ECSTASY & VIAGRA

"I know that you don't respect me," Fabiola sneered at me recently. I recall telling her about the same time that gays turned to meth to fuel their orgies and she responded that there was no greater aphrodisiac that ecstasy. She would drop a pill and within an hour she would want to fuck. She was high in the bathroom combing her hair when her date entered, sat her on the sink, pulled off her panties and ate her. Then he fucked her. They returned to the party where everyone was high and in various stages of amorous activity. "I started getting excited again so I pulled him into a closet and we fucked." Why did she bring up ecstasy knowing very well that we have never done the drug together and that she has refused to indulge in the drug with me? Sometimes when I'm stoned I chuckle about the whole absurdity of my predicament and attempt to spin my impossible situation into a positive. I tell myself that this constant tension keeps me in a heightened state of excitement, which keeps me hard. I remind myself that this precipitous mental state infuses my writing with an edgy quality. But what kind of writing are we talking about? The musings of an exiled journalist submitting stories to a second-rate newspaper about a Third World city where crime, corruption and violence reign and the best I can do is provide a superficial sensationalism to an audience that accepts that the druglords rule, that politicians survive on bribes and that murders shock no one. A soap opera mentality permeates the border. Nobody takes anything serious unless you're the victim. After the condolences and the whispered insinuations that so-and-so was at the wrong place at the wrong time, everyone returns to his existence that fluctuates between the surreal and the mundane. I am a professional writer who can't escape the Triple A circuit and make it to the big leagues. Where are the novels? Where are the short stories? Where are the books of poetry? I've considered collecting my best columns and compiling them in chronological order so I could have the pretense of publishing a book, but why? I am no artist. I write a few hours a day because I would hate myself for not exercising my brain even if it's only nonsense that I'm scribbling. I am thinking of Fabiola in the car with her previous lover who fingered her while she sat on top of him before going to his house where "he kept turning me over and over while he fucked me." Should I take my pills so I can give her the hard dick she rhapsodises about? I have sworn to myself to fuck her as much as possible in order to smooth out the grooves worn into her by her previous lovers and inflict the same torture on those who follow since she will outlive me by 30 years. But I'm fooling myself. They will see her as a strange piece of ass and she will look at them as hard dicks. I hate her. I hate her. She should have known that there would be a day of reckoning. And my day of reckoning? More children that hate me? AIDS? A lonely old man inhabiting a hot apartment who spends his days shuffling downtown until absent-mindedly walking across the street in front of a car? I search for my pills at the bottom of a basket on a shelf lined with an impressive collection of classics. I have read them all, but I don't remember a single scene or character. I find the magic potion and swallow two pills with a swig of wine. In an hour I will be able to spin like a top on top of my dick. I will wake up in the morning with a boner and I will punish her with another fuck. The Apostles may have collectively outfucked me five to one, but individually I've assumed first place. Except they're still fucking her. When I'm fucking her, they're fucking her. And when I can't evoke any of them during sex, my dick shrivels back into into its inconspicuous state. "I've had lots of hard dicks in me" echoes in my marijuana sensitive state. Her floppy tits sag to her flaccid belly as I attempt to concoct a picture of her that repulses me and will permit me to forget her when we are no longer together because I don't want to spend lonely nights regretting that we are no longer together and imagining that at that very instant she is fucking someone. But I will fuck and fuck and fuck her until the day we part. I look at the several pictures that were taken during our first year together. In ten years I will contemplate them with the same disbelief that I contemplate my oldest sons. Just like my boys and I once sat in mutual adoration, the photos of Fabiola and me convey the ecstasy of two people wildly infatuated with each other. She has the most remarkable face in the world and a camera enhances her beauty. Man are fascinated by her face. Her beauty makes her seem untouchable, yet she is one of the easiest fucks in the world. She craved coming and if the opportunity presented itself, she had no second thoughts about succumbing to the animal in her. I am feeling a stirring. These pills are fantastic. I don't know if I was this hard in my youth. It's a welcomed relief to the limp fucks that I've tried to coax out of myself in the mornings when Fabiola lies half-asleep twisting my nipples while I attempt to concoct images of any of the Apostles who is endeavoring to start his day with a fuck as he pushed into her with no other objective than the pleasure of ejaculating in her again. Between her pinching my nipples and erotic images playing themselves out inside my head, I succeed in adding another fuck to the record. I won't be taking no for an answer tonight. Tomorrow morning may be a different story, but armed and dangerous, there are other options when I have a full day ahead of me.