Delusions

A stupid setting in my brain gets me to believing that Prince and I would have been compatible lovers. I’ve had a couple of “encounters” with known musicians. One guy almost got up to my apartment, but I had another guy living here and had promised to make him dinner, so it didn’t happen.

I believe that something like this could have happened with Prince. My girl, also a huge Prince fan, says, “Keep hallucinating.” Ha! It’s part of my pain now – that he would have been accessible but now he’s not here.

He was four years older than me, just like a couple of my boyfriends growing up and some of the dudes who were interested in me back then – those photos of Prince in the 70s with that blow-out ‘fro — they remind me of the brothers from my neighborhood. There were a few of those short guys in our neighborhood – like Prince – and they were mackin’ hard. I know those short guys like that – they can be slick as hell. Prince evolved from that brother-from-the-hood style, but it remained part of his swagger.

Because he was fearless, he did what he wanted to do and everybody was cool with it. I was heavily influenced by rock ‘n roll later in high school so I was ready for Prince on that level. We also probably had some of the same wild ideas about sex.

In reality, he dated mixed, light-skinned, and white women, which I don’t have issue with. But would I have been his type? Paha! Not to mention he was well beyond those crazy days that I hallucinate about — see where this is going.

This lover that I’ve concocted from the Prince persona does not exist, which makes it an interesting study. It’s a figment of my imagination.

More will be revealed. Thus far, I’ve thought about the difficulties certain people in the industry have with personal relationships, icons particularly. I’ve done some dime store psychology on the Prince situation. What compelled him and why? What fueled his fire? – oh but my God he was hot as hell. Check out his “Head” video from ’86 — or when Mel B interviewed him at Paisley Park and he’s in complete “bedroom voice” (I got agitated just typing that).

All that hotness exploding out into the stratosphere might cost you crucial elements on a terrestrial level, just saying. This is the energy from him that’s reverberating here causing my delusions, I’m sure. So, we’ll see how this thing plays out. Thank y’all for listening — oh but for real – my phone’s ringing just now — and my ring tone — the Prince wail from “Do Me Baby.”

The Star of the Porno Downstairs

I was nervous about who might be moving in after the neighbors under me moved. They were quiet.

I listen to hardcore. But I have rules. I listen for only an hour at the level where somebody might hear it, and not before 10am or after 10pm. I also walk barefoot, and lightly.

We have to be reasonable about apartment life. You expect to hear vague rumblings of movement. Maybe you’ll hear people screwing.

People would tell me how they heard neighbors screwing. I never did, until now.

Finally, a month after the great neighbors below me moved, someone moved in. After a week I thought, Gee, he masturbates loudly.

While exercising lying on the floor, I heard his usual loud crying out. I pressed my ear to the floor. Gasp! I heard the woman!

This couple below me fuck almost every day!

And he’s loud for a dude! Usually you just hear the chick. I had a guy once who screamed like he was being murdered. The inflection of his screaming wasn’t sexual where it trails off ecstatically. It was more like a blood curdling scream.

I had to know what this new couple looked like.

But the nerve of this guy coming up to my apartment at 9:30pm on the weekend to complain about my music. It wasn’t that loud, for chrissake.

He knocks on my door. I’m naked and can’t open it.

Yes, I say through the peephole.

I’m your neighbor downstairs.

It’s the “fucking” guy! You need me to turn my music down?

Yeah.

Okay. I’m sorry. Goodnight, I says.

I tried getting a look at him through the peephole. I saw he was wiry. I had missed the opportunity to meet the star of the porno downstairs. Hey – I’ll throw on clothes and go down there – apologize about not opening the door – I’ll say I want to properly introduce myself.

So I knock on his door — and the “fucking” guy – he did what I had done and didn’t open his door.

Hi, just wanted to say I didn’t mean to be rude by not opening the door. I was getting ready to shower before, which is why I couldn’t open the door, I lie.

He tells me through the peep hole, Oh yeah, me too, now.

Uh, okay — have a good night, I says.

The “fucking” guy was probably naked and getting ready to fuck again.

I did meet him in the elevator last week and properly introduced myself. It was great! He wasn’t bad looking.

I think I might’ve finally met his girl too. Yesterday I got on the elevator with a red head. We said hello then she got off on the floor below mine and walked in the direction of the line I’m in – that had to be her!

Now, it’s white noise to me – sort of – I guess – unless I’m having a spell, you know.

I suppose I should “get a life.”

 

 

Tallulah Bankhead!

I had the flu, so I stayed home and watched Cary Grant movies and this Tallulah Bankhead movie, “Die! Die! My Darling!” I know Tallulah Bankhead had done worthier films and in fact, I had always been intrigued by her, so I looked her up. We all know Wikipedia is “iffy,” but if the basics stand, Tallulah was completely deranged, someone I’d like to party with. Here are excerpts from the page:

…During these early New York years, she became a peripheral member of the Algonquin Round Table and was known as a hard-partying girl-about-town. …[She] began to use cocaine and marijuana, going as far as saying, “Cocaine isn’t habit-forming and I know because I’ve been taking it for years.”

…She didn’t like Hollywood either; when she met producer Irving Thalberg, she asked him, “How do you get laid in this dreadful place?”

Her 1932 movie Devil and the Deep is notable for the presence of three major co-stars, with Bankhead receiving top billing over Gary Cooper, Charles Laughton and Cary Grant. It is the only film with Cooper and Grant as the film’s leading men. She later said, “Dahling, the main reason I accepted [the part] was to fuck that divine Gary Cooper!”

In 1933, Bankhead nearly died following a five-hour emergency hysterectomy due to venereal disease. Only 70 pounds (32 kg) when she left the hospital, she stoically said to her doctor, “Don’t think this has taught me a lesson!”

She rented a home at 1712 Stanley Street, in Hollywood and began hosting parties that were said to “have no boundaries”.

Bankhead circulated widely in the celebrity crowd of her day and was a party favorite for outlandish stunts, such as doing cartwheels in a skirt while wearing no underwear or entering a soirée stark naked.

Rumors about Bankhead’s sex life have lingered for years, and she was linked romantically with many notable female personalities of the day, including Greta Garbo, Marlene Dietrich, Eva Le Gallienne, Hattie McDaniel, and Alla Nazimova, as well as writer Mercedes de Acosta and singer Billie Holiday. Actress Patsy Kelly claimed she had a sexual relationship with Bankhead when she worked for her as a personal assistant.

Bankhead never publicly described herself as being bisexual. She did, however, describe herself as “ambisextrous”.

She had been investigated by MI5 during the 1920s amid rumors she was corrupting pupils at Eton. The documents alleged that she seduced up to half a dozen private schoolboys into taking part in “indecent and unnatural” acts.

On December 12, 1968, Bankhead died in St. Luke’s Hospital in Manhattan at 7:45 a.m., aged 66. The cause of death was pleural pneumonia, complicated by emphysema, malnutrition, and possibly a strain of the Hong Kong flu which was running worldwide at that time. Her last coherent words reportedly were, “Codeine … bourbon.”

Hattie McDaniel? The Hong Kong flu? Even her death was extravagant.

Well folks, my next post may be about how I had to quit Clark Gable for Cary Grant. Until next time!

Auntie Sandee on the Ass of Death

From “Last Tango in Paris”: “You’re alone…you won’t be able to be free of that feeling of being alone until you look death right in the face…until you go right up into the ass of death…”

Someone told me, “Oh you want a husband!  No, no — you don’t want to die alone!”  The most alone I’ve ever been was when I was with someone;  there was a person who represented an idea that I shouldn’t be alone, yet I was, so it became a mockery, which is even more painful.  Doesn’t matter how compatible to me they were.

You’re going to die alone even if you die with a roomful of people.  You’re born alone.  You die alone, just the same as your experience in this existence is only yours and no one else can fit inside of it and prescribe a course of living for you based on that existence.  Twins are born together.  But are they experiencing the exact same thing together as if they were in one skin?  This last part reminded me of something my sweet Kyle had written a bit back.

But I don’t know — maybe this would be possible in a higher state of consciousness.  So maybe we can die with people.  Maybe our energy can merge and float off into the ether, made up of different chemical compounds of course since the energy transforms, and we go back into the “essence” together.  Scientists say when we die, there is energy that doesn’t, so maybe.  Wouldn’t that be nice? Humans just have a tendency of making pretty metaphors of things — as we speak in colors — consisting of heaven and angels, etc.

It doesn’t matter to me if I die in my room by myself or if there are people surrounding me — I think that would be worse, to be fading away, leaving all of these grieving loved ones behind.  Maybe.

I had the flu many years ago.  I lie on the sofa for three days.  I didn’t have enough strength to open the convertible bed.  I thought, “I’m going to die here,” and it was very matter-of-fact, no fear.  At that time I saw easily how simple it is to die, how easy it would be to just leave.  I had no sentimentality about loved ones, nothing.

No matter whether you die with people or not, being alone is something you have to deal with by yourself.  Having another person, or a body around you all the time isn’t the cure for loneliness.  There’s some space inside yourself that you alone have to deal with.

This had been a building full of widows when I moved here years ago.  I’m sure they all thought their husbands would be around so that they could “die together.”  Ha!

Death

I wasn’t going to mention the Metro-North tragedy initially, because you can’t run from death.  Not really.  I did finally mention it on Facebook because of some compelling coincidences.  I didn’t want to give it special attention, because focusing on the details of the incident wouldn’t help to remind me that death is happening, and it’s not as big a thing as we make it out to be. When my father died I was reborn into this idea.  Paradoxically, I had to go through a few complex changes to come to this simple conclusion.  I try living harder and more truthfully because of this.  I want to be more fleshed out and connected to everything around me.

Yah I’d like to think that I could sustain this idea.  We’ll see how full of shit I am in the end though.  In my isolated existence, disconnected from the whole, death becomes a melodrama, and the mere particle of my human life becomes lionized, disproportionate to the calming reality.  Well, shit – I hope it’s calming.  I really hate the idea of holding onto life, holding onto things…

Anal Acoustics

“Hey gurl.  I heard you blow that fart in there.”

“Haha!  Yeah.”

“I can dig it — ‘cause you ain’t know nobody was up in here.”

“I wouldna gave a shit if they was.”

“Mmm hm — ‘sho you right.”

“Once, a guy – after a night out together – he came over.  We were drunk and high as fuck.  Something about drinking heavy and the next morning — I always woke up and had to fart, loud and hard – the loudest fart you ever heard.  Great acoustics —  I looked forward to it really.  So we wake up —  I don’t even remember the night before, only his saying, ‘Uh! Sandee’, then it was over —  In the morning, I make one of my farts – they never smelled, which is strange, because I can whip up a stench with the best of them usually.  So my guy’s like, startled – ha!  But dig this — he says, ‘You know, that turned me on.’  I’m like, to myself, I knew it.  I knew I couldn’t be the only one who thought that was hot.”

“You are blowin’ my mind right now…”

“So oh, hey, look – you want me.  Right?  I know you do.  You like hearing my farts too.”

“The kinda luck I get, you fart on me, right?  It smells like, Noooooooooooooooo!!  Nothing like that trombone you played for your boy.  And after a fart like that, I have to wait a while before, you know.  I mean, I understand and all.  It’s natural.  But I can’t just, Mm! – yeah – after that.  It has to like dissipate.  Know what I’m sayin’.”

“Don’t be – negative.  Have faith.  I’m quite sure that I could, “compose” something just as nice, for you.”

Unorthodox Sex

When I jog through the Orthodox Jewish community, I wonder what the men are like without all those black clothes.  Some of them are tall and handsome — swarthy.  The black clothes make them look mysterious.  Nothing inspires more curiosity than a man belonging to a tight knit community established in ritual — centuries old.

I make eye contact with a few as I jog, sweaty — breathing hard.  A couple have stared at me and smiled, some nod.  Don’t believe it?  I’m delusional?  Maybe they’re just “community oriented”?  I think they want me.  Yeah.  I fancy having a go at one or two of them.  I like beards too.

It was that article in the New York Times, the one about the community of Orthodox Jews you don’t know, the ones who smoke – the ones who do things you don’t associate with such a community — subterranean things.  Oy!  The dichotomy!  What lies in that contradiction between the supposed existence and the actual existence?

What?  You’re forbidden by scripture?  Are you racist?  Why does that matter — we’re all racists.  That shouldn’t get in the way of exercising ones right to explore the boundaries of primal gratification, outside the confines of expectation.  Right?

. רק כל עוד אנחנו לא עושים את זה עם חור בסדין

Cemeterial Musings

I eat tofu, walnuts, steamed vegetables and quinoa for lunch and dinner.  I never take vitamins because doctors have told me that it isn’t necessary as long as you eat the right foods.  I was washing my hands after every handshake.  I opened doors with the sleeve of my sweater and stood three feet away from sick people.  So why should I be sick?  I was taking precaution against getting sick while working two jobs – I was trying to help my immune system.  It didn’t work.

In my twenties and thirties, I rarely got sick.  I had the immune system of an Olympian. Then five years ago I started getting a couple of colds a year, which I think might have been because of my hormones shifting.  This last year I didn’t have a cold except now and I’m sure it’s because of the stress of learning a new job and not sleeping, fuck the fact that I was eating very healthily.  Now I’m just pissed and I’m in the pity pot.

It’s Halloween and I wasn’t even able to invite anyone over because I’m sick.  This is the first Halloween in a couple of years I didn’t do anything special.  I have to go to works tomorrow – yes “works” – I’m going to my gallery job, then I have to do two tours at Sleepy Hollow Cemetery.  My jobs are great and I feel settled in at the cemetery now, but I suppose it is strenuous.

I usually never buy cold medicine, but I have some now – people at work told me to get Airborne.  I also have Robitussin and Echinacea.  At the cemetery, I have to be hearty to do two 1.5 mile tours, check people in, light kerosene lanterns and direct traffic, so it’s necessary.  Because of these two jobs however I wasn’t able to plan to celebrate Halloween except for decorating my apartment and purchasing a new set of purple creature horns which I wore during my tour yesterday.  A couple of people complimented me on them and I think I looked sexy but I had no takers, oh well.  This year I thought I might be the “Henry:  The Portrait of a Serial Killer” character for Halloween and walk in the Halloween Parade in Greenwich Village, but I didn’t have time to buy the male wig or the extermination can.  Henry had a distinctive walk.  It would have been great to walk like that in a parade.

So I’ll just sign off now and prepare to watch Fright Night and eat some of the Halloween candy that I bought for the trick-or-treaters who usually don’t come anyway except those couple of times. I wait for them every year like Linus waits for the Great Pumpkin.  And since none of my measures to prevent illness worked, I’m eating Chinese food for dinner, bleh.  On the plus side I guess is that I think I lost weight from working in the cemetery — Happy Halloween!

Ohhhhhhh baby this is so wroooong!

What do you weigh – five-hundred?  Love.  It.  Six-five?  You’re really very big, and the pleasure of your, imagined company, your slow, flirty humor — it works.  Quite nicely.  Sounds like you’re really paying attention when you say my name three times the way you say it when you come fix things in my apartment.  But I know you’re full of shit.

In “reality” your weight’s a non-issue.  You’ve compensated for the “short-coming,” as people do.  Hilarity is how I’ve compensated for mine.

So, as I’m sketching it, you sit on the sofa while I smear your ass from different angles.  From your position, you can gaze at the mark on my back that I got from my surgery, and I call you names when I twist to see your face — a beast — a fat fucker – maybe I’m the ‘fat fucker’ whatever — names Lil’ Kim calls Biggie on that track when she accuses him of eating different foods, and they break the bed down.  Then I might flip around and face you, bite, smell you…

You’re inappropriate, but somehow you’ve gotten your cue from me.  I am the lonely middle-aged broad in the ‘penthouse’?  Why should I be embarrassed that I enjoyed your company when you tried to fix my DVD player?  Maybe you are a clever abuser of vulnerability, but remember this Big Daddy — if I do you, I’ll know exactly what I’m doing, because I’ve got you by twenty years, and I didn’t get this old for nothing.

Come Hither

I don’t flirt usually unless I already know you.  If I flirt with a man I don’t know, it means I’m overpowered by chemistry.  I saw a man near Park Avenue once, and had an animal reaction.  I locked into him and shuddered a little.  He wasn’t conventionally handsome.  There was just something alpha about him.  He looked at me, and appeared to be nodding subtly to communicate that he understood my reaction — this is part of the reason I think he had alpha chemistry.  He might have been used to this reaction?

I probably flirt with girls more.  I used to be fearful of boys.  They fucked with me when I was sick in junior high school.  They were mean and teased me mercilessly because I was emaciated and flat-chested.  When I got out of the hospital after a month, and got meat on my bones, things changed.  They asked if I had been at the farm — haha!

I’m not a lesbian, but I used to like girls better.  I didn’t gush around boys, I tensed up.   I remember playing in the pool with some boys and girls.  The boys dunked the girls, and they giggled — squealed.  I was horrified.  They’d come at me and my eyes widened, and there would be no giggling — I scratched the shit out of them.  I was frightened of the water and the boys were so overpowering.

I was curious — and suspicious — about girlfriends who had ‘friendships’ with boys.  Although I had boyfriends, I didn’t care to just be hanging around dudes.  I cared about impressing them, but from a distance.

In my thirties, I relaxed, and allowed myself to be “friends” with a couple of guys.  But I knew it’d probably be bullshit.  I had a girlfriend who said she preferred male friends to women friends.  I asked if she was fucking those male “friends.”  “Well, yeah,” she said — hahahahaha!

I believed there would always be an underlying agenda with mixed sex friendships.  In most cases, both would probably need their sexuality validated in some way and that would negate the platonic part.  I wrote a brilliant novel with this premise, but it has yet to be recognized as such — ha!

So, I tried the platonic ‘thing’ with a guy.  We spent most of the time almost fucking, and actually did twice.  Finally I had to let him go.  He turned out to be dishonest.  It just confirmed my theory.  While I do call a few men ‘friends’, I still have difficulty with the concept.  But nowadays, I’m trying to understand men as fleshed out people, and I do like them, not that I ever did really dislike them.

Today I practiced flirting and it worked!  The guy just hung around, asking questions, blushing — ha — so cute!  I think I might be experimenting with this kind of thing more.  Too bad I’m all old and shit trying to do this now.  I’ll keep you posted.