So here I am on my sixth day in New York without a bean in my pocket. Having the time of my life. I haven't borrowed a cent and I'm not going to. Money is the forked tongue of the serpent. I wipe my ass with your dollar bill. If you think you know something you're lost.
In a cab on the way to the East Village to collect a cheque from Underground Edd, Mimitos and I discuss Maimonides' theory of time.
"Time is an accident that is related and joined to motion in such a manner that the one is never found without the other. Motion is only possible in time, and the idea of time cannot be conceived otherwise than in connection with motion. Things which do not move have no relation to time."
She nods, "That's pretty similar to my theory of time."
She goes on to explain that the taxi, like the universe, could not possibly be shrinking because that would involve time going backwards which is impossible. I'm predictably dismissive of this junkyard theory.
Mimitos sneers back at me, "You're so egotistical, you really piss me off." She doesn't like being disagreed with. Back in the taxi, the cabby from the Dominican Republic explains how New Yorkers deliberately walk slowly in front of Mack trucks and large buses in order to sue for accident insurance.
"It's all drugs. This country is built on drugs. Go to Miami. What is Miami? Miami is the entertainment industry, hotels and drugs. Plenty millionaires in Miami. All drug money. Colombians man, they kill you just like that. (Snaps his fingers) But first they need to take the powder. Sniff sniff sniff, you dead. Cubans don't like me because I'm pro-Castro. Back in Dominican republic nobody cross the road without looking. It just don't happen."
Boy, this guy's got an opinion about everything. He could have his own tv chat show, be all his own guests, save money.
In the Chase Manhattan Bank Mimitos slaps my hand off her ass. Rolls her eyes.
"Public!" she hisses.
Mimitos takes me to the Baktun Club, on the corner of W. 14th and 10th Ave. The flyer says it's drum and bass but it all sounds like Balearic house to me. We meet Drama and Alex from Queens. Drama's a huge niggah kitted out in serious camo. Alex looks like a Russian princess except for the brilliant blue wig. She tells me her background is Hassidic. Mimitos scores a couple of E's from Drama. Twenty five dollars a pop. The stuff doesn't kick in. Only later do I realize that we've been cheated by a guy called Drama from Queens??
In Room 715 Mimitos' eyes are the color of Autumn in Brooklyn. We do our best to understand each other but how can a man and a woman do such a thing? She lights up one of her elegant Nate Sherman cigarettes. The year 1930 was the height of a Golden Age. It was also the year Nate Sherman began making luxurious cigarettes for his demanding clientele. Three generations later, our family persists in crafting cigarettes of only 100% pure and natural tobacco—without chemicals or additives of any kind. We know from long experience it's the way of making the richest, most satisfying smoke in the world." Then I'm in her ass and it's the tightest, sweetest ass in the universe and for a short while it doesn't matter that we'll never understand each other.
"It feels strange, like shitting."
"Shitting is sexy."
"I know."
Then she wants to suck me while I watch. I stand next to the bed, fucking her mouth. Jerk myself off while she sucks my balls. When I'm close to coming I make her suck my ass. She does. I pop.
Frank's Lounge. 660 Fulton Street, Brooklyn. Where's it not been gentrified I wonder. That weird little Japanese guy Most has popped up again with the promise of magazines filled with photographs of Hassidic children getting the treatment. But it's all talk and he never pitches up with the goods. Kids have no rights. Neither do adults.
Mimitos and I roll to the Insound party. There's vaseline on the doorknob. Mimitos is highly talkative tonight.
"Something's all stopped up inside of me. But I'm an adult. I've got to hold it all together."
She's an eloquent speaker with that Nat Sherman in her left hand and a ripe Gin Tonic in her right. While she talks I remember the texture of her asshole which was ineluctably fabulous. A scrumptious buttfuck. Clever too.
"Nine months is way too early. We should stay in the womb a lot longer."
If all wombs were like yours honey I'd agree. My mother's oven was a snatch from Hell. Outtahere is what I was thinking all through the gestation period.
We move to a party on Wooster. Alexandra says "I'm going as my cleavage". And she means it. Titties vibrate everywhere in the space. "On Halloween a girl's allowed to bust out of her dress." I think so too.
Underground Edd and Mimitos drip their way down the stairs early. She's pissed off with me for some reason. Fuck her.
"I'm tired."
"When I was your age I was never tired."
"Yeah well that was the seventies, bozo."
Sensations show at the Brooklyn Museum of Art. It's all nonsense. Outside the museum an insane group of Mayor Giuliani's blood-crazed Catholic hordes are chanting anti-semitic obscenities. My Cohen blood boils.
There is a squad of cops protecting these nutters and a plastic barrier which says "Police line do not cross." The leader of the group is carrying a large banner which says "Virgin Mary appearing in America, call 1-800-345-Mary".
Back at BAM in the thick of the programmers and the critics. Blah blah blah. Everyone's trying to impress each other with how much they know.
"I saw it at the Telluride festival."
"We're showing Dead Ringers tonight."
"I'm running out of ideas for 16mm films."
"I don't have many features. Avant garde once a week on Mondays with free soup."
"Do you know Matthew Harrison?"
"Very New York. Very East Village. Kinda slapstick."
"I finally got paid by David Bowie yesterday. He looks like a skeleton. I met him in a restaurant in Soho. Country Café. I was waitressing. He was so nice. Friendly. I met Jeanne Moreau in the same restaurant."
"Did you ever spit in anyone's food?"
"No!"
I never seem to say the right thing to programmers and critics.
Mimitos emerges, rescues me from the anaemic critics. "Let's go make out."
"Where?"
She's got a security key, takes me to the fire exit stairway. This is good, she leans over, holding on to the rail. It goes on without a murmur, we slosh for a while, then she turns round, "I want to taste you."
Her juice is thick and sticky and she closes her eyes, worships eros in the form of my cock and the taste of herself. She opens her eyes when I come. We stare into each other's half-amazed faces while she swallows. She takes me down to the street level exit, lets me out, she's got lots of important organising to do, will catch up with me later.
I take the subway into Manhattan. It's halloween night, the New Yorkers all going crazy. Lots of men in women's clothing. But even the women in women's clothing look strange. The festivities make me tired. I try to get into the mood but only get depressed, long for the silence of Cape Town's beautiful beaches. Long for a world without junk food. Walk slowly uptown towards my Hotel room.
In the KY, room 715, he tends to his tired feet in a tub of hot water. The phone rings. He is pleasantly surprised to hear the Alaskan Angel's voice.
"Come on over."
Then Mimitos phones. Shit, what now?
"Sorry. There's been a change of plan."
She puts the phone down. It's the end of them.
He feels bad for a minute or two but when the Alaskan comes in with a large bottle of Beck's all is well. Her titties are entirely pain free zones and in the morning when he sees how badly he has bruised her he gets an immense hard-on. She is relieved at his maniacal insensitivity to her pain threshold.
"Most men are too damn gentle."
Stabbing his cock into the dew-dropped opening of Alaska's incredibly soft cunt he remembers yesterday morning with Mimitos. After showering together she had climbed on him.
"I'm horny."
"Suck me. Let's do it in front of the mirror."
Mimitos is on her knees, staring at herself with his beautifully circumcised member adorning her chin. she is clearly at one with herself. Narcissism is aphrodisiacal. They both know it, eyes engaging each other with this sublimely shared knowledge. He pulls her by the underarms, gets her on the bed, fucks very hard and very quick. All for himself. None of that slow build-up rhythm, just sheer hot murder. Feels his cock ripening inside her, wants the flesh to tear open, to blister, withdraws his erupting hymn of praise, pours the napalm hot hot onto her belly button. Caliente caliente. Her cheeks blush. Eyes wide in admiration. This fucking negates her and wakes her at the same time. His true essence revealed in death thrusts. Merciless. While she wipes his coruscating fluid from her in the bathroom, he stares at the stranger of himself in the mirror. The scene is perfect. He is perfect. What's the point of being dissatisfied with the shape of yourself? She comes out of the bathroom strangely petulant.
"I don't think we'll ever make that Mexico trip together."
He knows she's right. This moment in the mirror is their high point. They both know it.
Aryan Kaganof has moved to the country where he's waiting for the big money to come in. He only writes for love and bullets.
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