iI put up some brave fronts in those days

I’d walk into a bar on Sunset Boulevard

and look for the nearest w***e.

What else was there to do?

My self-esteem was lower than Kafka’s.

I’d sit at a table in the corner,

order something that would get me drunk as my old man and begin giving the eye to the w****s; I was in love with w****s back then. I had to have a different one every night or else I’d get a headache.

Didn’t matter what they looked like;

although I was partial to blacks and Asians, especially Asians with pretty feet, cause I have a foot fetish and like to put my c**k between their silky toes and jerk off till I bust a nut.

Ah, but I digress…

I’d order a 7&7 and pretend I was somebody, wink at the waitress, try to get her number, but she’d gimme the old brush-a-roo and I’d go home with another one of my w****s and come hard all over her belly, lie in bed, and have conversations like,

“Sounds like your life is kinda sad and sketchy,” she’d say.

“Only if you look too closely at it.”

She wouldn’t know what the hell to say to that, but I could tell she was really feeling sorry for me, kind of like the way you feel sorry for a dog who can’t take his eyes off you when you eat a T-bone steak.

Sometimes, she’d tear up, and I’d say,

“For a w***e you’re pretty emotional.”

She’d slug me, I’d pass out, wake up an hour later.

She’d still be there, sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at me, sipping a French liqueur, looking like a Chekhov heroine on heroin.

I’d feel my face with my fingers, ask her if I had a black eye, she’d shrug and say something like, “It compliments your inner demons,” and I’d grizzle.

I’d offer her a cigarette, we’d sit there smoking, and focusing on the sensations

of our bodies until the sun came up.

Then she’d crush her cigarette out in the ashtray, get dressed, fix her hair, touch up her makeup, strike a pose.

“How do I look?” she’d say.

“Sexually ambivalent,” I’d say. “How do I look?”

She’d study my face, a little too closely.

“Dank-faced and disheveled; like you’re self-conscious about sharing too much of your personality because you’re afraid

others will judge or criticize you.”

I’d nod but wouldn’t say anything,

primarily because of my pride,

but also because I figured you

don’t always have to say something

just because somebody makes a

dead-on observation of you;

sometimes, you can just sit there quietly

and let them wonder why you’re not

saying anything.

Eventually, she’d realize she’d have to keep it moving; too many gaps and silences in our conversations, It is not a compelling enough emotional arc for her to care enough about our little tale to follow it through to the end.

She’d say “Au revoir, mes enfant,”

I’d nod slowly and watch her walk out the door.

I’d sit at my desk, drink some whiskey,

listen to some Monk, write some poems.

“Even sad sex is better than no sex at all,” I’d think, and sure enough, my headache would be gone.