\Night. On a road trip with Dario and some guy and two other women. We stop by a brothel near Los Angeles. The proprietor is Russian. I ask for a job and say it’s something I always wanted to try. She accepts, says the place is laid-back, but warns me that it’s far outside from Los Angeles and how will I get there if I decide to stay. I consider this detail, but proceed, say it’s OK.
\ The brothel is filthy. All the walls are covered in cum. Everywhere. A black light highlights the streams of cum dripping down the walls. The lighting is dim and yellow. There are lots of men and women. Mostly older guys, kind of truck-driver seedy individuals and young girls in swimsuit, but generally friendly.
\The woman says she has a perfect client. He’s a tall bulky man. This brothel is just through phone sex. She puts me on the phone with him. But there’s a mix-up and for a while we’re just sitting there, waiting. The phone is covered in large chucks of cum. I wipe it off with my hand and wipe it on my jeans. Then finally my client and I start speaking (at the same time, I realize that I have to think up a stage name for myself). The woman is next to me and says that first we have to discuss the money issue. He wants to pay 20, I try to convince him to pay 40, and say that this is my first time. I feel playful and play the business-woman and tell him that if I stay, next time I’ll give him a discount. He doesn’t accept. We bargain for a bit, but don’t come to an agreement.
\Then, instead of sex talk, I feel a bit of a savior complex and want to remind him of his humanity. I climb out of the window into a beautiful swampy back yard. It’s almost morning, and the colors are pre-dawn blues and greens. The landscape reminds me of Georgia in the summertime, something magical. It recedes deep into the woods and smells sweet and damp. I start crawling around and whisper into the phone: “I am free. I am free…I am the universe, I am your mother. Do you remember me?” My voice searches in the lulling expansive night for a deep connection with the other line. Then I realize that the other line isn’t in sync with my intention. The client wants me to speak dirty with him and fulfill his mundane needs rather than cherish the magical.
\When I climb back through the window, I see a black guy, dressed in black sitting on the floor cross-legged, with a camera in his lap. It’s Wiz Khalifa. I’m not surprised, it’s Los Angeles and he must have come in the night to this seedy out-of-the way shithole. I compliment him on his camera. He smiles widely with a sense of recognition and gratitude. I walk by and then walk back. I’m wearing some swimsuit bottoms with ties on the side. He pulls at the string with words “What if I do this?” They untie. I respond “And what if I do this?” and pull at the strings of this hoodie and it comes off as well.
\For a moment, nothing exists. The entire room disappears and we are completely consumed by each other’s energy. I straddle him and we kiss. Then I see his erection through his jeans. I am hungry for it, so I start blowing him, fitting the entirety of his dick into my mouth. A moment of complete union. Violent and passionate, we merge into pure limitless primal life force.
\The act doesn’t culminate in completion though. My companions enter the room with the Russian woman. She’s pissed because I’m not working with the original client. My friends are eager to leave because we still have a long time to go. (Before this they were running around the place, taking pictures with their iPads, giggling.) At this moment, I realize that I don’t want to stay and work there, that I could never sell myself and pleasure these senseless holograms of beings and do this kind of work. I tell my friends that I’m coming. We leave.
\Outside is Khalifa’s car – a broke down window-tinted domino’s pizza delivery car, which I assume he borrowed from a friend to be incognito. I am sad that we didn’t even exchange names. How will I contact him? How will we reunite?
…Somehow or other I come back into the room (or is it a different room?) There’s no one around. We are happy to see each other, but I am more eager that he is to exchange contacts. It feels like there isn’t enough time, I start looking for a piece of paper to write on. I find shreds of paper around, but it isn’t sufficient. Finally I find a printer and start taking the paper from the stack, but none of it is blank, all of the paper is covered with writing front-and-back. Finally I find a piece, tear it in two. I write on one half, he writes on the other. I write “ Thank you for the wonderful evening. Hope to see you soon.” Pretty impersonal, but I put a lot of emotion into it. I tell him that I don’t have a phone, but have an email. We exchange papers. His is a lot more personal. Something the likes of “I will love you forever.” Mine is signed Diamond (but in that moment, it’s not a stage name, it is my name).
\I come back to my home. (Some strange Hollywood set up house). I walk into the kitchen. The light is on. When I walk out I realize that this is abnormal, that someone must be in my house. I come back to the kitchen and see a man in an ugly grey suit jacket with his back turned to me with a knife in his hand. I react immediately and jump onto his back and lock his head with my arm and start twisting. He is paralyzed. I grab a kitchen knife from the counter and start stabbing him violently in his stomach. (In my mind, I realize that this is self-defense and that I’m going to kill the motherfucker). He starts weakening his resistance and I whisper something like “Die you piece of shit” into his ear and put the finishing stroke onto the painting and slide the knife across his vulnerable neck in a gesture of violent eroticism. Blood spurts everywhere and he collapses to the floor. Finally, I achieve that final moment of climax I have been waiting for the entire dream. I am the victor. I am triumphant.
\When I walk outside and there’s another man in a similar ugly grey suit jacket. I am excited to show him my conquest. But at the sight of the slayed predator his face skews in horror. “What have you done? That was a journalist! He came here to interview you.” For a moment I am shocked and feel a pang of remorse, but then immediately become distrustful of his words, because remember that the guy had a knife in his hand. Yet, somehow I am in the wrong. I am sentenced to 35 years in prison for manslaughter.
\The prison is like a slave labor camp, but there is a nice open area, rolling green hills where inmates are free to roam. For some reason the white inmates are treated more fairly, while the black inmates are dressed in colonial attire and carted around on an ancient buggy, looking downtrodden and humiliated. This blatant injustice catches my eye, yet I keep to myself, so as to not cause a scene.
\Then there’s an old black woman. She has come from the outside and calls me up to the old stone wall where she has come through. I sneak up to her and she is a messenger from Wiz Khalifa. She discreetly passes me a stone with a note on it and disappears.
\Fast forward, I am out of prison. I am telling someone the story of how this woman gave me the winning numbers for a horse race. A one in a million chance, on which I put all of my savings and won a shit-ton. With the money I was able to buy my way out of prison for myself and a friend (? some girl – an alterego?).
I am at my old high school. Came to see a specific teacher (don’t remember who). But it’s evaluation day and all the teachers are busy. Run into a few, but don’t find the one I’m looking for. Run into an old schoolmate. We bullshit for a while. Then see another classmate. He’s flirting with highschoolers. We laugh at this. The air is generally lighthearted and at-ease. The storm has passed. Another day begins.
\I wake up in Rome, new and invigorated. Somewhere in the deepest recesses of my unconscious, a great battle has been won and some sort of primal sexual tension has been released. A new day, a new beginning. The alpha and the omega have come together.