras and condoms around for that look of nonstop true-love screwing—plus you have to decide which apartment to litter up and receive the carnal police in. None of their business if you’re fucking or not, you say? Marriage is a property arrangement? Only if you married Wall Street billionaire Dick Holder, or somebody named Astor.
Got a horrible pang of envy, PEN sent their yearly brochure of International PEN events. I am not involved with PEN but last year they roped me into something, some Phil K. Dick event—anyway, I see in their 2013 brochure that one of my friends is described as "beloved novelist and essayist" and thought, Oh she's so fucking beloved is she, what am I, canned spaghetti? It put my nose out of joint because R. Hell describes me in his memoir of the punk era as "the smartest and the bitchiest"—I wrote him a mash note on his book, which is really wonderful, not mentioning how much I resented being described that way—and really I’m not the “smartest,” either. Just the most intelligent. There’s a difference. If I were smartest I would control 85 percent of the world’s zirconium or something. I thought, It wouldn't have cost him an arm to put 'beloved' instead, wait till I’ve got that great big diamond on my finger and see who’s the bitchiest. I’ll toss that other bitchy queen he mentioned my illusion veil when my new gazillionaire gay husband fucks me right on the altar in St. John the Divine. While Richard performs "Love Comes In Spurts." It’s not a funeral, Patti’s not invited.
I would like to get married, come to think of it, but I want someone really unlikely to ask me: Ben Whishaw. Who isn't remotely my type and I'm a century too old for him, although if he has such a boner for Judi Dench I must be somewhere in the ballpark. I like the idea of marrying a geeky guy like that who wears horn-rim glasses and is a bit twitchy looking and skinny and maybe teaches philology or classics at some moldy university—oh and smokes a pipe of course, all tweedy, I’m sure we could do a mean George and Martha on very little booze—he could even be a semi-mentally-challenged arsehole like the character B. W. played in Layer Cake (I’m not getting younger) but if it's GAY marriage I can't leave him for Laurence Harvey and end up with Prince Rainier or whatever… so really, what’s the point? I realize we’re all moved to the quick by all these stories of lifelong lovers finally able to stand up loud and proud and say "I’M JUST LIKE EVERYBODY ELSE," but that never has been my mantra, frankly, and if it’s yours, I don’t fucking want to know you... On the other hand, if you are gainfully employed in an extremely remunerative profession or happened to have inherited an astonishingly large amount of money, call me.
Previously by Gary Indiana - Oh, What a Dirty War