The vet attributes her farting to age: Mayday’s fifteen
dog years and two dog months old—which, talk about coincidences, is the same as 106 human years. I kicked off my shoes and
sprawled on the couch, my mini riding up my green tights, my arms back so that my nipples were pressing against the inside
of my shirt. This last is a little trick I picked up when I was working summers as a parole officer in Atlantic City. (It’s
a lousy lie that the paroler, yours truly, was fired for sleeping with the parolees; I was fired for pleading no contest to
shoplifting a pair of seventy-nine-cent earrings from Woolworth’s.) I patted the couch next to me, but L. Falk pulled over
a folding chair, turned it so the back was to the front and straddled it.
“I dabble in chaos,” he said, as if what I was waiting for with bated breath was an answer to my question, “but my life’s
passion is pure randomness, which probably does not exist.”
“I like randomness, I like things that happen out of order,” I told him. “But I still don’t see how it’s possible to be passionate
about something that doesn’t exist.”
“I can say you it is not easy.”
I told him to put on some music while I slipped into something less comfortable. I have this Arab-type robe, the good news
is it plunges to my belly button, the bad news isit itches, but I figured I’d better pull out all the stops. I could see L. Falk’s nuts were going to be tough to crack.
I was in the bedroom spritzing rose-scented toilet water on the sheets when some music I didn’t recognize came on. “Where’d
you find that?” I called through the partly open door.
“On the pile of records.”
I remembered D.J. had converted the Rebbe to CDs, which is how come he gave me some of his old LPs the night he told me about
the oral tradition in the O.T. and the birth-control pioneer named Onan. The Rebbe could have scored, too. I mean, he talked
a nonviolent game and he was convincing enough for me to collaborate, except I was menstruating.
Remember
averted? Menstruating
‘s in the same goddamn league.
Where was I? When the Rebbe saw red, his eyes bulged more than usual, he mumbled something about me being impure and packed
it in.
Me.
Impure.
Go figure.
I opened the door of the bedroom and positioned myself so I was in a frame. I picked this one up from a Lauren Bacall flick.
When I spoke, I purred like a kitten. “So what’s the record you went and put on?”
“It is a quintet …” He turned toward me, he took in the Arab-type robe, he followed the V down to my belly button, he swallowed
hard.
The secret to good sex can be summed up in one word, which is
foreplay
, right? though to be really effective, fore-play, contrary to the conventional wisdom, should take place after as well as
before the dirty deed. Which is another way of saying that good sex should not start or stop, it should go on forever. Obviously
different people mean different things by
foreplay
. My freshman year at Backwater I roomed with a girl from Corning who used a Water Pik as a vaginal spray—she described it
as the longest ejaculation in the history of the universe. My roommate loaned me her Water Pik once, but it was too wet for
my taste, so I stuck with my trusty Hitachi Magic Wand.
I’m wandering. Foreplay.
Like it was only natural, right? when I tried to jump-start L. Falk’s battery, for me to concentrate on foreplay. After what
seemed like an eternity of small talk, I got him to stretch out on the bed, though his idea of making himself comfortable
bore a curious resemblance to the fetal position. He wanted me to turn out the bed lamps, but we negotiated and compromised
on turning one out and putting the other on the floor. I had a hell of a time untying his goddamn shoelaces, would you believe
he had double-knotted them? and straightening out his legs.
“Hey, relaaaax,” I said in my sexiest voice as I began to unbutton
dog years and two dog months old—which, talk about coincidences, is the same as 106 human years. I kicked off my shoes and
sprawled on the couch, my mini riding up my green tights, my arms back so that my nipples were pressing against the inside
of my shirt. This last is a little trick I picked up when I was working summers as a parole officer in Atlantic City. (It’s
a lousy lie that the paroler, yours truly, was fired for sleeping with the parolees; I was fired for pleading no contest to
shoplifting a pair of seventy-nine-cent earrings from Woolworth’s.) I patted the couch next to me, but L. Falk pulled over
a folding chair, turned it so the back was to the front and straddled it.
“I dabble in chaos,” he said, as if what I was waiting for with bated breath was an answer to my question, “but my life’s
passion is pure randomness, which probably does not exist.”
“I like randomness, I like things that happen out of order,” I told him. “But I still don’t see how it’s possible to be passionate
about something that doesn’t exist.”
“I can say you it is not easy.”
I told him to put on some music while I slipped into something less comfortable. I have this Arab-type robe, the good news
is it plunges to my belly button, the bad news isit itches, but I figured I’d better pull out all the stops. I could see L. Falk’s nuts were going to be tough to crack.
I was in the bedroom spritzing rose-scented toilet water on the sheets when some music I didn’t recognize came on. “Where’d
you find that?” I called through the partly open door.
“On the pile of records.”
I remembered D.J. had converted the Rebbe to CDs, which is how come he gave me some of his old LPs the night he told me about
the oral tradition in the O.T. and the birth-control pioneer named Onan. The Rebbe could have scored, too. I mean, he talked
a nonviolent game and he was convincing enough for me to collaborate, except I was menstruating.
Remember
averted? Menstruating
‘s in the same goddamn league.
Where was I? When the Rebbe saw red, his eyes bulged more than usual, he mumbled something about me being impure and packed
it in.
Me.
Impure.
Go figure.
I opened the door of the bedroom and positioned myself so I was in a frame. I picked this one up from a Lauren Bacall flick.
When I spoke, I purred like a kitten. “So what’s the record you went and put on?”
“It is a quintet …” He turned toward me, he took in the Arab-type robe, he followed the V down to my belly button, he swallowed
hard.
The secret to good sex can be summed up in one word, which is
foreplay
, right? though to be really effective, fore-play, contrary to the conventional wisdom, should take place after as well as
before the dirty deed. Which is another way of saying that good sex should not start or stop, it should go on forever. Obviously
different people mean different things by
foreplay
. My freshman year at Backwater I roomed with a girl from Corning who used a Water Pik as a vaginal spray—she described it
as the longest ejaculation in the history of the universe. My roommate loaned me her Water Pik once, but it was too wet for
my taste, so I stuck with my trusty Hitachi Magic Wand.
I’m wandering. Foreplay.
Like it was only natural, right? when I tried to jump-start L. Falk’s battery, for me to concentrate on foreplay. After what
seemed like an eternity of small talk, I got him to stretch out on the bed, though his idea of making himself comfortable
bore a curious resemblance to the fetal position. He wanted me to turn out the bed lamps, but we negotiated and compromised
on turning one out and putting the other on the floor. I had a hell of a time untying his goddamn shoelaces, would you believe
he had double-knotted them? and straightening out his legs.
“Hey, relaaaax,” I said in my sexiest voice as I began to unbutton
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