"Can we, as a country, all
: October 2002:
What's Your Fucking Problem?
yeahhh! I'm gonna slide onto your mouth like an oily
bicycle seat, grip the back of your head and push it
against me. I'll swing tiny circles with my hips and
fill your mouth with salty girlbutter while I suckle
your long, knobby fingers. Get 'em aaaallll wet to shiny
spit trace trails around my nipples, then before they
dry, get one wiggly digit in my ass.
Sound good? Spoil me, Daddy...I'll arch back and start
bucking and trembling on your face, snapping like a
wet towel over you....Are you gonna cum, too, baby?
Yeah...pull it, you fuck...faster...let me spit in my
hand and help you...OH...there you go, Daddy! YEAH!
Close your eyes tight and roll back your head! You're
all flex and impulse, and I'm gonna watch you explode
into the big, bright outer limits. Yeah! And that's
how they'll find you. With your dick in your hand, a
retarded grimace on your wrinkled mug, and a screwdriver
stuck in your Adam's apple.
I'll punch it in right as you're shooting your trickling
grasp at youth onto your sagging gray-haired paunch.
Are you a bleeder, Daddy? Mmmmm...you look like one.
Oooh! That makes me soooooo horny...Sound good, baby?
Mmmm yeah! Let's go.
what I should've said.
I looked around the restaurant helplessly for my voice
that had suddenly blown away.
stared at me over his caprese salad, waiting. His half-smile
slid full into amusement. He was loving this. His eyes
twinkled like his San Pellegrino water. I saw a glint
of "Ha-ha-HA! Not so tough NOW are we, little rock 'n'
roll girl?" I was a pretty pretty butterfly and he held
the pin to my brittle black thorax, ready to crunch
it through to the board.
How did this happen? My mind raced over my clothes:
not-too-tight jeans, old army boots, snug white T-shirt...not
slutty or suggestive, just rock 'n' roll enough for
me, yet cleaned-up enough to talk business over a power
lunch. Where did this whole thing turn?
roar of the restaurant went into a muffled hum as if
from another room. You motherfucker. Are you laughing
had swaggered into this meeting, cocksure as always.
This was supposed to be so easy. We had met the week
before at a performance my band had done for one of
his favorite charities. He seemed in total awe of me...a
little afraid, even. Exactly how it should be. Easy.
He loved the band and wanted to help in any way he could.
figured he was dying to come down from his giant redwood-and-cedar
feng shui Marin County mansion and be seen with a real
live unwashed mass...me. Maybe he'd get to talk about
how he was really a rebel once. Grew his hair, pierced
his ear, infuriated his parents, etc. He'd get to say
isn't just about money" and all that. He wanted to
get up inside the whole "poor" thing. I would let
him gas on and on about how "alike we all are," then
we could talk business. He said he wanted to invest....I
know he used the word "invest" on the phone while
arranging this meeting.
promise--no rough stuff," he offered, still smiling
that superior cootchie-cootchie-coo smirk as if to
soothe me. I looked down and chuckled some silly understanding
of his statement, trying not to flip out, puke, or
attack this millionaire, father-of-three, philanthropist
fuck. My eyes locked onto my steak knife.
the knife were my papers. My breakdowns of investments
and turnaround times...merchandise ratios, point spreads
and whatnot. I had stayed up all night poring over
the numbers, fighting my mild retardation with all
things mathematical along with my dyslexia to prepare
for this presentation. I really tried to do it right.
God, we really needed the money. "No rough stuff."
I chuckled again, weakly, now fighting tears.
he said he could give me five thousand dollars, I
had launched into presentation mode. I stressed what
a risky investment music was, that he wouldn't get
a fast return, if any...but we'd give him fifty cents
on the dollar if we broke. I pattered on about the
difference between mechanical and songwriting royalties
and blah blah blah.
he cut me off, waving his hand to gently hush me,
cooing down from so high up, I'm surprised he didn't
pat me on top of my head like little Cindy Lou Hoo,
who was no more than two, "I will give YOU five thousand
dollars...to spend the night with me."
dry burning ripping pain started in my middle that
was somehow connected to my tongue. Rage was spinning
in me like an unbalanced load of wet laundry, but
it wouldn't come out...it just kicked and stabbed
at me from inside. My head seethed. Rough stuff? Old
man, were I to take your offer, I'd be sure to leave
you with some injuries you'd have a bitch of a time
'splainin' to the missus how you got 'em golfing.
A bent little maniac voice curled into my consciousness,
saying, I'll take your five grand for one night,
Baby. I got your all-access pass to the unattainable
right here. I'll do it for the chance to scare the
power out of you...to watch those twinkling little
hostile-takeover eyes go flat with the realization
that you might not make it out of the expensive hotel
room you got for your little conquest. I could kill
you and make it look like those embarrassing masturbation
accidents that look like a twisted suicide...only
everyone would know you were just jerking off. Jerking
off with your Italian leather belt around your neck
and photos of young Korean boys in your soft white
SOMETHING!!! I sat and smiled meekly, desperate to
get out of there with a hair of dignity if at all
possible. I shrieked at myself from my head like someone
yelling at the dumb bitch in a horror movie who's
walking around backwards in the spooky basement in
her underpants. "GET OUT, STUPID!!!!"
I've got your number...and, um, I'll let you know.
Mmmmkay? Thanks for lunch" was the best I could manage.
I had nothing to say. No poison darts, clever barbs,
or even a "Oh, and by the way, fuck you." My prized
Ginsu tongue lay flat in my mouth like a wood spoon.
I went out to my car, threw my papers in the passenger
seat, and cried like a girl.
knew he was going home dry that day. What he didn't
know was that he had planted a Jack and the Beanstalk-sized
seed of blooming bile flowers. Revenge. Try and
BUY ME, bitch? OK. I stepped on that tack, I hopped
around in shock and pain for your amusement...yes,
it was very funny...but I'll pull it out of my foot,
and glue it to a baseball bat and come back. MMmmm...sound
good, baby? You look like a bleeder.
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