Virginia had been married once, to a man who lost most of his toes in an acid spill at the factory. He lived off his disability checks and sometimes let her live too. He always wore good suit pants with a sweater vest even though he barely left the house. He had perfectly polished shoes that he didn’t need and sat very straight in his chair while reading business articles that didn’t affect him. It made Virginia nervous that he did so many things for no reason. She polished her purse, too, but she went out every other day. She did everything for a reason.
“There you are. There you go! Fast little wings. Look at you. Perfection, indeed. You missed me. I know it!” She arrived home and removed the note she had left on the cage:

Don’t worry.
Be back shortly.
Eat something.
Not each other!

Her twin parakeets hobbled along the grate, aided by flapping wings, neither having perfectly formed feet. She had given them to her husband after the accident, in the way family members of cancer patients shave their heads.
She removed her stack of cheese, delighting momentarily in its solidness, its coolness, its precise weight, and placed it in the cheese drawer of the icebox. She laid her purse on the kitchen table and watched as her silver cat Daisy immediately jumped to it, scratching an itch against the purse’s buckle closure. The purse had been a gift from her husband. It was the perfect shape and size. An alligator bucket. It held her wallet, checkbook, keys, a travel-sized Kleenex pack, an eight-compartment plastic medicine case, incoming or outgoing mail, and three or four items from the grocery.
Daisy purred, “Hello, Mom. I’m so happy you’re home! It was dreadful here without you.” Daisy was a real talker, as opposed to Midnight who was silent as a mouse. Daisy had lost her left eye in a fight by the river before she found her way to Virginia’s home. She’d never known Virginia’s husband. Her eye was meant for Virginia alone, who sometimes stroked the fur-covered left socket with her thumb, marveling that its fur was flecked with the same golden color that made her right eye so beautiful. Eye-socket fur was the softest fur of all.
She had picked up from her husband the habit of listening to the police scanner. He seemed indifferent to cops and perps alike, caring only for the anatomy of the crime. She was more dramatically involved, sometimes transporting into the scene as a swat team member or a foot soldier.
She removed her folded receipt and carefully entered the cheese purchase into her checkbook.
“Well, then, Mom, I’ll just be off to the box. See you in a pinch!”
Virginia reflected on the woman in the store. She failed to see how similarly unfinished she was. She listened for the unmistakable scratches from the bathroom.

Domesticated animals (mostly dogs and cats) indeed possess their own genius, and this is why people have pets. What the dogs’ or the cats’ particular genius is, however, has yet to be universally agreed upon. It may be that the dog’s loyalty selflessly confronts the intruder; that the cat comes to lay with us on the couch while we weep. It may be that it allows a gay man to talk for twenty minutes about the particular breed of dog that constitutes the logo of the publishing house Knopf. Pythagoras was a vegetarian. Nietzsche said something about the ideal innocence and naivety of animals, and we have all heard the story of how his descent into madness began with his attempt to rescue a horse that he saw being treated cruelly. Or, we heard that he was in the advanced stages of syphilis and was simply losing his mind. Regardless, people have pets, and a loving owner knows his or her pet to be a genius: to be beautiful; smart; intuitive; emotional; compassionate; and, also, largely dependent on the owners grace.
The love an owner has for his or her own pet is tantamount to the amount of self-love the person has. The owner who beats or starves his pet beats and starves himself. The owner who feeds his or her pet conventional store bought pet food hates him or herself in a dynamic and yet mundane way. The owner who buys organic chicken hearts and liver to personally make her pet’s food is a genius in that she gives her pet the same, if not a greater, degree of love as she gives herself. This last person would be the noble genius Nietzsche, and not the STD ridden madman. If, however, Nietzsche had not contracted syphilis, and his downfall did indeed coincide with his coming to the aid of the beaten horse, this poses a strange problem in that it suggests we must always remain, at the very least, a degree or two away from identifying wholly and selflessly with our mammalian counterparts, lest we ourselves are prepared for the abandon which necessarily follows.
Virginia left the house on time, and on her way out, promised Daisy that she would return. More specifically, she promised Daisy that she would not abandon her. “I know”, she said, “I’m going to miss you too. I’d bring you with me if I could, but I think everyone would be jealous when I walked in with the most beautiful little lady…the most beautiful little furry lady…most beautiful lil’ kit’n lady…” Virginia stared, lost in her loving gaze. She stood in the middle of the doorway, half inside her house, half outside, and genuinely wished that she could put her sweatpants back on. She shook her keys and delighted in Daisy’s reaction. This scene was not a mere ephemeral blip, Virginia had been standing, transfixed, for nearly eight minutes. Beyond the cat there was virtually nothing. Beyond the cat there was nothing. Well, beyond the cat there was virtually nothing.
Virginia shut the door, and left. Daisy was alone. Does the light in a refrigerator stay off when the door is fully closed and sealed? We cannot know, unless, of course, we write the manufacturer of our specific refrigerator. There are so many makes and models of refrigerators that to know the specific nature of one type is hardly a consolation. In this scenario, we will allow the conundrum to persist and state that we do not know if the light stays on or turns off when the door is finally close. Daisy looked around, licked her paw and rubbed it against her face. She bit her tail. Yawned. As she yawned she stretched her front legs out and pressed them against the metal door of her cage. Very casually, the door opened. Virginia had improperly locked the cage. She had never done this before, or Daisy had never stretched out her legs before. Daisy now sat staring at the open door, making the occasional noise. She yawned again. She straightened her back legs and walked out of her cage.
Daisy silently leapt up to the counter. Virginia rarely drank coffee, but had made a cup that morning and had had only a few sips before remembering why she disliked it. She had left nearly three quarters of a cup of strong, black coffee on the counter, and Daisy began lapping at it. With a steadily increasing fervor, she consumed the still-warm black liquid until it receded to a level below where her tongues now frantic searching was productive. The cat was undergoing a transformation. The ambient meows and purrs Daisy typically produced now took on a more intentional character. They became more hoarse, primal. Her fur began to stand erratically, upright. Her eyes squinted and became more focused, as if possessed. Indeed, it was possession.
Virginia fed Daisy simple, store bough cat food. It was dry food and Daisy seemed to like it. Virginia would say, as Daisy began to eat, “Well, they don’t call it ‘American Cat Tasty Feast’ for nothing, do they sweetums? No they don’t…no they don’t! Uh huh, uh huh. Ohh, that’s right my precious little lady!” While “American Cat Tasty Feast” may have, in fact, been tasty, it was not healthy. It was full of chemicals and synthetic ingredients, and had been given the lowest rating in a recent survey conducted by a number of the most reputable and progressive individuals within the cat-blogging community. Virginia did not know what a blog was, nor did Daisy. Virginia watched Oprah and was recently brought to emphatic tears by the story of a woman who just could not lose weight despite her efforts. Characterizing Virginia was her ability to ignore the crucial details of the woman’s story, namely that her favorite snack was white bread, chicken skin, and mayonnaise, and instead focus on the fact that she was just a woman who was suffering, and that she wanted to stop suffering. “American Cat Tasty Feast” or white bread, chicken skin, and mayo, it didn’t matter, whatever was inside Daisy began to come loose a result of the coffee.
The cat tore her way into the refrigerator, imbued with an almost superhuman like facility of strength. Daisy did not want Catalina dressing, margarine, or baking soda. She opened Virginia’s cheese drawer, and there it was: the Holy Grail; the philosophers stone; the object of all desire. Daisy delicately pulled through the paper that surrounded Virginia’s neatly sliced mound of cheese. With almost religious reverence, Daisy positioned herself on top of the mountain or dairy, her asshole in direct contact with the cheese itself, and began her real American tasty feast. About eleven minutes in, that is, eleven minutes of continuous cheese eating, Daisy’s digestive tract, as a result of the caffeine, was to begin what could be described as a “total eclipse”. The fluidity of the soft cheese began to wash away the chemical laden residue that had adhered to Daisy’s insides. At first, small, erratic shots of feces would rear their head and then instantly disappear in a non-descript blend of fur, asshole flesh, and the nebulous acre of cheese that Daisy worked on. As time marched on, however, the spurts of shit turned into a much more steady and consistent “flow” of shit. The refrigerator door was shut, and Daisy, pupils dilated, continued on undeterred. She left, along with the last vestiges of Virginia’s coveted cheese lake, a mess that, for the sake of a conservative sense of respect, will be described only as “moist”.
Daisy removed herself from the refrigerator and began walking in the direction of the bathroom, which is where the litter box was. She looked at the litter box and at the dirty laundry opposite it. She walked towards the laundry and neatly placed a shit covered paw directly onto the crotch of Virginia’s already dirty underwear. The paw print was nearly perfect. When suburban families erect basketball hoops in their driveways, the last step is always the familial placing of the hands into the moist concrete, and family pets are often times included in the ritual. Virginia and Daisy did not play basketball, and so the shit crotch would here be the ceremonial replacement.
As the whole ordeal was winding to a close, Daisy walked into Virginia’s bedroom. Her cat intuition automated her towards the top drawer of Virginia’s dresser, which was left halfway open. Daisy sprang to the top of the dresser and negotiated her way inside from there, bumping slightly against pictures and jewelry that lay stagnant, collecting dust. In the furthest recesses of the drawer, buried beneath pair after pair of underwear that would likely never see the light of day again, Daisy unearthed a strange relic from Virginia’s past, a relic belonging to an almost altogether foreign Virginia than she who cared for Daisy. The vibrator was not dragged fully out of the drawer, but it was exposed. It was exposed enough that there could be no pretending to ignore it. The majority of the shit encrusted on Daisy’s paws had dried, and there was therefore none smeared onto the vibrator. Daisy would spend the rest of the afternoon licking herself clean. Virginia would come home to find her existence shattered.

The phone ringing at nine in the morning woke Micah from a dead sleep.
“Hello?” She felt like puking.
“Hey, do you wanna get some breakfast? Me and Emily are going to the Gay Café.” The “Gay Café” wasn’t really called that, but it was run entirely by lesbians, and even the employees resorted to the nickname most of the time.
“Noooo, I want to die.”
“Late night?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, call me when you get up. I feel like I haven’t seen you for weeks.”
“Mmmm. Later.” Micah dropped the phone back into the cradle and rolled over.
She finally got around to calling Laura back at three that afternoon. “How was breakfast? Did you have a taco, or a tuna sandwich?”
“Very funny. You should have come. Emily wanted to see you, too.”
“Sorry.”
“Are you decent?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m pulling into your lot.”
“Yeah. Come on up.”
Laura was sneaky like that. She was what Micah would call an ‘emotional terrorist’. You never saw it coming with her. Micah herself was exactly the opposite; she always said too much. You never wondered where you stood with her. She wasn’t afraid of what she regarded as the truth. She knew that somehow Laura’s sneak attacks were much more effective than her own bluntness. But it wasn’t her style.
Laura climbed the stairs up to Micah’s apartment almost soundlessly. Micah had the door open for her already. Laura was wearing a grandma sweater with some kind of glittery shit all over it, jeans and those shoes that look like ballet slippers. Micah had on a bra and men’s boxers.
“I thought you said you were decent?”
Micah smiled at her, and tried to hand her a beer.
“No, thanks.”
Micah shrugged, “More for me.” She lit a cigarette.
“Are you going to drink all day?”
“Jesus. No, Mom. I’m packing.”
“What?! You just got back. Where the hell are you going now?”
“New York.”
“Why?”
Micah shrugged again. “I want to see Coney Island. Ugh, I feel like shit. I think I’m dying.”
“Don’t change the subject. How can you just go to New York? Shouldn’t you be getting a job or something?”
“I feel like I have a tumor.”
“Micah!”
“I don’t need to get a job yet.”
“You’re not twenty anymore, you know. You can’t just do this all the time. Haven’t you thought about saving money? Buying a house? Having kids?”
“Oh no! I never thought of that! Oh, I’ve wasted my life!”
“Fuck you.”
“Laura, you know I don’t want kids. Yours are enough for me.” She went into the bedroom and emerged a minute later wearing a black Nine Inch Nails sweatshirt and jeans. “How cold is it out there?”
“Cold as balls. Where are you going?”
“I need to go to the market.” She pulled on a pair of sweat socks and her combat boots. She stopped and looked at Laura for a second. “Wanna come with?”
“Which market?”
“No, I mean to New York.”
“You know I can’t. I have responsibilities, remember?”
“Hmph.”
“But I’ll go to the store with you. You’re driving.”
Micah grabbed her keys and they headed out, Laura’s step almost silent and Micah’s combat boots clunking and scraping down the stairs to the parking lot.

Jeane flopped onto one of her boss’ swivel chairs and asked, “So? You wanted to see me?” She was unable to completely eliminate the sarcasm from her voice.
“Jeane! Yes. Would you mind closing the door?”
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” she thought disgustedly. She noticed her legs felt wobbly as she walked back to her seat.
“So, Jeane, I’ve been conducting reviews with corporate over the last few weeks, and we’re in agreement that we’d like to promote you to Team Lead!” Jeane felt her adrenaline drop suddenly, leaving her light-headed.
“Oh,” she said.
“You’ll need to take the leadership training session in New York as soon as possible, and when that’s done, we’ll implement your pay grade raise.”
Moments later, Jeane slowly plodded to the small employee kitchenette for a drink of cold water, yearning for a moment alone to work over the news in her mind. She noticed her hand was shaking as she held her plastic cup of water, and suddenly there was a ringing in her right ear. It made her want to blink her eyes a million times and shake her head. No one was watching, so she did just that, hoping to dispel the strange uneasiness. Instead, her heart began pounding in her chest and she felt beads of sweat forming near her hairline. Jeane fought back an urge to both scream and scratch at her skin. And it was then that she began letting out great hiccupping sobs, though she didn’t realize she was crying until her cube mate Anne Marie walked in to heat up a Lean Cuisine breakfast burrito in the microwave, and enveloped her in a tight hug.

In November 2006, a Village Voice article transformed my brother Stephen’s gatherings from a small philosophical therapy session to New York’s hottest underground get together, effectively ruining the appeal.
On a cool evening in February 2007 I made my way down Ditmars Boulevard until I hit 36th Avenue. The air crackled with anticipation; Astoria’s finest were sure to be out tonight. I entered the apartment at a quarter to nine and couldn’t help but pause before I made my way through the doorframe. There were people everywhere, on the steps, sitting atop the various tables, hanging on light fixtures, suspended from bits of architecture; wherever there was space, there was a body. More people had read the article than I could possibly have imagined.
I quickly joined the mob of people pushing its way through the apartment for a place to sit. On my way, I found my brother’s roommate Jonathan on the floor and at the mercy of his first alcohol induced nap. I helped him up, dusted off his crusty Yankee cap and we began to move towards the kitchen. Alas, navigating the five feet between our present location and the kitchen wasn’t as easy as we hoped; we were stuck in a moveable crush. We were dancing the mob tango and all we could do was hope and pray that the group would shimmy to an area of open seats. I eventually dislodged myself from the crush, and gleefully galloped to an empty space as the sea of bodies continued to flow behind me. Unfortunately, Jonathan wasn’t as lucky; he was stuck in the river. I reached for his arm, only to see him quickly whisked off towards the bathroom. That was the last I saw of Jonathan that evening.
Sitting upon a four-foot high speaker, I watched the first philosophical battle of the evening. Stephen positioned himself in front of a blackboard that had been set up in his living room. Carefully stepping over the long limbs of the people around him he raised chalk to board and wrote:
“Round One: Duct Tape versus Aristophanes”.
What followed was a fevered debate over the merits of each combatant.
Shouts of praise for Duct Tape initially drowned out those partial to Aristophanes.
“Athenian dramas haven’t repaired home appliances!”
“My grandmother has no use for Greek Drama!
“Aristophanes’ grandmother wore combat boots!”
The victory was quick and painless. After four minutes of intense debate, an overwhelming majority voted for Duct Tape. And this night, like all other nights, continued in the same fashion. Combatants came and went. “The Color Orange” defeated “Automatic Trash Cans”, while the upset of the night saw “Lamb-skin Condoms take down “Latex Condoms by a single vote.
All was well until the Village Voice crowd showed up. Arriving (as New York Magazine, The Village Voice and Sex and the City instructed them) fashionably late, their entrance was announced by the shrillest of Staten Island accents. “Woooooooooooooooooooo!” Apparently we had a screamer amongst us.
They immediately stood out from the crowd. The women were dressed to kill, high heels, short miniskirts and breasts seemingly pushed higher than physics allowed. The men, lacking the skinny hips and pigeon toes of true LA punk rockers, failed to accurately re-create the Southern Californian style that they had spent so much money on.
Stephen’s apartment was even busier than when I walked in. Had we not been in the basement of the building, my foremost concern would have been a building collapse. Thank god for concrete. As the Voice crowd circulated through the party, the mood began to change. The deep and meaningful debates as to the merits of Duct Tape and Greek Drama had long since died out. They were replaced with topical coverage of the news and copious drug use. Ketamine, a veterinary anesthetic was the drug of choice. But the posh Voice crowd didn’t refer to the drug by its proper name; that would have been too easy. They were a cut above, or so they thought. As their slang filtered through the party I grew more irritated. Why didn’t they refer the drug as the rest of us did? What was wrong with Ketamine? Did they have to call it Special-K, Green, K, Purple, Super-C, Vit K, Vitamin K, Keller, Kels-belt, Kit Kat, Cat Valium, Breakfast Cereal or my personal favorite, Blind Squid? God knows what possessed someone to come up with that name.
Stephen sauntered over to me; something was awry. His pale green eyes were red and his face was contorted in various stages of stupor; Stephen had sold out. He had let the Voice crowd into his home and life. He used their drugs. He slept with their women and let them subsume the culture he had built for his closest friends. My own brother had betrayed me; even his diet had changed. His weekly burger and chocolate milkshake was a thing of the past. Stephen’s diet now consisted of various combinations of oatmeal, flaxseed and Chinese herbs. Sensing that I was upset, Stephen put his arm around me offered me a Ketamine laced joint.
As I remember it, time, space and light slowed down. All that I could focus on was occurring between Stephan and I; nothing else mattered. For a moment I thought about taking a hit from the joint. As my fingers neared the rounded edge of the blunt my mind began to scream its disapproval. I stopped, looked at Stephen, gave him a hug, and walked out of his apartment. This was no longer my home. I walked out of the building, tears streaming down my face and wandered back to the subway. There I was, back on the streets, my only true home. Tomorrow was going to be better; I was going to Coney Island.




Jody

Micah was arriving tomorrow, Saturday, and Jody was supposed to meet her on Sunday at Coney Island. Sure, he was ambivalent about seeing her, but he felt good: he had started off his first semester of grad school well, the city seemed abloom with enthusiasm and verve, and Micah or no Micah, he was more confident about himself and his place in the world than ever. Things were still shaky, but it was a shaky city--New York was full of neurotic people like himself. So why worry? he thought.
On the cusp of the visit, he only had one thing that was bugging him: his hair. Jody had been growing his thick, black hair since the previous spring, and although no one would mistake him for a hippie, he felt like his mop was finally making the transition from unkempt bush to sleek willow. If he didn\'t shower, or rubbed it back and forth during a particularly taxing study session, the waves would smooth out into greasy arcs, which made him feel like a downtown punk of yore. He loved the effect; it made him feel sexy and cool.
But more often, the longer hair was a pain. As much as he liked a good bedhead, Jody was more inclined to shower and shampoo, daily, and his hair usually did resemble a patch of dry brush in the Arizona scrub. Instead of an oily, anime-like do, odds were good he would walk into school sporting a vague, shapeless mess. But it was almost long, almost there; in a few months, he could start brushing it back and letting it fall over his ears. The interim would be awkward and frustrating, though, unattractive, because Jody refused on principle to use any kind of styling product to achieve his desperately desired effect. Products were douchy, he thought; they were a sign of emasculation and shame. Lately, though, he had been wondering. What was wrong with a little gel, or some good shampoo, he asked himself, inklings of inquiry that countless New York men and their hot girlfriends inspired. Maybe products weren\'t so bad. Maybe they could help him grow his hair out and still look good in the meantime. Maybe it was even okay to want to look good in the first place.
In a period of tranquility, Jody\'s reevaluation might have blossomed into action. But the timing was not in his favor. Micah was coming on a Saturday. If he didn\'t get a haircut today, Friday, forget it: he would be stuck at Coney Island with a lump of dry, uninspiring hair; he would look like some awkward kid after a swim at the beach. Girls had told him that he looked good with short hair. Long hair hid his face, his sister said. Why didn\'t he just want to be attractive now? In response, the inquisitive, childlike voice sounded in his consciousness, asking, What if he wanted to be himself? That was it: he wanted to be attractive, but he also wanted to be himself. So get some hair gel, he thought.
But actually purchasing and using hair gel, rather than simply wanting to, was more than Jody could muster. He didn\'t know what kind to get; he didn\'t know how to use it correctly. Maybe the gel would turn his hair as hard as a brick. Maybe it would drip down onto his neck, reeking of effeminate perfume and making his skin sticky. What would his roommates think when they saw him spending extra time in the bathroom? It was Friday, Jody kept thinking to himself; Micah would be here tomorrow. The last day to get an appointment at a salon would be today, right now, even. He wanted to look good for her, and good, he reluctantly concluded, meant short. He stepped tentatively into the first place he could find.
"How can I help you," a stylish man with a mustache asked Jody, billowing his barber\'s smock out like a cape.
"I just need a haircut," Jody said, quietly. "Short for fall."
"Of course. Come over here, and we\'ll give you a shampoo."
"Okay," he said, docile.
After he was seated and ready, the man started snipping, and wet black arcs of hair started falling to the floor. "You have beautiful hair," he told Jody, almost singing in a rich, operatic tenor.
A deep, true voice sounded in Jody\'s mind. "I am ne-ver going to do this again," it said.

In the Yeshiva days every Friday night I would go over to my rabbi’s house for a little get-together. Once a week I could be myself in front of them. Of course, it always depended on the open-mindedness of the rabbi. In the 12th grade my rabbi was cool about talking about any issues that were bothering me. For the most part I wanted to test the rabbi’s on how they would react to the questions.
After I got back from my rabbi’s house I would reminisce with my friends about the good old days. We would discuss all the problems with the Yeshiva. The two most popular complaints dealt with girls and movies. These were no no’s in Yeshiva. For that matter in Yeshiva I was not allowed to have a tv, radio, non-Jewish cds, or even some Jewish cds because they didn’t convey the proper message or something. Under no circumstances could I have any contact with a GIRL. A girl is something that does not come into the picture until one is ready for marriage. As if GIRLS were supposed to be foreign, like the phrase “men are from Mars and women are from Venus.”
In order to make sure the rules were followed the Mashgiach would raid the rooms. For the most part I knew when he or any of the other rabbis were raiding the dorm. I figured out the best way to manipulate the rabbi’s into getting whatever I wanted. I pretended to be good, but behind the scenes I was a rebel. I was a rebel because the rabbi’s were taking away from my G-d given right for freedom.
The rabbi’s could not understand why I hated the Yeshiva. They were clueless because all I wanted was to be normal. Where was the crime? Other Yeshivas had a basketball team, did not raid the dorms, nor spied on their students. Even worse, my Yeshiva was in the middle of nowhere. The coming attraction at “the mall” was cows. Come on! There is nothing in a hick town! There was nothing around us for miles without a car. To have a car would have been grand, but it was off limits. A car would give me the freedom I desired. It would mean giving up control, which was out of the question.
Once a week I was able to escape on my bike. I would sign out on Friday’s saying that I was going to Target and go elsewhere. Under no circumstances would I be confined under the rabbi’s laws.
When I was a senior, I had more opportunities to escape the rabbi’s claws. On most of the days I left campus specifically because I was not allowed. I went to the library to email, use the Internet, whatever. The Internet was strictly forbidden because it contained so much illicit material. It did not matter if the web could be used for good. None if it mattered. The more they tried to cut off my legs the more I was compelled to do as I pleased. If they said I could not go to U.P. mall, I would go anyway; “the greater the risk, the greater the thrill.”
One of the reasons why I would go shopping for Shabbat was to scout the mall for babes. I was no different then any other teenager with the same needs and desires, a horny bastard. The problem was there was no outlet in Yeshiva. Yeshiva means living with a bunch of guys.
My weekends off every five or six weeks I got a “weekend pass” to leave Yeshiva. Most of the time I went home. The truth is I didn’t go home to see my parent’s; I went to chill with my friends. For the most part my parents were cool with me hanging out with my friends, but every now and then I would have to show my face. My parents thought the Yeshiva was great for having all these strict rules. They thought it helped keep us out of trouble and once in a while to have fun was okay, but teenagers “need structure.”
I went to visit my friends at the Jewish Academy, but I was really there for the streams of girls. It was my time to get some experience dealing with the opposite sex. My friends there all had girlfriends making it easy to meet someone who I liked. All I had to do is show some general interest in the girl. All I needed was the opportunity and my personality hook line and sinker.
One time my friend Ethan came over to greet me with a couple of drop dead gorgeous girls who happened to be single. It was my time to pounce and reap the benefits. My heart was pounding just thinking of them, but I did not want to look anxious because girls don’t like that kind of guy. Girls want someone confident, sure of themselves.
Hi I am Leah. How about yourself?
I am Josh (wink, wink).
Do you want to come with me to pick up some concert tickets?
Sure, sounds great.
Thinking to myself, I am like, boy, I am lucky. I’m in. All I have to do is act cool. This girl is smokin’ ; tall, athletic, the perfect breasts, just enough to handle.
From this moment on I was in heaven. I wanted to go to a co-ed school. The problem was my parents would never agree. Lucky for me I was on break for two weeks for the holiday of Sukkot. This meant that I would actually be able to spend time with this girl. I was finally on my way towards being normal.
After Leah and I came back with the concert tickets I asked her out.
Hey Leah, you wanna do something later?
Sure.
How bout tonight?
Works for me babe.
Pick you up at seven.
See you then.
Later in the evening we went to the movies. I can’t remember what the movie was about; all I know is that Leah was into me. As soon as the lights went out she had her hand on my cock and her tongue in my mouth. At first I wanted to say no, but I couldn’t. I enjoyed it too much. I had never kissed a girl before, but Leah would not have known. Somehow kissing came natural to me. I guess my dreams really helped me out here. She kissed like an angel from heaven. Her lips were so succulent; the best dish I had ever tasted.
The next day we hung out at her place and did most of the same. I was in love. I had a girl all to my self who was awesome all we did was make-out, which was new for me. The following day, we went to Disney Quest for a full days adventure of playing games. Every day, I had to lie to my mother to hang out with her because if she knew she would have had a cow.
The following Shabbat I went over to my best friend Ephy’s house. Ephy and his family were still in the middle of their meal as usual. They always finished after everyone else; they would drag out lunch for hours without a sweat. When it got to 3:30 in the afternoon, Ephy told his parents he had to go to the park.
It was here at the park beyond the fields that all of the seniors would meet up. Each time I went to the park there were some of the cutest girls I ever saw. Each Shabbat we would play games, talk, whatever. It did not matter; all I wanted was to be a normal teenager. The best games were Kent, President, Egyptian Rat Screw, Tongue, and Taboo. It was great to finally be doing what my friends were doing instead of being locked up in Yeshiva. I was getting to interact with the opposite sex. The fun always ended too soon. But after Shabbat I was able to get all of the girls email addresses and phone numbers so I could talk to them from Yeshiva. This was no easy task because rumor had it the phones were tapped.
Most of the nights in the dorm I would be the first one out after Maariv in order to get either of the two payphones in the dorms. If I did not leave right away there would be a long line for the phone, which meant not getting the phone tonight. My friend told me about a way of getting phone minutes for free. All I had to do was listen to some ads. The only catch was that if you had listened to enough ads for twenty minutes and they hang up after two minutes all the minutes were lost. But being on the phone kept me sane while I was in lockdown in Yeshiva.
Now, with the network of girls I had, Yeshiva was not too bad. One time when it was Passover break I ended up working in a hotel for the entire break. Just before this I had run into this gorgeous girl with blonde wavy hair. I could not get her image out of my mind for over a month. The following Passover she and her family are staying at the same hotel for Passover. It was one of those magnificent moments when the cards were finally in my favor. I spent all of my free time with Becky. She was such a cute and innocent person. Every moment we spent together was magical. All I had to do is stare into her eyes. I thought that perhaps she could be the one. The problem was that I was still a horny bastard.
This older looking single woman was eying me one night at the hotel. I decided to play along in her flirting game. But I was the one who was in control. She was like butter in my hands. I was able to make her want me. The problem was that I was eighteen and she was over twice my age. I had about two bottles of wine but… Then again good things happen when you are high. Well the dirty deed did not happen that night because it was three in the morning and I had the early shift.
The next day after a hard day in the kitchen I decided to soak in the hot tub. While I am there the older woman walks in and sits right up close and personal in the hot tub. I was too tired to get out and I did not want to get out anyways. I was cool with whatever happens.
Do you want to fuck me?
Yeah, but my parents are here too.
All of a sudden I got a hard-on under my trunks. I tried to get it to go down, but my drill sergeant would not budge. Not this time at least. She goes underneath the water and started pulling down my trunks to give me a blowjob. I, the inexperienced one had never had one before. Either way, this was cool. I did not know if anyone was watching us.
Go ahead I’ll meet you in five minutes at your room.
Room 269. Don’t forget.
I was overwhelmed. I didn’t know what to do. I was thinking I going to be able to get it up? I knew I am not supposed to do something like this, especially with an older woman. But she is the one who came on to me. I had no idea what to do, but decided it was going to happen sooner or later. I couldn’t contain myself forever.
I headed to her room, but was detoured by one of my mother’s friends. I did not know if she saw me together with this woman. For all I knew I was dead. I freaked out and ran the opposite direction to my room. I am just not ready to have sex it should be with someone I love, not just some floozy who I do not even know her name.
The truth is that this older woman really wasn’t so hot. She wanted me and so I wanted her. I was horny. What can you expect from a guy who has been deprived from even talking or touching a woman. It is absurd, I tell you! Soon enough my vacation ended and I was back in hell. But at least I was able to experience something, a BJ.

She set the cosmetic bag down next to the only photograph in her apartment, a picture of Jimmie, leathery skin, wrinkled eyes, cigarette drooping at the side of his mouth. The picture made her smile. For a good portion of her childhood, Jimmie was the only adult Marjorie knew. Her first experiences with other children and adults came in kindergarten, where she developed an instantaneous crush on Tommy - the cutest boy in her class. One day at recess, Tommy asked Margie why her mother never made cupcakes for the class like the rest of the mothers did.
“I don’t have a mom,” she told him assertively.
Tommy looked very confused – “That’s impossible,” he said, “you have to have a mom and a dad, otherwise, how could you be alive?”
“I’m not quite sure I have a dad either,” she replied, “But I do have an old man who smokes cigarettes and eats sausages. I’m not quite sure who he is...”
Tommy’s questions made her hands sweat. It made her feel uncomfortable to not know the correct response. Margie liked to have answers.
“You’re crazy,” Tommy said, and walked off.
She went home that night, mustered up all of her might, and stood directly beside Jimmie. He didn’t notice her, he was reading the newspaper. “Ahem” she asserted.
“Yes?”
She looked directly into his wrinkly eyes, “Jimmie, who are you?”
Jimmie, generally stoic and reserved, unreachable - burst into a fit of laughter – which in turn caused a coughing fit. She hated those fits. It always sounded like he was going to cough until his insides spilled onto the floor.
“I am your grandfather, Margie; your mother is my daughter.” He turned at once back to his newspaper.
“My mother, then, where is she?”
“Your mother, Margie – your mother was just too pretty, and pretty girls find a way to get themselves into a lot of trouble.”
She imagined what her mother must look like. Long, beautiful, blonde hair and plump red lips. Perhaps she was an African princess or a trapeze artist in the circus, with men falling over her, feeding her peeled grapes. Magnificent. Marjorie knew this was the type of trouble she wanted. She never asked about her mother again. As Marjorie grew older, the mental image of her mother modulated. Now at twenty-eight, she imagined her mother as an aged stripper with a name like Lola, who chain smoked and wore long strings of Mardi-Gras beads over her droopy wrinkled tits.
Remembering her encounter with Tommy on the playground, she tugged her long blonde hair out of her face and peered at her own creamy, crimson lips. She noticed a stray hair underneath her left eyebrow, and reached for her tweezers. Pop. The sound was soothing.
On the other side of town, a man paced wildly from one side of his six hundred and fifty square foot office to the other. His face was vaguely flushed, and the movement caused him to perspire. His portly belly was hidden beneath his Armani suit. Why does she always do this? He silently grumbled. The most important day of the year, and she has to push it down to the wire. It’s almost nine. They’ll be here at nine, I need her here by nine. He continued to pace, reached again for the phone. Nine-o-clock came and went…nine-o-one…o-two…
He heard a clacking outside of his office. She always wore shoes that clacked. He flung the door of his office open wide; there she was, perfectly groomed. Beautiful. He felt a drip of sweat hit his ear. He reached up to stop it from tumbling down onto his collar.
“Sorry I’m late,” she calmly said, “traffic was…horrendous.”
He took a deep breath. His overwhelming sense of relief overshadowed his knowledge that she was lying.

One of the most interesting moments in Fela’s life was when he married twenty five women in his musical band. It all started as a rumor. The print media later broke the news that Fela Anikulapo Kuti was at it again. This time around not with the popular attack on people in high places he was notorious for, but with his plan to marry twenty five ladies from his musical band.
It was an unbelievable story. It was a story that elicited discussions in both public and private places, drinking bars, and places of worship were inundated with discussions around the rumored marriage, TV and radio talk shows and commentaries repeatedly aired the story.
Fela, a man of wonderful character- which was the reason why people call him “abami eda” (the wonderful creature), never left no one in doubt that he could spring surprises, but what was not certain this time around was how he would marry twenty five women the same day. Though Nigerian laws do not forbid polygamy, none of the leading polygamists in the country ever attempted to marry more that one woman at a time. Even those with numerous wives spread their marriages to the women over a period of time.
It was another period of anxiety for Fela’s fans home and abroad. From Lagos to Ibadan, Abuja to Kano, Kaduna to Onitsha, the story of Fela’s rumored marriage was freely discussed as Fela’s fans waited for the wonderful creature to live up to his name. But for months, Fela remained mute about the rumor. Even when his fans openly asked him to confirm the story, he simply replied them by calling them rumor mongers.
Journalists besieged Fela’s shrine to talk to him on the rumor, and characteristically, Fela dismissed the report and asked reporters to go and look for better stories and stop chasing shadows. He told the reporters that it was the aroma of marijuana in his shrine that often attract them to the shrine and not the search for news-shrine was always a good source of news.
After a long wait, Fela finally made do his secret plan. He announced his marriage to the twenty five women from his musical band at a Friday night musical jam and married to the ladies the following Saturday at a well attended mid-night musical jam in his shrine.

Here is the story of the marriage: Less than twenty four hours after Fela confirmed the rumored marriage to twenty five of his ladies, the city of Lagos, the commercial nerve of Nigeria was agog with festivities with Fela’s music played everywhere. From across the country, Fela’s fans trooped to the city of Lagos, the venue of the marriage to see “Baba 70” (Fela’s other appellation) do it again.
The night the marriage took place, Fela’s shrine, then known as Kalakuta Republic wore a new look, hangers on wore same dress to honor the marriage. Free drinks and marijuana were served. It was a night packed full of activities-music, traditional dances and acrobatic displays were provided to entertain guests at the occasion. Guest throws banter at each other randomly.
As the guest waited for the bride and the bridegrooms to show up at the occasion, one question that preoccupied people’s mind was how Fela would dress to the occasion. Will he wear a suite, traditional attire or come in his usual attire (underpants). No one could say exactly how Fela would dress to the occasion. This was another surprise Fela was expected to spring at the wedding ceremony.
The guests were also concerned about the nature of the wedding. But one thing that was ruled out was that it was not going to be a church type of wedding since no pastor or reverend persons would come to the shrine or invite Fela to their church. So, everyone was looking forward to a traditional wedding, but no one knows who would preside over the wedding.
At about 11 pm, ladies in Fela’s musical band filed up to the stage and began to dance. They were thirty in number, but none of them looked like a bride. But twenty five of the thirty girls painted their faces differently- with white powder-they were all naked to the waist and barely covered their breasts.
The thirty ladies were as usual in a very joyous mood and danced to the amusement of the sitting audience waiting for “Baba 70” to arrive. There was nothing still unusual to portray the occasion as a wedding occasion, except for the heavy presence of the media and fans from different parts of the country.
At about 12 mid night, Fela descended on the stage from an opening in the roof and shouted: “Everybody say ye ye” (Fela’s popular slang for greeting his fans) and the crowd responded “ye ye” The crowd shouted late comer, late come and he said he arrived the shrine before everybody, but went to hide in the roof of the building to wash their foolishness.
To the surprise of the audience, Fela came to the wedding in his usual attire-underpants with his face painted with white powder like twenty five of his ladies on stage. Even with the white powder on Fela’s face and the twenty five ladies, no one could decipher the meaning of the powder. He had his long wrap of marijuana and bottle of “ogogoro” cap in hand.
Fela joined his musical band and played his xylophone to throw some banters as usual. He first sang his popular song “International thief thief…….International Rogue”. A song with which he described the current president of Nigeria, Olusegun Obasanjo as international thief and International rogue.
Fela later called his band and his guest to order as he was ready to announce the business of the day to his audience. He sat on the floor on stage with the ladies around him. As usual, Fela brought out his oracle and said some incantations to it as his own way of praying and everybody said “ase” (Amen) to his prayers.
First, Fela congratulated the reporters for being good rumor mongers rather than being good journalists. “You see my people, after the newspapers have published the story of today’s event, they came to me for confirmation which they should have done before publishing the story”. Fela therefore advised all journalists to henceforth add the word rumor to their title and everybody said “ye ye”
Back to the business of the day, Fela informed the audience of his intention to marry twenty five of the ladies in his musical band to prevent them from committing adultery. He asked the audience to guess who among the thirty ladies on stage he would marry, but no one’s guess from the audience was right until he asked the five girls without white powder on their faces to step back. Now it became obvious that he would marry the twenty five ladies with white powder on their faces.
Fela described the twenty five ladies as women of unbeatable libido who can make an impotent man reach orgasm. “I bet you, you don’t need any Viagra with these wonderful women of easy virtue around you”, he added. He compared the waist gyrating methodology of these women to that of the Cameroon soccer player, Roger Miller who always runs to the goal post to gyrate his waist after scoring a goal.
Fela also told the gathering that he dropped five of his ladies from the marriage list because of their poor libido, lack of sex etiquette and the fact that he never reached orgasm in the ten years he has been having sex with them. “Imagine you having sex with a woman everyday for ten years without reaching orgasm –that one na wahala O! (That is trouble). He said he may reconsider them later if they address the aforementioned deficiencies and the five ladies responded “ye ye”. “If they have to go to the streets to have sex to address their deficiencies, that is fine with me”, he added.
Now the marriage proper, Fela announced to his audience that the marriage was about to begin. He declared himself as the officiating chief priest who would perform the marriage. His words: “As a chief priest of the shrine, I see it as a waste of limited resources to pay another priest for this occasion when I can do it myself or what does it take to join people together in marriage.
He asked the ladies to line up before him and say after him: I (Name of each women to be added) Will from today go, tomorrow come, become one of the numerous wives of abami eda and will always live to the expectation of Baba 70, the chief priest by keeping up my libido, sex etiquette and hip gyrating methodology which were the qualities upon which I was deemed fit for my new title as Baba 70’S wife. And that I shall seize from being one of the wives of the chief priest if I am found wanting in any of these areas of Baba 70’s needs.
The marriage vow was greeted with a thunderous applause and standing ovation from the audience. Fela left his new wives with a word of caution that their parents should not come to him for any marriage dowries. “They have all lost the right to claim any dowry on you since they allowed you to grow up in the shrine and they failed to look after you” and the ladies said “ye ye”
The marriage was brought to a close with a dance of the brides and bridegroom. One after the other, the new wives lay flat on the floor with Fela on top and they danced on the floor. Fela later told the gathering that, that type of dance is called floor dance. And the crowd shouted “ye ye”
As Fela was about to leave the stage with his newly married wives, reporters besieged him for comments on the marriage which he jokingly declined. His words: “You rumor journalists, you are at work again. I beg, go publish rumor first and come back for confirmation later”. He pleaded with the journalists to let him go because of his new wives whom he said were waiting to take their turn. And the journalists shouted “ye ye.”

As the idea of the crotch on the cross grew in Thor’s mind, so did his usual inability to hide his rising spirit. Tap, tap, tap a finger hit him between his scapula and spine, instantly jumping like a spooked cat screeching as violent and loud as a police car being raped by a fire truck ,“God fucking damn it!!!”
He thrashed around with ‘Lincoln Park’ still blaring in his earphones. A short wrinkled older women wearing stale ‘Chanel’ holding up a cane like a sword in one hand and a torn Balducci’s bag in the other stood frozen, a Victorian-phased expression of utter fear. Loudly under the mute of his music he shuttered towards his apologies as the woman’s face symbiotically disjointed into disgust. Frantically padding himself for the pause button on his Tuesday-pink Ipod and becoming razor-sharp aware of his only manly feature, proud and ample as if to foil her cane.
“Oh holy Shit!” he bellowed in a low butch voice through the volume of the large music he could not control, just like his erection he was unable to find the off button.
The lady’s lost eyes in disbelief tore into the thick atmosphere of the moment as the heavy air seem to play out in slow gooey motion.
“Jesus Christ!” Thor rigidly turned to fly and flopped down the sidewalk sprinting in his own Nike commercial. Darting across the street he turned as a gesture of morbid curiosity self-inflicting the pain of the women’ s revulsion and like one of his list less drops of psycho pharmaceutical meds he inevitably does the inevitable; plummeting to the pavement.
“Fuck! Fuck!! Fuck!!!” The ear pods rip across his chest and out of his ears, revealing the sound of silent anger and the stillness before the pain of blood that will slowly start to flow from his tattered flesh.
“Serves you right you heathen!” blasphemous little sin-filled man!” Thor finally hears the woman’s voice it is exactly as he thinks it should be a caricature of a cartoon spinster shrill and at a frequency only found in bitter old ladies. “That will teach you to deface our Lord, you’re a disgrace” the woman screams across the street. Thor instinctually blurts out a phrase barrowed from a man he once heard in a dinner, “Why aren’t you rotting down in Florida like the rest of what’s left of your age!” For a second Thor feels guilty until her hears the animated click, clack of the old woman’s retro heals. “Why you little bastard!” she screeches’ as her cane slams into Thor’s stomach.
“Oh my God ” he thinks “I’m still fucking hard” as blood is rolling across his cheek from the fall.
“What is wrong with you!” the veins on the woman’s face are vibrant swollen and red. Thor can’t help but start to laugh. He is envisioning himself for some odd reason lying on a Bagdad street as “I have a Bagdad boner!” he whispers in a moan.