by Cynthia Kitchen
easy entry into my life.
He was on tour, reading from his new novel, and that was different than last time, when he came through town with his band, Dead Fingers Don't Talk, and I was nervous, nervous for me, because of what I wanted to do to him, nervous for him because I might actually do it.
something else makes itself known to me.
It is possible, I was thinking, to perform the whole operation with a knife. Or to take my tongue and tear at the roots of his stark muscles as they quiver on my bed stretched out into New Oblivion. My nipples get hard just thinking of him here and so I start playing with them, pinching them, twisting them, hard, like I'm tearing off the top of an under-ripe banana, twisting them so as to eventually peel my tits off and reveal the heart I want to drench his face in. It's weird how I can love him without even knowing him and cannot bear the thought of his rejection.
I was becoming increasing attracted to the idea of going.
The newspaper said it would start at 7:30. The book was called Discomfort and I had already bought a copy at the place where the reading was to take place, Borders, the only bookstore worth a shit in my shit-city. The excerpt I was reading said:
"He could not understand her. She was shaking, violently rocking in his arms, and as she shook, blood began pouring out of her mouth and nose as if a rare Ebola virus had begun its final rule over her despotic, numbed musculature. Was this God's own sick form of sexual harrassment?
"She came up into his face looking for a deep kiss to seal their megadeath deal. This was the World Wide Web multi-media star she had always wanted but was afraid to go out and get. But why was she afraid? She could get whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted it, because she was rich, smart, beautiful and a woman. She could kill him with her eyes, the same antagonistic blue-black balls of madness that she insisted on seeing through as an arrogant child."
"Speaking of excavations," I was thinking of what I'd tell him when I saw him or what I would write into my PowerBook as soon as it got back from the shop, "your mission, your absolute goal as a renegade artist now moving headfirst into the 21st century, is to deal with the nomadic movement of all bacteriological agents congesting in my slivery body."
the image of his face drives my apparatus into uncharted territory where I begin to withdraw into myself and become The Digression
When Borges, in his story "The Other Death," says
'It lived without friends; it loved and possessed everything, but from a distance, as from the other side of the mirror...'
he was talking about me. I was living in the exclusionary world of water and electricty. Only I could manage to marry those functions that would send my skin close to the edge of parishing. Meanwhile, I knew that the Other Death, the one I was experiencing when thinking about him, when I was thinking about going to the reading and hearing his voice pander to the crowd, was closer to me than I wanted it to be. I had to make a decision. The Other Death would overwhelm me lest I get hold of it, take it in the palm of my hand, rap it in my fingers with their freshly painted long black fingernails, stroke it with my religious devotion, engage it in my erroneous meter, quench its thirst by dribbling some of my hot saliva on its arid head, mumbling, incongruous, breathless, almost motionless except for a slight twist of my head and flick of my coiled tongue, a hypnotic background music of intermediated guitar noise melting into my stoned brain forcing my coked-out mouth and super-numb throat to do whatever it wanted, wanting, wanting nothing but him, all of him, the thing that wrote about me in a story that everyone who read it knew was autobiographical but never knew who the chick was, who the girl behind the blowjob was, what her name was, what city she lived in, what she really looked like, what she really thought, what was going through her head when she came back to her house alone and full of his sperm and why did she approach him and make herself available when she couldn't even begin to understand the power his words had over her.