Wednesday, September 9, 2009

Museums Are Burning

She was 45. Me, 27. She lived in a huge SoHo loft, near all the galleries, one floor above the street. She made lots of money working on movie sets, traveled all the time. She occasionally let me stay at her place to tend her dying cat. There was a washer and dryer, a pool table, a giant bed, large screen TV, plenty of porn. A covered bowl on the coffee table was filled with fine weed. I was set.

She loved porn, nasty stuff, women with big tits berating bound and gagged men. She once worked as a professional dominatrix. Had clients on Wall Street, in the city government, and at least one NYC detective. She never fucked them, just tied them up and whipped them. Made them cry and whimper. Her past bled into our sex life. She preferred to be in control, but willingly relinquished it when I took charge.

Our fucking was wild, if a touch intimidating. She'd scream out the craziest lines: "Fuck me you shit-eating cocksucker! Punish that pussy! Make it hurt!" I tried my best. Age lent her a large ass, so I had plenty to grab onto. I felt ridiculous talking back, but gave her all I physically had. She was a marathon lay. I had to pace myself while remaining intense. I never worked so hard in the sack.

She kept a .38 in the night stand next to the bed. She wanted to handcuff me to the headboard, but I always refused, fearing she would shove the gun up my ass or some other twisted shit. She was certainly capable of it. When I slept over, I'd wake up several times a night to see if she was going to hurt me. But she was always asleep, her long red bangs hanging over her beautiful freckled face.

We met through the personals in Spy magazine. She worked for the original National Lampoon. Knew all the greats. Fucked a few of them, Michael O'Donoghue most especially. She told me strange tales about Michael, his kinky tastes, his sweetness before the emotional storm. I had yet to meet him, and when I did, I never mentioned that I'd fucked the same woman as my comedy hero. I was afraid it would anger him. But to me, it was like a Yankees fan fucking someone who'd fucked Mickey Mantle or Reggie Jackson. Your dick shared space with the elite.

Aren't men wonderful?

I broke up with her when she tried to get me a writing gig for Screw magazine. I enjoyed Al Goldstein's cable access show, but appearing in Screw seemed low rent to me. Arrogant youth. Working for Goldstein would've been an interesting adventure. Another road not taken. My rejection angered her deeply. I think she had feelings for me, and was hurt by my curt dismissal.

I saw her once more, over dinner. She made herself look very hot, while behaving icy cold. After a couple of drinks I wanted her. No chance. She made me horny then pulled abruptly back. A true pro. Outside the restaurant, I tried to kiss her. She turned away and left me standing there, taking all that crazy sex with her. That was the last time I saw her.

She must be pushing 70 by now, assuming she's alive. Jesus. I wonder if she still screams during sex.