changes

I remember your precious body inside your lovely dresses, us hand in hand floating in & out of parties all over town, and driving through Southampton listening to Eminem’s new album, you longing for your millionaire undercover lover who never let you stay the night, me obsessing over that silly boy in his stuck-up Brooks Brothers shirts, Stefan leering at some girl’s tits in a store window almost crashing the car and it was such a luscious day.


Oddly it’s the slight aura of pain radiating from the past that makes everything else stick, like Marty driving me around Beverly Hills in his immense cream Rolls telling me You Gotta Take Care Of Your Insides Sister, handing me a glass of champagne when I was so fucking shell-shocked in my new life which was revealing itself to be another version of the old, except that like a good horror movie it was spiked with novel jolts of brutality,


or that dinner with Christopher and Nadine under the awning at Viceroy, pouring rain on 18th and 8th Ave, red neon sluicing over the pavement and small glimpses into yellow and grey interiors across the street – a girl’s head, eating with chopsticks; a brief bookshelf above a doorway; and a parrot sidling carefully across his perch. Imagine living there, I said wishing I could read the book titles and knowing I would always remember this moment because it was perfect and also because I was saying goodbye to New York and to my friends and it was breaking my heart.


Cambios


Me acuerdo de tu cuerpo divino dentro de tus vestiditos preciosos, nosotras flotando mano en la mano de fiesta en fiesta y ese día tan hermoso manejando por Southampton escuchando al nuevo disco de Eminem, vos anhelando a tu amante millonario que te llamaba tres veces por semana pero nunca te dejaba quedarte a dormir, yo obsesionada con ese chico histérico en imperdonables camisas Brooks Brothers y Stefan ojeando tetas en una vidriera casi choquando el auto.


Curiosamente son ciertas auras de dolor que como estrellas muertas siguen irradiando desde el pasado las que me devuelven momentos que si no quedarían perdidos en la oscuridad, como Marty paseándome por Beverly Hills en su inmensa Rolls Royce color crema convidándome champagne y diciéndome Tenes Que Cuidarte Desde Adentro Nena, yo fatal dándome cuenta de que no había salida y que mi nueva vida iba a ser otra versión de la anterior, pero sazonada con novedosas barbaridades como una buena peli del horror,


o como esa tarde cenando con Chris y Nadine en la terraza del Viceroy con el neón rojo derritiéndose bajo la lluvia veranea sobre el cemento de la avenida, vislumbrando recortes de interiores grises y amarillos de en frente: una cabeza de chica, comiendo con palillos; un estante con libros encima de una puerta; y un loro pisando su percha muy concentrado. Imagínate vivir ahí, dije tratando de leer los títulos de los libros y sabiendo que este momento me iba a quedar grabado para siempre, por que era perfecto y también por que me estaba despidiendo de Nueva York y de mis amigos y se me estaba quebrando el corazón.

el linkillo me mata (otra vez mas)

el cumple de una reina

mientras mi cuerpo aguanta, el espíritu baila

while my body holds out, my spirit dances

katja alemann

henri beyle is my hero

Admiro la justicia y la igualdad entre los sexos: nos permiten alejar la desdicha lo más posible.

Justice and equality between the sexes: here’s what I most admire, because they allow us us to flee unhappiness as much as possible.

La justice et l'égalité de droits entre les sexes: voilà ce que j'admire surtout comme éloignant le malheur autant que possible.

Stendhal, De l'amour, 1822

i came a long way just to find you

Qué angustia y qué delicias me provocaron tu cuerpo tan raro. Yo: embrujada. Robándote besos como si bajo el fuego enemigo. Vos: dibujando la casillita. Decidiendo que sí, que no, que sí. Que no.

How anguishing and delightful your odd bewitching little body. Me: stealing kisses as though under enemy fire, quickly to keep from dying. You: putting me in a box. Deciding in favor, against, in favor. Against.

somewhere along the line I knew there'd be girls, visions, and everything

kerouac

ama de casa cero desesperada/not so desperate housewife

De pasiones repentinas, extravagantes y transitorias

El enamorado no se pregunta si debería declarar su amor, si no hasta qué punto debería ocultar la turbulencia de su pasión: sus deseos, sus angustias, sus excesos. Sin embargo es inconcebible disimular una pasión, ya que su esencia es la visibilidad: quiero que sepas que no quiero mostrar mis sentimientos.

On sudden, extravagant and transitory passions

The amorous subject wonders, not whether he should declare his love, but to what degree he should conceal the turbulence of his passion: his desires, his distresses; in short, his excesses. Yet, to hide a passion totally is inconceivable, because passion is in essence made to be seen: I want you to know that I don't want to show my feelings.

Barthes, Fragments of a Lover’s Discourse

Este es el momento
Antes del momento.
Qué va a pasar?
Cómo me siento?

This is the moment before the moment.
What comes next?
How do I feel?

queremos tanto a paula

astronauta intergalactica cont.

Llega el momento de la despedida, en el que ya clavada en la compu ando a pleno motor que en cuestión de horas sí o sí entrego mientras él vaga en mi cocina, café en mano y ceño fruncido. Por fin como dicen en mi país se anima a escupir el sapo proverbial: no te pido tu tel por que no lo quiero ergo te dejo el mio, pero si me llamas y no te doy bolas no lo tomes a pecho ¿dale? Y escribe su número con letra BIEN GRANDE en tinta re cargada.

Desaparece y tiro el papel al toque, no sea que lo confunda con algún dato importante y ahora el guión o la vida, qué goce escribir y que me paguen por eso y encima qué requete planazo tonight no veo la hora estoy a mil...ni bien piso la primera locación de la noche me cruzo al existencialista sentimental. Le cuesta saludarme, luego sigue merodeando por ahí hasta que, miles de horas y vueltas y acontecimientos después, me rajo con cierto pedazo de erotismo ambulante que, surgido del ser y la nada, me inspira demás himnos a la vida el fato mi estrella de la guarda o ¿no será obra de mi microvestido glitter, aparecido en aquel extraño ataque premonitorio?

Pero no es el momento ni el lugar para investigar los misteriosos lazos entre la moda y la psique, causas y efectos, marionetas y tiriteros, contenidores y contenidos, el antes y el después: bottom line a esta perra le sacaron el clavo y anda famélica. ¿Quién te autorizó a pasearte con semejante boca comestible? pienso agarrada a este cuerpazo cual europa con su rey del olimpo disfrazado de toro raptándome hacia quién sabe donde y poco importa, sólo le pido a dios que aparezca una cama y muy pronto si posible por favorrrr

Corte a una pausa entrecoital en la que mi bombonazo del momento considera necesario aplastarme con ulteriores pruebas de su virilidad. Todas pasan por temas de importancia aparentemente vital en su barrio, sea el miedo que le tenían, tienen o deberían tener equis individuos más todos sus primos y hermanos sea que quiso hacerse periodista pero como es resabido que el cuarto poder es feudo privilegiado de gorilas, vendidos y demás peligrosísimos elementos antipatrióticos prefiere laburar de y me cuelgo,

es que como le dirían en mi barrio que dista años luz del suyo pero quizá no tanto ¿y a vos quién te mata, bello? Instalado en mi cama con magnífica y leonina indolencia, su monótona prepotencia casi me hipnotiza cual maratónico discurso de chávez...pero niet, motion denied la perra más hábil por ser hembra, perra y hambrienta le corta la racha con lo cual el disco roto pega un saltito y mirá lo hermosa que sos me volves loco tana etcetera. En fin, la sexualidad teniendo sus razones que mi razón desconoce seguí así machito mio glorioso suspiro ebria y feliz como nunca al constatar que, tal cual que pre mi larguísima y ardua misión intergaláctica, todo sigue en su lugar. atrás

perfect toy/juguete perfecto

(este cuento en español)
Qui a deux femmes perd son âme, qui a deux maisons perd sa raison.
He who has two women loses his soul, he who has two houses loses his mind.

You decide to give yourself a break. She is panting and ecstatic after your exertions of the last half hour. That pussy. (Which you think about when you’re fucking your wife.) You couldn’t believe it when she came out of nowhere one night. You put her number in your cell phone and made a mental note never to call her. You thought about her later and it made you horny so you jerked off asap to images of your hand inside her making her swell. You called her. Now she’s back in your hotel room, this witch, how did she get here? You give her the strap and find you want to tell her all about it: your father the things you need to picture your insane quadruple life. You do. The room gets crowded with your relatives, lovers, favorite hookers, slaves random fucks over years and years plus her mother her sister and the teenager on the train. You feel hectic and relieved at the same time.

You must cut her off soon but can’t just yet. You watch her squirm. She doesn’t know you’re going to have to fuck her any minute now. You give her another whack. You dig as many fingers into her as you can. She cries bitter tears, you listen to her, you come as you squeeze her neck and she almost dies right there in your arms. You tell her, “I like watching a strong woman like you debase herself” as she crawls around on the floor for you. Unbearably one more time, you didn’t think she could take it but she does. It’s exhausting. You say “Tell me that you love me” and she does and you find yourself wanting her to mean it. Her thighs tremble out of control. You begin to need her orgasm more than your own. You both come many times and the sun is rising and it’s time to ditch her and go to work and never look back. This is when you realize she is the perfect toy and you can’t let go. You have her in your power for a few years and none of her lovers can change that. Finally she leaves you for some guy she’s not willing to cheat on, and it hurts way too long and way more than it should.

anoche en club 69

cuentito con jodas y arquitectos

this story in english

Domingo, noche de joda con Brian. Voy a buscarlo en su restaurante en Soho, donde me arrincona un arquitecto calvo cincuentón amigo de amigos. Me aburre a muerte y trata de tocarme a cada oportunidad. Un asco. Brian me lleva a Lotus, donde nos sentamos en la mesa de Patrice y su fastoso traje Armani y su séquito de gatos. Es un Haitiano con guita que en alguna vida previa tiene que haber sido un Tonton Macoute. Nos convida champagne y me dice con su fuerte acento francés “Sos un peligro…antes de irte pásame tu teléfono”. Hay un tipo que acaricia mi espalda desnuda demasiadas veces. Le digo que mantenga las distancias. El se queja con Patrice, quien me reta con que es un amigo suyo. Le digo “Todo bien pero decile que no me toque” y Patrice se enoja visiblemente. Un asco. Brian me lleva a Bungalow 8 el boliche members only donde me presenta a James, versión aburrida de otro chico que sigo extrañando a pesar de sus mentiras tan torpes. Me convida una merca muy mala, luego me invita a su casa. Le digo “No necesito sexo esta noche”. Se escandaliza y le digo que no sea careta. Me pide mi teléfono y se lo doy, ni idea por qué.

El lunes, fiesta en el Tribeca Grand. Una mezcla rara de abogados con clientela vip, diseñadores, políticos cancheros, modelos, corredores de bolsa y hasta unos rockeros perdidos por ahí. Natalia me presenta a un arquitecto que sostiene haber diseñado la nueva tienda Prada. A pesar de que lo encuentro cero atractivo, me engancha con su conversación. Me invita al Sway donde los lunes toca Baby Blue, mi DJ favorito. Empieza a caerme mejor. Vamos. Estoy al pedo, enseguida me pierdo en brazos de una chica impactante y el arquitecto se vuelve loco. Trata de separarme de mi bella pero no hay manera. Se larga, no le queda otra. Pero llama a Natalia para conseguir mi teléfono y empieza a quemarme la cabeza. Finalmente me gana por cansancio. Me dejo llevar a comer el mejor sushi del momento, que es en Blue Ribbon. Me pregunta de la nada si quiero un novio. Afirma que él sí quiere una relación. Me pregunto cómo se le ocurre contarme semejantes barbaridades en una primera cita. Me baja unos puntos. Pero en el taxi no sé bien por qué le doy un beso y me calienta. Lo sigo a su casa donde me muestra sus pinturas, que son brillantes. Vuelve a subirme unos puntos y terminamos acostados. Cuando me tiene clavada bajo su cuerpo grandote y pesado me pregunta a quemarropa: “¿No me tienes miedo? Sos muy confiada”. Flasheo con mi cadáver complicadamente asesinado protagonista de un episodio de CSI Nueva York. ¿Irse ya antes de que sea demasiado tarde? Pero a fuerza de miles de caricias y de besos mi cerebro ha dejado de funcionar. Es muy bueno en la cama. Una trampa.

El martes me llama James, a penas lo tengo. Me invita a unos tragos con amigos en Balthazar. Estoy sin un plan mejor así que voy. Nunca se sabe, y el lugar ese me encanta. James está sentado en la barra con su pandilla de esclavos de una prestigiosa agencia literaria. Me convidan champagne y ostras, que en Balthazar son lo más. Claramente acá hay algún plan oculto que me involucra. No sé bien cómo, ni quiero enterarme. “Está llegando William que quiere verte”, me anuncia James. Sostiene habérmelo presentado en Bungalow 8. Tengo cero registro. Llega un chico y sigo no acordándome de él, pero es hermoso: pelo salvaje y traje negro con toda la onda. Glamour a la Nick Cave sin la heroína. Resulta ser arquitecto. Se sienta al lado mío y enseguida la pandilla de agentes desaparece de mi radar. Luego desaparece de verdad y William me carga en su BMW negro hacia la fiesta de Missy Elliot en Lot 61 donde me convida una merca de iper lujo. Ahora sí. Hablamos de todo y nos agarramos apasionadamente en cada rincón. Me pide mi teléfono y se lo doy con ganas. Me invita por todos lados y la paso cada vez mejor. Los días que no nos vemos me llama para largas e intimas charlas antes de dormir. La movida y la seducción, impecables. Empiezo a sentirme cómoda, deseada y feliz. Otra trampa.

la seguridad de los objetos

histories de cul

he’s very skinny, talented, & exciting
next to him during the night I dream of you
we’re asleep in a motel in LA
the gardener drives a tractor through the room barely missing our bed
& you tell him I’m your wife
the next day he makes me breakfast, we listen to rock n roll & we talk
then he leaves
& I go to an opening
where a naked cartoon girl fingers her cute cartoon pussy from every wall
& I run into the frenzied 20something actress, who reads to me from her journal in the back room
the painter who stayed up with me all night, but he’s engaged to an Italian jet setter
the drunk Playboy editor & the aging coke fiend, who wears a pink dress
the horny designer I make out with in cabs from time to time
the rent boy who once gave me a ton of pills in the middle of a club
the Colombian drug dealer who says he writes for Abel Ferrara
& the chick who walked away from Pollock's car crash
she is now bent & wrinkled
in the cab home by myself I cry
& later still I dream about the boy from last week
the one with all the interesting sex toys

bomboncitos de buenos aires

players

(este cuento en español)

He's young and whipsmart and it doesn't matter, I will get the better of him. Why does he inspire this much violence and greed in me. And is it all he's good for.
Are you worthy? I want to ask him. What are your intentions? I’m dying to but I don't because I am here to be selfish and he is here to get laid and so what if he worships me. I want him to. Waves of lust and self-loathing obscure my vision. I stand over him, miserable. Don’t let him see.
Come here, he says. You can look but you can't touch, I say, gyrating above him on the bed. Are you hot for me baby? I prod between his legs with the tip of my foot. He's got that turgid expression in his eyes. The look of the pervert, transfixed. Parts of him swell visibly. Lips, nipples, cock. Turn around, he says huskily.
I make sure he gets the best possible view from every angle. His hand snakes up my thigh. Didn't you hear what I said? I hiss, suddenly awash in pure hatred. It subsides. His fingers rove to his crotch. We stare at each other, deadlocked. His eyes are flat, glazed over with hostility and desire.
When he lunges I jump away but he's too quick. We wrestle, he pins me down. Kisses me very tenderly as I wait for a chance to free myself. He looks at me, his prisoner.
Where were you last night? he begins. He should know better than to expose himself this much. Don’t do this to yourself, I want to warn him but don’t. He won’t rest until I take him seriously. Don’t fall for it.
None of your business, I say, sure of my power. Did you let him fuck you? Stop it, I say, not unkindly. I can take the high road after all.
You did. I know you did. You slut, he says, writhing. For a minute I really can't tell if his suffering is genuine or not and my heart melts for him a little. He kisses me gently again and it’s bewildering. It goes so much against his swagger, his vanity, his fierce tattoos. Don’t let this boy matter. I bite down on his lips.
Bitch, he whispers.
Fuck you, I say wrenching an arm free and smacking his face the way he likes it. His breath catches. His eyelids lower for a second over his big green irises. His cock gets huge.
Tell me what he did to you, he says close to my neck, making my hairs stand on end.
He didn't do anything I pant, brimming with longing and pity. I am being wicked. I squelch the thought quickly.
Tell me, he says blindly. Did you open your legs for him? He is dogging his little fantasy, a crystal ball inside which I am rolling away from him, his tiny fuck doll, his angel pin-up, the queen of his dreams. Giddily I inhale the scent of his flushed excitable skin. When will I stop wanting this boy. Squash that thought too.
Tell me, he breathes, and I surrender and he bears down on me ravenously, cuts my breath off in my mouth, rides me so very hard. I am delirious with fear and need and delight. He comes too soon as usual. Afterwards I still want him just as much. Everything is under control. Hold that thought.

fashion whore 1

fashion whore 2

intergalactic space traveler cont.

I don’t mind you coming here/and wasting all my time/I guess you’re just what I needed my heart beats gladly to the beloved long-ago song as we talk drink smoke laugh kiss touch fuck and it’s seamless, he’s dashing and fun and no holds barred and the cherry on top that blows my mind: he holds me really tight as we fall asleep. I wake up the next day and he’s still plastered to my body, warm, sweaty, fragrant, unbelievable. I don’t mind you hanging out/and talking in your sleep/I guess you’re just what I needed/just what I needed the joyous song is still on repeat as I discover that even getting up and leaving him behind is easy; by the time I hit the kitchen, I’ve already moved on.


When he rolls in I’m on my second coffee, third cigarette, in my office, hard at work. This should be ground control’s exit cue but instead he loiters about, knitting his handsome brow and nursing a cup of java. In short, all signs indicate that he’s about to make a royal ass out of himself. Something has triggered his fear of losing face, and a man in fear of losing face is a beastie about to charge out of his lair. Sure enough I won’t ask for your number because I don’t want it so I’ll give you mine, but if you call me and I don’t give you any juice please don’t take it personally OK? and he writes it down in extra LARGE, extra bold strokes that scream do yourself a favor, please trash me right now!


Right! God forbid I should mistake it for some actually relevant piece of information. Fast forward by 15mins. to where I take a blissful dive back into the only thing that matters, i.e. making my screenplay deadline. Aside from the last-minute fuck-up ground control has done a first-rate job, so I’m on top of the world and on top of my game, plus I have a great feeling about tonight: our plan kicks ass, and I can already hear my dope glitter mini dress chafing at the bit and begging to be let out of the closet.


Cut to later, night, as my bitchin' glitter mini and I cut a swathe through the big, crowded, just-barely-vip section and roll into the tiny, really-really-vip section, where ground control boomerangs unexpectedly out of a dark corner. I watch him panic as he gauges whether saying hello to me in public might actually prove he’s been, god forbid, pussy-whipped or something, then I swiftly drop-kick him off my radar: my entourage is here, we love dancing and we look divine/we love bands when they’re playing hard/we want more and we want it fast etcetera.


I wasn’t wrong about tonight. Thousands of hours and twists and turns and adventures later we’re on fire in the middle of the dance floor when a stunning piece of something 4 porno materializes out of the welter of being and nothingness. And this is where I pray if I ever get ahlzeimer's please god let me keep this one perfect kiss, exchanged before we even said hello. His tongue tastes like cherry, his dusky curls are to die for, he’s playful and fierce and pretty soon it becomes mutually clear that no one else will do. Like europa with her bull I latch on to his sturdy exciting body and allow him to carry me off god knows where and I don't give a damn, so long as it involves privacy and a bed.


Cut to an intercoital pause hours later, in which finding sleep elusive we…talk. This is where my bull-headed god of the candy-flavored tongue feels the urge, nay, the duty to overwhelm me with astonishing verbal proofs of his manhood, all of which concern matters of vital importance in his badass hood, which he rules because being the baddest of them all he is capable of instilling fear in xyz enemies plus all their brothers uncles cousins sons


and I zone out as the recurrent thought floats horizontally across my mind in neon ticker tape: who the fuck authorized you to take that luscious mouth for a walk without proper supervision, soldier? So the needle skips and we’re back on the track I like, the one that goes you’re so fucking hot girl, you’re my dream come true etcetera. Lust having its reasons of which my reason knows nothing, keep going champ I sigh, knowing at last without having to think about it that unquestionably this is a man, this is a kiss, this is sex. My blank, curious gap is history and I’m a woman again, fully locked and loaded. Praise the lord and pass the ammunition I think, realizing that my long, arduous mission is finally over and putting my intergalactic space travel instruction manual back up on a high shelf. back

the man who lived through it all

Sometimes I feel like an aging rooster who has survived every holiday cull. Now I'm insulted by the neglect of the chicken executioner because I'm too tough to eat. Several years back at a funeral of yet-another AIDS death a woman said to me, "You know you're the only one left." "Huh?" "All your friends are dead."

Thanks for reminding me, you bitch, but she was 99% right. Klaus, John Kemp, Howie Montauk, Cookie Mueller, most of the punks and gays who worked at Hurrah, a punk rock disco on West 62nd Street, were RIP. Their promise resides in the last of many bright young things from the 1970s but I'm more like a used 40-watt bulb after burning too bright during a futile pursuit of fame and fortune.

Can I move back to NYC? My tenement flat on East 10th Street rents for $2000, however I can re-create the goneness of New York in my head. Strangely I get these ancient smells and tastes backwatering from my body as if I were purging old poisons, each one animating a revival of another memory lost in the haze of good times/bad times. "Start spreading the news…I'm something today." NEW YORK NEW YORK, which was Sinatra's only #1 hit, but I can’t remember all the words. More 1970s New York

by Peter Nolan Smith (the hell with all the starfuckers & wannabes...you're the real thing baby)

mad marge goes on

An Extraordinary Duchess, cont.

She makes her entrance into the London theater in a lace dress whose see-through bodice almost exposes her nipples; speculates on the nature of the moon and infinite matter; comes running out of her castle laboratory with her petticoats on fire; designs gowns for herself and her ladies in waiting; critiques the notion of sole truth, Hooke’s optics and the experimental method; and, realizing that her thoughts flow more swiftly than her plume, she hires a scribe, instructing him to sit by her door waiting for the cry: “John, John, I have ideas!”

Before surrendering to her graphomania, young Margaret (neé Lucas, the daughter of a wealthy landowner) was a maid of honor to Queen Henrietta Maria, whom she accompanied into exile in France. Here she met her future husband, Lord William Cavendish, whose courtship generated a volume of love poems. In the preface to her Observations on Experimental Philosophy (1666) the Duchess writes: “It is likely that, as they say, my habit of constantly writing is a disease. But it must be the noblest of afflictions, as I have the honor of being infected with the same malady that marked the lives of Augustine, Cicero, Homer, Paracelsus…” (and the list goes on).

From Mad Marge to Myspace
Seventeenth-century science abounds in violent, politically incorrect metaphors. Bacon wrote that the scientist must despoil nature of her secrets, pursuing her all the way to her inner sanctum and raping her should she persist in refusing to concede them. Her contemporaries viewed the intellectual discussion that Margaret sought in vain as an unfathomable occurrence; while the English feminist canon never forgave her her untidy prose, her eccentricities and her excesses, all of which were deemed harmful to the cause. (This last was perhaps reciprocal: accustomed to wandering about her castle, the Duchess might have found a room of her own uninhabitable.)

Like the Countess Báthory, who would also prove to be prolific, but as a serial killer, Lady Cavendish is both unable to comprehend her crime and baffled by others’ censure: her idyll with her writer’s Self is absolute, her pleasure radical. Her literary feats correspond to her highest dignity; and she pioneered making the act of writing, in which she flaunted her adventurous nature, one of self-display and self-love.

As soon as I discovered Lady Cavendish I decided to translate The Blazing World and the Atomic Poems (there are no Spanish editions of her works). I found that the poems would be difficult to render without altering their music; and in trying to solve this problem I came up with a melody. Enlisting the aid of a friend, the composer Esteban Insinger, we set the rest of the Duchess’ poems – which, besides atomic theory, also explore topics such as the sun’s magnetism, nymphs and hares - to music and posted them on myspace. We chose the lieder because it is timeless, classical, free-form and loop-friendly; allowing the voice, like the Duchess herself, liberty to revel in drama and seduction. back

wild thing...you make my heart sing

cocodiva

squeaky