My inaugural post ( written while listening to a live version of The Velvet Underground’s Pale Blue Eyes–awesome!)! After much deliberation, careful consideration, and protracted procrastination, I have decide to take the easy way out…instead of coming up with an entirely new framework for my posts, I am relating everything I write, at least initially, to Broken Hallelujah: notes from a marriage. That way, if you have read the book, you will have the immense satisfaction of thinking, “ah, I remember that,” or “that makes even more sense now,” or “wow, I didn’t think that section could get any better,” etc. And if you haven’t yet read Broken Hallelujah, your curiosity/ignorance/intense feelings of failure will most likely spur you into a frenzy of ACTION–in which you purchase several copies of the book, so that you (and your book group) will never find yourself in such an uncomfortable compromised position again!
Remember Lance, from “Marriage Counseling”…well, here is the real deal..and my attempt at what is known as flash fiction…
He is a teaching assistant; I am an undergraduate. I pass him a note in our Classics lecture: “Hey, want to sleep together sometime?” I smile at my boldness; he smiles in spite of himself.
We have known each other for two years, ever since Thom Gunn’s poetry writing workshop. Josh is a serious poet, and most of the undergraduates in the class are too busy writing about abortions and drug experimentation to get what he is trying to do with meter and form. I don’t really care what he is trying to do with meter and form; I just want to touch his shaggy curls and be near his big papa bear body. There is something so paternal about him, so safe, that I simultaneously want him to fuck me and to tuck me in for the night.
His response to the note is both expected and endearing: “Thank you for the kind offer, but I don’t want to wreck our friendship.” That night, at Spats on Shattuck, a group of us sitting around a crowded table, drinking and discussing the movie we have just watched, Woody Allen’s Crimes and Misdemeanors, I can tell he has reconsidered.
He walks me back to my co-op. We sit on my futon, expectant. “Your mouth,” he says, running his finger across my lips before he kisses me. Sex with him is so sweet that when he comes I want to wipe his brow. I am on top; I run my hand over his chest instead.
Years later, after we are both married, I hear he is teaching at a university near the city in which I live. When his first book comes out, I tear through it, looking for a reference but don’t find one. I think about writing him a note, but, instead, I just write about him.