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Well, officer, because I hadn’t seen her before then. Before the open mic. I mean,
I didn’t even mean to go to an open mic. I’ll be honest. That ***’s just not my
scene. I only walked in on account of the sign for cheap *** and the unmistakable
scent of super skunk weed in the air.
No, I don’t remember the name. Someshit like Lenny’s or Jenny’s.
I sat down next to her. It was the only open seat. She was already doing her gyrations,
making those sounds deep in the back of her throat. Oblivious to me and everyone. I’ll
tell you this, it wasn’t like any open mic I’d ever heard of, that’s for sure. I’m
telling you it was a scene in there.
Take your most wacked out, wound up, toked down surreal subway cabaret burlesque encounter
and stick it under a spotlight and hand it a mic and just let it go, and there you have
this Lenny’s or Jenny’s thing. Flarf poetry about Westminster and serious poetry also,
oddly, about Westminster, standup shtick about *** to a photo of yourself in drag
and fingerpainting with menstrual blood and richter scales for *** sizes, and a joke
about what you see yourself doing in ten years. A chick who's eight years old now, was the
punchline. There was a real big guy with almost but not quite dreadlocks, he was good, playing
guitar like it was a brush with greatness. There was a guy with a trumpet in his hands
who stood up there for seven minutes straight reading a story about living in a box or something.
That wasn’t weird.
That was just boring.
The gyrations, officer? Put it this way: she didn’t applaud. She let go. After a funny
joke, and usually even after the not so funny ones, she wriggled. All over. ***-esque
is the only word for it, and she made these noises deep in her throat like the sound a
dog makes before it voms. But sexy. And then she’d look at you, those pools of ***
witch eyes hypnotizing you, and her leg would rub against you a thousand volts of woman.
Her hands were down between her legs. I mean, I got two mental erections and five real ones
just sitting there. So you can see why I didn’t just leave.
What she was wearing, officer? Well, it was dark and I couldn’t see very well but it
looked like one of those old Victorian black lace deals, faux-elegant, with the dress part
slit up the leg. Maybe intentionally. Maybe from years and
years of wear and tear. I’m not even gonna pretend to understand all this underground
artso-fartso fashion, but the point is, even for them she was *** strange. But sexy.
So yeah, we left together, hand in hand. On impulse. I started letting go, gyrating, gurgling
in the back of my throat just like her. I can’t explain it. It’s like that, that
comet they’re talking about in the news. Wartzinberger’s Comet. Comes only every
hundred fifty years. Maybe some scientist can explain it. I sure can’t.
We went to her place, in Bushwick, in the part where you just don’t go, where the
streetlights are all broken and busted, past where the shady contractors slap a little
paint on factories and quote unquote repurpose them as lofts, past even where the really
*** desperate artist-types go. I’ll tell you this: when the alien apocalypse comes,
I’m heading to Bushwick. No way no how any intelligent lifeform messes with Bushwick.
She’s holding my hand in front of these warehouse barn doors, gurgling deep in her
throat. She kicks the doors open. Her gurgles echo in the emptiness. She says she lives,
if you could call it that, on the top floor. She says there’s no electricity in the building.
No water neither. We climb the stairs. My *** climbs the stairs too.
The sex was, in a word, weird. She just let go, wailing these prehuman wails that echoed
through all of Bushwick. I was convinced she really was going to inhale my ***. At one
point she lunged at my armpit and bit into my pit hair and pulled it hard with her teeth.
Bits of pit-hair hung on her smiling chin like a goatee. Her pits were hairy, too. She
looked at me expectantly. I obliged. This is not recommended. Also, she had this dog.
It sat in the corner through the sex, half the time watching, curious, slightly concerned,
half the time *** a pillow in the corner. Officer, I’m not sure how I feel about being
doggie ***.
The point is, is that she had this spell. We stayed up all night, talking about the
good old days of King George and Byzantium till the sun rose over the factories in the
east. Then we curled up in a curlicue and watched her dog hump the pillow till we fell
asleep.
Next thing I know, officer, I hear the sirens down below and there I am, strapped with those
leather things to the top of the roof, bare-*** naked in Bushwick, the crown of thorns on
my head and an eagle pecking out my liver, the firemen yelling don’t jump! don’t
jump! and my prick wagging in the wind and far above, in the evening twilight I can just
make it out, the thin line of white in the sky, dodging stars, heading home, not to return
for another hundred fifty years. So officer, you must understand by now why I did what
I did, why, under the circumstances it was the only possible end, why there was only
one thing to do. Just let go.