A Small Wet Goddess In Gotham

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One does not expect to glimpse a naiad on the A train, yet there she was. Just inside the door she stood, compact yet slight, jet hair cropped short in fetching brutal chunks around her face, clad in nothing but a diaphanous tunic of algae green. An incongruous sight on the MTA, this water sprite set plumb in the middle of Manhattan, but then Manhattan is an island.

I’ve seen some sundry strangeness on the subway. I’ve seen a relentless parade of beggars, peddlers and hawkers. I’ve been entertained by strolling mariachi bands, gospel singers, drummers, break-dancers, rappers, flautists, comedians and even one mime. I’ve witnessed New Yorkers riding the subway calmly, newspaper in hand, iPod buds in ears, dressed in nothing but their skivvies and shoes. I’ve witnessed couples meet, fight, make-up, make out and all but fornicate. I’ve seen New Yorkers riding the rails with a dizzying array of objects: multiple dogs, a stand-up bass, a bassoon, goldfish in bags, a book case, and rolling racks of clothes come to mind. I’ve seen clowns, cowboys, drag queens, and one person on stilts. I’ve seen celebrities, politicians, and nobodies. I just never really thought a goddess would take the A train, but I suppose even deities need to get uptown quickly.
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Orlando, Bloom…

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Listen.

I’m telling you stories.

I met Orlando not in Orlando but in New York City, which has three islands, really, so maybe it is appropriate. Islands aren’t attached to anything; neither, it turns out, is/was/will be Orlando. Like the string of beads that is Venice, New York too is a series of islands. Fluid bits of lands attached to other lands by bridges, by tunnels, by boats.

We met in Manhattan. We met at a bus stop. It was raining. I offered Orlando my umbrella. It seemed like the thing to do. We weren’t, either of us, waiting for the bus. Orlando was waiting for something. (Orlando was/is/will always be waiting for something.)

It turned out that the thing I was waiting for was Orlando.
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Cockworship is for Pussies

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This is what you do.

You have your female lover-your girlfriend, your partner, your friend, it matters not-lie on the bed, her legs bent, her thighs spread; like the twin columns of trees that line the road leading up to a French estate, her parted legs welcome you.

You take your time; you gaze at the vista; you appreciate the topiary; you stop and smell the metaphoric flowers. Perhaps you trail a finger or two up and down her vertical slit. Perhaps you part her labia, idly, like a dawdler eavesdropping at a tea party.
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Reading Fanny Hill Aloud in Gotham

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“This was really dirty!” exclaimed one student.

“I know!” another chimed in. “I felt naughty reading it!”

“I had no idea that people in the eighteenth century were so…” the student groped for a word. “Kinky!” she finished.

What part of “premiere work of eighteenth-century pornography” threw you off, I asked. Apparently it was the “pornography” part. They just didn’t believe me.

The text in question was, of course, John Clelend’s Fanny Hill. Published in two parts in 1739 and 1740, the book is a messy, chaotic romp in which genres are tangled as limbs; sexual metaphors run the gamut of the military, the mercantile and the scientific; and the petticoated, perfumed, periwigged characters enjoy lesbianism, voyeurism, group sex, homosexuality, and swinger parties, though not in that order and not without a host of fascinating complications.
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Return to the Valley of the Dolls

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I’ve been sick in bed (and sick out of bed too, quite a bit, actually, but I’ll forbear the bent-kneed yakking details) and so I’ve indulged in a bit of bad fiction. I reread Jacqueline Susann’s Valley of the Dolls; it was as delightfully awful as I remembered it to be.

I first read the book in my impressionable late teens most likely on a beach while wearing one of those tan-thru bikinis popular in the very early 80’s. Mine had tiger stripes. It didn’t really work, then in the pre-ozone hole summer, there in the weak Vermont sun. It did, however, give me the illusion that I could get the lovely toasted marshmallow all-over tan I coveted and still be seen in public, which was really the aim, if not the achieved affect. I remember reading the book in that bikini, reading with one eye out for someone to fuck and one hand on my baby oil.

This copy, the one I devoured in two nights in my ground-glass-bone fitfulness of the past couple of nights, was given to me for my birthday two years ago from my friend Daisy Duke. It’s an original 1966 hardcover, still all dressed up in its jacket confetti-strewn with candy-colored pills. It’s tough for an insomniac such as myself to read a book that does luscious nothing in such detail as sing paeans to Seconals, but I suppose we often want what we can’t have.
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My Ode to Peggy Lee

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It all started with Peggy Lee. She was my first crush-my first female crush. My first boycrush was my uncle Fred, whom I was convinced I would marry until around the age of ten when the concept of incest was clearly explained to me by my mother.

Peggy Lee. The voice smoky as the bacon she could fry up in the pan and never, ever let you forget you’re a man. The big blonde pouf of a hairstyle. The cleavage so deep you could dive in and roll around in it. The mole. As I child I was fairly addicted to variety programs, and while my heroines were definitely the female comics-Lily Tomlin, Goldie Hawn, Carol Burnett and Cher-my unadulterated adoration was reserved for the vocalists.

Peggy Lee. I didn’t want to be her-I wanted to be Raquel Welch-I wanted to do her, even if my tiny little muffin brain couldn’t quite parse those naughty-sweaty stirrings in my girlfolds. Peggy Lee would eventually be replaced in fantasy with the never-aging Bernadette Peters, but Peggy Lee was my first, unrequited girlcrush, because I met her in real life, or a girl who resembled her so closely that I transferred all my Peggylust to her blonde, be-moled substitute self.

When I was six, my mom uprooted our tiny family and moved from Illinois, where we’d lived for two short years, to Vermont. I was desperately lonely. In my six years, we’d moved four times, and while this time we had moved closer to my grandparents, the only source of security I’d ever known, they were, after all, adults. Everyone around me was an adult, something I was accustomed to being the oldest kid, the only kid, in my family.

Even if I was used to it, it still sucked.
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What’s wrong with being a Fucking Whore?

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It’s just a short exchange, but it got me thinking. What, indeed, is wrong with being a fucking whore?

In an episode entitled “Popping Cherry” of season one of Dexter, the Showtime series about a benign serial killer, Dexter’s sister Deborah visits the clutch of street prostitutes to query them about being witness to the abduction of the most recent victim in a string of serial killings. Deborah, who had been working undercover as a hooker in Vice, now approaches the group of girls she used to hang out with dressed as a cop-all conservative pants suit and graphite blue shirt and flashing badge-a far cry from her previous outfit, the “slut suit” she used to wear when undercover, of hot pants, high heels and halter top.

“Listen,” says Deborah, “I have a confession to make. I’m a cop.”

“You’re not a cop,” screams one woman dressed in black short-shorts and a cut-off hot pink t-shirt, “You’re a whore.”

“I’m not a fucking whore,” Deborah counters, pointing her finger in the face of the hot pink t-shirt chick and shooting the intensifying adverb “fucking” like a bullet.

“Hey,” interjects Shanda, “what’s wrong with being a fucking whore?” It’s a question that she repeats in the episode, and it’s the one that got me wondering. What, indeed, is wrong with being a fucking whore? And how has my thinking about whores, and whoring, changed?
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