Sunday, July 13, 2014


My most important readers are dead, the ones I write for most. I'm getting on and the older you get the more dead people you end up knowing. I write for the ones who can't speak for themselves, the ones I don't want to forget. So I do what I can to keep them alive and not forget the details of who they were when alive.

I'd like to say they show up in dreams but they don't. They show up between the lines, sly and backhanded. I see them when I go over stuff a few days after I've written it.

Sometimes I'll notice the way a line is phrased, a piece of dialog and I can see one of my dead sticking in their 2 cents, levering in a few words to remind me of a time back when they were alive, talking about christ knows what, an experience we had together, laughed about.

Dead girlfriends are tough. They can be vindictive, never happy with the way I recount our way of being together, how we talked, how we moved, how we got intimate. I get accused of mixing them up with another woman from another time, told I'm completely full of shit.

I vacillate but finally admit yeah, okay, I do whore up the story a bit to add some extra flavor, combine ways and means of fucking and relating and finding definition in how we took each other on.

Old addict pals aren't as intolerant but just as picky. They handle it differently. Fewer accusations and don't outright call me a liar. It's more a simple shake of the head, as if to say: "That's not how it was and you know it."

The dead are not easy taskmasters. At the beginning of my novel Mount Royal, there's a dedication to a couple dead friends and that's not just whimsy, not only sentiment. I really did write the book for them and it was their approval I sought. Living readers are good, they mean something, sure, but it's the dead who keep me writing and keep me living.

Friday, July 11, 2014


A friend told me she noticed a recent surge in media reports about a sharply rising demand for intelligent women who are over 40. We all know the mainstream media are the last ones to discover anything important and like all good ideas, having an appreciation for mature women has always been valuable among evolved individuals, those with their wits about them.

So, yeah, no surprise this theme has been recirculated yet again by the bored and boring editors of the world’s infotainment sewers. As a result we end up with the Great Army of the Unlaid, as Lenny Bruce aptly described them, seeing a badly watered-down version of the idea appear on the covers of magazines like GQ, Cosmo, Vice, etc.

“Do we have a new love affair with mature women?”

“How To Score A Hot Older GF!”

“Hang onto your hats, gents! The mature woman is back!”

A pair of fashionable young knuckleheads I know complained these stories indicate their problem, not the solution. They want to meet smart, hip, experienced, hot women over 40 who do all the dirty stuff young women don’t have a clue about. But the studly young fellers don’t know how to make the initial grade.

Sure, the neo-metro boys want to go to bed with these hot older women but both try to underscore their sincerity by insisting they’d like to have a sharp ‘n’ pervy older woman as a girlfriend. (Who wouldn’t?) I guess they both earned high marks in gender sensitivity training.

But imagine, late 20′s dudes whinging women old enough to be their mothers won’t take them seriously for anything other than a few rolls in the sack. It’s beyond bathos.

Well, you can’t blame the women. Someone under 30 might be fun to fool around with once in a while but few have anything to say you’ll want to hear. They’re not much more than arm and/or bed candy. They might have hot bodies and cute faces but the older women I know have one main issue with younger guys: Very enthusiastic but generally have zero idea about how to raise the heat to levels evolved women past 40 require to remain interested.

It’s the same with younger women. They look good and can be a laugh but they’re a oppressively passive, often tediously stupid and naive – just like the boys. You have to tell them how to do everything and the pre, during and post coital conversation is brutal, 2D all the way. In other words, if 40 is the new 30, 20 is the new 10.

I know it may not seem fair but as the old expression goes, youth and enthusiasm are no match for age and treachery. Or maybe age and honesty, the point when you don’t much care what the other person wants and figure they’ll ask for what they want or just initiate it. You take from one another what you want and that in itself is gratifying.

And if they don’t receive the kind of fucking they want, well, that’s their problem. Live and learn. Anyway, it’s not as if someone under 30 will have any idea what they want, so don’t sweat it and just use them to get yourself off. They can consume it as a learning experience.

Truth is, there’s something liberating about being used and even somewhat abused by someone who knows what they want from your body and how to get it and they’re not much interested in whether it pleases you. What’s pleasing is being objectified on an ad hoc basis, valued in a strictly sexual sense within a specific context. Try explaining that to the young doofi.

It’s not submission. It’s more about the opportunity to let go of neurosis or worrying about what your partner wants. If they’re smart and unequivocal, they’ll take what they want and that can be a very hot thing.

But how to explain this concept to a pair of young hardons who want things to remain uncomplicated? You can’t tell them it’s simple yet complex, one of those sizzling conundrums you can truly savor, and there is, thankfully, no formula or method or technique. You each allow yourself the freedom to be used and valued.

Okay, no point in getting wordy about it.

I tell the youngsters it’s chemistry. Go with the chemistry. If you see a certain look in her eye and feel something burning inside your head and your soul (assuming you have one), take a chance and see what happens. Nothing stokes desire like being genuinely and madly desired, creating a timeless moment where nothing else matters or exists.

Maybe what prevents getting to this state is the usual pedestrian fear of rejection, everyone wanting guarantees of success when risk and anticipation are a big part of the turn on. So it’s again down to your ego crabbing, But how can I make sure She/He likes me? Boo fuckin hoo, junior.

Show some balls, roll the dice. Oh, and two important tips I almost forgot to mention to the young studsters:

Read more books and hang out at gay bars.

The first tip was met with usual sighs of resignation: “Yeah yeah.” But the second tip caught them off guard.

“Gay bars?”

“Yeah, smart hot older women often hang out at gay bars because they are sick of being hit on by losers, young and old, at hetero bars. They dig talking with good looking, smart, well mannered, funny, stylish men who aren’t instantly drooling on them. It also helps if you are genuinely bisexual and relatively perved, like you don’t get all squeamish when she pulls out a quality strap-on and wants to fuck you really well. In case you haven’t heard, this is also old news. Many evolved women have long used this as a kind of litmus test on the worthiness of spending their time and energy on a guy. And it’s not at all like getting fucked by another man. Women do it very differently.”

The poor young hetero bastards gave me blank, worried looks and huddled over their beers. Well, I guess it is better if they stick to their young female peers, junior haus fraus sewing their wild oats or whatever it is middle class youth do for kicks. In fact, yeah, better if they never find out and instead coast through a relatively vanilla life with a little bit of youthful ‘craziness’, eventually trading in their burning and inexplicable compulsions for a solid, asset-based pension.

Saturday, July 5, 2014


Recovering alcoholic Glen Bolden interviews recovering addict and writer Basil Papademos while sitting in an idyllic Chiang Mai tea garden.

Describe your desk

I live in a dumpy hotel and my desk is kind of a classic writer's set up. In other words, it's a mess of notebooks, food, coffee cups, loose sheets of handwritten notes, full ashtrays, cigarette packs, motorcycle magazines, all sorts of crap.

What do your fans mean to you?

Fans? I get the odd stalker. Okay, I'm kidding. Well, not entirely... A lot of my 'fans' are women over forty. Makes sense, I guess, since I write about relationships with my contemporaries, whether they be those burning-hot, short-lived acts of mutual madness and despair or something that lasts longer and is more involved. I get a fair number of explicit letters and sometimes fairly personal photos from other lonely lunatics in far flung corners of the world, a bit unhinged, living circumscribed lives, making big sacrifices for families, careers, god knows what. I hear about a lot of plans to finally break free of all that once the kids are old enough and the guy's been dumped after securing decent alimony, a lot of fantasies of running off to exotic locales, getting bold and pervy and reading a lot more.
I get some requests for advice as well. Seems bizarre. The characters I write about have utterly fucked up lives. But I guess they get a lot of sex and intimacy so maybe that's why I'm asked how that works. It's all rather mysterious to me, a total stranger writing and asking very personal questions, sending very personal information and images.
I wish I knew the answer to anything but I don't. I barely know how to get up and write every day.
In terms of the writing itself, one very valuable thing I get from readers is when they tell me they understood something that I hadn't intended nor even thought of. They are like a mirror and give me new information about my writing and my own motives.

Do you remember the first story you ever wrote?

Yes, I was about 8 or 9. It was about my mother having an affair, which was not actually true to the best of my knowledge. And I'm old enough that this was on a Brother electric typewriter. My father found it and went nuts. It was not a happy time.

What is the greatest joy of writing for you?

I don't know if writing is about joy or redemption or trying to pursue some sort of answer. One way writing feels like validation is it gives me the opportunity to try to bring back people, times and places that are gone forever. I suppose it's also a sense of permanence, stability. My life has always been pretty unstable, going from pillar to post, so a finished and published book does make me feel I've actually accomplished something tangible.

What are you working on next?

I'm in the terminal stages of hacking together a new novel called How To F*ck Your Psychiatrist. Yes, the title is tongue in cheek - or perhaps tongue in somewhere else. It should be out in Fall of 2014.

Who are your favorite authors?

I like all kinds of writing, from ancient writers like Livy, Juvenal, moving on to Rabelais, Marquis de Sade, Emily Dickinson, Robert Louis Stevenson and Burroughs, Susan Sontag, Gertrude Stein, Kerouac, Bukowski, Germaine Greer, Kathy Acker, Jim Carroll and many many others.

What inspires you to get out of bed each day?

I'll quote John Banville on this: "I get up and write every day to make up for the shit I've written up till this point."
Writing is largely about disappointment. If you don't like being disappointed, don't be a writer.
I wake up each day full of dread. Once I'm vertical and doing something, it gets better. Writing well is never easy. Language is like smoke, beautiful but difficult to grasp and manipulate. Even the great writers I love echo the same sentiment. Writing is generally not a happy pursuit.
You spend most of your time questioning your own motives, worth, intelligence, wit and so on.

How do you discover the books you read?

I'm lazy so friends send me things they've read and liked and rave about.

When you're not writing, how do you spend your time?

Fretting about writing, scribbling notes by hand so I don't forget sudden ideas about something I'm writing and I love fixing and riding old Japanese motorcycles.

What is your writing process?

I usually begin ideas writing by hand, filling up cheap notebooks then transpose that stuff to my laptop. Or I might get on a roll and rattle away on the computer directly. I often begin with one word or one sentence and build on that through re-writing. As they say, writing is re-writing.
I find one of the keys is to leave a piece of writing alone for a while, get some perspective. That's not exactly a new idea but it definitely helps give you some prespective.

Do you remember the first story you ever read, and the impact it had on you?

Princess and the Pea when I was like 5 or something. And something about a lonely clown who couldn't find a circus that would have him.
I'm a lifelong loner, wanderer and questioner of everything so the lonely clown thing had a definite impact. Basically, your standard cliche writer as fuck up.

What's the story behind your latest book?

It's a scalding hot radio-active romance between an aging raconteur and a super hot super smart, 40 year old super MILF psychiatrist. It's about their collision of mind, body and soul. A court orders James Villon to undergo psychiatrist assessment to determine if his misdeeds are premeditated and rational or acts of sudden mad compulsion. Dr. Kate Kathare is given the job of determining if he's crazy like a fox or just plain crazy.

You are 56 years old and clearly love writing. No offense, but what took you so long to write seriously?

I was a junkie for a long, long time and I did write. Well, I wouldn't call it writing. I worked on some truly awful TV shows, wrote the odd thing for magazines, had my stuff included in a few anthologies. I lived a chaotic and disorganized and troublesome life and my first novel was published many years ago, also about being a fuck up, messing around with drugs and women and sometimes other genders, the edges of crime. And frankly, after I quit using drugs a few years ago, I was kind of stunned to still be alive and figured I should do something and they do say you ought to write about what you know. Since I don't know dick about vampires or werewolves or medieval magician schools or spies or clever who dunnits since all the crime I ever witnessed or was involved in was incredibly stupid and short-sighted. But I do have a passing acquaintance with ripping bodices - so I figured I'd write about all the stuff I lived through, people I've been involved with, and perhaps I wouldn't look back and think my life was a total waste of time.

I know you get asked this a lot but how much of your novel, Mount Royal is autobiographical and how much is fiction?

Like a lot of fiction, it's a hyper reality version of things I went through or witnessed. Some of the experiences are mine, some are those of other people I knew. Then they get put through a kind of pounding process, I guess, get pounded into some sort of sense and held together with spit, barbed wire and glue.

So I'm guessing you didn't work from a story outline?

Uh, no. I wrote a bunch of scenes and then wrote linking scenes, shuffled them around, rewrote the stuff countless times, got obsessive with flow and the music of language. I've always had trouble with narratives, believing them. I try to read some story arc book that goes from A to B to C and it seems phony. No life works that way. There are too many random factors. Like with mystery novels, thrillers, horror, all the stuff which is handcuffed to some logical flow of events. You need that in terms of a time line and continuity but overarching themes do not exist in the world I see. Stories with a highly structure beginning, middle and end are a formula that bears almost zero resemblance to what goes on in daily life. People do all kinds of illogical, self-fucking things all the time for no apparent reason and it makes no sense in a novel where the characters become tools of the narrative progression. I prefer books revolving around a central idea. Like Burroughs' Interzone. There's no story, per se. There's no narrative other than him stumbling around high as hell, hallucinating and doing things that don't make a lot of sense, surrounded by others doing much the same thing. And yet, it's a great piece of writing. It manages to convey it's power and meaning and subtext without leading the reader on a false journey.

It sometimes seems that everyone and their dog is writing a novel these days. What do you foresee as the future of writing and publishing?

Not a clue. It makes no difference to me in the end. I write what I write the way I write for reasons I can barely explain to myself, let alone to others. I'm incapable of writing about a 'topic' on demand. But with self publishing becoming easier, It does seem traditional publishers will have to offer writers much more value for their large cut of any revenue. The main problem I see with new writing is lack of editorial filter, which affects quality. I run across some good ideas being well expressed but it usually seem like they need more work, more rewriting and the eye of a good editor. It's impossible to edit your own work. It's as if quality of writing has become secondary to quantity.

What's coming up in the future?

I'm working on a novel called Whores of Bangtown. It's about the global human sex slave trafficking network. Governments and organizations are well aware of this issue but they cannot resist the huge amounts of illicit money flowing back into the world's financial system. But it's dirty and depraved, black humored. I can't help writing that kind of stuff.

Thursday, June 26, 2014


There's a lot of debate nowadays about the so-called crisis in publishing, 'writers' bitching they can't get published and don't get paid.

I get a lot of unsolicited manuscripts and letters sent to me because I've had a couple novels published, got a little bit of notice, write for a few magazines and I live in SE Asia.

That seems to convince many people I've gotten rich from writing and I'm living the high life in an exotic locale. This results in a bizarre disconnect that's equal parts naivety and cynicism.

The cover letters I receive are often long whines about how stupid and useless agents and publishers are because they can't see the plain truth, that the manuscript in question is a brilliant piece of work.
And yes, people do actually quote friends and acquaintances who have assured them their writing is the work of a "genius."

I'm not kidding. In a recent email, a guy wrote me: "I scare agents and publishers because I write the truth. My story is like nothing you have ever read. It is a masterpiece of fictional prose and nobody writes the way I do. It will turn the world upside down!"

The sample of his "fictional prose" was a long, bitter and often confusing tirade about the injustice of the British divorce court system. Of course, it's a profoundly evil and wide-ranging conspiracy controlled by the political and financial elite.

Sadly, almost all the stories and novel excerpts I'm sent read as if the writing itself is the last thing on the writer's mind. Why on earth they've decided to write is a mystery. There's no style, no love of language, no voice, no real clue what they want to say or why and it's usually humorless and self aggrandizing or sanctimonious to the point of making me wonder if it's meant as satire.

And I get a disturbing number of stories set in a creative writing course the writer took and how terribly he or she suffered while surrounded by classmates too stupid to realize they were in the presence of a literary giant. Sometimes there's the seed of an interesting idea but too often I get the impression the writer actually resents having to write, and especially having to re-write.

Most seem to be in a hurry to get that part over with and move on to securing an agent, negotiating a big money publishing contract, a major studio movie deal and all the money, status and ego-stroking attention that comes with being a world famous author with countless fans.

It's rare that the writer will ask for advice about the manuscript they've sent. Usually, they coyly try to get me to reveal the 'secret.' How I managed to trick the 'system' into publishing my work and affording me a cool, globetrotting lifestyle.  That's the one thing they desperately want to know, angrily demanding: ENOUGH OF THIS BULLSHIT! HOW THE HELL DO I GET RICH AND FAMOUS RIGHT NOW?!

When I do bother to offer some constructive criticism, or tell them I've had only a couple books published and know as much as they do about the 'biz', a very common reply is a hateful attack full of insults and cynical comments about how I'm part of a 'publishing mafia' that takes sick pleasure in keeping talented writers out of the loop.

If I'm honest and tell them making a living at writing is as rare as horse feathers and it's a thankless, hand to mouth existence that will most likely leave them poor, crazy and alone, I'm a bastard for trying to stop them from pursuing their 'dream.'

No wonder so many agents and publishers don't read unsolicited material. From what I've seen,  the vast majority of people who say they want to be writers are not interested in language or writing at all.

And that's no doubt why I also get regular offers to 'ghost write' what I'm always assured is an fascinating story that's never been told and will take the publishing world by storm.

I tell them what I tell anyone who wants to know the 'secret' of writing. It's called the A.I.C. Formula.
Firmly place Ass In Chair.
"Abandon all hope, ye who enter here."

Monday, June 23, 2014

Porn is to sex what McDonald's is to food

Yeah, a lot of what I write is about people having sex. But I don't consider it porn. First of all, the lighting. Aside from the fundamentally shallow nature of pornography, the lighting is brutal, like sex in an operating room. I realize video requires bright light to generate color, hence the blazing halogens, but the visual aesthetics are pretty gruesome.
Then there's the soundtrack.
If that's not a turn off, I don't know what is. All the phony moans and groans and grunts and idiotic commentary. It's a hilarious old cliche that allows porn to reference its own history, a nod to the original mass stupidity of the form and now risen to being labeled 'ironic' because everyone's supposed to be smarter these days and we all know the phony moans and groans are a put-on.
Too bad that doesn't make it any less of a drag.
I used to regularly show up at porn video sets, selling drugs to the cast and crew, and there always seemed to be a lot of irritation, everyone in a hurry to get this shit over with. They could be assembling cheap consumer electronics or bottling pisswater beer for all the difference it seemed to make to the 'workers'.
But it was also funny. Like when some hysterical director under tremendous monetary/time pressure would be screaming at a baffled naked woman, telling her she's sucking the guy's half hard dick all wrong. It's classic comedic hubris.
Even more pathetic, all this is often happened during some dreary, bright afternoon in a suburban house, a cornball cliched place with a sunken living room and cheesy overblown white leather furniture.
At least my appearance was greeted with joy. Everybody's always happy to see the dealer. The women did little bumps of coke to keep up their enthusiasm but the guys weren't allowed since coke is a cock shrinker.
The guys would take viagra or some kind of opioid to stay hard and not blow their load too quick, but then it's tough to get off and produce the all-important money shot. The viagra-using guy can fuck the women like a machine for hours but if he can't orgasm on camera, he's useless.
One solution I've seen often enough is editing in a money shot by another guy who's a big time ejaculator, just pumps out gallons of the stuff, the women awash. The two cocks have to be somewhat similar to maintain narrative veracity but that's not a big priority so as long as the two cocks are of the same color and vaguely the same size, it works.

Or even easier, you see the woman blowing the dude like she's sucking a golf ball through a garden hose then a quick cut to the cock's POV and a big spray of cream is shot into her face with a turkey baster. You don't actually see the cock ejaculating but if the editor uses a few quick jump cuts and a little finesse, the average punter doesn't notice. And the director can re-shoot the cream-in-face shot as many times as need be.

Blow jobs have long been the snack food of heavily commercialized human sexuality.
But I'm weird that way. It's a romantic thing - an occupational hazard, I guess, if you want to write about how men and women interact on visceral/emotional/intuitive levels. I find it very intimate and am picky about who I let go down there. And to get off in someone's mouth, a great deal of context is needed. It requires something like feeling understood. I'm not sure about what exactly. I guess you could call it love but not some nuclear family TV version of love. Something else.
Same way I don't go down on just any woman. She can look good and be hot but I still need to be talked into it and not always with words. I need an indication of strong heat, some other motive, the desperate urge to be free of the world, of convention, of human limitations. I don't know. There's got to be something else to it, something brave and courageous and just humane and fun, not transactional.

If it's going to be a sudden thing with a stranger somewhere; on a plane or at a party or in a bar or god knows, meeting someone on the street, in a bookstore, museum, wherever - sure, that can be seen as meaningless and shallow and gratuitous but it can have some depth. Although, most guys don't give a shit as long as they get to blow their load and tick off another notch.

For some people that's all they need, all there is and the rest is a lot of mewling bullshit.
But I can't help thinking about what the whole thing means, why we're doing what we're doing, what brought us together and why and how and when and where and peeling back all those layers to see who we are in that moment.

Even if we only know one another for a brief time, share some private, very luxurious secret and remember one another once in a long while years later, wonder where that person is, what they're doing - yeah, it's the romance, I guess. Not like a bad formula romance novel but a singular act, giving up something valuable of yourself, the look in her eye, a sense of faith in the moment, trusting our body language.
And neither is it some bad fashion TV splice or hip music video. It's a rare thing and incongruous and happens because our human fire takes on a life and motive all its own. The fire may use us as fuel to burn but we are not the fire. Only the fire is the fire...

Sunday, June 22, 2014

MOUNT ROYAL: There's Nothing Harder Than Love

Mount Royal: A Novel
Mount Royal: There's Nothing Harder Than Love - a novel
by Basil Papademos
Edition: Paperback
Price: $16.34
25 used & new from $7.19

5.0 out of 5 stars
A book for readers savage and smart.May 20, 2014
Reviewed by Margaret Wagner
Verified Purchase(What's this?)
This review is from: Mount Royal: A Novel (Paperback)
Mount Royal shakes you up like a freight train, hitting you with the brash sounds and hell-bent forward motion of an underground culture fueled by high octane drugs, sex, disobedience, and a singular lack of remorse. The writer manages to capture a very specific place and time, evoking the images of old haunts and projecting the voices of irascible ghosts while avoiding the taint of nostalgia. The dialogue sounds true; you can hear it ringing though the alleyways and crash pads of Montreal. The sex is unsparing and incredibly lush.

It is a love story, in the sense that being honest in the portrayal of human passions and complexity without passing judgment is the essence of love.

“We won by not winning, by debauching and sleeping late, by filling the bars and sexing all over the mountain, our victories constant and gentle and irresistible.”

Tuesday, June 17, 2014

One Day I Will Feel You Tremble In My Arms

Basil Papademos

I’d been living in a garage in a rapidly gentrifying part of Hogtown. One of those garages that’s under the house. Everything in the place was done to the nines – but not over-furished. My ex-wife liked it fairly empty in a stylish way. She and the cat were living in all those big rooms and I rarely went upstairs. We’d stopped talking a few years earlier and it was ghostly. Reminded me of Katherine Hepburn in the movie version of Eugene O’Neill’s Long Day’s Journey Into Night. The way her son hears her upstairs, walking with her dead all night, up and down the halls and rooms, creaking footsteps. A family shredded by booze and drugs, the great American melodrama.
I was making good coin but had a huge junk habit – I mean like an oil-burnin pig. I couldn’t do enough of the shit. In that dark garage, my bike for company – my old school Japanese screamer. She spoke the only language I could hear.
And I was putting out the junk in a large way. It went with driving escorts all night in my shitbox Mazda. Good girls for the most part. Not stupid enough to slave at McDonald’s or any other toxic waste dump for almost no money. At least sellin pussy is honest. Here’s what you get for your money – straight up. Not telling you this here poisonous slop is actually edible. Suckin on pussy, fuckin pussy, bangin ass, gettin head, that won’t give you a stroke or a heart attack or bad cholesterol or make you a fat slob.
So I was in this dark garage with my Japanese bitch and selling junk and running women and picking up my mute wife at the train station every afternoon when she got home from that fucking career of hers. I’d think ‘Whatever happened to my beautiful bohemian princess?’ She got herself a profession and a mortgage.
She rationed words with an eye-dropper, a few syllables of mumbled sideways talk – the heart of our ‘problem’: My all-consuming habit. A tacit understanding developed – a logistical mythology that things weren’t actually that bad. But it is always that bad, it’s always a fuckin disaster.
My only life raft, the novel I was writing about our earlier life in Montreal, when I used to call my ex-wife ‘Slim.’ A novel called Mount Royal, the street drug whoring club art underground scene in that once open city, under that mountain. Nobody had to have a job. There weren’t any anyway. The city was a basket case. It was lovely. The whole nagging feeling you should wake up early and get ahead, that was blown out of the water. Nobody was getting ahead. Such thinking was very stupid, like making firm plans to win the lottery.

So here we were, a bunch of years later and living in Hogtown, actual property owners, sadly having outgrown our sweet elitist slumming in Montreal. Hogtown was a penal colony of the soul. I was flying around town day and night and trained my customers to leave me alone for a couple hours each morning when I worked on that novel. I began writing for a local mag, stories about running escorts and selling junk – my daily life, the only thing I know how to write about. They published a couple stories.
Within moments my life turned four dimensional. The improbable became physical law. Some woman, literally on the other side of the planet, ended up with one of my stories in her email. How To Murder Your Children For Fun And Profit. She deleted it and it came back, five times. She finally read it in the middle of a beer drunk, then wrote the magazine and demanded to know if this shit was real. They ignored her. She wrote them again and heaped scorn on the editors for not having the manners to respond.
They wrote me and asked wtf is up with this woman – why is she abusing us? Do you know her? I said no, not a clue. Forward me the email.
I wrote her back. She was in my face right away, wanting to know if my stories were bullshit or what. “No, it’s what I do. My job.”
And that kicked off countless long emails back and forth for some months before she finally sent a photo. And of course she was a rare sight – long slinky bod, classic celtic beauty, confident, sublime, complex as hell, a free flowing larger-than-life presence.
We got close over the phone, she drunk, me high. One time after dealing with a customer, I forgot to turn my phone off and climbed on my Japanese screamer and raced across town to the methadone clinic in 4pm Friday afternoon gridlocked traffic. She heard it all, came along for the howling ride.
She heard me and my sleeper beauty Suzuki, both of us swearing at the traffic, white line fever. Stop lights, rights of way – feh. That shit’s for tax payers in tin box cages.
Glory. Glorious is when you wrap your legs around her high-compression head and twist her ear and hang the fuck on cuz she will do her best to toss your ass onto the hard road then go skittering off to smash into a bunch of shit, cars and people, while you are run over several times by halfwits in the vehicles coming up behind you. They will aim for your bouncing, crumpled body. It will be passive-aggressive vengeance – for the million slights and insults of sportbikes that have gone zooming past while car driving idiots sit entombed in traffic.
It’s very hot two-wheeled fucking. She launches you into the stratosphere and it’s nothing but time warp. Sound becomes past tense, too fast to be in the present – just future and past. You’ve gone past before it’s happened. You’re already beyond that horizon up ahead. You gulp and feel like you’re gonna shit yourself cuz it is a luscious, drawn out terror, absolute and irrevocable. That ticket gets punched only once. The guarantee is written on the back. You feel a tiny front end tingle – maybe the beginning of a bad wobble that will become a tank slapper, break your thumbs and hurl you into a swimmer’s cliffside deadly dive, arcing far down the road. But you show faith, put the chin of your full-face helmet on her tank and say: “There’s nothin but us, baby…” You coo and cajole, finally sob and wail inside your helmet, blink away the tears. You close your eyes for long moments and dream of how you’ll be together forever if it all stops right now. It’s far beyond romantic. It’s epic. This is the purest glory.
The road becomes a dark gray triangular blur ahead of her nose. On either side, the passing world is a dark flashing history of then. You’re past it before it’s happened – you negate experience. Together you erase time. It’s history before future. There is only you and her empire of the stratosphere. Risk a glance at the gauges – tach and speedo needles buried, everything illuminated a fiery orange red. Right now right here - everything but precisely what you are doing together will kill you both.

I phone her from the darkness. She’s twelve hours in the future. I call from all kinds of roadside shitholes. Gas stations, bars, donut shops, abandoned mom and pop restaurants, shut down and overgrown before they were opened. I jerk off to her voice while standing next to my bike at the edge of the highway. She gets me to cum on the tank, on the seat, on her voice as night traffic thunders past, the endless herd of single-minded horses. I get very hard for her over the phone. I listen to her play with her pussy, hear her knock shit over while frantically reaching from her bed for anything to stick in there, anything vaguely cock shaped, plastic deodorant tube, bottle of face cream, whatever the fuck, dying to tell me those words: “I’m coming, baby. I am coming for you.”
It’s insanely romantic, unheard of, patently implausible. Nobody believes me. She calls long distance from an exploding new universe as it forms on the end of her clit. I cry to her, tell her I am old and dying and I am fevered. She sweet talks me while she jerks off and weeps, pleads with me. But practical also – one more good wank just in case I kill myself on that stupid bike and she never gets to dig her claws into my back. Just in case. Six months of a thousand Victorian novels mixed with a million desperate doomed wartime affairs, missed chances you can rewind and replay to make them real and whole and I promise her: One day I will feel you tremble in my arms.

In an airport hotel room, out in the generic wasteland of Hogtown. I show up with bags full of booze at 8:43 in the morning. She’s a veteran boozer but it’s done her brain and her looks more good than harm, long and tall and perfect breasts and a tight ass and she’s older than anybody but me.
Our first words are only breathing, exhales of relief. It’s beyond cinematic. Even The Night Porter pales next to this. Routine will be hunted down and killed. Reasonable expectations will face cursory show trials then be summarily executed. Rationale is tortured and beheaded before a cheering crowd. It’s a global revolution of filthy whispers. Her mind is a scalpel and easy slices off thin layers of me. She reminds me of being in the grip of elated terror on my bike, middle of a desert night. I feel her tremble in my arms. Her mouth tastes like the future, a larger planet than this one.
 “Do you want a drink?” she mumbles, her lips raised to my cheekbone.
I push her ass onto the bed, yank off her black tights. She rolls with it, unsurprised. She clasps her hands behind her head and looks down, an objective observer. She’s been through an army of guys and has much to compare with. I have ideas of a slow, slithering, very graceful progression from her high arches and lithe ankles, wend my way up those endless legs. But the fire in my head grinds out the words: “Fuck this…” as she catches the look in my eye and slides her thighs apart. The waft of her dripping wet pussy makes my eyes roll back, a pussyhound zombie Frankenstein golem. I’m shaking. My cock leaks and throbs, brain hammers in my skull. I run my lips along that incredibly soft, smooth inside of her thighs. Her surface reaches for my mouth. Her pussy is dark but demure, lovely and modest, nice little quaffed hair-do. The first hint of her taste gets me instantly, lyrically high, like the mythical and impossibly rare opium everyone’s heard of but has never done. She tastes ocean salty, hard pearl clit on my tongue.    

I take her whole pussy in my big mouth. All of her pussy and me, we kiss slowly, tenderly, those full lips full of dark heat. I neck with her pussy, we French kiss. I stick my tongue down her pussy’s throat. I suck up the sound coming from her, the low moan of our underwater world…