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"Deep Throat" is Dead
September 2007
Sat, Sep. 1st, 2007 12:10 am

I press my fuzzy lap into the smooth and bending lines of your lower back. You moan quietly, stir, both awake and still asleep in those early morning hours before dawn, before the alarm snatches you away from me and dresses in an architect's suit of creased dress pants, sharp brown shoes pointing from the cuffs, and a button down of simple and elegant design.

You sling one arm over your side curling a man's fingers around mine, the way a child might grasp a mother's fingers.

I am wet.

I am wet and warm.

I don't know if it's my body against yours or the blanket of heat laying flat across the city that makes the line of sweat appear on my brow and above my lip.

I talk to you, whisper in your ear insignificant ramblings of the morning, our start of day, and I feel a rise beneath the sheet. Your body knows my voice the way that my fingers can trace the creeping, crawling vines of hair around your navel from memory.

And so I press that warm brown patch more firmly against you, meaningfully, until flesh melts against flesh.

I'd swear the mercury rose ten degrees in the bedroom of your Irish Channel apartment and in the dirty city streets. The city knows us both so intimately.

You are awake now. You roll over on top of me. And your body keeps moving as deep and sharp as the Mississippi, even as you cough and laugh into my hair. And I am undone with love and pleasure.

God bless this city.


Sun, Aug. 19th, 2007 04:42 pm

Maybe we should've made love on the stacks of Rolling Stones you've saved, stacked, stored in plastic crates on the floor, on the shelf above a line of hanging clothes, beneath the bed until the vintage year when they were ripe enough, mature enough, for the curb, for the garbage truck and giveaways.

I wonder whether the waxy covers would burn cherries on our bare skin, leave long lean cuts like claw-marks of cats in heat or acrylic nails run down a length of back. Would we sink into the crackling folds of paper, get lost in the margins, lost in airbrushed images of the "ideal", or just slide across in one fluid motion?

And could we say then, "Fuck them? Fuck what they think of us?" Would you love every pound of flesh of me? Would I love your crooked smile, love your awkward fondling of my emotions, my heart, my zipper?

The paper would pop and purr like logs in a fire. And if the glossy pages burnt away beneath our bodies' friction, maybe the only thing left behind would be the way I really feel for you and the way you really feel for me.


Sun, Aug. 12th, 2007 02:30 pm

The lavender paper gown rustled like a sheet of notebook paper torn from metal binder. Paper straps tied around the neck like a halter-top gown, around the waist to keep bare ass 1/4 covered. And I watched with horrified fascination as they screwed me, the giant paper ball, into a vacuum cleaner hose draped over the side of my bed and handed me a remote control.

Warm air "on"...


Warm air "off"...

Warm air "on"...

It wasn't too bad really.

I signed a dozen forms, more useful as flying spheres flung at the 20 or more hospital beds all standing vacant at 7 a.m. waiting for other bare asses to fill them. But, alas, I handed them back and, yes, I declared with a blood oath signed in drippings from the IV in my hand that, "I am aware even minor surgery can cause irreversible damage to my rectum, fill me with gas from chest to sphincter, and, I dunno, cause some sort of paralysis... brain death maybe."

The Pentecostal that had been sleeping inside me woke up just then, shouting something about hell-fire and brimstone – and I was rightly terrified.

Then the nurse pushed the syringe and the liquid seeped in through the IV to vein. Like the spirit of the Holy Spirit rushing through me, I was instantly high and filled with euphoria.

"Think something happy," said one of the RNs dressed in scrubs with a paw print in the right corner. "It will help you have sweet dreams in the Operating Room."

"Am I at the vet?" The dog paw logo was on everything from gown to socks, from Nurse uniforms to medical ID bracelet. "Excuse me, am I at the vet?"

"No, more like a mechanic shop, VAROOM, VAROOM. I'm ready for my oil change!" I shouted with glee as the nurses lowered my bed with a lever.

Brian was the only one who laughed at my joke – or maybe he was just laughing at me. He leaned over the bedrail and kissed me, squeezed my hand, and, Goddamn, did I love that man then.

Think something happy...good dreams. Think something happy.

I forgot all about that fear of God thing, saturated in some sweet drug. I closed my eyes tight and thought as hard as my clouded brain would let me: "SEX, SEX, SEX, SEX, SEX, SEX."

That's what I wanted most to dream about, sex, dirty and rough, or maybe sweet and slow. No, rough, I think. Hard and strong and thrusting...

They wheeled me into the operating room, kept telling me to inhale as they dropped a plastic cone over my nose.

Meanwhile, I was thinking of sweaty bodies humping wildly.

And then I fell asleep.

It was disappointing waking up and more disappointing recounting to the curious nurse.

" So what did you dream about?" she asked me.

"I dreamed about martinis."

There was an endless bar with glass after v-shaped glass of gin and vodkas, dirties and twists - but not one single hairy, naked, erect...

No matter how great the fear of Jesus or the embedded concepts of good and evil, when parts of the mind are shut off, slowed down, when we stop thinking about "right" and "wrong", what we're left with is a strong desire for pleasure and appreciation for makes us most human and less divine.


Wed, Aug. 8th, 2007 09:46 pm

Write Something.


A woman was tragically killed in the city of New Orleans today when a disgruntled Luckydog vendor rammed her with his gigantic weenie. An unidentified (see “Immigrant Workers, New Orleans” pg 17) construction worker who witnessed the accident said response crews tried to staunch bleeding only to discover, through taste test, that the red, sticky goo covering the body was actually a condiment.

An autopsy of the body showed no indication that the weenie transmitted any life-threatening STDs, though scrapings of the victim’s cervix did test positive for a strand of HPV. The cause of death, according to the Coroner’s office, was “blunt force trauma”.

Write Anything.

The big rubber wheels of the bus hit the curb, my head smacked against the head of an elderly gent seated beside me. Possibly the impact rendered him unconscious – though more likely it was the suspect brown liquid that slashed out of the brown paper bag in his lap or the joint still smoldering between two withered fingers.

A silver VW pulled up at the light. A driver looked over, a gray dog pulling long and hard on something at his crouch. And I think to myself, “How curious…how curious.”

And so I wrote, inspired by an ad on Craigslist “Missed Connections”, a useless page of redundant longings and snide retorts that nevertheless gives me a chuckle, and a few random emails and messages from kind readers.

How 'bout next time we talk about surgery wet dreams and percacet?


Thu, Oct. 19th, 2006 06:48 pm

Trees shiver. I believe they do.

Skies weep, like the one outside my window now, from clouds as dark as the circles under my eyelids when I am sad, when I can't sleep, or when I get caught in a rainstorm, like this one here, and my mascara bleeds and rolls in black waves down my cheeks.

And sometimes things, inanimate things, have more compassion than human beings, the way a rock sometimes rolls from underfoot when it sees that you have struck your toe against it.


Wed, Oct. 18th, 2006 12:47 pm

"She may be mildly shocked when I send her forwards, but since I'm
acting as a filter to sort out creepy old men, the obnoxious, and the illiterate, she won't be upset. She's a very good sport." - My friend Liza


Wed, Oct. 18th, 2006 09:28 am
I hear glass shattering above my head. Above me long and jagged pieces are suspended in the air, rhythmically slapping together like the pieces on a front porch wind chime. They sound like rain, like a swarm of bees, like everything, and like nothing I've ever heard or seen. Then they fall to the concrete, a small block cordoned off by yellow caution tape, smashing there into billions of tiny, rainbow colored fragments. And I can't stop looking at them, lying at my feet, trying to piece together what they were before all this, trying to remember the shape of them polished, whole and new.

A construction worker starts to yell at me from a fifth floor window. I think that somehow, absorbed in my thoughts, I must have crossed the caution tape and into some sort of street peril. But no, I realize soon enough, he's calling out, "Que bonita!" and whistling.

I walk on, down through a sea of dark colored faces waiting at the bus stop, crossing the street between two chrome bumpers, the first car parked too far into my pedestrian walkway. The portable toilets across from the library smell of fresh urine in hellacious humidity - acrid, pungent, and sour. I'm almost to work, where I will kill another 8 hours, 40 hours a week. It makes me hope the hours of my life will not be too many. I know it's a horrible thought, dark and nasty. But today I can't help it.

My morning email yields a handful of, "Thanks for applying, the job has been filled" form letters and I am thrust again (or is "deeper" a better word?) into melancholy. I cannot even get one fucking interview. I think of applying for a job in Nashville. My finger is on the trigger, the "Enter" button. But in the end, I can't do it. Not yet. Maybe this afternoon, perhaps tomorrow, in an hour or two, someday, at some time, something has to give.

I woke up with the Tracy Chapman tune Cold Feet on repeat in my head. I don't know what got Brain FM playing. Was it a dream, a waking thought, a sign of some kind? Doubtless the sentiment seems rather perfect this a.m. Why is enough never enough? Why at the core is there always emptiness?


There was a little boy once upon a time
Who in spite of his young age and small size knew his mind
For every copper penny and clover he would find
Make a wish for better days the end of hard times
For no more cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet

His clothes were always clean
His face was always scrubbed
There was food on the table enough to fill him up
His house was full of life - His house was full of love
But when winter days arrived
There was never money enough to shod his cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet

Current Mood: crushed crushed
Current Music: dunno yet, but must put something on to drown out cold feet


Tue, Oct. 17th, 2006 02:47 pm

Dear Jesse,

Is it okay if I start off with "Dear"? I'm not much of a computer girl. I like letters dripping in black ink, postmarked and sitting in my mailbox, though I'm bad at writing them, rarely receive them - and quite often lose them beneath the mounds of debris that, in essence, is my apartment furniture. (Not every Virgo, quite apparently, is clean.) I guess it is sentimentality, some piece of cheap romantic idealism planted in my head by my parents, who have been married since they were 16 and 17 respectively, and watered by goofy Meg Ryan films that, I assure you, I no longer watch. Letters just seem, somehow, more intimate.

My friend Liza posted this blurb, this ad, the consequences of which of appear to be growing and building up speed, like some mad rolling snowball. Oh, that's right; we don't have those in New Orleans. Anyway, she did not ask my permission and I did not give it. She simply forwarded the responses to my email address with a simple explanation - craigslist, personals. I can't speak for her actions other than to suggest that it seemed like a good idea after several glasses of Jameson, our very favorite cocktail. I guess the good thing about a computer ad is that you aren't subjected to her slurred speech as she recounts my finer points.

Out of curiosity, if one were to lace someone's Jameson with a liquid laxative, do you think that the person would taste it? (Damn these thoughts of revenge!)

You are indeed outside the specified age range and I was wondering a bit whether I should toss you out like a contestant on one of those damn reality shows that clog up the airwaves like ham does the arteries. But despite the surge of responses, and believe-you-me, there was a surge, you seem to be the only one capable of typing a complete sentence - and appreciating things that I appreciate, of course.

So about me: I graduated from the University of Georgia with a degree in Journalism. I'm currently not using the same said degree because, quiet frankly, it's damn hard to make a living as a writer in this city - and I just love NOLA too much to leave. I'm also not very aggressive or cut-throat like newspaper writers almost have to be by necessity. I love feature writing, Southern fiction, politics, human interest pieces, humor, and satire of all sorts... Like you, I'm interested in art-house movies, Indie and foreign films. I like theatre. I like dinners out. I like building costumes for every holiday. I paint poorly and sketch until my fingers are black with charcoal. And if you can learn to play "Sweet Melissa" on your guitar then I might, quite honestly, marry you - or at least donate an organ, should yours fall into disrepair. (FYI, I have lived in this city about four years, so if I were you, I wouldn't ask for my liver.)

I have attached a photo of myself with a horse I met while touring the Republic of Ireland . It was a birthday gift to self (the trip, not the horse), my first International trip, only my second time ever out of the South. Thought it would be a good one to send, since my hair covers that nasty facial scar ... just kidding.

So there's my response. There you have it.

Now the burning question, "Why are you looking for lovin' online?"

With much curiosity,

Current Mood: sleepy sleepy


Mon, Oct. 16th, 2006 04:03 pm


Dear You,

It's me. Time apart is doing us good I think - or me, at least. I mean, I still think about you most everyday, sometimes for a moment, sometimes for two. But it's easier knowing that you're somewhere out there, far, far away. Loving you is hard when you are here, right under my nose, always somewhere I can bump into you while you are having cocktails with your cute little friend, the successful one. It's easier when you are too far away to call and invite me to do things because you know that I can't just say "no" to you. Ah, yes, I miss you. You're one of my best friends. For the first week I wasn't so good without you. But now, well, I'm getting the hang of it, now I think I'm getting the distance I need to not love you. And someday I won't love you. And it will be so much nicer, just being friends. Isn't that an idea!


Actually, could you stay away a little bit longer? Yes, yes, a few more weeks might do.


Love ya,



Mon, Oct. 16th, 2006 10:43 am

"Stop kissing...me...you asshole."

It was hard to tell you that. Every time I tried to open my mouth to speak, you crammed your tongue inside. Drunk, idiot, fool, hopped up on Liza's green rum punch, on whiskey and Scotch. You embarrassed yourself and you embarrassed your friends. But you provided me with an interesting introduction for today's online journal entry, "The Party", so I guess I can't hate you - not entirely.

So against my better judgment, and despite repeated proclamations that I am, indeed, going to cut back on my alcohol consumption, I got sauced with Liza twice this weekend. Friday we consumed two bottles of red wine and polished off the Jameson from my freezer, all in the name of party preparation. Liza's job was to cook and she did, freezing fruit for the punch, making a sundried tomato and tofu dip, Texas cornbread, brownies, spinach and artichoke dip, pita chips and a plethora of other equally appetizing finger foods. And my job, the better of the two, so far as I can see, was to entertain, to keep her awake, to joke and laugh and sample a bit of everything. Sauced herself, she asked if she could borrow two of the charcoal sketches from my apartment for the party. She framed them and hung them above the bed. I have to tell you that I was immensely flattered and pleased by this.

Saturday we rolled a wooden spool onto Liza's porch and positioned as many seats around it as we could get. Her entire department, the dept. of Philosophy, were invited to attend - and encouraged to bring along dates, roommates and friends. A rather sizeable group showed up, sat slouched around the spool with cocktails and Dixie plates full of food, stood on the lawn, wandered through the apartment and into the kitchen filled with the warm smells of food and baked goods, and danced, when liquored up enough.

And despite the anxiety I sometimes get when thrown, like a cat into a bathtub, into a group of strangers, I had a good time too. I doused myself in the punch, comprised almost entirely of rum, in beer and in Jameson Irish Whiskey. And I fell deeply in love with the artists, with the bohemian and with the politically minded.

M. and I hugged. I told him any time, any, he wants to visit that I live around the corner. He's a gay Republican, maybe the world's only gay Republican. He's extremely pro-life, but liberal in most other ways. And because of his own illness, which caused a whooping hospital bill of over a million dollars, he is an advocate of universal health care. He is going back to school for social work so that he can help other people. I love this man. He has such beauty, such heart. I think it rare to feel such affection for a person so soon after introduction - but he is amazing.

"Thought I was going to have to get up and hit that guy," said the other M, a hippie sort of fellow with the long stringing hair and the goth girlfriend with the great boots that laced up to her knees. I like anybody who will watch my back. And both he and his girlfriend G. are artists - which I deeply admire. We exchanged emails and they are supposed to send me samplings of their work.

T. told Liza that I am cute - and I'm glad he thought so.

I've promised to let another artist borrow my digital camera to take some electronic copies of his work. Perhaps it was because he was handsome and spoke with an accent that I could not say "no" and handed over my phone number with ease.

My friend Jessica took a picture of her cleavage and kissed Manuel on a dare.

L. threw up in the bathroom.

Overall, it was an entirely successful event and everyone got on well. Well, everyone except you and I, correct?

You told me that I want to fuck you. I laughed in your face and told you that you were the most ridiculous man I'd ever met. Your friends (or are they colleagues only?) asked if I was okay and I announced to one and all what you just said to me.

I felt bad when you became sullen, quiet, pouting. Maybe I shouldn't have done that, not in front of the people you work with. Maybe I shouldn't have embarrassed you. But you shouldn't have kept clawing and groping and kissing when I showed obvious disinterest.

You passed out in the chair and no one could wake you. Liza threw a glass of water in your face and T. carried you back to the car and into your apartment.

At 4:30 a.m., the last of the houseguest, you and I, T. and L., said goodnight. I spent all day Sunday alternating between sleeping and reading, with sleep winning out in the end. I bet you were hung-over, sick and grouchy. I bet T. reminded you of what an asshole you had been.