I have not been able to get on the net and keep in touch with many of my friends recently due to a change in residence among other things going on out here. Several weeks ago I wrote to my friend Steeeeev and asked him how he was doing. His response was less than thrilling and it honestly made me worry about him a little because he usually is the first one with some smart ass quick witted douche bag response to even the most sincere of questions. I wrote him back and expressed my concern to him. His response was as follows:
"There was this chick flick that came out a long time ago called Don
Juan de Marco. In the film, Johnny Depp played Don Juan, or rather a
modern-day amalgam of the celebrated romantic character. He gets picked
up by the cops for acting crazy and ends up in front of a state
psychiatrist who is facing retirement and is unsatisfied with his life.
The screenplay was written by a man whose name I can't remember, but he
wrote this great book about a psychiatrist who ends up treating Satan
himself called SATAN: His treatment and eventual cure by the
unfortunate Dr. Kassler.
Anyway, in the movie, Marlon Brando
plays the psychiatrist and Faye Dunaway his wife. I had a dream that
these two people were actually married, and actually were Brando and
Dunaway. So I was having coffee and cakes with them in their fancy
house. They were dressed just like they were in the movie (which, I
should mention, I haven't seen in 10 years or so) and acted the same,
which is to say that Dunaway was hotter than she was old, and Brando
was a slurring, obese, pasty guy who had things to say but due to the
punctured-accordion tones and rambling nature of his discourse is
basically unable to say them.
The key point is that they both
wanted to get a piece of Steev. No kidding. We made small talk and both
of them became increasingly forward and flirtatious. Unsure whether or
not I was facing the possibility of having a three-person sexual
experience with Faye Dunaway and fat, old Marlon Brando, I naturally
kept playing the currents of normal human interaction, which is to say
that when Faye got up to get us more coffee, I followed her into the
kitchen on a pretext.
She set the service down on the counter
and turned around to face me and put her hand on my chest. I hiked her
blue, spot-flowered dress up to her thighs and picked her up and set
her on the counter. We started making out. No, we were initating
foreplay. Her green-green-amber eyes were wide and open and rimmed with
that darkness that all eyeliner aspires to - a presexual stimulation
response that has been echoed in all painted whore's faces from Egypt
to Japan to L.A. I placed my hands on the blades of her hipbones and
felt her shiver.
Then Brando comes into the kitchen with his
pants off, his spadefingered hands tracing idle patterns across his
chest. He was muttering and moaning and watching me and Faye. She
looked over at him with a secret glance that I could read quite easily:
They liked to double up on younger men. It could not have been more
obvious. By initiating contact with Dunaway I had unwittingly signaled
my interest.
I really do, or did, respect Brando as an artist. I
think he personally was physically disgusting and also insane, one of
those who can create art for my enjoyment but has nothing else to offer
from the remainder of his life. I wasn't around for his
hunk-movie-actor days, and even his role in Apocalypse Now, for which
he showed up months late, crazy, and 200 pounds north of fighting
weight - seriously, watch the movie and tell me if you ever have a lit
shot of his body - was too early for me to nail the image to the name.
Marlon Brando looks like Don Corleone. Actually, he started out looking
like Don Corleone and aged into the flab-throated shrink from Don Juan
De Marco.
The problem was that, instead of what THEY wanted to
do, I wanted him to go away and Faye Dunaway to have sex with me. How
selfish and rude! What a thing to think in someone else's home with
your wedding tackle poking his wife in the belly button! What a jerk I
am!
On the other hand, I could just grit my teeth and come
away with the experience of having been equally grossed out and
sexually satisfied by both of them. I've done more degrading things in
my time and they did, in the end, have some worth. I think. Some of
them.
In the end I couldn't accede. I made my excuses and left,
already planning to go home and practice my usual, and trying to be
resolved in not regretting having passed up a unique opportunity. Then
I woke up.
I don't even get to screw movie stars in my dreams."
Brilliant.
"There was this chick flick that came out a long time ago called Don
Juan de Marco. In the film, Johnny Depp played Don Juan, or rather a
modern-day amalgam of the celebrated romantic character. He gets picked
up by the cops for acting crazy and ends up in front of a state
psychiatrist who is facing retirement and is unsatisfied with his life.
The screenplay was written by a man whose name I can't remember, but he
wrote this great book about a psychiatrist who ends up treating Satan
himself called SATAN: His treatment and eventual cure by the
unfortunate Dr. Kassler.
Anyway, in the movie, Marlon Brando
plays the psychiatrist and Faye Dunaway his wife. I had a dream that
these two people were actually married, and actually were Brando and
Dunaway. So I was having coffee and cakes with them in their fancy
house. They were dressed just like they were in the movie (which, I
should mention, I haven't seen in 10 years or so) and acted the same,
which is to say that Dunaway was hotter than she was old, and Brando
was a slurring, obese, pasty guy who had things to say but due to the
punctured-accordion tones and rambling nature of his discourse is
basically unable to say them.
The key point is that they both
wanted to get a piece of Steev. No kidding. We made small talk and both
of them became increasingly forward and flirtatious. Unsure whether or
not I was facing the possibility of having a three-person sexual
experience with Faye Dunaway and fat, old Marlon Brando, I naturally
kept playing the currents of normal human interaction, which is to say
that when Faye got up to get us more coffee, I followed her into the
kitchen on a pretext.
She set the service down on the counter
and turned around to face me and put her hand on my chest. I hiked her
blue, spot-flowered dress up to her thighs and picked her up and set
her on the counter. We started making out. No, we were initating
foreplay. Her green-green-amber eyes were wide and open and rimmed with
that darkness that all eyeliner aspires to - a presexual stimulation
response that has been echoed in all painted whore's faces from Egypt
to Japan to L.A. I placed my hands on the blades of her hipbones and
felt her shiver.
Then Brando comes into the kitchen with his
pants off, his spadefingered hands tracing idle patterns across his
chest. He was muttering and moaning and watching me and Faye. She
looked over at him with a secret glance that I could read quite easily:
They liked to double up on younger men. It could not have been more
obvious. By initiating contact with Dunaway I had unwittingly signaled
my interest.
I really do, or did, respect Brando as an artist. I
think he personally was physically disgusting and also insane, one of
those who can create art for my enjoyment but has nothing else to offer
from the remainder of his life. I wasn't around for his
hunk-movie-actor days, and even his role in Apocalypse Now, for which
he showed up months late, crazy, and 200 pounds north of fighting
weight - seriously, watch the movie and tell me if you ever have a lit
shot of his body - was too early for me to nail the image to the name.
Marlon Brando looks like Don Corleone. Actually, he started out looking
like Don Corleone and aged into the flab-throated shrink from Don Juan
De Marco.
The problem was that, instead of what THEY wanted to
do, I wanted him to go away and Faye Dunaway to have sex with me. How
selfish and rude! What a thing to think in someone else's home with
your wedding tackle poking his wife in the belly button! What a jerk I
am!
On the other hand, I could just grit my teeth and come
away with the experience of having been equally grossed out and
sexually satisfied by both of them. I've done more degrading things in
my time and they did, in the end, have some worth. I think. Some of
them.
In the end I couldn't accede. I made my excuses and left,
already planning to go home and practice my usual, and trying to be
resolved in not regretting having passed up a unique opportunity. Then
I woke up.
I don't even get to screw movie stars in my dreams."
Brilliant.
lillithvain:
hahah.. wow
noahzark:
Yeah he has quite a way with words. Plus apparently a pretty vivid and odd subconscious.