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FICTION: CBLB Tapas and Citrus

June 4, 2010

Photo: Guy Bourdin

The following story, which will be serialized once a week on this blog, is FICTION. Though set within actual cultural set points of time and place, as one would find in historical fiction, no one character is based on anyone living or dead, but imaginary.

This is satire. I hope it’s a fun ride, which is my sole intention as the author.

This work is registered with the Writers’ Guild of America and is additionally protected.  Law will prosecute any use of the following work without explicit permission by the author.

Tapas and Citrus

Reggie cut three long lines of powder and snorted them off the steel sink in the kitchen in the restaurant of his friend, an English bloke with a tapas bar  on the Lower East Side. The place  really was a landing pad for all the girls they shared.

Reggie started to build a fourth line, tipping the nose of the vial on his fist that he opened simultaneously. He let the brunette with the grapefruit tits inhale this one off his forefinger. She appeared grateful, casting her doe eyes upward and he liked that.

This one — who also fucked Reggie’s friend with the tapas joint only because he descended from some kind of rock royalty and looked like Jim Morrison — called herself an actress. She had never been cast in a play, but she had posed for Ryan McGinley, the photographer who lately shot everyone dewy and naked and running in the fields.

It was such a strange sensation, smashed in between two food prep tables with a  burst of browning onions mixed with jalapeno peppers assaulting his nostrils thick and frozen from the powder.

“Wake up little man!” it might as well have been his mother saying it. She used to trot into his room on Sunday mornings in their London flat, pretending she hadn’t just walked in from some date. This happened during his teen years. After that, he stayed out himself.

But this grapefruit breasted lass was now sucking him off, having pulled him into the john right by the fryer.  He gasped at the hot pepper steam rising up from the pan just outside with his mouth and bucked under her, almost knocking her bum out the door.


Theologie had freaked out. He closed his lids and still saw her, this tiny blonde waif in a towel, wet hair combed evenly on both sides of her part, her mouth scowling.

“You’re spying on me!” She yelped, having seen him hovering over her poetry notebook. “You have no right!”

“Why is this so private, love?” Reggie asked.

She sat at the top of the bed, a top the white quilt that they had   rumpled and maligned. She crossed her legs indian style.

“I need to be alone.” She said calmly. “Please leave.”

Why did he let her dismiss him so easily? Every other girl in every other city offered herself to him in some way or another. They hand crafted jewelry for him. The designed shirts for him. They composed songs for him. They wrote love notes to him. They sent him portraits and photos and flowers. They, of course, fucked him.

But she just sat there unsatisfied in a white towel, doused with the sweet starch of baby powder, some habit she had retained from  her mamma in the South. And she made him feel dirty. His mother used to make him feel dirty when she pretended she did not see so many men. But Theologie dismissed him entirely. So he left. He had missed this talk show with this Kat woman. Now, he could and would photograph the grapefruit tits girl and post her online to see how Theologie would react.

He grabbed some loo roll and wiped himself then pulled up his skinny jeans while still checking for a new half inch of space around his middle and behind before buttoning them in the front.  The girl had wiped her own mouth with the back of one hand and was inserting the fingers of her other hand into the cleavage of her wrap dress.

“I’m so fuckin’ high.” Reggie murmured to himself, seeing she would mount him right there. But the jalapeno onion residue started to seep into the nerves on the side of his skull. He splashed some cold water on his face and picked up his Pierre Cardin bag with a damp palm.

Reggie slid one arm around the girl and  strolled out of the bathroom with her, back through the hot kitchen, and into the tapas joint that was filled with burgundy booths. The Jim Morrison type friend who owned the joint, winked at Reggie from behind the mahogany bar at the  front. They kept certain agreements about certain girls.

Reggie’s room at the Standard greeted him like  an old instantly understood friend, so much different from the snowy white suite he had booked earlier that day. He kept a six pack of diet Coke in the fridge. A carton of Marlboros formed the centerpiece on the side table.

“Keep your dress and heels on.” He told the girl who was starting to unwrap herself as he cracked open a window to let in some air to kill the smell of cigarette ashes that had spilled on the rug. Reggie pulled back every drape in the room so she could mount him with the full light of the Manhattan skyline twinkling in the backdrop. He kicked off his boots, pushed down his jeans, and threw his black shirt on the floor before checking his digital camera. For screwing shots, the digital proved easier than the Seventies style 35 millimeter camera he had picked up in a side shop at Convent Garden. Then he laid down without a stitch of clothing and spread his legs.

“Put your mouth there.” He said not looking at the grapefruit tits girl, only the settings on his camera.

She followed his directions and he began to shoot her glorious brown mane grazing his ribcage like an actual horse’s tail with the windows of the world in the background.

“Now… now! Get on top!

Untie the dress, darling. Show me one tit at a time.

Yes, that’s right!

Now, throw the dress to the side of the bed.


She started to act for him. “Oh, oh, oh, oh,oh!” and her pitch rose with each thrust as she pinched her grapefruit tits.

It wasn’t until she stopped howling did he hear his phone go off.

A text message…. from Zoro. He had attempted to call several times, but sent only this:

“Reg, help! This Kat woman has me tied to a chair….”

If Kat had been attractive, Reggie would have replied with something cheeky. He would have told  him to enjoy it. But Kat was not attractive. She was a dog.

“WHERE ARE YOU?” Reggie answered in a text. After twenty minutes and four more lines of powder between the girl and him, he tried to call Zoro, again and again.


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