skin tingling like I was a cat and wanted to rub myself on a leg, or anything warm. I sent a text to Olivia saying:
“Lost. Scared. Need…girl.”
Where was she? Did she leave me to go off with Eric? He was a very charming guy, an artist. He had a nice beard, like a rock star. Maybe they were fucking doggy-style behind a dumpster somewhere. I imagined it, but I couldn’t make myself jealous, not on these pills. Everything was great no matter what. Then like sex-demons on a chloroform boat, Olivia and Eric appeared before me. They grabbed my wrist and we were off once more into the bubbling night, away from my shame and chemical fear/love.
“I need to go home please,” I told them.
“Ok Sebastian,” Olivia said maternally.
I loved that I felt like loving her. But I hated knowing it was because I was on drugs. What’s that feeling? Oh, guilt. There you are.
Hey dude. You’re gonna regret this.
Regret what?
Everything I let you.
Bastard.
When we returned to the apartment the ecstasy was wearing off, and thankfully I wasn’t feeling sad. I sat my desk and checked my messages. I’d been working hard and had amassed a great many girls that wouldn’t message me back. But now I had Olivia.
I looked down the hallway and Eric was talking to her in his room. I saw the door close behind them.
It’s fine. She’ll come back.
I scanned through a few more profiles, sneaking glances down the hall. The door was still shut. For the first time that night I felt a familiar sensation…jealousy. I hate jealousy. It means you’ve lost something that you’ve claimed possession of: Ownership is a trap.
Finally I’d had enough. I yelled, “Olivia, come!” A minute went by and his door opened. She walked meekly down the hall towards my room. He had his shirt off and appeared to be bargaining, pleading, gesturing with his hands. Olivia shook her head and left him there. She came into my room and got under the covers. I stayed on my laptop and started a poem.
A minute later Eric appeared in my door way. “Olivia,” he said. “Come with me.”
She didn’t look up.
“Olivia, let’s go,” he continued.
“Bro,” I said, “She’s tired. It’s done. Give it up.”
He stood there and scratched his balls.
“Man,” he said. “Like I said, you’re not from the Age of Aquarius.” Then he went back to his room and shut the door.
Within minutes, Olivia was fast asleep, or pretending to be. She looked so cute and I thought about waking her up so I could try her out, but decided to leave it. I shut of the light and tried to fall asleep too, but I was still high. So I stayed up and worked on my poem. I needed to put my mind on something, other than drugs and pussy and drama.
Bukowski Made Me Do It
I don’t have real angst
Not like war torn rape victims
HIV riddled convenience store beggars
Sex scandal politicians
Unemployed ex-famous actors
Tiny- dicked black men
But I have worries
Not like alcoholic test pilots
Balding hairdressers
Broke poker gurus
Angry life coaches
And your perpetually single, single mother
Life is just like that...
Did I really make out with Eric? What the fuck?
Chapter 10
Factotum (Phone Sex)
I arrived late to work at
9:15 am
. My supervisor was sitting in the middle of the call center, in a booth overlooking the drones in their hot, clickity -clacking little cubicles. He was flapping his flabby white arms about and yelling into his headset about ratios and quotas. The fluorescent lights made the sweat on his mustache and balding head glisten. The operators, mostly kids in their early twenties, one-finger punched buttons on their keyboards and yak-yakked, pushing their collective products onto mostly unreceptive customers. Some were in high spirits and some were bored and fearful. It wasn’t a job for the weak of spirit… it was a job, one of the few for Anglos in Montreal .
“Sebastian, you’re late!” The boss yelled, jabbing his stubby thumbs at the
“Lost. Scared. Need…girl.”
Where was she? Did she leave me to go off with Eric? He was a very charming guy, an artist. He had a nice beard, like a rock star. Maybe they were fucking doggy-style behind a dumpster somewhere. I imagined it, but I couldn’t make myself jealous, not on these pills. Everything was great no matter what. Then like sex-demons on a chloroform boat, Olivia and Eric appeared before me. They grabbed my wrist and we were off once more into the bubbling night, away from my shame and chemical fear/love.
“I need to go home please,” I told them.
“Ok Sebastian,” Olivia said maternally.
I loved that I felt like loving her. But I hated knowing it was because I was on drugs. What’s that feeling? Oh, guilt. There you are.
Hey dude. You’re gonna regret this.
Regret what?
Everything I let you.
Bastard.
When we returned to the apartment the ecstasy was wearing off, and thankfully I wasn’t feeling sad. I sat my desk and checked my messages. I’d been working hard and had amassed a great many girls that wouldn’t message me back. But now I had Olivia.
I looked down the hallway and Eric was talking to her in his room. I saw the door close behind them.
It’s fine. She’ll come back.
I scanned through a few more profiles, sneaking glances down the hall. The door was still shut. For the first time that night I felt a familiar sensation…jealousy. I hate jealousy. It means you’ve lost something that you’ve claimed possession of: Ownership is a trap.
Finally I’d had enough. I yelled, “Olivia, come!” A minute went by and his door opened. She walked meekly down the hall towards my room. He had his shirt off and appeared to be bargaining, pleading, gesturing with his hands. Olivia shook her head and left him there. She came into my room and got under the covers. I stayed on my laptop and started a poem.
A minute later Eric appeared in my door way. “Olivia,” he said. “Come with me.”
She didn’t look up.
“Olivia, let’s go,” he continued.
“Bro,” I said, “She’s tired. It’s done. Give it up.”
He stood there and scratched his balls.
“Man,” he said. “Like I said, you’re not from the Age of Aquarius.” Then he went back to his room and shut the door.
Within minutes, Olivia was fast asleep, or pretending to be. She looked so cute and I thought about waking her up so I could try her out, but decided to leave it. I shut of the light and tried to fall asleep too, but I was still high. So I stayed up and worked on my poem. I needed to put my mind on something, other than drugs and pussy and drama.
Bukowski Made Me Do It
I don’t have real angst
Not like war torn rape victims
HIV riddled convenience store beggars
Sex scandal politicians
Unemployed ex-famous actors
Tiny- dicked black men
But I have worries
Not like alcoholic test pilots
Balding hairdressers
Broke poker gurus
Angry life coaches
And your perpetually single, single mother
Life is just like that...
Did I really make out with Eric? What the fuck?
Chapter 10
Factotum (Phone Sex)
I arrived late to work at
9:15 am
. My supervisor was sitting in the middle of the call center, in a booth overlooking the drones in their hot, clickity -clacking little cubicles. He was flapping his flabby white arms about and yelling into his headset about ratios and quotas. The fluorescent lights made the sweat on his mustache and balding head glisten. The operators, mostly kids in their early twenties, one-finger punched buttons on their keyboards and yak-yakked, pushing their collective products onto mostly unreceptive customers. Some were in high spirits and some were bored and fearful. It wasn’t a job for the weak of spirit… it was a job, one of the few for Anglos in Montreal .
“Sebastian, you’re late!” The boss yelled, jabbing his stubby thumbs at the
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