—Intelligence has nothing to do with it.
—Then what’s it about?
—Whether or not you’re right.
—How’s that determined?
—History? I don’t know. Sex?
—Sex tells you whether or not you’re right?
—If you’re having good sex, nice sex, successful sex with someone, then you’re right.
—”Well, you’re doing something right.”
—You were also saying something about sex addicts.
—The [scholarly name for the assumed authors of the Tanakh TK] called cocaine “the drug of more.” But everything is the drug of more.
—I hardly think cigarettes are a provocative example.
—I dunno, I think you’re just intellectualizing your jelly-spined self-loathing mournful nonsense. “Obesity,” blah blah blah
—And I, in turn, think… you’re right
—Are you coming on to me?
—You need some exercise
—I need to get some work done. And a cigarette.
—This is a boring conversation
—This is a boring website
—This is a boring Saturday
—Do you think the people who are suffering so that you can eat and work and complain are bored?
—No, suffering isn’t boring
—Is boredom a form a suffering?
—Nah. I mean, sure. But nah
—Do you still think depression is bullshit?
—No. How could I? At least two suicides have affected my life in a…
—That’s hardly an argument for the… efficacy? Truth? Non-bullshitness of depression
—I know. But I have more respect for depression now.
—Quit your job and move to New York
—Why on earth would I do that?
—So that you can go to galleries and learn about the world through art
—There are galleries here
—Yeah but they don’t have John Baldessari and Jeff Koons and Tom Friedman exhibitions here
—OK, but sometimes they do. Also, there’s, like, Chris Johanson and the Pacific Ocean
—I know I know I know. This isn’t suppsosed to be an artful dialogue, by the way, I’m just getting some stuff out there, working it through
—The more you explain that, the more “sufferingly” boring this thing becomes
—I know I know I know I know I know
—Another thing: I bet you don’t have the balls to write erotica on your website. You talk a big game about “erotica” but I bet you don’t have the balls. Your mentor reads the blog and he’s a chaste author; he doesn’t write things about balls slapping against another person’s face
—Maybe you I mean I shit I’m confused
—Balls are slapping against your face. You make a mewling sound.
—A woman sets her breasts down on a shelf like they are something she brought back from the Farmers’ Market. Or like they are something she bought at a toy store for rich and gifted children. Her husband smiles (“appreciatively”)
—A businessman wears a nice suit and then lets his erection poke through his open fly
—A San Francisco fruit fly kisses his lover’s body through her underwear
—This is so risqué! You’re really flirting with the bleeding edge
—An attractive man flirts with a bleeding edge in a whiskey bar in San Francisco
—She has a boyfriend
—It doesn’t matter
—Who are you talking about
—A famous artist
—What’s her name
—Tell me seriously, all erotica has to have a real-life referent
—That would be despicable, to write erotica about a real person on the Internet
—But you just admitted that it’s impossible to write erotica without a real-life referent
—Yeah but only insofar as it’s impossible to write anything without real-life referents
—A pink cube presses his lips against an orange sphere’s butt. The new Massive Attack album plays in the background. The tropical fish have gathered in their bowl to watch
—That’s a funny idea, voyeuristic tropical pet fish watching their owner get ploughed by her lover
—Do you have to write about sex like this? Do you have to write about sex at all? Can’t you be doing this in a TextEdit file that roils privately on your hard drive, rather than publicly, here in a WordPress web editor?
—What’s the difference? Anything I write in TextEdit is going to end up in Ploughshares anyway.
—Ha. You give yourself a lot of credit. Have you ever published anything in Ploughshares?
—Yeah. They took a story I wrote about a bunch of abstract shapes having an orgy.
—Ha. Seriously, though, have you ever published fiction? In a real journal?
—OK then. So get back to TextEdit and let this poor woman dress herself and leave.
—There is no poor girl. This is my “intellectual playground.” I’m not forcing this on anyone. This website
—Oh just call it a blog for chrisesakes
—This blog is like a ruled composition notebook I’ve moonily left in an old coffee tin at the top of a medium-tall mountain. YOu know the coffee tins they leave at mtn summits so you can record your name in the register
—So that’s what this is. You can look at it but I’m not
—Oh shut up. You’re disingenuous to a scary degree.
[By now they’re naked. They start to make love but the dude comes too soon. The woman begins to cry.]
—[weeping] I never should have left Texas…..