Pink & Blue

Felix goes by Felicia now. They pumped his chest with silicone or something, though they bounce natural enough. Maybe they got something more natural now. I make a note to ask him later. He still has his John Holmes though, thank God, like two coke cans stacked together. We’d sometimes hang after school and I’d fantasize about doing to him what those two blokes did to Joey Lauren Adams in Chasing Amy that got Ben Affleck all bent outta shape. It’s been half a decade, but when I saw him at the mall last week, I thought, eh, fuckit. 

As for my own Peckinpah, it’s got enough piercings to rival Albert Fish after the doctors X-rayed his junk and found 27 assorted needles wedged in his beans ’n mash. I got so much shrapnel hammered into my pint-size Dirk Diggler that it’s been mistaken as the Second Coming of Fakir Musafar by more than one blitzed-out bimbo.   

We’re at this Sushi Joint, popping in one Upside Down Shrimp after another and the joint’s playin’ Wilco and The National, alternating, and Felix (Felicia!) looks kinda bored and I start telling him this thing I’d read about Alfred Hitchcock. I read that Hitchcock-Truffaut book, and in it, Francois points out the homoerotic subtext in Rope between John Dall and Farley Granger and Alfred talks about the intent with that; his fascination with homosexuals and perverts - there’s this great story he tells about being somewhere with his wife, and they somehow end up in this brothel or peepshow or something, both a them, watching a lesbian midge sit in the lap of this Amazonian, then they shag into bed together- 

I choke on diced scallop and wash it down with coke (those coke cans! I’m so jacked!) and Felix perks up (I can’t wait!) and I’m so excited and I just can’t hide it. 

He prattles about himself while I’m trying to work it out in my head: how are we gon' approach it? Dock, plop who’s on top? It’s like trying to figure a geometry problem! I can tell he’s uncomfortable talking about himself so I take the lead again. I needle him about this screenplay I’ve been trying to make happen for some time. Not really, but I b.s. him anyway. 

“It’s maybe more of a TV pilot? It starts with this chick puffing these chick-filters. It burns down to the stub, and she tosses it over the side of this bridge she’s leaning on, then strikes up another one. ‘S night and her red hair’s halo’d by the street lamps behind’er. This total ass-hat schucks up to her, there for their date. They just met that day, and he bumbled his way into scoring a date.” 

I cut off and stare into space. 

(S)he throws a glance over his shoulder thinkin’ that’s where my gaze is, then turns back. 

“Kren?” 

“A-and that’s as far as I got.” 

The logistics of sword fighting. 

“Hey you remember that movie where Tarantino talks about how Top Gun is a metaphor for Tom Cruise’s homosexuality?”      

“Oh yeah - “Go the gay way, go the gay way.”” 

I chuckle. 

“Can’t remember the name right now… 

… Sleep with Me?” 

(S)he winks at me. 

We kick across the lot. My pad’s not far. I try ta keep the momentum. 

“Uh, so -- they break into this gymnasium right? The characters? And this gymnasium’s got an Olympic-size swimming pool--” 

I dunno if Felix is listening, but I keep on going, background radio chatter to accompany this trek. 

A Toyota glides past, we catch a snippet of Snow Patrol’s “Run”. It cuts a U-turn and pulls into the other end of the plaza. It parks in front of this Mexican joint with green neon lettering promising ‘happy hour, every hour’ as we walk past. 

I almost ask if he wants ta go in and get plastered on salty Margaritas. 

The song cuts out. 

We walk on. 

 My bed springs sag. I kick off my boots. 

“So they splash aroun' this pool. A fire breaks out - in the main parta the gym, I mean.” 

“How?” 

“Dunno. Haven’t figured that part out yet.” 

Felix sways his hips, wiggling outta that Jessica Rabbit dress, not wearing anything beneath.

We take turns Brokebacking each other. Neither finishes. 

Felix eyes my acoustic leaning in the corner with the fucked up strings, some broken. 

“Can I, like, snap off one a those strings and Audition you?” 

“Like wrap it around my foot-” 

“Yeah” 

 “And tug, tug, tug until it comes off?” 

“Somethin’likethat.” 

 “Sure. Whatever.” 

I smack my palm on the nightstand. I lite a cig. 

(S)he lies there. 

Me: Rectal hemorrhaging after being repeatedly baton’d by Whitezilla, wondering when he’ll be ready to go again.    

Him: Rectal bleeding after being aggressively douched by an installation-piece for a cactus wondering how to get out of this.  

He slips outta bed and goes over to the corner. When he comes back he pulls the bed sheet off and wraps the high E string around my stump, some of the wire snagging on the fishing line I got poking outta my shaft. 

I’ve never been Takashi Miike’d before. Felix grins, thrilled by how much he’s loving this. 

We stir before noon. I reach over to my stand, click on the AM. Joe Walsh winds down “In the City”. 

Best date ever? 

Shining my thoughts, Felix sez ”eh, maybe fifth for me.” 

Ouch. Not unexpected, but ouch. 

The flesh behind the scrote is wired down to the root, and I thought I’d heard something snap.  

He presses into me; Hooks his index finger through the tangled-up line and gives another tug.   

He’s a couple cup sizes below Dolly Parton, and as Bono sez: even better than the real thing. 

I’m mulling over my Hollywood pitch, bullshit becoming reality: 

“Yeah. I think that’ll work.” 

I found out they weren't Silicone. 

I finished my screenplay, too. 

And this is how it ends: 

The gymnasium burns across the river. They edge closer together. They swing their arms out. They hold hands. Wilco plays “Ashes of American Flags.”