Friday. I work for a real bastard. We’re in the “Motivational” industry, and no industry has inflicted more suffering than ours. Motivational books, speakers and posters that have made billions selling shortcuts to success and tools for unleashing our “unlimited potential”. Enjoy jerks! We have a dream. To crush other people’s dreams! My boss could as well have made millions as the lead role in “The Exorcist” —surprised she doesn’t spit split pea soup, and one of the worst things is her bipolarity, her personality just changes like the weather in Kansas. She only has a tiny bit of a brain… but, to be fair, she has a damn great butt!
The weekend blasted! I’ve been invited by the die bitch, die, to a gathering in her house. I needed to rest, but no excuses. The longed weekend through the window! Tomorrow, Saturday, I’ll have to leave the comfort and security of my apartment to go to her place, yuck! There she’d fascinate us with the exploration of her universe, presented as a celebration of selfishness and greed to almost inconceivable limits. In all, dread and frenzy, with excessive doses of sex and drugs, no rock ‘n’ roll, blonde rental for the VIPs, and a strafing of breathless dazzling cars. Her mansion more than sumptuous … and my Civic down! But … still, she has a damn awe-inspiring capital ‘B’ turned on its side! How to get there? Her mansion I mean…
Saturday. I’ve been forced to take a taxi in midtown Manhattan. I stress that I have been forced because in New York you never get a taxi for pleasure. Usually it always gets nasty. Anyway, I got cab on Park Avenue and 21st and give instructions that any four years old would understand, but for a taxi driver here seem very complicated, “Go to Brooklyn, to Travers Park.” The driver receives the mention of Travers Park as if asked for Congo, Africa, his eyes flaming hatred and muttering the unspeakably, but the good thing is he finally agreed. There I meet my four fellas from office already zoned. They stuck me in the back of their Chevy Malibu like a bonding experience —pot seems like a sociable drug, and we go 5 mph while making a right turn with the left signal on. No idea how we reached Mill Basin! I’m there, high as hell in a baked-out car, rolling the window down and taking a deep breath of the fresh air, oh my god, look at my face, am I crying? The well-lit mansion is blurred! Yes I am crying!
Sorry. I’ll get myself together before I go on.
The boss lady, exceeding something and hungry for party, but incredibly sexy and glamorous and powerful, was surrounded by a network of emerging artists and some white bitches with black attitude. She was fooling with a handsome blue-eyed adolescent, Strawman —despite his nickname the only man I know consuming just beer, although gossip goes he keeps the molly for the babies, a rarity for someone who is still developing his style. I decided to take it quite. Only pot and beer, I thought, to enjoy the smiles, house tunes, some dreadlocks and babies with flowers in her hair. On the dance area the crowds mesmerized themselves, writhing to hypnotic music. In the chill-out rooms, they talked, sat silent, lay down or held heads in hands. “Your eyebrows have turned into caterpillars —they’re crawling over your face,” said one worried girl. “I don’t like it. Am I hallucinating?” None of these people are young psychotic, bankrupt, unemployed, temporarily or terminally ill. Most of ’em are long-established “special occasion” drugs users —weddings, funerals, birthdays. But most here weren’t married, dead or significantly older. Then again, their mum could just die and their birthday could be next week. It was a cheerful calm, nothing static, as if I knew everything would be fine and there was nothing better that to feel alive. At the same time I felt like the most important and significant thing in the universe and that made me laugh, and when a fella offered me an acid, something that was in the drawer of memories as my hippie’s espadrilles, it seemed like a great idea. The definition of candy tripping describes my experience perfectly. It was a trip on LSD accentuated by feelings of ecstasy, living life like a boss…
Some minutes? Hours? Later and a six, I needed to evacuate my bladder. The door was blocked behind, but the boss moved aside to allow me the entry, “Lazy bastard!” was her welcome. Strawman was also there, with a CD in his hand with snow chopped into delicate one-and-a-half-inch lines. It was going to be another experiment of death. I’m not promiscuous unless drugged or drunk, and I am an opportunist, and dat ass!! … so I got in, into my second bonding experience —especially when there’s three of you crammed in a minuscule toilet cubicle. I have my boss just in front of me, her back against my chest, and then she bent forward to sniff some snowflakes, and there I was, encased between that egregious booty and the door —if you do not know the feeling, then we look a very different kind of porn. I didn’t mean to make a baby with her in the closet, with the floor throbbing to the beat of the house music bass and the strobe light slipping through the slot in the door. A massage in the back with dual intent occurs everywhere, but how difficult is knowing today where injustice begins and ends, who is and who is not your brother, against what or against what not your struggle is directed. How difficult is not screwing up! So I raised her white dress, she wasn’t wearing panties, I hold apart her dumps —the situation was a bit pathetic with Strawman smiling, but, as I am not allowed to kill her and she seems to be never ending when it comes to the special projects, as I won’t hit her, tempting as that is —if I win the lottery then it’s a different story lol, I have this ridiculous belief that we’ve a right to almost everything, that we live in an instant gratification world. OK, I thought, greedy fucker when it comes to drugs, PLOP! Arrrhhhh! I shove my evil dick in her popper as deep as I can, unleashing my unlimited potential, and then loved watching it coming in and out. The anal dictator not even flinch!
As in life, occasionally there will be some shit, and as I didn’t find any better thing, I wiped it in her white dress. Then it occurred to me that hotboxing in there too long would get me busted and kicked out fast, so I got out. The up-and-down adrenaline rollercoaster caused me a hallucination —her husband was right outside the door. He asked me for his wife and I pointed the thumb toward the bathroom. He abruptly opened the door and got my boss lady out. His face contorted with grimace of disgust “Oh god, what’s that smell?” Then he noticed the brown stain on the back of her dress, looked at an inocent Strawman, and then looked to me like someone that had killed his mum right in front of him. With a resigned anger, business are business, he embraced her. I believe that true love is not laughing at the poop stains on your partner.
Sunday. Most of the day sleeping, lying in another world, lost in time as in Quantum Leap, looking blankly at the abuse blues… masturbation is a lost art …
Monday. The boss was wearing sunglasses because she contracted a mysterious eye infection —a black eye which was hilarious. Not so the letter on my desk to go and visit that “special person” in Human Resources. By the textbook man! And then what happens? And then I’m fucked. Basically. But not all butts are the same!
All butts are different! – Dugutigui