Imperial Guest Rooms

The guest room overlooked the yard where wedding guests were being ushered to their seats, and was empty until I came. The bride was a real bitch-kitty, but it was no coincidence that whenever she entered a room smoke alarms went off. Her dad was loaded. I figure that helped the groom make the leap. The kids in the yard with the violins pressed to their chins whom the groom had given five bucks each to stand in for a wedding orchestra were plucking out “Danger Zone” – picked by the groom of course – because he knows damn well what he’s getting himself into.

Everyone arrived that morning, so the guest room went unused the night before.

I’m stepping outta the upstairs bathroom, my zipper jammed and I feel a searing pain down there, leaning forward to check if I’ve somehow gotten the scrote gumming up the zipper-teeth like Ben Stiller in There’s Something About Mary.

Dear Penthouse.

The bride - she got one a those stuck-up well-bred white girl names that I couldn’t be arsed to remember now even if I was getting a colonoscopy from Jigsaw and the only way to save my ass was to scream her name the way she screamed mine – came up – I never did ask why – and saw me trying to pry my dog loose outta the crotch-gnasher every guy has to fear. I figure the Scots got it right – it makes more sense for the guys to wear the dress – leave the slacks to the chicks. Alternating between freaking and laughing fits, she swats my ass down the corridor - her parent’s mansion - shoves me into the guest room and, not bothering to close the door, gives the most medically inept handling of a John Shaft anyone’s ever been scarred with. With enough elbow grease I pop out and before I can paw myself back in, I’m sprawled on my back on the double bed.  

If I may describe the following in the slack-jawed vernacular of a frat who free-balls: She rode me the way Bodhi rode the big one at the end a Point Break. I think she wanted to snap my damn pen-with-two-extra-letters in two, and honestly, I woulda let her. This wasn’t some “Fade Into You” Mazzy Star B.S. This wasn’t “Heat of the Moment”, or some radio-friendly diabetes-inducing ready-made puff-pop Bono might croon.

This was “Fuck the Pain Away”. “Plus Putes Que Toutes Les Putes”. This was a premature “Fuck Me Pumps” number. It felt like dying and I loved it.

She clasped her hand over my mouth. I ran my tongue over a ring and tasted metal.

Below, the wedding guests are scratching their heads wondering what’s taking her, or where she even is. The bridesmaids gossip and bitch. One takes a drag and reads Hollywood Babylon. This is the wedding as I picture it. She’s got me pinned down and all I can stare at is the ceiling, unmirrored, kinda like David Parker Ray’s victims ‘cept I can’t see myself reflected and no one’s brought out whips and vibrators yet.

To make it last, I think: anything. Carburetor prices. Michelin tires. Pricetags. Celebrity net worths. How pure or cut the H was Cobain was on when he topped himself. Ditto with the speedball that did Layne Staley in.

Eleanor Roosevelt was Teddy Roosevelt’s niece. She and FDR were distant cousins.

Pier Paolo Pasolini was mysteriously assassinated shortly before his final film came out.

He was run over. Multiple times. With his own car.   

“What are you gonna talk about? Your mutual love of Czech cinema? Explore the feminine themes in Daisies or Valerie and Her Week of Wonders, and then wonder how such a grease-stain of a country could make something as brilliant as The Man Who Had His Hair Cut Short?” It’s later, towards evening, after she’s done to me what I assume every Jackie Collins novel must be about, and she’s toweled herself off, put on the ring, gone through the motions and I’m at a table having my ear chewed off by the first bloke I brag to.

“I think I’ll leave things as is. Sure, she seems like the stalker sort. For a while. Then she’ll find someone else to go all Fatal Attraction over. All the while the clueless hubby has no idea that short-attention-span Glenn Close over there is running around behind his back.”

The Tux next to me tugs his caller and sucks his teeth.

“Hey, what’re we talking about?”

Without missing a beat, I sez:

“How much of a cuck Michael Douglas was in that one movie.”

“Oh, right on… Say has anyone seen my wife?”

After I helpfully suggest and point the newlywed to the place where I became more than just a man, achieving my final form as a walking dildo on legs, and he walks into the house,

The Tux next to me fades back into focus in time for me to hear “I once tried to read Crome Yellow. You know, that Huxley Novel?” I shake my head. “That’s fine. Whatever. Anyway, I once tried to read it. Di’n’t finish, but all the guests here, they remind me of the schmucks Huxley wrote about. That’s what this wedding is. A watered-down – Crome Piss-Yellow!” I drink to that. After that, I wait. For that haven’t–you-people-heard-of-closing-the-goddam-door moment, and the husband to despair, or at least tickle his kink and join in the cuckold. Sure, there’s another dude involved, but I maintain that it’s still more hetero than, say, Walt Whitman’s poetry as long as your wife is, essentially, a coco-skinned Mediterranean Traci Lords. That, and not signing a prenup while stock-piling the best divorce attorney your piddling ass can get its hands on, are the perks of getting pussy-whipped by what’s-‘er-name. I just pray, for his sake, she doesn’t have a better one. It’s a spring evening choked with the floral stench of wedding bouquets. I keep looking up at the house. The band’s taking requests. I tell’em “Blood and Roses”.