Using some kind of a special cake-cutting method where she carved out a circle in the center of the cake, Doody Lady then sliced neat little squared-off pieces from this perfectly round cake. Damn she was talented! I always wondered how people did that. In awe I watched her cut the entire cake this way. She commanded that space, standing, expert, with her long pony tail swinging ever so slightly above the crack of her ass. Jason staggered over with a drink in his hand to help give out the neat pieces of cake that Doody Lady had placed on small, thin paper plates at the end of the bar counter by the kitchen. After licking his fingers of stray icing, he handed me a piece, an end piece with more frosting on it than cake.
“Mmm, mmm, mmm! You don’t know boy! I love’s me some frosting,” I told him.
“Bon appétit,” he said, and I stubbed out my cigarette and anticipated the cake.
I had given Doody Lady that name anyway and wasn’t I twisted? Don’t we all move our bowels? I grabbed the cake and relished it, suppressing my urge to get up and hump at the air in a feigned fucking of the cake, or to moan and to close my eyes rapturously behind each forkful of thick, white frosting. I took the rest of my cake to sit with Dmitri and George in the booth. I pat the seat for George to sit on the same side with Dmitri and me so that I was between them. We ate our cake without speaking. We closed our eyes and nodded at each other between forkfuls. We moaned between mouthfuls, breathed in deeply and exhaled, then licked our forks clean of frosting.
THANKS FOR READING — NOW APROPOS OF NOTHING I’M SHARING THE SONG I LISTENED TO WHILE POSTING (I SAID I’D BE POSTING MORE VIDEOS) — THIS SONG HAS ONE OF THE BEST LINES EVER — “I DON’T WANT TO HURT YOU, I JUST WANT TO KILL YOU!”
‘twas the last century when I visited one of my dearest friends, Alisha. Her mother had redecorated. Though this was long ago in the 1900s, in my mind’s eye, I recall a baroque style with fringes, tassels and tapestry prints; the colors were pinks, mauves, soft burgundys and creams. The glass lamps were pale pink hues and there was a chaise lounge. Ooo la la, Paree! I wanted to stay there forever. The room had enveloped me.
I went home and wrote a poem about it, a very bad poem (well maybe not that bad). Another dear friend, Chickie La Loca gave me the incentive to dig it out from a dusty old box of files. Here it is:
Your room looks like the inside of a vagina
Mauves so warm you
could slip inside an
under an overhead
soft tone lamp shaped
like a shell.
Stretch out on the cream
and breath in a deep
breath so deep;
let it out when
you feel like it,
in a burgundy mist chair…
I like boys and I like pink. The song says, “I enjoy being a girl” — that’s me! I like heels, though I haven’t worn them in a while – and I like to bake cookies. This is a stereotype I know, and I don’t always inhabit this side of being a woman. I also inhabit more of a complex description, but for the purpose of what I want to say, I’m telling you about my common feminine side, just so that you don’t get it twisted. Though I don’t have one and don’t want one, sometimes I just want to tell people to SUCK MY DICK!
Enjoy the day!
How does this work? I haven’t eaten or slept. The ugly’s in them, in me. I shouldn’t be out. It’s not safe. The people in my train car they see the bilious ooze coming out of my pores. I attract noxious energy that makes me hate, back in return. I’m nauseous. But God forbid I should have to hurl — this stupid train doesn’t allow you to walk in between cars, like the old big grey ones. And it’s fucking express. The man sitting across from me digs wax from his ear, rolls it up and flicks it in the floor. His features are asymmetrical in a non aesthetic way. This train smells like, like… The woman wearing pink platform shoes and a mini-dress carries her shoulders too high like she’s expecting something. Her legs — I can see she’s relied on them for a while — they’re long, strong-looking. But I can still hear her quietly begging. She’s self-conscious. I refuse to let her see me, looking. She’s tossed her hair, that fake-ass hair, too many times. Shethinks people believe it’s hers. Trouble-makers. There are more of them in this train car. They look at me – I know. I know they’re judging me. I am judgmental. The only one I like is on my left, a self-contained woman in a blue and burgundy print dress and black shoes. Her heels are moderate. She’s reading and not looking up and around, all needy. She’s not looking for approval and doesn’t offend me. Her gestures don’t spill over into my space. This is a rolling coffin and damn I could define the stench but it would make me sick.
On the other side of that ear digger guy is a little scrunched in one — people-pleaser. She gave money to that subway car performer. I didn’t give a goddamned thing! Oh and now she’s smiling — to herself, one of those creepy, subtle smiles. Smiling, smiling – what the fuck’s she smiling at! She’d dig a knife in your back with that thing on her face. I know the type: “I have a good heart. Like me. Please? I do good for people. Oh don’t hurt me. You’re going to hurt me because you don’t smile at the sunny day.” Do you know the depth of the world’s dysfunction? This gesture of giving a dollar to a man who’ll probably use it for crack, will help? Why the hell can’t she stop smiling? She looks like a nut! Crazy. She’s a little thing, like a rhesus monkey with long brown hair, wearing a trench coat. Ooooo-ooo, you sooo cute, I protect you littoo monkey…