Vol. II. Issue. III September 2011 - The Criterion: An International ...

www.the-criterion.com The Criterion: An International Journal in English ISSN 0976-8165
“I'm the same Olympia, a round version of Olympia. An Olympia cut out of middle class ideals
and a conditional loss of morale. Tear me down, Seth. Toss me in the trash, like a scrap of
paper, an unfinished bit of pornography."
He smokes a cigarette, letting the ash fall onto my bed until it is gone. I sit down beside him,
twirling my hair around my finger. He rolls another cigarette. When finished, he says, "Give me
a light. Is this all you wanted to do tonight? Sit around fantasizing?"
"It's not easy being me," I say. I stand up on the bed and wave the flame from the lighter at him.
"Put your mouth on my cock," he replies, softly. He says it while smoking, not even taking the
cigarette out of his mouth. Soon he’ll ask me to light another for him. Then he’ll ask me to go
fetch him a different outfit from my closet for him to put on, something more comfortable. He’ll
ask me to prepare him a line of coke. I put my mouth around his cock and it grows, as cocks do.
It grows for a while and then it plateaus. Nothing really happens, but he stays hard for a long
time. I lean back and stare at him.
"Turn around," he says, "I came here just to remember you from behind."
“Remember?”
“I want to be sure I remember you,” he says.
“But you see me all of the time,” I say.
“I won’t be able to, soon. I’m leaving San Francisco. I’m moving to Vegas.”
Moving. The thought bounces around inside the walls of my skull. Without him there would be
none of this.
“But how can you move? I need you," I plead. “You hardly know me.”
"Is that what this is about?” he asks. “Turn around. Give me the tripod."
He puts up the camera.
"I don't want to do this anymore," I say. “You’re an asshole. Do you know that?”
"Put the camera here. Here take some of this," he hands me a tiny plastic bag of coke.
"I don't want to do this anymore," I say.
"Take it. Come on. What's the matter with you?"
I take it and dip a key into the bag. I sniff it up my nose from the key tip.
"Turn on the camera," he says.
"I don't think its such a good idea," I say, without much conviction.
"Fine, do you want me to do it? Is that what it is? You want me to turn on the camera. Fine.
Fine, I'll do it. Turn around."
I turn around. He puts his hand over my mouth and fucks me in the ass, slowly. It hurts. It goes
in and then pulls out. In and out and hurts the whole time. But in a way, in a terrible way, I
think that I feel something. But then again it might just be the drugs. I wonder if I’ve confused
loving him with needing him because of the drugs. I may have even confused him with my
father. I confused death with waiting. I confused art with life. I confused too many things.
We rest, sitting back, laying down. He still has not come, but the camera has run out of batteries.
"I think the problem is that I am repressed," I say.
"No. I don’t think that’s it. You’re not repressed. Where are the matches?” “Are you sure?”
“Listen, you have no taste,” he says, pointing to the cotton nightgown I’ve given him to wear,
smiling, “but you're not repressed."
"I don't know what to do. I don't want to do anything anymore. I don't think I'll survive it. I
don’t have anything to survive for. I don't really like doing anything. I don't really want to be
here or anywhere, anymore. Maybe its that I want to die," I say.
"You worry too much," he says, rolling another cigarette.
Vol. II. Issue. III 275 September 2011