Record 16: Torrance, CA, Tuesday, July 5th, 2011. Night.
I’m not going to tell you that I like what I do. I do what I do because when I do it I don’t do it poorly.
So what is IT? Let’s break IT down:
(note: I’m using numbers instead of letters for arbitrary reasons that I don’t feel like explaining because I write for free and explaining arbitrary reasons defeats the arbitrariness of those reasons).
1. I have sex with old women. Not older women. OLD women.
2. I don’t have sex with old women for money. I have sex with them because they’re gracious. They say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and ‘don’t stop! Unless you need to. It’s okay if you need to rest. You fuck me better than anyone I’ve ever had sex with, and damn, I’ve been having sex since the 70s.’
3. (AUTHOR’S NOTE): This is the end of my list. I only wrote this info in list-form because you have ADHD and you only pay attention to lists. Deny it. I fucking dare you. (AUTHOR’S NOTE 2): Please send all ‘denial’ rants to [email protected]
Sometimes I think people should love more.
Tonight I’m perusing the aisles of a dead Blockbuster video while Aimi, my 65 year-old summer fling and Honeywell engineer, smokes crack with her ex-husband. The smell, like burning rubber and ransacked pharmacies, reminds me of the time we met. It was 3 months ago. At a Best Buy. I’d been standing behind the xbox console for hours, playing some first person shooter with Corbin the twelve-year-old. He was winning.
“Stand still so I can shoot you.” He said. “You’re gonna lose anyway. You’re not good at doing this.”
“That’s why I’m practicing you little bitch.”
Corbin smiled and paused the game.
“What the fuck Corb?”
“You’re boring me. I’m going to school.”
Corbin the twelve-year-old threw up a middle finger and strode away, on his way passing an elderly Japanese woman, abnormally tall and molded into sideways and skews, her torso half bent over discounted Katherine Heigl blu rays.
“Come on you little fucker.” I said to myself.
Corbin the twelve-year-old knew this drill. And sure enough, he stopped behind the elderly Japanese lady and sniffed her sequined Mumu.
Sometimes I think that love is all you need.
Corbin shot back and pinched his nose together. He glared my direction and shook his head ‘no.’ In return, I shook my head ‘no’ as well – ‘no’ in this case meaning ‘no Corbin, your ‘no’ is irrelevant to me. Send the elderly Japanese woman my way.’
Corbin shrugged and pulled on the Japanese woman’s sequined Mumu.
She spun around, cantankerous as fuck, and slapped Corbin the twelve-year-old across the face. I cringe-laughed. Corbin rubbed his cheek and gestured my direction, and before I could stand up straight and rotate my shoulders back into place and take a deep ‘in-preparation’ breath, she was standing before me, smelling like crack, her pupils dilated and jittering. She forfeited any complacent small talk in favor of a long-winded ramble about the pro-feminist nuances of Katherine Heigl’s filmography.
And that was the day we fell in love.
Sometimes I think we should all be in love.
Approximately 35 orgasms (hers, not mine) later, I’m standing in what was once the ‘action/adventure’ aisle of Blockbuster below a cloud of crack smoke. I hear Aimi exhale in the ‘comedy’ aisle and whisper: “That’s it,” in a somber ‘ahh’ type way and I close my eyes and repeat the phrase to myself. Call it present nostalgia. It’s the idiom she uses to express pleasure. And I should know, because I’m good at what I do, which, as of late, refers in no indirect way to making Aimi come.
Spooning typically followed our grand love-making sessions. I was the little spoon because I’m always the little spoon and I love being the little spoon, tenderly embraced and cradled like a child weathering some incurable disease. I’d kiss and lick her corrugated forearms with all the precision of people who do things precisely, tacitly awaiting verbal recognition that deems my aching jaw some iota of justice. “You’re perfect.” She might purr. Or “Thank you, my dear.” And I’d drift into a great dream-sleep, coursing heavy and assured like gondolas on water.
Sometimes I think lovers should sleep more and not smoke crack.
“Orlando!” Aimi called, her voice shrill and agitated. “Come here! Meet Carl!”
“I like action movies!” Was my response.
“Okay! We’ll come to you!”
And so they did. Aimi and Carl, her too-portly ex-husband, crawled excitedly around the corner and into the action aisle. Carl stopped next to me, on all fours. Aimi tugged at the tail of my shirt, so I sighed and sat down.
“Hi Carl. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Sure it is.”
Aimi laughed. “I told you! He’s irreverent!” She said to me.
“So I hear you wanna marry my wife!” Carl shouted at me when he probably should have whispered.
“What?” Is all I could muster.
Aimi took my hand, fingers intertwined. She squeezed hard: a crack grip. Then she eyed me.
“That’s right.” She said.
Carl laughed and said nothing.
“What’s right? I’m very confused.” Were my words.
Aimi’s teeth chattered and she stared into my face.
“I don’t want you seeing other old women.”
“I haven’t been, my dear.”
“When is the wedding?” Carl yell-asked.
“There is no wedding!” I whisper-yelled.
“Why don’t you love me!?” Aimi asked.
I took Aimi by the neck and kissed her deeply. She shoved me away.
“No more!” Her teeth chattered. “Not until we’re married!”
“We’re not getting married!” This time I yelled. “Why can’t I just pleasure you?”
My eyes welled with tears. I thought of worthlessness. I thought that I feel worthless. And I did. I do.
Aimi shot up and did jumping jacks.
“Jump baby!” Carl shouted and joined in.
This was the love of my summer, doing jumping jacks at midnight in a dead Blockbuster.
“Please stop jumping.”
“Marry her!” Carl demanded.
I stood up and wrapped my arms around Aimi’s hips. She laughed and kept jumping, with me attached.
“Can’t we just go home and watch 27 Dresses?” I pleaded.
I clung to her waist, a joey in my marsupial mama’s pouch.
Aimi kicked my chest. I fell backward onto the ‘action’ shelf. The ‘action’ shelf collapsed to the ground. I collapsed further onto the ‘action’ shelf.
Sometimes I think love is something I miss.
Aimi stopped jumping. Towering over my limp body, she said: “I’m not watching anymore Katherine Heigl movies with you.” And then smoked some more crack.