The Soup

New York smelled like a pot of boiling urine and garbage. It was a fucked-up, fragrant soup, 90+ degrees Fahrenheit. July, hot breath, people crammed everywhere. Subways, sidewalks, bridges. People unable to get away from each other. Everybody was hot. Everybody was on fire.

Citgo Cogito

Today I was tattooed at a gas station in the backwoods of central Pennsylvania. Our friends recommended the place. The guy’s work is good, and so is his reputation. I got Renee Descartes’ “Cogito” lettered inside my right bicep. There weren’t very many people hanging around, but from the chair I watched a small coke deal transpire outside the big window as the sun set. Mustaches and mullets. It’s not that I know a coke deal when I see one, but my girlfriend was there with me. She pointed it out. She was more experienced with such things and thus able to identify them when she saw them. After my tattoo, she got a very Dr. Seuss-looking bird tattooed very near to her girl parts. Tom Waits was playing over the stereo, and life just kept coming. No matter where you are, or what you’re doing, or what’s being done to you, life doesn’t stop. It’s impossible to step out of it, for even a moment. No respite. Everything counts.

The original plan was to get this new tattoo right under the Occam’s razor tattoo on my shoulder. At the shop, I hatched the idea to get it inside my right bicep. The consensus among all parties present was that the inner bicep placement was much cooler than the original location. I went with it, expecting a bit of a fight from my wife when I returned and she saw it. My wife has a weird hang-up with me getting tattoos in very visible places. She’d prefer they were all able to be hidden by a t-shirt. My girlfriend didn’t seem too concerned. After the work was done, we paid and left the shop. As we approached the house, I secretly hoped that we’d walk in right after she’d just been fucked silly by her boyfriend, so the post-coital glow would soften the shock of my new, awesome-looking, but very visible ink. As we walked in the door, there were no obvious signs of any recent or current sexual activity, and my guts tightened a bit. I saw my wife sitting at their table. She seemed pretty content, so I showed her the new work, doing my best to really sell it. She seemed kind of disconnected. She wasn’t excited or angry. After a few moments, and a brief explanation from her boyfriend, it came to light that they had just smoked, and she was pretty well stoned out of her mind. I was grateful. It wasn’t my original hope, but it had served the same purpose.

The Drunk Bus

Our office took a field trip to the Firehouse Lounge. We were all picked up at the office by a yellow school bus driven by a very soft-spoken black guy. Then we were dropped off at the Lounge at 2:30pm. We drank and carried on, all on the company’s tab, until about 6pm, at which point we got back on the bus. Filled to capacity with salaried, drunk, white-collar white people dressed very casually, the bus rolled through town, taking everybody back to the office. People sang loudly, started chants, and acted like asses. As we approached our building, everybody noticed the cleaning lady, also black, climbing the stairs to our building. She was getting ready to start her evening rounds. They promptly began to chant her name out the windows. She endured it with a polite smile, and was very cordial as everybody emptied from the bus. From there, everybody walked down the street to another bar, and eventually drove home hammered. White is a poisonous, fat, bloated plague.

Cold Lips

I can still taste the last cigarette from her thin, cold, wet lips. I can see her in her crumpled pile of clothes at the foot of the bed. I can smell her on me. It’s a mixture of laundry detergent and moisturizer. Her clothes are always freshly cleaned. The weight of her tits is still tangible in my palms. The crests of her hips still feel present against mine. She is still here in many ways, though she is hours away now and likely halfway home.

July 30, 2006

My girlfriend just left with her husband. They drove off a little while ago. My twenty-eighth birthday is in two days. They came down for the weekend to celebrate it a little early. We spent the past 24 hours drinking, smoking, fucking, and passing out, at different intervals. Last night the orgy culminated with my wife riding her boyfriend in the cowgirl position while Iggy Pop played “Fall in Love with Me” loudly over the stereo. It was charming, pleasant, and somewhat surreal. The multi-colored lamp tinted the dimly lit room softly. It was hazy. I was hazy. My girlfriend and I had just finished. We were recovering and watching the two of them. My mind wandered, as it tends to do when I’m drunk and high. I watched kind of absently. The very first time you watch your wife fuck another man in front of you it’s a bit of a shock, but kind of titillating. It’s kind of like the first time you get tattooed, pierced, shoplift, or use any type of illicit substance. Once you get accustomed to it, it’s just fun. After a while, it loses its uniqueness and becomes kind of ordinary. We did it to do it. It was fun. It was rehearsed. I’m one year older. Now that they’ve gone, my wife and I have decided to fuck again just to prove that we still can.