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Authors: Robert Littell
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took place in the stage squad’s projection booth at the back of the junior high auditorium. That was ten years ago, holy Jesus!
when I think how time zips by, and you have to know I’ve given my share of blow jobs in the intervening years, but I have
definitely not become blasé. For me sucking and fucking never lost their mystery—that totally awesome mix of giving pleasure,
right? and taking pleasure from giving pleasure.
Which is why we spend our lives spreading our legs and opening our mouths to the single most original thing men have going
for them, which is a goddamn erection.
Go figure.
Which brings me back to L. Falk and the fraternity bash. I don’t automatically assume we’re gonna wind up in the sack, him
being twice my age and not knowing a G-spot from a hole in the wall. But you have to deal with the possibility that sex will
be the ultimate outcome of any date—why else go to frat parties, right? I mean, why do all these dudes spend all that goddamn
energy trying to convince you they’re nonviolent? I’ll tell you why—to get you to collaborate in what is basically a very
violent act is why. So if they’re convincing enough, I collaborate. Or at least I used to until the goddamn Black Plague struck.
Which is where L. Falk comes into the picture. I’d be lying if I didn’t say straight out I considered the possibility, I’m
still considering it now, that he might be the answer to my prayers.
As usual in cases like this there are pluses and minuses. On the minus side you have got to deal with the fact he’s definitely
toast, burned out, washed up, over the goddamn hill. Christ, he’s pushing forty from the wrong side. He’s about as far as
you can get from my image of the great lover. On the plus side is the fact he wouldn’t need to be a great lover, I tend to
be good enough for two. Also, he is definitely nonviolent, which makes it easier for a girl to collaborate. Even him not being
able to put his finger on the G-spot can be interpreted as a plus—exploring uncharted waters can be fun for the navigator
as well as the helmsman, right? By far the most important plus in his quiver is that L. Falk comes from Russia, where (I am
a
Backwater Sentinel
subscriber, which is how come I am familiar withthis particular item of information) along with practically no meat and practically no bread, there is also practically no
AIDS.
Hey, safe sex might not be great sex, but at least it would be sex, right?
My last but not least for being interested in him is the business of the serial murders, which seem random to me even if they
don’t seem random to the
Homo chaoticus
, the professor of chaos, L. Falk. Look at it from my point of view: If the murders weren’t random, if someone was killing
blonds who stuttered, say, or left-handed lesbians, or sexy women barbers who deal Thai truffles on the side, at least I’d
know where I stood. I’d know whether or not I was a potential victim, right? What I’m saying is, because the crimes are random,
I could become an actual victim without even knowing I was a potential victim. Random murders are the worst kind—you can’t
be sure you’re not next.
Not knowing I’m not next, I’m not thrilled about living alone. Which is why I decided to go to the Delta Delta Phi bash tonight.
Which is why I don’t mind if someone who isn’t familiar with the G-spot escorts me. To the bash. And back home afterwards.
Right?
Right.
Munching olives, sipping
martinis, talking shop or stock market or weather, the fifteen permanent scholars, along with the dozen visiting professors
and the handful of fellows at the Institute for Advanced Interdisciplinary Chaos-Related Studies circle the parenthesis-shaped
tables in the faculty dining room looking for their names on hand-lettered tags. As they settle into their seats, co-ed waitresses
wearing spotless white aprons begin filling the wineglasses from decanters. The
when I think how time zips by, and you have to know I’ve given my share of blow jobs in the intervening years, but I have
definitely not become blasé. For me sucking and fucking never lost their mystery—that totally awesome mix of giving pleasure,
right? and taking pleasure from giving pleasure.
Which is why we spend our lives spreading our legs and opening our mouths to the single most original thing men have going
for them, which is a goddamn erection.
Go figure.
Which brings me back to L. Falk and the fraternity bash. I don’t automatically assume we’re gonna wind up in the sack, him
being twice my age and not knowing a G-spot from a hole in the wall. But you have to deal with the possibility that sex will
be the ultimate outcome of any date—why else go to frat parties, right? I mean, why do all these dudes spend all that goddamn
energy trying to convince you they’re nonviolent? I’ll tell you why—to get you to collaborate in what is basically a very
violent act is why. So if they’re convincing enough, I collaborate. Or at least I used to until the goddamn Black Plague struck.
Which is where L. Falk comes into the picture. I’d be lying if I didn’t say straight out I considered the possibility, I’m
still considering it now, that he might be the answer to my prayers.
As usual in cases like this there are pluses and minuses. On the minus side you have got to deal with the fact he’s definitely
toast, burned out, washed up, over the goddamn hill. Christ, he’s pushing forty from the wrong side. He’s about as far as
you can get from my image of the great lover. On the plus side is the fact he wouldn’t need to be a great lover, I tend to
be good enough for two. Also, he is definitely nonviolent, which makes it easier for a girl to collaborate. Even him not being
able to put his finger on the G-spot can be interpreted as a plus—exploring uncharted waters can be fun for the navigator
as well as the helmsman, right? By far the most important plus in his quiver is that L. Falk comes from Russia, where (I am
a
Backwater Sentinel
subscriber, which is how come I am familiar withthis particular item of information) along with practically no meat and practically no bread, there is also practically no
AIDS.
Hey, safe sex might not be great sex, but at least it would be sex, right?
My last but not least for being interested in him is the business of the serial murders, which seem random to me even if they
don’t seem random to the
Homo chaoticus
, the professor of chaos, L. Falk. Look at it from my point of view: If the murders weren’t random, if someone was killing
blonds who stuttered, say, or left-handed lesbians, or sexy women barbers who deal Thai truffles on the side, at least I’d
know where I stood. I’d know whether or not I was a potential victim, right? What I’m saying is, because the crimes are random,
I could become an actual victim without even knowing I was a potential victim. Random murders are the worst kind—you can’t
be sure you’re not next.
Not knowing I’m not next, I’m not thrilled about living alone. Which is why I decided to go to the Delta Delta Phi bash tonight.
Which is why I don’t mind if someone who isn’t familiar with the G-spot escorts me. To the bash. And back home afterwards.
Right?
Right.
Munching olives, sipping
martinis, talking shop or stock market or weather, the fifteen permanent scholars, along with the dozen visiting professors
and the handful of fellows at the Institute for Advanced Interdisciplinary Chaos-Related Studies circle the parenthesis-shaped
tables in the faculty dining room looking for their names on hand-lettered tags. As they settle into their seats, co-ed waitresses
wearing spotless white aprons begin filling the wineglasses from decanters. The
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