Hooked (erotivc memoir - edit 1)

Hooked

Mark hasn’t responded to my latest phone message. A woman comes on the phone, oh honey, oh, oh, heavy breathing, and the schmuck hasn’t the decency to send a thank you. He has five hundred of my emails, a damn book if he wants, and a video, and I’m pissing in my pants about the video because of Garth and his pornographic Internet wanderings. Men fall in love with me over my words. Lenny thinks they’d love me for my art as well. He is the only man with my art CD. He’ll fall for me if he stares too hard at my work, he can see my soul in those pictures, he says. Go right ahead, I tell him.

Lenny offers me a birthday present to visit him whether we fuck or not. I’m not used to such nice men. Instead I spread my legs; “There’s love in these here parts, baby.” The weeds behind my eyes grow wilder day by day. I’m renting a condo with a southeastern view of electrical towers beside theYonge-Finch subway line. Just beyond the towers, a plot of grass remains untouched, except for summer gardeners who plant vegetables and fruits in clear rows. The land looks like a cemetery even though there are leaves growing and weeds running out of control.

Everything is for the book: the first time Garth told me to take a shower and then shaved me so he could ass-lick me; how I lay on my stomach, pressing my cunt into the mattress, coming right there and then, and how that pleased me. Garth is a fastidious shaver. He takes his sweet time and he doesn’t say anything. His breathing doesn’t waver. He just dips the razor into warm water, wipes with another warm towel and surveys his work. Sometimes he tells me to lift my legs or turn over or go on all fours. And then he fucks me. His emotions are so bare, I lose sight of myself. I can’t even tell whether I’m hot or wet and to what degree.

My life has been turned inside out with all the writing. I could deal with Lenny’s fucking other chicks, I just need to be his main squeeze. I miss my painting and my paints, the hues of greens, blues, and purples, also reds, my irredescents, and my gentle life. I’m hooked and high on the book.

One clear suburban night outside Tim Hortons, two separate men roll down their car windows and offer me cash. “I was wearing my man’s leather coat, jeans, and my blundstones for god’s sake! Right next to the condo, can you believe it?” I tell Garth. Even watered down Willowdale debauchery allures me. I get drunk on the chattering of the keyboard although Garth advices me to leave debauchery for the next book.

I’m hooked. Lenny, Mark, Edward, Robbie, Louis, Will, the other Edward, Errol, Bruce, Robert, Michael, Garth —one deep full-bodied breath and I’m off and running, seeking out that point where life stops, just around the bend, I think, but when I reach the corner, life leers and moves to another block, another corner. You can’t direct life like steering a cock to a pussy. So I keep walking. The only time I feel fully embraced in the arms of happy moment, when I’m really cooking and thankful, is when I’m working on the book, writing to one of my men or lying with him. Visiting my eighty-three year old mother, I pace, sneak alcohol from the lower pantry shelf, peer in cupboards, and make notes on her medication for Garth who will tell me “oh, this is for that and I’d say give her six months, a year tops.” I’m homesick for my computer keys and I miss smoking up. My glasses remain in their silver Hakim Optical case. One early morning I tiptoe into the living room to inhale my father’s meticulously selected books and Zadi’s old treasures stamped “Pro Libris Samuel Lapitsky.” My god, all these books. I wonder whether my deceased relatives captured in these shiny frames are witnessing me taking stock.

I search for my father in Irving Stone, Durrell, Sinclair Lewis, in titles like “Main Street,” “The Mandarins,” and “Ulysses” books transported from the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in the house on Wilder Avenue since renamed after some French-Canadian woman, Antonine Maillet, about whom I have wondered, but never looked up—and why not? I mean it’s odd, my following a homeless question for decades when a single trip to a local library would have saved it from the streets and inclement weather.

“Portrait of the Artist . . .”—sitting at Garth’s black desk one night, Caroline asleep in her sunroom cot, I told Lisa I was writing to an ex-con with a penchant for James Joyce. “It’s tough reading,” my poet daughter said. “He tries to go into the unconscious of characters in Dublin, as they might think or say in their tongue and with their history. I’m not advising against it, but it’s challenging.” “Which is not a bad thing, I’m always up to a challenge,” I’d said. I’m a pro at bravado. I can round up the players—brain, heart, and clit—at a moment’s notice. Dressed or naked, it’s all about energy, and every time, they fall for it, the men-boys, applauding wildly and pressing past security.

I sit on the shoreline, my memory at high tide—stepping on the wood, red, and silver metal step ladder to hoist “A Rage to Live” off the uppermost Wilder Avenue bookshelf, the book cover deep burgundy, romantic paragraphs read and reread. DH’s “Women in Love,” “Lady Chatterly.” Can my father hear me? If he hears and sees, what does he see? When? Always? At intervals? What does a spirit do for eternity? And how does one remain occupied when time never starts or stops?

A wood elephant, its grainy texture smooth but still apparent, trunk raised, tusks intact, draws me to the middle shelf. I am hoping the tusks aren’t real. On the shelf above, a black and white photo of Mummy nineteen-forty’s beautiful, and Daddy, his expression all soft and mellow. He was not like that, not an easy man. My parents’ McGill days, Daddy lighthearted and animated. And old photos, a young girl in a dress with knickers peeking out from beneath the hem, a smooth-faced boy, his hair wet and parted, bare wrists exposed past the edges of his jacket sleeves.

I’ve come away with a good catch this time. Five of Daddy’s sports jackets, four ties, a a pair of his pajamas, white and blue striped, my sister’s ankle-length black coat, a plastic ribbed vial with “Elizabeth Arden Make-up Remover” in my mother’s scrawl, two long sleeve jerseys, red and olive green (Daddy’s), and four books instead of one. A hardcover with gilded edges signed, “For Your Reading Pleasure, With Love, Mummy.” We have a family custom: one souvenir book per visit. I choose Feuchtwanger’s “This is the Hour,” because a book on Goya with well-written words about his persona, art processes described, and accompanying reproductions might be an inspiring and impressive book to possess. I’m self-conscious about the scope and appearance of my library. I also copped “The Mandarins,” something by Alexander King—“I Should Have Kissed Her More” (recalling past reading pleasures, possibly romantic), and Franz Kaffa’s short story collection to activate my mind into an avant-garde sensibility.

My mother is growing old. One night after supper, sitting at the table while pouring over the TV guide as has become her post-meal custom and placing red ink stars beside shows she would recommend, she holds out her left leg. “See,” she says, all perked and chipper, “it gets swollen.” The calf and front leg are swollen and hard. There are raised purple and red circles on the flesh. The skin is red. “It’s water,” she says. “I take pills.” Garth told me to record her prescriptions. I flip through her worn leather-bound diary she keeps on the kitchen counter and make notes. He’s preparing me, he says. It’s not that he cares about her, but he figures she’ll go soon. He asks for updates about her health and her mood. When had she become so feeble? Five front teeth are missing. Her dental plate irritates her. On her chest and arms are coin-sized red welts, sores, and medieval round red circles on her limbs, back, and upper chest. She sits watching TV, her hair done just this day for the occasion of daughter and two grandchildren visiting. She picks absentmindedly at the shapes on her upper back and on her arms. “Keeps me busy,” she says.

She has started using my father’s walker that had been stored away. Stubbornly and only on occasion. My father still asserts his presence with his plaid pillow against the back of his chair and the opaque white pail he had used for Kleenex and spittle. The plastic bucket had become toward the end, kind of a spittoon. Life goes fast. There are newspapers all over the table, some already yellow, piled up and edited with headings underlined or circled, “Send to Susan.” “For Janice.” “Mail to Julian.” She doesn’t answer when her back is turned and I’m sitting at the teak kitchen table. “Ma,” I say when she sits down in her chair, “I don’t know, I’m worried.” She looks at me with her clear lake eyes. “Your hearing, Ma, can you, I don’t know, sometimes—” Her hand settles lightly on my arm. “No,” she says, “what makes you say that?” Still, if you whisper a juicy bit you don’t want her to hear or if you tiptoe over to the fridge late at night to sneak out some of supper’s remnants or to pour a glass of red wine for the sake of slight inebriation not the quality of wine, she’s suddenly right beside you, peering over your shoulder, taking notes. All your secrets, your hidden life, she creeps up and files them. I know this―we’re a family of internal spies.

I compose and send my new slight off to Robbie and then to Lenny. I yearn for love’s shawl around my winter shoulders. Men enter and fade or simply exit. While defining themselves as cool, they worry about my excessiveness. Lisa says I’d be wiser to choose a man with the possibility of a future, a man from the same city and maybe I should think about why I go for these long-distance ones.

Lenny phones every four months, calling me “baby,” “honey bunny.” “It’s a nice family piece with some interesting aspects,” Lenny writes when I send him the writing about my old mother, “but how will you weave the family piece into that fucking and sucking?” I tell him it all fits together. My mother coughs in bed at night. She keeps her standing lamp light on; she coughs and coughs. It’s a dry cough. I lie still so I can listen in and then I think of Robbie who has not yet phoned to tell me how great I sounded coming on the phone. Fuck him. If he doesn’t fall for the sound of a fine come. I worry whether I had sounded wild enough, had it sounded fake, too standard “oh baby,” intake of breath, “oh,” intake of breath. Everything is linked, Lenny. You know that, you who peeped at nuns.

I should have. I should have stayed by his bedside. Instead he died alone in the dying ward with only a fluorescent green line to keep him company. “You can go now, Daddy,” I said, my voice low and mellow and honey. “You can let go. You don’t need to fight any more. I’m alright. Really I am. And Caroline is with me and that makes her happy. And Lisa’s home. She writes poetry, Daddy. She’s a wonder.” His ears. Elephant ears. Can he hear me? “Let go Daddy. Don’t be afraid. And we’ll see each other again, you’ll see. You took care of us so well, all this time. It’s your time. You can let go now. Don’t be afraid.” I dressed my voice in black velvet to help him die and then I left.

“Ma, I’m going to the hospital,” I said the next morning.
“What can you do?” she said. “Where is the TV remote? Didn’t I leave it here? Maybe it’s my room, last night—”
I stayed for her. She’s alone, I thought, here while he’s dying. At ten the phone rang.
“It’s over,” she said. I want to write what she did after that, did she sit, sort the yellow-edged newspapers on the table, circle TV shows in the Gazette. She didn’t cry. I never saw her cry. Except once, at the Wilder house. “I’ll ask Daddy, he’s smarter than you anyhow,” I said when she didn’t know the answer to a history question. She was standing behind the counter, her hands busy adding greens, potatoes, and broiled steak to our home-from-school lunchtime plates. One swollen tear sighed on her cheek. Regrets.

When I was seventeen, Juan, a waiter at Camp Epstein in the Quebec Laurentians, fucked me in his cramped staff cabin just beside a clear path etched out from repeated romantic nighttime trips to the waterfront and conveniently down the hill from the mess hall. He was a highfaluting Jewish boy from Buffalo who went to some private school where his father was an English teacher. Juan said he was a certified genius. He had dark brown razor cut hair and an excellent profile. His cabin mate, Marty Cohen (whose voice never changed and who later became a double-chinned government financial analyst) lay asleep in the cot just two or three feet away. I lay on top of Juan, his prick up me as I grinded back and forth against his pubic hair. “Harder, harder,” I said. “Don’t stop,” and came three times in a row, moderate level but first time memorable and impressive. Marty woke up five minutes after I left. After that summer I would bring my boys downstairs to the den, fuck them, and come. Nothing hardcore screaming uncontrollably, just a hard climbing, low-peaked climax. Family and fucking are always linked, Lenny. It’s biological.

My mother’s room is not of this world. She waits in a space levitating, just raised above the earth and bound for heaven, waiting in line.

Oy Va Voy or Busting My Balls (edit 1, erotic memoir)

Busting My Balls

“What I can’t understand is why you’re showcasing those people,” Harriet says, her French tips lounging on the escalator railing, “when you could be giving all this energy to your own.” I’m busting my balls, working my builder’s ass off twelve hours a day to pay musicians who dig my giving back to the arts and the whole RANG mentorship system while charging full scale SOCA rates. And although he left me one million, I don’t have my grandfather’s cash, my father wanting to put all the capital together, Julian’s, Susan’s, and mine. Abie brought Judge Gold’s son Mark over to advise me. “You’ll never see it again,” he said, but I worried about my father’s love and inheritance since he was still moderately thirty-million dollars’ rich, so I returned that million dollar cheque to my parent who, one year later, was scammed by the same guy who ripped off the Steinbergs which almost gave honor to my father’s reduced state, except the Steinbergs remained rich and my father used his capital to mortgage his award-winning twin Highland Beach condos. Still I had my builder’s mass and a steady gig training females in their LuLu Lemons. I just wanted to show a little love, you know, hold close and slow dance cheek to cheek, cock to cunt. And so I set up my gentle non-profit with its mentorship system for young up-and-comings, telling my story to NOW, EYE, Whole Note, Maple Blues, CIUT, CKLN, the Barker man at 91.1 Jazz FM, branding cards, postcards, posters, the works, ten thousand dollars worth of free advertising, a spot on 680 AM, press releases. I let it all hang out—all the houses, Caroline, my two solo art shows, the ex, my long days at the gym. This was the story I was full speed running with. There was a long distance runner at Number One Nautilus, such a skinny beetle—marathons and music festivals never intrigued me. But once I started running, I was in the race and for the sake of promotion, I spread my story out to musicians, clubs, sponsors—like selling cars, the story the same but always fresh. Maybe a new twist or detail—the sheriff at the door this time, Caroline’s body a twisted tree in emergency the next, and always music like a eiderdown quilt or an angel. I never said I wouldn’t have preferred cash.

“So what are you getting out of it? What’s in it for you? And I mean profit.”
“I don’t think there’s going to be a profit.”
“So you’ll break even.”
“I don’t think so. I did. I thought I’d at least get my investment back. I’m so tired, Garth, I don’t know. I mean, what the hell was I thinking!”
“You’re asking the wrong person.”
“Yeah. I work all these hours and then I do all the producing stuff and you have no idea how crazy it is behind the scenes, all this technical shit, the sound man and getting musicians there for a sound check, and tickets and TicketMaster, and Charles Mack won’t let the opening act from Montreal use his drum kit—oh, and then there’s food for the musicians and do you know how much all that’s going to cost? Five hundred dollars, that’s how much and the musician who said what a great thing I was doing and he’d lower his rates, well, fuck him, he wants one thousand for forty-five minutes and Levitasyon, that Zouk group, guess how much!”
“I haven’t got a clue.”
“Two thousand.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Nope. So I called Charles Mack who’s driving all the way here from Detroit and I told him, I got to cancel. How am I going to come up with all this cash? And he gives me this bit about the show must go on because that’s what his Daddy used to say.”
“So what are you going to do? If you cancel will you get your deposits back?”
“Nope. But that’s still a hell of a lot easier than coming up with twelve thousand more dollars. I’m so tired. And my back is hurting me, my lower back and you know that shooting groin pain? I can’t walk. How will I coach when I can’t even walk?”
“What does Pariser say?”
“She says I have to go for physio, she says it’s my lower back. You think it’s my piraformis?"
“You need to see a specialist.”
“See, I asked her and she said it’s your lower back and then she sighed. I can’t afford physio. And the other day, at the gym, I had to sit down. Well you know I never sit down, so along comes Karen and she says it doesn’t look good if I’m sitting down and what if someone tours the club and sees me? And Greenspan, I don’t think he listens to me, and I have this fear when he cracks my neck. ”
“He’s good. But it’s true he doesn’t listen. Hubris.”
“What?”
“He’s thinks he knows it all. But it would help to listen to the patient, especially when the patient is a trainer.”
“Last time he stretched my right leg to the side and it felt like my tendon was being ripped. He said it’s tight. But what I’m afraid of is how I’m going to work. How can I work with those women? I pick out their weights, I bring the weights back, then I pick out other weights. And I count. Remember when I broke my finger at Strictly and the shit Barbara, the one with the art dealer husband who liked my work but I couldn’t make it to one of his artist’s openings—I was having that skin thing done under my eyes the next morning—so there I am with my finger in a cast and she’s sitting, blabbing, and rolling her eyes, waiting for me to pick up her weights, and I’m limping like a parakeet because I couldn’t walk or pick up weights because of my broken finger.”
“Why a parakeet?”
“Well, when I was seven, my—”
“Your point?”
“And my point is what’ll I do? You’re telling me to lie on the floor for two hours which I don’t have and Greenspan is telling me it’s my back and tight muscles and referred pain, and Pariser is telling me I have to go to physio when she knows I can’t, I mean, she knows.”
“Maybe you have to find something new.”
“Yeah. Right. Remember I asked you when we met, how will I take care of myself? I mean how? And who’s going to help me? I’m going to talk to my mother. I’m going to tell her I have to cut back, I have to stay with Caroline and it’s true you know. I’m scared. I hate being scared. I spent so much time being scared and then I met you, and you’re not here anymore. So what’ll I do?”
“You’re the one who told me to leave. I didn’t walk out.”
“ And you’re the one who was telling me he was going to leave for how many years?”
“But you know me better than that. The fact is I didn’t. Until you insisted.”
“I’m not going to do this. You’re not going to do this to me.”
“Let me guess, you don’t want to talk about it now. So when will be a good time? Later? When later? Give me a time.”
“I can’t give you a time, I can’t. I phoned because my body won’t even let me walk and I need to work to support me and Caroline and Lisa. You’re never going to pay me back. I know that. You said you were keeping track of every penny. That’s not true. How much do you owe me? Do you even know?”
“It always goes back to money with you, doesn’t it?”
“And with you? It doesn’t with you?”

My grandfather gave me maroon bank shaped like a book without a key, the idea being to fill the book with coins and set up an account at the Bank of Montreal, Van Horne and Davaar branch. I filled up the book bank and broke into it. A few years later I stole eighty dollars from my grandmother. Green turns me on. Garth talks about his plans for grand wealth and we’re back in our beginning, my index finger tracing the breadth of his forehead down his fine profile “do you know your nose has the slightest bump in it?” I say each time, and each time he says “yes, broke it in a fight when I was ten.” It’s part of our love dialog, just as money is. “One million is nothing,” I say, “Ten is like one used to be, and what’s ten anyhow?” I like when he thinks big.




What Have I Got To Do?

It’s a grand morning. I’m inspired which always makes me happy and horny. I’m thinking history and intimacy are of greater value than passion and decide to part with existing online men and the minor fucks pending. Life and love are becoming too complicated, although there is something about my men and how they make me feel―like I’m eighteen again and love is all new. Only better, because finally at age fifty-six, I have learned how to exult. But then in the most fundamental way, I love Garth, even as I wait for his next breaking up summons. Because he lives in me. And he’s family.

I eat a leg of chicken Garth cooked in the “Total Oven” I had regifted him with. “But you regifted me,” he reminded me when I had complained about his inattention to holidays including my birthday, using my ambling tone even with my sad urge for a briskness.
“How quickly they forget,” I said. “There were cards and Chapter’s coupons.”
“Coupons,” he said.
“I wanted to give you books. Remember that bible I bought you. I looked at all these bibles for over an hour. St. James, the English Standard Bible, the New American Standard, the New Revised Standard, the one with my father’s name, the Phillip’s Modern English Bible, even the Daily Bible in Chronological Order. You were disappointed because I gave you the wrong bible, you said I hadn’t been paying attention all those years. I’m Jewish for fuck’s sake. So now I give you coupons. Sometimes I go to five stores for just the right card.”
“They’re meaningless.”
“And it’s meaningful that you give me nothing, no fucking cards, no presents.” My voice strains and cracks when I get upset, my words like abused dogs.
“See what I mean, I can’t even have conversation with you.”

Garth is working on his red and green trading graphs. He keys clients’ numbers with the pads of his fingers. I learned to play piano en pointe. I couldn’t play by ear, skipping out a tune, my fingers demi-pointe just knowing the way home, the way Garth keys words and numbers and lives his life. I sit with my legs pulled up beneath me on his beige leather sofa purchased from the Brick on credit and watch him. “Look, if you’d have gone short when I told you, pulled out instead of getting greedy, you wouldn’t be down. I told you what to do, you chose not to listen,” he’s saying, as he approaches and places his prick in my mouth, although I’ve just had my lower and upper lips enlarged for one thousand dollars, the freezing still intact and bruising setting in. Sucking Garth off plumps up my lips. I like the look which is why I went and had them enlarged.

He thinks I am satisfied. Or maybe he figures it’s not his place to say anything. He’s odd that way, like a cactus in the middle of an English garden. Anyhow, I’m more process than product-oriented and I like those solo coming times on the carpet beside what used to be his side of the bed or on the tiled bathroom floor. Still, when I pray, which comes and goes with the weather, I’m sure to slip in, “Please God, let me come while he fucks me. And if you could and I’m thanking you n advance, could it be with me underneath and his finger up my ass?” I’d be pumping away, moving my hips and cunt around and Garth would say, “Move your ass baby, that’s it.” But his belly is a mountain which I loved when I met him and still do. I might need some of God’s help on that one too. He’s larger than life, Garth is, and I can’t leave him. I’ve grown “attached” which was the word Garth used for his feelings about me when I requested five positive adjectives relating to what he likes about me. “Attached” was what he said, pissing me off at the top of moderate.

I email and discard two local men. Mark is back on BlackPeopleGreet with a new profile. “How can I your JCT when you’re on the computer prowl again?” I say my voice light as sideways glance. “Hey baby, don’t do this. I’m just connecting with old buddies,” he says, so I renew my membership. I hide my profile, delete it, and return online, although I click “view as offline.” “Why are you after geographically unavailable men?” Lisa asks when I tell her about the good ones, from LA, Washington, Atlanta, New York, North Carolina, Texas. I prefer words to tin can voices. A man from out west whines. Another sounds drugged or bored. Written words thrill. They wake me up in the morning and warm me at night. I adore life and myself. I’m an ancient, weary soul with my eyelids half-closed, unable to move my limbs and taste life. It isn’t Garth. One artist needs the understanding of another. But oh, this Washington man sounds fine, still Lenny — I would do anything for a man who could fuck my heart.

Louis is a Vietnam vet. I found him on BlackPeopleMeet. He’s from Mississippi and he has no intention of moving up here. He’s a country man all the way, he says. And then he’s going on about long-haired hippies slamming their placards on sides of the bus when he came back home and I say, “hey man, I just happened to be one of those hippies” and he tells me he damn well near killed one of them which was why he moved to the country. I ask him questions and scribble down his dialog, flipping pages, writing on a pocket-sized lined yellow pad. Now he lives with this giant cactus, maybe the biggest on record, the only black man in Lincoln. He can talk gently to me alright, but he can also murder and maim which is why he’s out there in the country. But sometimes the woods aren’t deep enough and the only place that can hold him is China. I know he’s too much like Garth. Harsh as a hundred-year old tree. But the next moment speaking to me with such gentleness, I cry. And when he says he’s starting up two businesses, something about archiving medical histories and broadband in the off-country, my cunt sparkles with those Canada Day sizzlers. Abie, Garth, Louis—wild men panning for gold. Some say I’m nice and I guess I am, but inside there’s a feral part and when I smell that in a man, I sidle right up, I’m on his track.

Louis has various ailments as a result of the war. He’d fade out, totally paralyzed, for one minute. “Never know when it’s gonna happen. They put me in this damn hospital, cause I was claiming for benefits, see, so they put me under observation. Well I had one of these fits you know, and this fucking cunt of a nurse kept jabbing her pen into my hand, hurt like hell and she asks me, ‘Do you feel this?’ Askin’ me if I feel this! And she’s plunging and plunging this pen tip straight into my damn hand! Fuck! ‘What do you think, you fucking cow?’ Treatin me worsn an animal! Shit! ‘Do you feel this?!’ Fuckin ram it up her ass and see what she says!” The war scooped out most of his gut and his hip got shot off. He’s like an old gun slinger, tossing on his prosthetic hip when he goes into town. I talk to him about My Lai because I’d just heard a show on CIUT FM saying it was the whites committing atrocities.
“Whites!” he shouts. “Listen, I got no fondness for bigots, but here’s the fuckin’ truth, and that’s where the media comes in, stickin’ their noses in where it don’t belong!” he says, shooting out each word like a machine pistol. “Makin’ things worse, makin’ trouble, more killings. What happened was twenty was killed, and those women and children . . .”
“What about those women and children, for god’s sake!”
“Well ya see, you up there in Toronto, the Reds put these grenades round these kids’ necks and then they tell ‘em, ‘Go up and ask for a chocolate,’ or ‘Give the American a chocolate.’ And I don’t care who the fuck, or how old the fuck, who’s comin at me with chocolates and a grenade round his neck, gonna blow me up―I learned how to stay alive that day and what the fuck does the press know about that!”
Louis says he licks pussy bettern’ any dyke and some of them’s damn good at what they do. I don’t understand these one-dimensional men. Technique will get you to first base, but it doesn’t come close to passion and heart. Maybe Louis will stalk the country side and poach all its cash. I need saving and that’s the simple truth. Truth is a strange bird; its plumage changes according to season so it’s almost unrecognizable. Also it’s known to be quite elusive.

“Do you know that Mao couldn’t read or write?” I listen to this man, Louis, and I wonder if he’s crazy or misguided, or both. “But the Red Book!” “Ghost written,” he says.
He tells me to buy a web cam so he can see my eyes. “The eyes are mirrors to the soul,” he says which he knows because he’s half Cherokee, his mother having been full blooded. He says his momma always told him,” Ain’t no one bettern’ you, no one.” All his life he could hear her say that and it stuck. His son used to say he was half white, hung himself from a willow tree over it. In a quiet way I care for Louis. We make plans. He comes up to Toronto. The phone rings once, twice, six times. I don’t answer. He emails. He says God may forgive, but he no way he can. I wish I’d have seen him, so I phone and leave messages until he says he forgives me, him and God, both. He calls me “my love” when he says good-bye. I say “sweetie” since I don’t want to hurt his feelings. He’s been through enough. It’s the same with Garth. Scary men intrigue me.


Garth

Garth knows my father is dying. “Take the train in,” he says. “He doesn’t have long now.” Lisa stays in the condo with Caroline. Abie says he’d drop by to relieve her. I know we’ll get maybe one hour out of him and that’s alright. Otherwise I’ll come back to trees uprooted, limbs blocking entranceways, books thrown off their shelves, scattered.

Demanding two servings of eggplant lasagna, three Little House on the Prairie reruns, and the remote, Caroline wields her mental illness like a battle sword. Lisa enters the field with a forced smile, while I, on this train ride to my father at his dying time, scan scenery and take photos.
My mother stands by my father’s bedside in the Montreal General. She’s holding a spoon with red jello. “Why are you doing that?” my sister says. She has a tan and pearls and her tough skin is covered with wrinkles. “Maybe he’ll eat,” my mother says, holding the spoon to my father’s mouth. “If it makes you feel better. But I’m telling you, he’s not going to eat,” my sister says in her smoker’s voice. I look at my mother. Better not to say anything. I move forward and put my arm around her. My arm spans her back and down her shoulder. She’s lost weight.

“Daddy,” I say. “Daddy.” He lies propped up on two pillows. There are clear and opaque tubes. I see the attachment points on his wrist and in the crook of his arm and I understand. Because of Caroline. “I love you, Daddy,” I say. He doesn’t blink. “Daddy,” I say. “Caroline and Lisa are fine. They love you. I love you. So much, Dad. Do you know I sold a painting? A huge canvas. It’s commissioned work and maybe they’ll want another. I did a portrait of you. Your hair is fluorescent green and you’re wearing a royal blue bathrobe, but it’s you alright. And you have a twinkle in your left eye.”
“He won’t talk to me, not to anyone,” my mother says.
I put my hand on his and gently press. “I love you,” he says.
Later he calls out “Swine, swine.” Also, “Take me home.” “He needs more morphine,” my sister says.

On my train ride back to Toronto, my eyes take in scenery, latching onto its tail as it passes. I phone Garth from Union Station. “He’s dying and I left him.”
“It’s your last chance. Go back,” Garth says. He knows about these things. He has a gift. Because he was abused, maybe.

I don’t want to write about my father dying. He was a powerful man who became reduced. He wore diapers. My mother took care of him until he started soiling himself and then PeeWay came in. PeeWay loved him. When my father died, my sister told Peeay not to come to the funeral. “You better stay here. They read the obits and break in.” PeeWay just looked straight ahead, her brown eyes dark and mournful. As my sister was leaving, she called out, “You might as well come along, we’ll alert security, so you come on now.”

My mother didn’t know how she could manage the reception after the funeral. “You have to be present for your visitors. You’re the hostess,” my sister said.
“I don’t know if I can,” my mother said, her eyes darting the way they always did when she was depressed.
“You will,” my sister said.

I wrote my father’s obituary in five minutes. “Write about his love for music,” my brother said. “His storytelling,” my sister, Susan, said. “Oh, and he took care of his shoes.” She was walking on two canes at the funeral. She’d had one hip replaced and then the other and she wasn’t healing well. But then her idea of exercise was isle shopping at Steinberg’s in Cote St. Luc mall. For my referred pain points on my right side, I had one wood crutch Abie had used when his back gave out in the Bluffwood Drive house. It’s odd, some of the items that have stayed with me. My sister had insisted on unpainted pine for the casket. “He would have wanted it that way. Do you remember those ten blocks he walked so he could save twenty-five cents on a lousy ball-point? In the middle of winter?” she’d said. “It was the principle.” I said. “And what about the green Cadillac convertible and the pink jeep with the candy-striped canopy at Los Brisas?” Even though I had to steady my hands on Paperman’s lectern, reading my speech pleased me. It was like being on stage again, slipping into my father as he dragged out the first syllable of my mother’s name, “Flooorence! Flooorence!” He spent his final years falling asleep at the TV and calling for her. She’d click her tongue, “Coming Phil. I’m coming, I’m coming.” Sometimes she’d take her time, so he’d call out again. “Just a minute, just a minute,” she’d say. He said she was his angel, in those years. She always was although I’m not sure he knew it.

So there I was intoning with just the right degree of expression, in the swing as my rowing crew would have said, my sister leaning forward in the front row, her clasped hands swaying oi va voy side to side like Baba used to. The tips of Julian’s ear’s were red, his office hair parted neatly on the side. I don’t know if I cried. That came three months later, racking howls, great forces of nature.


The night I returned from my father’s funeral, Garth invited me over to his basement apartment. I called him from my car. “I’m two blocks away,” I said. He liked to unlock the door ahead of time so if he were in the middle of something, he wouldn’t have to interrupt himself by letting me in. Usually when I came over he’d be working on his computer or watching his favorite TV show or cooking on his electric wok or attending to his Total Oven.
Garth sat like a Sphinx on his beige leather sofa. “Janice,” he said.
“Yes?”
“Sit down.”
“I think I’ll stand.”
“I think you might want to sit.”
“That’s alright. Maybe it’s better for me to stand,” I said, eyeing the open bedroom door.
“Up to you. You may recall our conversation while you were in Montreal. This is where you answer.”
“I don’t know, I was distraught, I was in the kitchen, with my mother and Susan was there. I wasn’t focusing.”
“Yes. I know.”
“You were cleaning up your life.”
“So you do remember. Cleaning up my life. Whatever it takes. I looked at my life while you were in Montreal. You’re holding me back.”
“You’re telling me this now? My father just died, for fuck’s sake and you call me over to tell me this? What kind of a man are you? I mean couldn’t you wait? Maybe a week? I just got back. He’s dead. My father is dead, and you—I don’t believe you.”
“Find a therapist,” he said. “I’m going places. I want a simple life. Mental illness just doesn’t fit in.”
“But Caroline doesn’t live with you.”
“Like I said, I’m cleaning up my life.”
A week later, as I was about to walk into our mutual gym, he emerged from his silver Acura.
“I’m warning you,” he said, “you bust into my training session and I’m erasing your name from my cell.”
“So you’re training that dirt bag, Sharon. You’re just a gym gigolo, you know that? She can’t even do a fucking squat and she has a back like a set of train tracks. ”
“It won’t be the first time I’ve erased people from my life. I cut out my own mother and sisters. You’re the next in line.”
“But Garth.”
“Recall one small detail—who signed your lease? You come in and I swear I’ll get you and crazy daughter evicted.” Garth doesn’t raise his voice. You have to look closely to observe any shift in his features.
“No, no, please don’t do that.” I cried, inhaling air like a junkie.
“Take my advice, then. Get in your car and drive away.”
“You fucking evil asshole!” I gunned the accelerator of my second hand Grand Prix, its tires screeching. For emphasis, I drove around in two more wild circles before exiting.
I shall never forgive him.

Still, it’s important to know that Garth is a man with a vision, that he will be phenomenally rich and that there are always two sides to these “he said, she said” stories. I could play him. I could walk free and clear and unafraid of the sheriff’s loud knocking at my door. But I am writing this book, which he will read and never will he understand that each time he said he was leaving, I died. I drooped closer and closer to the ground. I wilted. And each time the only thought that could pick me up was there was an online man to slow dance with and love me. I would have killed myself otherwise. Garth stole my heart one night at Strictly Fitness and almost hammered it to death. Through passion I am hoping to reclaim it.

Running Naked with My Hair Flying (erotic memoir, edit 1)

The Woman Is Tired

Two months have passed since I first met my Atlanta man, my American online steady. The thing is I’m in love with myself even though I once read when self-love walks you down the block, despair lurks around the corner. Meanwhile I’m just a worn-out circus trainer throwing out emails like raw fish to keep my men in line.

Mark sends me an email from work. He wants to swoop in on the twenty-eighth to deliver fresh protein, “is it a good time to cum?” he writes. I wince. Anyhow, there is no fresh protein shortage—Lenny, Robbie, Mark, the kinky little one James, Garth—miserly with his cash and generous with his semen. They’re babies with their cocks, these men. When I kneel before a man’s cock, he plants his prick at the back of my mouth, his bare ass pumping. And then he says you love it, don’t you and I say yes, I do, but the truth is it’s about being expedient. Kneeling facilitates the art of deep throat and siphoning off semen. I like showing off, but mostly I want him to get trigger happy and shoot his load. Because I work with invasive chatterers and I’m tired. And because I know I’m not going to come and I don’t really give a damn except I’ve got this persona, so I toss an exotic image to the part of his brain wired to his cock, which is his entire chunk of grey matter. I’m thinking females allocate specific brain cells, and after all these decades I am beginning to understand myself. I’m like a guy in this mad life, working the room with standard socializing and how-do’s, all the while inching toward the exit door connecting directly to my crotch.

“Not my JCT!” Mark says when I tell him there is no moaning in me, no ooh baby and all that phone shit, I say, and as for my words that used stay up all night, always wet and eager, well, they’re tired, cannot not remain awake, have grown pale, possibly anemic. He says I mustn’t work so hard, I should rest.

I miss Lenny. Online men gorge on my passion and exuberance, but it’s Lenny that I like. After he kissed my cunt and flew back to Chapel Hill, he left me a phone message playing “A Kiss is Just a Kiss” on his electric kazoo. I dashed out in hunt of an adjective for beyond cool. “You’re the one, you’re velvet” I wrote, even though the sex in me was all used up, like my fridge when I’m low on cash.
Hardly any weed left. I tell Lenny my birthday is coming soon and a party might revive me. He develops a plan: I should rent a studio, display my erotic art, a band should play two types of music. While all I’m wanting is to lie in bed on a Sunday morning with the weight of a man’s arms around me. This emptiness is an unwelcome visitor, one that stays on and on, refuses to exit, consumes. Maybe I’m depressed. I write maudlin blues lyrics and send them to Mark. I can’t think of a tune.


It’s All Too Fucking Predictable

We were consumed with each other. In our peak season, emails and phone calls taking off every hour, every seat was taken and charter flights were fully booked. The weather was warm and balmy. It was one of the best seasons I could remember. But I slacked off and Mark placed himself back in the online hunt. I’d set the man up at the Drake and fucked him in every way. Twice a year on New Year’s and also on my birthday for the seven years following, he’s still pitching a remake.

James wants me to accompany him to a swinger’s party. I’ll go, I say, if I can stay dressed and write about it, the way an artist sketches court proceedings. He says I can stay dressed, but he doesn’t think my scribbling would go over too well, we could go out for coffee afterward and share mental notes. We’re on the phone “after midnight” like that Monk tune on the tape from the wacky Bostonian, I having repaired to the sunroom since Caroline is sleeping sprawled out in my bed. “You’re telling me swinging exhibitionists wouldn’t flock to me? All I need to say is I’m doing a piece on swinging, my big break possibly and I would so appreciate. . . ” James says there’s a certain etiquette, this being a franchise. I sit up. “You mean like MacDonald’s and Kentucky Fried Chicken?” Then I email Mark, who zips back an immediate response even though it’s Monday and he’s a working engineer. I leave a message on Sabina’s machine: “Remember Anais Nin had this client she wrote erotic stories for, like the ones in “Little Birds” and those books. Anyhow, she and Sartre and Genet would sit in the café at Monmartre, well, maybe not Monmartre, I just put that in because it enhances the picture—the truth is I’ve never been to Paris and you know about my intellectual gaps—so they’d drink and fashion up scenarios for her dollar-a-page gig. Now here’s this engineer emailing me in the morning with his ‘hon, sucking me off would be a good thing right about now,’ so I tap out a page or two, but he’s still hungry, could I give him an old-fashioned missionary on the side, like at a restaurant, you know, ‘and I’ll have some fries to go with that.’ And what I want to know is when the fuck does the man work?”

In the morning I send Mark his missionary and throw in an extra sixty-nine. He’s fired in the afternoon. But Mark believes in God and he’s a Southern stoic so I know he’ll manage. Before phoning him, I slip into the ensuite for a few tokes. I was a fine actress and could fake consolatory tones and dialog, I’m a passionate and creative liar and excel at delivery although I have never forged a come, being more of a process than a product-oriented type. The man is given the boot for his fixation and I’m thrilled. “More for the book,” I tell Sabina.

It’s a small fucking world. Garth goes out with some work-related types to a steak-house in Scarborough, the client Garth is courting turns out to be a musician, a pianist with a steady gig and cash to invest, and as he’s opening his silver attaché case, the orange and black postcard for TUZA, which just happens to be Swahili for “to pay tribute to”—and isn’t that what Relay of the Arts for the Next Generation is all about?—falls out or comes into view. Garth comments and the musician says yeah, he’d heard about the festival from his Chicago drummer friend who’s coming into Toronto to spend the weekend with the broad who’s running the whole thing. “Question for you,” Garth says when he calls. I decide to do a partial-accept, full deny and tell Mark not to come in for my birthday; I am sick, depressed, crashed and weirded out from smoking up.

Garth phones the morning of my birthday. “By the way,” he says, “it’s your birthday isn’t it? “Yes,” I say and wait. I figure he’s decided to cast me out of his life again. On my birthday. He is determined to make me sad on mine and to feel guilty on his. Come to think of it, all the holidays we share are like that. And most days. I don’t know why I let him fuck me up the ass. Still, it’s my birthday and I’m crying because I love him and hate him, and then love him all over again even though I’m fifty-six and should know better. Loving Garth is like the wild come I never had, although once I grabbed Abie’s shoulders on the Austin Terrace Street bed which had a built-in grey bookshelf headboard for night and early-morning readers. It freaks me out to think of Abie’s cock on account of his doing such injustice to the appendage.

Garth says he wants to be more involved in my writing life. But what he really wants is to check out his performance record. He’s matured over the past nine and a half years, I tell him. He is almost an accomplished lover.
“Why almost?” he says.
“First, tell me five things you like about me.”
“I feel attached” is all he’s willing to say. Oh, and he’s reconciled to having me in his life in one form or another. When he fucks me, his eyes never soften or deepen. He kisses really well and he has soft lips. He has taught me what rimming feels like and I think he’s good at it, he ass fucks with gentleness when required and knows when to ram hard. But he can’t project love. If he could add love and affection, then he’d be accomplished. On my birthday, a dozen online men send me birthday greetings. I lie in bed on my side with my back to my bedroom door and refuse to answer the phone.

I trim my pubic hair to add flair to my emails. Online love makes me feel like Paris where couples kiss on street corners and I like that. It’s my peaceful place and my refuge from the storm. But now Mark says I haven’t lived up to his expectations, haven’t paid my part of his long distance bill or sent him a Canadian beret. I slide into monotones and dream in black and white. Only my fingers move as I type. My salmon and grey Mexican blanket wrapped around my shoulders, I strike these keys and remember my old Hermes typewriter.

I talk to myself. You’re just lonely sweetheart. You’re sliding, honey. Hope leers and flaps off, and I am Madame Lafarge typing, typing, worrying all the while about money, adding up what I have, what I need, what small amount I earn these days. My head is full of numbers. I sit at this heavy black wood desk facing north while Caroline, gorging on TV, runs her zigzag commentary. My writing is a steaming kettle spewing cunt, cock, fuck, ass and come, with words strewn in between.
What do you think I need? Who do you think I am? Why am I still alive?

Doubts peck at me. Cantankerous geese. I stay alive to take care of the girls—filling in spaces with art, writing, assorted inspirations, and men. I type because if I stop, the world will freeze in its tracks and I might fall off.

Garth is a killer. I have never met a man like him nor will I again. He tears my heart apart, but I can’t let him go. I phone him since he is well-versed in the art of lethal weapons and assorted homemade death-inducing methods and a clinical effect’s list. I tell him I am full of loathing and he likes that.

I send Mark acquiescing emails while I question my life, the men, the wish and
need for, the hunt, the letters. Sometimes I skip words and my voice drops to a whisper. I take adavan, smoke up, and then it comes to me. Robbie! The understudy strutting out of the wings.

Life is soft and hard—a summer’s sun in an Arctic winter. The ex is floundering again, his body flabby, flesh washed green. Skin like rising dough hangs from his chin and flakes off his eyelids. I will not stand around his grave. He’s afraid, he says while I worry for myself even with my cloak of muscles. All that has passed between us, all the losses and pain—I try to think grief as an old war wound from another life time. It never works. Memories are like a pop-up clown-in-a-box. Wind and wind and the clown pops up. Slam the red metal cover down, wind, and the damn clown pops up again. I stare in the ensuite mirror. Opening my eyes in nineteen-twenty’s mock horror, tears fill and spill as the old piano player performs his tired score. The air is porous and dense. There are terrains on this earth where land lies rolling and smooth and air is perfume and gardenias, but this land of mine threatens treacherous and steep with air like thin ice. I’m cold. Wearing a faded red-hooded sweatshirt and my father’s old wool cardigan, and I’m still cold, typing, typing for all the homeless and the despairing. When you’ve been a member of that group, you can never walk away or revoke your membership. You’re a member for life.

I want to write about loneliness and fear, the struggle of grasping dreams as the only worthy living remnants, like hanging onto the ledge of an unseaworthy cargo ship—what such an effort does to a mind and body that could once move with grace and adapt effortlessly to any angle. Now all I can write about is love and cunt fucking, love and ass fucking, love and sucking off—love.

I save what is left, managing to get out with some of the old dreams intact. My raft is a daughter whose mind has tunnels with tests of fire and monsters. She carries around the unshakeable belief that I can fix whatever is broken or at least maintain it, and she is dismayed, scared when I cannot. But if you’re in a crunch and you need a woman who sits and types in a man’s size large leather jacket in the hope its toughness will rub off on her, then you’ve got the right broad. Then I discover Abie is in quicksand again, flailing about and sinking deeper and will that ever change? There is no one else to care for Caroline who sits watching TV and knows all the shows and related times. There is no one else for her.

Mark requires three thinking days to make up his mind. On the fourth day, I can contact him, he says. I send him an email on the first day. “Mark, I am a good woman. My grandmother was a strong Russian peasant with long blond braids in her youth and a powerful singing voice. My grandfather was an earnest man with an amputated trigger finger, this grandfather who taught himself letters so he could read Tom Paine, Bertrand Russell, Tolstoy, Gandhi, Nehru, and Einstein and gave Wanda Landowska’s recordings of the Brandenburg Concertos and Beethoven’s Piano Concertos, especially the Emperor, Number 5, my favorite, air and sunlight. Moyne, my skinny wired cousin who smoked three packs a day said there was not a kinder man than my Zadi. He didn’t have a mean bone in his body, except that he teased his wife something fierce, every day of their marriage. A man, Mark, who gave away half his fortune so ink might stain a writer’s fingers, whose grace gave Shiva oils a canvas and a voice to the sweetest arco. This is the man who grew my embracing heart. My Zadi. And you will shortly leave.”





Alone

Maybe I’m spinning too fast. Maybe I never learned how to spin at all. Never lay on my back warmed by the noonday sun and watched the passing of clouds, images spreading and shifting, slipping away. No chance for me—silly spinning with arms sparkling like dew on the points of grass, shaping myself into an “S” with you whoever you are. Not for me, twirling until the world becomes dizzy. Maybe once, dressed in a white poplin sundress and scallop-edged ankle socks in Cape Cod, I felt the part where after delighted, after twirling, you stretch out on stalks of grass, their tops prickling the skin on arms and legs. And I am so full to brimming that I’m empty and all around searching for love more and more.

I write to Lenny. I tell him he’s the best of who does what and who says what. He says he’d like to be a fly on the wall. I create scenes for him and he believes he has access to my naked soul. He has sucked my cunt, his mouth vacuuming an orgasm right out of me. When I came and trembled afterward, he spread his body over mine. “I like to watch,” he said, would I masturbate for him and would I mind if he jerked off? I laughed and climbed on top of him. “Oh now she’s climbing on top of me,” he recited and “oh, now she’s using her tongue. Baby!”
Love has ravaged him, he says, so I ask whether he would prefer to be in love or to have some loving in his life. I write to Lenny because, in some way, we are sharing this book I’m writing. “Hey baby,” I say, “I had this new online fling, set him up with my letters—remember the one about ass fucking and my bathroom come? Oh, and I threw in an old deep throat for good measure. And left messages, erasing and repeating five times maybe more because, you know, intonation is everything.”
“You’re a crazy woman,” Lenny says in his light Mose Allison voice.

I sit down in front of my keys, playing the letters—keys tapping, dancing side to side, up and down, the rhythm sometimes halting, searching, slowing down, gathering up speed, commas, commas gathering up speed, linking letters sending messages about love, heartache, yearning to a New York man with a cock like a divining rod. “Come take me, I’m on that tour” I’ll scream running naked with my valise in hand and hair flying.

I’m stoned when I read his emails. His words appear broader, thicker. I set out my word traps. I want to teach him about hardcore kink, about bonds that never claim wrists or ankles, when a mind spreads its legs. “You can see it in the eyes,” I tell him, “they’re haunted, you know, and the lids are like mourning veils. My eyes.” I’m a junkie checking out hotmail: has he written, what has he written, and if he hasn’t, why not? He should be sliding in my come by now. When he writes, I’m high. “Oh,” I say. “Oh,” my fingers suspended above the keys, headphones filling my head with an old sax tune. I dress in layers; as soon as you think you’ve hit my undermost layer, there is another one beneath and then another. Even I don’t know what’s at the bottom or when I’ve reached it.

Four times a week, I train a three-hundred pound middle-aged woman, a suburban mouth who claims that she comes twelve times in a row. Her pale skin is veined and hangs in sacs. She has clear blue eyes, but the skin above and below is purple. At fifty-three, she’s hooked up with married Norwegian she met on the fourth pay-what-what-you-can day of my music and arts festival. Toronto Lennox used to fuck fat women. There was no work involved, they were just so grateful, he said. Harriet parades her bedroom details to Women’s Workout members—how the Norwegian taught her to take piss and rub herself, how it made her come and who would have believed it. He’s a hunk, she says, but I’ve seen him in person and he’s just a tall man with a small nose. We Jews still worry about our noses. Garth says that white noses are a mutation and I think he’s right. Harriet’s an obese woman with a belly rolling out like an old carpet that’s been spooled for decades and then unraveled. I never liked her although she has a good heart. Also, eleven years ago, groggy from a night’s sleep and mid-night binge and needing to take a piss, she bumped into her husband hanging from a bathroom fixture. So I felt sorry for her in spite of her being a three-times-a-week-guaranteed on account of her longstanding affair with food. Harriet has a talent for quality multiple orgasms. But then she’s got thighs like Garth and her massive comes could cause earthquakes. No way would I trade places. Even with my quest to reach my orgasmic potential. Besides, she has owl eyes like John Diefenbaker.