sleeping with the enemy

Debajo del Mercer había un bolichito, y en ese bolichito pinchaba un pésimo pero trágicamente atractivo DJ con el que estuve obsesionada meses y meses y semanas y semanas, coast to coast LA to Chicago etc. Vamos a escucharlo una vez más y ahí un tano divino logra desviarme de mi blanco primario. Dentro de un par de vodka tonics me doy cuenta de que estoy involucrada en una íntima y placentera charla con un fascista. Uno de verdad. Se trata de la nueva generación: esos bichos perfectamente mimetizados que rechazan el antisemitismo, son cultos y tienen toda la onda. Mi indignado corazón de comunista late más fuerte. Suben las barricadas, vuelan los molotovs retóricos. Me dice: Nunca imaginé que me iba a gustar una chica de izquierda. Le confieso: Nunca pensé que podría gustarme un facho de mierda. El beso es electrizante, el sexo mucho más. Antes de volverse a la patria me deja 1. un moretón en el muslo, para que cuando duela piense en él 2. toda su info y 3. una invitación a pasar el verano en su barco. Me da pena decirlo: lo extrañé.

All Is Fair in Love & War

Under the Mercer was a little club, and in this little club used to spin the heavily tattooed, pretty dismal but hideously attractive DJ I was obsessed with for months and months and weeks and weeks, coast to coast LA to Chicago etc. We go listen to him one more time, and this really hot Italian boy manages to distract me from my primary target. A couple of vodka tonics later I realize I'm deep in pleasurable conversation with a fascist. A real one. This is the new breed of perfectly camouflaged 30something hipsters, who reject anti-semitism and are really well read. My indignant communist heart beats faster. The barricades go up, the rhetorical molotovs fly. He admits: I never thought I could be into a leftist chick. I confess: I never imagined I could like a fucking fascist. Our kiss is electrifying, the sex even more so. Before returning to our fatherland he leaves me 1. a huge bruise on my thigh, so I’ll think of him when it aches 2. all his info and 3. an invitation to spend the summer on his boat. I hate to say this, but I actually missed him.

story for nicollette

A Tale of Architects
(este cuento en español)

Sunday, long night out with Brian. I go pick him up at his restaurant on Prince Street, where I get cornered by an aging bald architect friend of a friend. He bores me to death while trying to touch me every chance he gets. Gross. I’m about to throw my beer in his face when Brian whisks me off to Lotus, where we squeeze into a booth with Patrice and his unpleasant Armani suit and his call girl entourage. He’s a wealthy Haitian who was probably a Tonton Macoute in his former life. He pours us champagne and tells me in his heavy French accent, “You are dangerous…give me your number before you leave.” Some gangster pal of his caresses my bare shoulders too many times. I tell him to back off so he complains to Patrice who scolds me along the lines of “This is my friend so-and-so.” I say that’s fine but he can’t touch me and Patrice gets visibly annoyed. Gross. Brian takes me to Bungalow 8 his members only club where he introduces me to James, a colorless version of another boy I still miss in spite of his pathetically clumsy lies. He gives me some of his low rent blow then invites me to his house. I say “I don’t need to get laid tonight” and he acts all scandalized and I tell him to stop being such a hypocrite. He asks for my number and I give it to him, no idea why.

Monday night, party at the Tribeca Grand. A weird mix of VIP lawyers, designers, hipster politicians, models, stockbrokers and a smattering of rock starlets. Nicollette introduces me to an architect friend of hers who says his boss Rem Koolhaas let him design the new Prada store. I find him zero attractive so I try to put him off with “I’m a Miu Miu girl” but he ends up hooking me with his conversation anyway. He invites me to Sway, where my favorite DJ, Baby Blue, is spinning. This makes me like him a little better so I accept. I’m pretty drunk and I immediately lose myself in the arms of a really hot lipstick lesbian and the architect goes nuts. He tries to break me off from my princess but there’s no way. He has no place left to go but out the door. However he calls Nicollette for my number and starts busting my balls. Finally I agree to let him take me out for the best sushi of the moment, which is at Blue Ribbon. Out of nowhere he asks if I want a boyfriend and tells me he’s looking for a relationship. Due to his silly questions I’m back to not liking him that much, but in the cab for mysterious reasons I kiss him & it turns me on. I agree to go to his apartment where he shows me his paintings, which are pretty damn good. Talent being an aphrodisiac, we end up in the sack. Once he has me pinned under his big heavy body he asks, “Aren’t you afraid of me? You’re very trusting.” I flash on my complicatedly murdered corpse starring in an episode of CSI New York. Get out now, before it’s too late? But no, by this time my brain has stopped functioning. He’s very good in bed. It’s a trap.

On Tuesday James calls, I barely remember him. He invites me for a drink at Balthazar. I agree for want of a better plan and besides, I love that place. James is sitting at the bar with his posse, all slaves at the same literary agency. They ask me stupid questions like “Are you an actress?” I am clearly the object of some hidden plot hatched in their sinister male minds but I don’t give a toss so I dig in to the oysters, which at Balthazar are amazing. “Harlan is on his way, he wants to see you,” says James casually, adding that he introduced us at Bungalow 8. It doesn’t ring a bell. A boy arrives & I'm still clueless, but he is utterly glam: wild black hair, very cool suit. Nick Cave from way back, minus the heroin. He turns out to be an architect. He sits next to me and the posse of agents drops off my radar. Then they disappear for real and Harlan loads me onto his huge shiny black BMW and takes me to Missy Elliott’s birthday party at Lot 61, where he plies me with his super deluxe cocaine. Now we’re talking. We make out passionately in every corner in between long heady discussions about everything under the sun. He asks for my number and I'm glad to give it up. He starts taking me out to fabulous events all over town. The nights we don’t see each other he calls me for long intimate bedtime chats. His strategy and everything about him, impeccable. I start to feel comfortable, wanted and happy. Another trap.

Thank god I gave my number to the chick from Sway. She’s no architect, but she does happen to be the perfect toy.

tragic hygiene

gaby bex

I am thy queen, enraptured & possessed

Soy tu reina, extasiada y poseida

la belleza es verdad, la verdad belleza

happy love! for ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
for ever panting, and for ever young
a burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

keats

la princesa pisa fuerte...happiness is my cute friend in her high heels

she took my guitar and she began to play
she sang a song to me
stuck right in my brain

rolling stones

women's legs are like compass points circling the globe, giving it grace and balance

truffaut

california dreaming

extraño a mi piercing

I miss my piercing which I got with Keith on Sunset or was it Hollywood
when we used to be so hard core
he got one in his nipple
said it was like being stabbed in the chest with a kitchen knife
but most of all I miss you Keith

sole me da sorpresas

ciertos bares

Uno que ya fue es el Siberia. Para encontrarlo había que bajar las escaleras del subte 1, 9 en la calle 51 en Manhattan y golpear una de esas puertas de metal gris toda rayada de graffiti ilegibles con una ventanita de vidrio espeso y opaco que aparentemente no han sido abiertas en varias décadas. Adentro había un antro oscuro, con un chico de negro y ojos muy pintados atrás de la barra sirviendo tragos letales y baratísimos en vasos de plástico. Sillones de vinilo podrido en los rincones, una máquina de pinball centenaria, un jukebox con todo el mejor punk, rock, y rap y una fauna que era de todo un poco completaban el decorado. En ese bar después del recital de PJ Harvey tuve un repentino, espontáneo y mágico menaje à trois con dos amigos muy queridos y largamente codiciados. Luego el Siberia cerró para abrirse a unas cuadras en versión más grande y sofisticada, perdiendo por supuesto el glamour tan perdidamente trash del original.

esta chiquilina me dio la sensación de algún animalito precioso encontrado de repente en un bosque y que te llena de maravilla

this creature made me feel like I ran into a marvelous little animal in the middle of the woods

quiero que seas feliz/i want you to be happy

ayer otra amiga más me contó que encontró su juguete perfecto…así que solo me queda homenajearla así:

yesterday yet another friend told me she found her perfect toy...so all I can do is congratulate her as follows:

same old story
life is so unfair
it’s a burden
we just have to bear
i’m with him and you’re with her
there’s nothing else to do
have to hide my secret love for you

joan jett

henry miller en la ventana

happiness is a warm cat

I went down to your place baby
on a Saturday night
everyone I knew was there girl
but you were out of sight

Marc Bolan



































I guess I like boys in bathrooms too

la vida secreta de las mujeres casadas

Recién en una reunión cuyo objetivo fue la entrega ceremonial de un strap-on a una amiga que quiere regalarle múltiples sensaciones a su nueva amante me enteré de que varias casadas con hijos están teniendo deliciosos romances sáficos on the side. Les conté mi sueño en el que enloquecí cuando sentí que la chica que estaba besando con pasión de adolescente tenía un strap-on debajo de sus jeans y supe con lógica onírica que lo había puesto para mi. Lo que hago en mis sueños mis amigas hacen en la realidad…cosa que no sólo me llenó de una envidia fatal si no también me hizo flashear con la pregunta del hermafrodita en la peli XXY de Lucía Puenzo: ¿y si no quiero elegir?

The Secret Lives of Married Women

Recently at a strap-on bequeathing ceremony for a friend of ours who wants to give her new girltoy a different kind of thrill I found out that various married women with children I know are having delightful Sapphic romances on the side. I told them about the dream in which I got so turned on when I felt the girl I was making out with in adolescent abandon had a strap-on under her jeans and knew that she was wearing it for me. My friends are doing in waking life that which I merely dream about...a fact that not only fills me with envy, but also reminded me of the hermaphrodite in Lucía Puenzo’s movie XXY when s/he asks: What if I don’t want to choose?

I like girls with guitars & big belt buckles

She glided into the room like a strip teaser on roller skates. What was left of my soul quivered in joyous excitement.

Entró planeando como una stripper en patines. Lo que quedaba de mi alma tembló de conmoción.

Bukowski

travelin down the highways of my social life (marc bolan)

Qué difícil quedarse en este momento a pesar de lo que contiene: victorias y derrotas, angustia y felicidad

How difficult it is to stay in the moment no matter what it contains: victories and defeats, anxiety and joy

today feels like summer/se viene el verano...

summertime and everything is sweet
walking barefoot to the circle k
on the burning street
summertime and everything's on fire
this town is a drive-by for the
whole inland empire

rickie lee jones

you're living in the past it's a new generation
and I don't give a damn about my bad reputation

joan jett

anthony rocks the roxy

flow it, show it

long as god can grow it

my hair

let it fly in the breeze

and get caught in the trees

Hair, the musical

look out you rock n' rollers

Siguiendo la racha de cambios a la bowie: anoche en la trastienda festejando el n. 40 de la mano, escuchando ciertos temas tan queridos que los tengo grabados en mi adn, luego entusiasmándome con hilda lizarazu y su inteligencia y su fuego y su linda guitarra, volví de repente a boston en los 80 cuando con toda la tribu migrábamos apasionadamente de recital en recital en la camioneta vw de mi novio de pelo salvaje y hermosa boca estilo mick jagger, leíamos nuestras poesías tomando budweisers a un dólar en el rathskeller donde famosamente tocaron los police cuando todavía eran desconocidos, escuchábamos a violent femmes, pixies, stranglers, throwing muses, los amigos armaban bandas en continuación, y el objetivo de una noche de joda era buscar bares lo más excéntricos posible en barrios muy fuera de mano para luego guardar el secreto lo más tiempo posible. Se venían desde muy lejos la electrónica y la éxtasis pero el rocanrol seguía siendo nuestra manera de vivir, tan como los desayunos de café asqueroso y muchos cigarrillos en el diner de la esquina, los partidos de pool los domingos a la tarde cuando afuera nos cagábamos de frío y ese estado de enamoramiento perpetuo hecho de curiosidad y de urgencia tan dulce y angustiante a la vez, ojalá no me lo olvide nunca.

***
Last night at a party for a local rock n’ roll magazine listening to certain tracks so beloved they’ve become a part of my dna then watching this chick hilda lizarazu on stage with her intelligence & her fire & her pretty guitar, suddenly I was back in boston in the 80s when we would all load into my boyfriend’s beat-up vw van & migrate passionately from concert to concert, listen to andy & jay reading their poetry in the rat drinking dollar buds to our soundtrack of violent femmes, stranglers, pixies, throwing muses, everyone & their uncle in a band or about to be, and the objective of a night out was scouting out the most eccentric new dive in some far-flung neighborhood no one else had thought of and then keeping the secret as long as possible. Electronica & ecstacy were wending their way from across the pond but rock n’ roll was still our way of life, as much as plotting our next expedition over cheap coffee & many cigarettes at the greek corner diner, sunday afternoon pool games in the basement of don’s bar and that state of being endlessly, curiously, lustfully in love, which I hope to god I never forget.

I watch the ripples change their size
But never leave the stream
Of warm impermanence

David Bowie

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