when a moth’s wings flail the air, how the turbulence sets
off ripples, how the ripples, I’m not sure I got this right, right? could paralyze the east coast of America the Beautiful.
Something like that.
You need to have a weird imagination to blame a butterfly for the weather.
Like different folks have different strokes. So the sight of the tattoo really turned him on and the next thing you know we
were doing it, the wild thang, the major merge. He was sweating and grunting and panting and looking down every now and then
to make sure the butterfly hadn’t flown the coop, and then he seemed to freeze in midair, his bloodshot eyes wide open and
unblinking and startled. And then he collapsed on me.
No, I didn’t actually feel him come off, but I didn’t want to embarrass him by asking.
I’ll answer the question before you ask it. How it was was … different. In ways I haven’t really figured out yet, how it was
was … satisfying. His performance, also the time it lasted, also the actual size of his equipment, excuse me for putting it
so crudely, left something to be desired. On the other hand I could feel that L. Falk …
Just give me a sec. …
I could feel that L. Falk wanted … me, which is an impression I must have had before, I just couldn’t remember when.
Naturally L. Falk needed to know how he’d done, what is it with dudes that they always have to hear what fantastic lovers
they are? I didn’t want to hit him with the truth—that for sheer physical sensation I couldn’t see there was much of a difference
between safe sex and no sex. So I hit him with a joke. “Like I’ve always imagined what I call the phenomenal fuck—a fuck so
totally awesome that it’s the mother of all fucks. In my imagination, it’s so out of sight that the two or three or four who
participate decide to never fuck again. So the bad news is that screwing you wasn’t the phenomenal fuck. Which means the good
news is we can fuck again.”
I laughed. He smiled that razor-thin smile of his, which comes across as one-third faintly amused, two-thirds intensely thoughtful,
as if he was trying to read between the lines.
“Hey, you asked.”
“And you answered.”
Later on I let Mayday back into the living room and went and warmed up some frozen pizza in the clothes drier, my stove has
no oven, pizza is one of the few things I can do in a kitchen besides sunny-side-ups. I had slipped back into my Arab-type
robe, but L. Falk kept parting the V with a fingertip to get a look at the butterfly. We were sitting around the table staring
at the dirty dishes when he spotted this piece of chalk hanging from a string next to the blackboard where I list what I need
to buy or who I need to call or when I had my last period. Suddenly L. Falk lunged for the chalk, he was a man possessed,
and scribbled like a madman on the blackboard, I never erased it, it’s still there if you want to check it out, y.y.a.y.t.f.h.r.m.c.o.m.a.a.t.i.o.h.f.m.
Naturally I asked him what it meant, but all he said was it’d been written by L. Tolstoy, that every Russian schoolchild knew
the story, that I needed to decode it for myself.
Coming back to the table he sat down so hard the folding chair folded and L. Falk landed flat on the floor.
Like I cracked up, right?
So did L. Falk. We cracked up together. I don’t know why, I started laughing and he started smiling a smile that was two-thirds
amused and pretty soon he was also laughing, and suddenly I was laughing so hard at him laughing I was crying. And then, I
swear to Christ, he started crying too. You should have seen us, L. Falk on the floor, me kneeling next to him, doubled over
with laughter, tears streaming down our faces. When we finally wiped away the tears we started in laughing all over again.
Somewhere in all the laughing and crying and laughing he blurted out something else I couldn’t get a handle on—something about
him understanding
off ripples, how the ripples, I’m not sure I got this right, right? could paralyze the east coast of America the Beautiful.
Something like that.
You need to have a weird imagination to blame a butterfly for the weather.
Like different folks have different strokes. So the sight of the tattoo really turned him on and the next thing you know we
were doing it, the wild thang, the major merge. He was sweating and grunting and panting and looking down every now and then
to make sure the butterfly hadn’t flown the coop, and then he seemed to freeze in midair, his bloodshot eyes wide open and
unblinking and startled. And then he collapsed on me.
No, I didn’t actually feel him come off, but I didn’t want to embarrass him by asking.
I’ll answer the question before you ask it. How it was was … different. In ways I haven’t really figured out yet, how it was
was … satisfying. His performance, also the time it lasted, also the actual size of his equipment, excuse me for putting it
so crudely, left something to be desired. On the other hand I could feel that L. Falk …
Just give me a sec. …
I could feel that L. Falk wanted … me, which is an impression I must have had before, I just couldn’t remember when.
Naturally L. Falk needed to know how he’d done, what is it with dudes that they always have to hear what fantastic lovers
they are? I didn’t want to hit him with the truth—that for sheer physical sensation I couldn’t see there was much of a difference
between safe sex and no sex. So I hit him with a joke. “Like I’ve always imagined what I call the phenomenal fuck—a fuck so
totally awesome that it’s the mother of all fucks. In my imagination, it’s so out of sight that the two or three or four who
participate decide to never fuck again. So the bad news is that screwing you wasn’t the phenomenal fuck. Which means the good
news is we can fuck again.”
I laughed. He smiled that razor-thin smile of his, which comes across as one-third faintly amused, two-thirds intensely thoughtful,
as if he was trying to read between the lines.
“Hey, you asked.”
“And you answered.”
Later on I let Mayday back into the living room and went and warmed up some frozen pizza in the clothes drier, my stove has
no oven, pizza is one of the few things I can do in a kitchen besides sunny-side-ups. I had slipped back into my Arab-type
robe, but L. Falk kept parting the V with a fingertip to get a look at the butterfly. We were sitting around the table staring
at the dirty dishes when he spotted this piece of chalk hanging from a string next to the blackboard where I list what I need
to buy or who I need to call or when I had my last period. Suddenly L. Falk lunged for the chalk, he was a man possessed,
and scribbled like a madman on the blackboard, I never erased it, it’s still there if you want to check it out, y.y.a.y.t.f.h.r.m.c.o.m.a.a.t.i.o.h.f.m.
Naturally I asked him what it meant, but all he said was it’d been written by L. Tolstoy, that every Russian schoolchild knew
the story, that I needed to decode it for myself.
Coming back to the table he sat down so hard the folding chair folded and L. Falk landed flat on the floor.
Like I cracked up, right?
So did L. Falk. We cracked up together. I don’t know why, I started laughing and he started smiling a smile that was two-thirds
amused and pretty soon he was also laughing, and suddenly I was laughing so hard at him laughing I was crying. And then, I
swear to Christ, he started crying too. You should have seen us, L. Falk on the floor, me kneeling next to him, doubled over
with laughter, tears streaming down our faces. When we finally wiped away the tears we started in laughing all over again.
Somewhere in all the laughing and crying and laughing he blurted out something else I couldn’t get a handle on—something about
him understanding
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