Newsflash! With the entry of Austrian film legend Arnolf Schwartzenitzler into California's gubernatorial re-race, I hereby announce my candidacy.
E-mail to join, and sign my petition...
5.6.03
Sixty years ago, he'da been workin' it! "You hens...better go cluck elsewhere!"
They'd've worked it too, these 'hens'. Watched him as he stood up, mock annoyance at their blatherings; stared, reprimanded...Given him an eye or two and even giggled, maybe.
"Ah, you broads are dizzy! What's your names?," he might've wondered.
"What's it to ya'?," 'Shirley' might've asked...They might've exchanged cigarettes, or phone numbers. "LIndy 7-5309".
Shirley may've slyly winked in black and white, and rayon.
Today, he stands up slowly. Three old women part like Moses; like the Red Sea, or a bad haircut...Make room for the grey and tired creature, sick, unsexy now...
Old work days far behind him.
© 2003, J. Glovsky
19.5.03
Smack Downed
(on vanity)
I went around in a woman's coat one winter. A leather number...Hourglass-shaped, fur collar and a hanging leather strap, or "belt". I didn't care. It kept me warm. Plus, it was in decent shape...It didn't have a hole in it, the buttons were all on...
It's owner (before me) used to say it fit her like a glove.
So I'm wearing this ridiculous wrap one winter--and a suede beret, which I found in a hardware store--and this diner guy intimates I'm a fruit.
"You're a fruit," he intimates.
No, admittedly, he was a bit more subtle. Stares for a minute before taking my order; double-takes toward the counter girl, who's smacking gum and chuckling to herself...looks back at me, and wisecracks, "He likes girls!"
...The counter girl--bodacious, lust, full-bodily--smacks, "I don't think so!"
© 2003, J. Glovsky
14.5.03
The park breaks Piggett Drive at Bentley. Who says you can't walk out here?
Officially annoying now, though: traipsing--sad, soft calves aflame--down endless, palm-framed, block-long miles. Buses floating past me as I drift...An island in this stream of traffic noise and children screaming.
Loud and blonde and Japanese, she reams the piled heap upon the floor of her gold auto...And in doing so, intrigues me with the workout suit she's sporting: Black, fish shorts laced tight to thighs, brown, round, and muscled where they ought to be.
El Mirador apartments blink, night, later...She is blowing me.
"Hey, how about a lay?," I say.
"Okay! A 'lay'..."
We bang away.
She's only staying, it turns out, El Mirador apartments...She's not from LA. Nor interesting...Her workout suit was. Peeled now, she's disappeared...
I reel back down to Sunset, catch a taxi someplace, anywhere.
I've shot my load. Still fairly early...
Watching, slumped in quiet corners...Seeing Rosa dancing with two cats not me, hair full of sex: She pumps two hands up through it, lets it plump about her face and neck. She clumps it, pumps, it plumps again...
I watch, slumped 'lone in quiet corners. Wish I'd never spoken to her...Met her...
Shot my load already.
"Can I take her from you?," Friend had asked. "I'll bring her back."
He didn't. Wait still, slumped in quiet corners...
Staring lucky cats not me.
The moon, full-blown, shines bright over El Mirador Apartments...In the trumpet player's car, I feel kidnapped through West Hollywood.
He drives down Fountain, forcing me to focus on his vocalists...My first time in a car here, and I'm trapped! It's Ripsy's breakfast hour."Listen, listen, listen," shouts he, rippling like a ten year-old. "He lost here! Pained look on his face...'Just play the bridge and get out, man!' Cat wouldn't listen...Wouldn't listen.
"Messed up my recording."
West on Sunset to the sea...
"Hey, turn that jungle music down, man!"
Taxi Driver turns to me. "You don't like Persian music? This, a superstar...Here's Persian pop.
"Madonna. Elvis Presley. Michael Jackson...Here is all of them. One time! This artist singer...She have three different, all-at-same-time lovers. Each one cut its neck for her. Right this...," he emphasizes, finger slicing just below one ear. And laughing, like a proud, strange dad, "Died, all! For love...The love of this sensation Persian singing artist!"
Humming now, sighs softly to himself, "It is relaxing, voice...Is beautiful, and lovely."
LA wonders in its naive youngness, how NY gets by each day. They're going there...Shawnay and Dylan.
Heading to New York next week.
This thrills them...They shrill giddily. "It just has such an energy!"
"I think the energy's here..."
"I disagree!"
"It's where you look for it! Want it to be...You, you're just unhappy here."
"My God! When we were there last time? My friend from college, Shane, and I? We ate at Boca Lupo...?"
"Right?"
"Four hundred and fifty bucks for lunch!"
"What!?"
"There were like, prob'ly six of us? Me, Shane, his boyfriend Duncan, Caitlin, Trevor...You remember Reese. We had like, appetizers...?"
"...Twenty-third Street..."
"Quality of life..."
"...mass guys!"
("Well, he was drunk...gets frisky?"
"...know! I know!"
"...just so much energy!")
"Do you know where the strip clubs are? The guy's strip clubs...?"
...Unfortunate assed. She asks again...I cannot give an answer (she's unfortunate assed); ignore her and her friend.
They disappear round La Cienega.
At Cadillac and Venice, I stand waiting for a bus or taxi...Car pulls up, rolls down its window. Upper middle-aged guy with a crew cut leans and says to me, "Hey, what are they? A couple of whores?"
He sits there, waiting for an answer. Light turns green, he's leaning 'cross his seat still, out the window toward me.
"I dunno," I shrug and look away.
Not far, loud gunshots wound...I whirl back toward the Moral Compass: slumped now, 'cross his front seat, pooling blood, splashed, plush interiors!
I dash toward La Cienega as sirens hurl the night around.
Some women just have killer hair. The more it piles there atop their heads, the lustier I rare to go...To share, to get to know which piles up there, sheening, top and...
OH!
...I've shot my load already. There's no reason left to stay out here...
"I'm waiting for my lunch so long," the Czech girl shrugs and smiles at me, "I'm eating my dessert first. Life's uncertain!" Shrugs and smiles at me...And picks a piece of pie from her plate, plucks it in her pucker. On the airplane, hear my flight attendant laugh about the 'Lifers'...
"We dance naked...Prison sits outside the window where we stay here. And we dance, in case they see us. Hold up signs: 'Call me!'
"...Remember?'"
3.5.03
She had the fattest pussy I have ever been a part of. Palm stretched over, purple leotard, and hair, blue-black and wine-drunk like the lips we bit and sucked on...Legs up, back against that fenced off lot near Soutine's, off Columbus; legs a ripe melange of ass and ocean...
Panties in my teeth and spitting hair from out my nostrils.
You could scarcely call it breathing, what we did to that night air. I'd say we pummeled it, kicked black and blue...Relaxed, by laughing afterwards we'd had no time for names and such last century comportment. Name? My name is thirdlegupnout@...
...You?
You say it's not your bag, this game we play, seduction...
Why should I believe you? Would you, me?
If I'd walked up to you all drunken, babbling about 'magic'...If I'd breathed against you, brushed up on your neck, huh? And heck, what if I'd quietly yet loudly torn apart your contemplations...?
No. You'd tear away, in fact! Or name a lawsuit in my honor...Me, seduce you?
Not in this day, age. You know it had to be this way...
And nothing to feel bad about. No, I'm the one who popped the third leg; I turned on to you...Whereas with you, it could've not been me...Been anybody!
I was there.
You see...? Seduction is your bag! Your game, and I play also.
(But you had the fattest pussy I have ever been a part of...Legs up, back against...Descend upon the fingers I brunt lovingly. Both grunt, and lose our marbles in the numbing, pummeled air.).
In Buchs, in Switzerland, repeat the scene, but this time it's a phone booth. We play Superman, and spin around and turn each other out...The Alpines ring us like disease; emasculate our selflessness, elaborate our flaws...
It's cold here also. See your breath explode like cannon, like a fissure bleeding, steam from hidden depths and wet, like snow, or New York summer. We're not ugly...Still, you pout and feign embarrassment; you wonder, while your hair, like milk with peaches, kisses up to bump my eye.
We sigh.
...The coughing fit starts: Deep, echoing horse eruptions tearing from the soul, the very depths of your half-century. "...What is it?"
"I don't know," you finish, shuddering.
We're Superman.
In Rosenheim, you see right through me. "It's not what you think," you cough and shudder.
"Don't think anything..."
...New York, you come again...We come, and meet again, and then...We shudder, coughing, laughing, roaring at the small joke of the world.
"We're not enough," you small your voice and sigh...I kiss and bump your drying eyes and thank you for the picture perfect postcard thing we tried to try...
You!
Had the fattest pussy I have ever been a part of...
30.4.03
It's usually the cutie-pies who get me: The smiling-with-tongues-leaking-out-of-their-teeth ones; the gap-toothed-and-sunny-eyed dollup of heat ones; the sweet ones. The sad-eyed and vulnerable, meek ones...
Though sometimes, a freak ends up having to do.
The manic comedian Robin Williams once described Maggie Thatcher, ex-British Prime Minister, as looking like she had a small turd under her nose. This invisible yet permanent affichement (like her handbag), was trotted across the globe in a proud mix of smiling and disapproval...Its look of perpetual offput was Hannah.
Hannah was freakish, to be sure. Knees bent like a horseman, she swayed like a willow...Invited me into her heightened regime: Crooked finger, then wagging it Mick Jagger-like, and then sshhh-shing it, crushing it up to our lips.
"Smell the finger!," I thought I heard her howl...Hannah didn't speak like me, though; freakish Hamburg Hannah only let on she spoke German. Plus, what's more, I never saw her smile. Finished with that years ago, she'd taken by the time we met to snarling disapprovingly at all things deemed offensive.
This was everything. My looks, my clothes, my snarling her way...Asses she'd grow transfixed on and then decide they wouldn't do...
"Right! That's the kind of bird you crave, 'ay?"
"...Crave?"
"You wanna shagger, don'ya? She with you?"
"No! I'm just hangin' out," I start.
"You reckon she fancies 'im?"
See Hannah: Dancing like a horseman willow...Licking on her hands and fingers, beating on her skirt to stay down.
"Tryin' all night, he has, that one. Why, 'e's about to cum in his trousers, I reckon..."
"Good for him, man! Think he'll hook up?"
"Who, 'im? That bloody tosser, never! Bloke's me 'usband, actually...And he's in pain right now, assure you! Right. Let'im get'is leg up, I say...End o'the day, he leaves when I do. When I say he does...Fuck off!"
Now she starts; bounds away from me...Then carries 'bloke' out of the club, next instant.
Hannah's left alone now with her heightened, altered dreams...She sits there snarling, like she farted; spilling wine all down herself. I ask this bird, who's flown, "You cool?"
She snarls at me, incoherent.
Money dudes attempt to move her. Plant in their Versace and their suede shoes, black and '80's-looking; rape her with their barroom brawling stares and knees spread wide, and perfumes...
I win, as she spins her ugly face and eyes back, snarls at me.
Sense the melting: Beast grows tamed...Snuffed, upturned face and nose (like someone farted) thaws like Spring a little. Eyes part like a theatre drape...a coma victim coming back...Begin to show some signs of Life and cognizance.
She wants me bad.
I dive into the seat the British guy had squinted in like Lennon...Failing, hawk-like overtures he'd made, they've left no stain on Hannah!
I alone possess the key...
I toss a stick of gum at her. She smiles, feeds it back to me...I take the wrapper off. She sneers, and makes herself disgusted, look disgusting once again.
But then the ice melts. We connect again. The shit drips off her face and pools like butter on a waffle, or the bottom of a movie tub of popcorn. And she's smiling! Mad beast being tamed...I reach out, cautiously, my hand to pet her.
She sniffs heinously again, disdainful.
Painfully butt-ugly.
I snatch back my hand, afraid she's gonna snarl, flare and chomp it off. She rolls her eyes, then head, and gives it over to the bar behind her: Country tourists from the States...amazingly bland stereotypes. There's two guys and a sister-looking, "just friends" type, just hanging.
Sudsy mustaches stain stupidly their upper lips ("Got Weissbier?")...And they stare and laugh, embarrassed, as they size the situation. Hamburg Hannah does her own sizing...She's open to potential (three new asses to transfix upon!). She stares, unfocused, lolls her head back; maybe hisses, "Naahh! Uh-uh!" Then turns it slowly back toward me...I shrug.
She grins (unfocused), tries to...
Keep connecting this way, we two, deep into the midnight.
It turns two AM. Now Hannah says she has to use the rest room. She stands up to pee (or tries to), hikes her skirt around her waist and pulls her drawers down, starts to squat...all single motion, just one hand; the other hand stays free and clings with tenter hooks around the glass of wine she spills, yet keeps refilling.
Snatch her up straight (wine glass crashes)...Drag her, with a chair or two, across the room to where the stairs go down and leak into the bowels of the rest rooms.
We descend, relieve ours.
As I'm waiting for her outside by the condom machine afterwards, occurs to me bread's limited...I've just about enough to get a taxi back to Steinerplatz, and hoof from there to where I'm staying.
Push and nose her up the stairs. She's falling backwards, spinning, Hannah, hoping hands will help her...She gets hung up on my neck at one point, humming I "smell soft".
"Don't move!" We finally reach the top and I run fast to get her things (her little purse and too great overcoat); run back to where I planted her...Bent knees and willow swaying, catch her beckon with a crooked finger, no one in particular.
"It's time to leave," say I. "Let's go." She brushes my erection with a fist and snarls disapproval. "I can't fuck," she slurs. "You, no..."
"No, no!," I say. "No fuck...Let's go."
Outside, the German, autumn night cracks chilling, like a Holocaust. A line of Berlin taxis waits like sharks in bleeding water...There's a pair of drunken Lederhosen dancing with a Girlfriend.
Hannah lies with booted feet up in the parking lot.
Look back at her...
© 2000, J. Glovsky
(submitted as 'Flash Fiction' to zoetrope.com
4/23/03
-so far 50% read/review ratio)
(submitted as 'Flash Fiction' to zoetrope.com
4/23/03
-so far 50% read/review ratio)
28.4.03
I sit down beside her on the train, and overhear this conversation...She is drunk, it seems, and willing, and the poor guy who's beaten me to her blows it.
"What've you been drinking?," he mutters (afraid to reveal he's making moves).
"Does it look like I've been drinking?" Smiles. "Wine, liquor. Then hard liquor...Not good!"
"What're you celebrating? Where's your friends?"
She looks right...looks left...Smiles, shrugs. "My friends are gone," she intimates.
There's at least a fifteen second pause...into which I would've dove without holding my breath! But not he...Our simple hero. Asks instead, after this pause, if she has lived out of the city long.
...Inanity ensues. He comes from Newark, she stays in Hoboken. Her roommate is a cat...He shuffles, mutters things (can't really hear)...Another train screams by, his lips keeps moving, like an Asian flick.
This pretty, drunken chick, she lolls her head now, tired of feigning interest! Right, then left...done eyes grip mine...She rolls them at me, shrugs and seems to indicate the simpleton. We have to change trains, she and I; the guy stays on to get to Newark.
"A pleasure to meet you, Melissa," he mutters...sliding a hand up her ass as she leaves the train.
"Fuck off," I smirk, and traipse across the tipsy platform with her.
The doors of the train to Hoboken close behind us as we stumble on. Now she can be all mine, think I...
We stand and stare and sway (there are no seats), we grip each others' eyes...We hold fast to our gazes and we bop in gentle rhythm to the rocking, loco motion...
But she doesn't recognize me.
© 2003, J. Glovsky
(unfinished...)
(unfinished...)
27.4.03
Coffee Sounds
Underground...feeling heat in the furious subway. Flipping through a candy rack and trying not to deal...I buy a pack of gum and turn to see what kind of juice there is.
I hear come up behind me, as I stare into the cooler now, a pack (or two or three, at least) of pissed off, sudden voices. Angry voices...
Colored voices. Growing, loudly overlapping voices...Countershouts in Arabic: strong desert protestations. "Fuck!" cuts through, then "nigger"...then the whumph of impacted, cracking flesh. A muffled 'pop' next, silence, running...metal pounding to the floor.
...Go over. Blood pools, train comes, goes...A thermos cup of coffee cools beside a stack of crackers.
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