Sex with famous people
1) Tony Hart. All silvery and distinguished, but not in a posh way, with his artisan-class economy of gesture, his hesitant voice, and the exactitude of his language. I want this most about him: that he's the first of his family to go to university, and the best loved of all his brothers. Now that all children's TV presenters are methylated stage school fags, it's hard to imagine how his genteel, mostly silent art show Take Hart, could have transfixed so many . As a child, I watched it with fervent attention. He martyred me every week; I couldn't draw. I was too easily distracted by colour.
The pavement art of cheats was splayed across the set walls, and the gallery theme choreographed him pacing past the work of my rivals, ages 7 and under, 8-11, 12 and over, and watching him, even aged 7 and under, I'd sit there getting all swampy in my little kid knickers while he walked slowly around that white space talking about foreshortening. I so want it to be my turn: his look on my body like a blush, noting its shortcomings and revelling in its sucesses, in his careful way; and occasionally, oh, god! he brushes a finger down my lines to demonstrate how perfect they are, and the gallery theme is playing, and it's playing, chilly vibraphone scratches down my back and thighs, and the white of the walls gulps down hot fear.
2) Eric Clapton: I bite my thumbnail off and spit it at him.
3) One night, I'll tire of waiting, and I'll put on the green dress I hid at the bottom of my trunk, and I'll get on a train and go to Robert Plant's gloucestershire fucking estate and rise up out of his lake at dawn. He'll hear me snap the necks of his dogs on waking and load his gun, but I'll be inexorable and terrible and covered in duckweed and my hair will stream ancient water and there will be a terrible consequence in my mien, and stuff. Then his wife and I will raid the fridge for things to stick up his butt, and he'll have the sex change he always wanted and join Le Tigre.
4) It's 1970 and I'm at a party at the Maharishi's New York penthouse - all the hippies are frauds, and I'm muttering into my 4th cape cod. I'm in the library, hiding from Joan Baez, who cornered me boozily behind the piano and made me blush by asking me if I could full lotus. Her breath smelled sort of muddy, and she stared at me after I walked away from her, which I know is the truth because people were smirking all the way to the bar.
The library door swishes open. Of course it does. Nothing creaks here; the apartment is kept in a state of perpetual relaxation by reverent oompaloompas, groomed like a pedigree dog. The entire place has a round, fecund feeling, in fact. I suspect the library of housing larval homunculi. Maybe Joan pups them, whelping out fat brown ova in glorious full fucking lotus. I actually have to shake my head to dismiss that one before I turn around.
Praise god and all his angels, it's only George Harrison. I couldnt have taken one more verse of Joan's predatory hysteria. I say something stupid about expecting someone else, but he saw me relax already, and he takes a big gulp of his drink. He looks almost sulky! 'Mr Harrison? are you okay?' I ask, and he walks over to me and my back is against the bookshelves, and, oh, man - then - something so unexpected happens that it actually warps time, and I can't feel things in their proper order -
His face near mine makes no sense. I think there's a cloud behind my eyes. It's there even before George wordlessly slides the olives off the cocktail stick and pushes them up my nostrils. Before the reek of their vinegar fills my sinuses, before he pulls down my dress, pulls down my body and cockslaps my streaming eyes - turn off your mind, relax, and float downstream -before breathlessness and books falling down, and my lungs bursting and his cock in my throat. It is not dying. it is not dying. my eyes run vinegar. There's cum deep in my chest. Now that, Joan, is what we call transcenmotherfuckingdental.
The pavement art of cheats was splayed across the set walls, and the gallery theme choreographed him pacing past the work of my rivals, ages 7 and under, 8-11, 12 and over, and watching him, even aged 7 and under, I'd sit there getting all swampy in my little kid knickers while he walked slowly around that white space talking about foreshortening. I so want it to be my turn: his look on my body like a blush, noting its shortcomings and revelling in its sucesses, in his careful way; and occasionally, oh, god! he brushes a finger down my lines to demonstrate how perfect they are, and the gallery theme is playing, and it's playing, chilly vibraphone scratches down my back and thighs, and the white of the walls gulps down hot fear.
2) Eric Clapton: I bite my thumbnail off and spit it at him.
3) One night, I'll tire of waiting, and I'll put on the green dress I hid at the bottom of my trunk, and I'll get on a train and go to Robert Plant's gloucestershire fucking estate and rise up out of his lake at dawn. He'll hear me snap the necks of his dogs on waking and load his gun, but I'll be inexorable and terrible and covered in duckweed and my hair will stream ancient water and there will be a terrible consequence in my mien, and stuff. Then his wife and I will raid the fridge for things to stick up his butt, and he'll have the sex change he always wanted and join Le Tigre.
4) It's 1970 and I'm at a party at the Maharishi's New York penthouse - all the hippies are frauds, and I'm muttering into my 4th cape cod. I'm in the library, hiding from Joan Baez, who cornered me boozily behind the piano and made me blush by asking me if I could full lotus. Her breath smelled sort of muddy, and she stared at me after I walked away from her, which I know is the truth because people were smirking all the way to the bar.
The library door swishes open. Of course it does. Nothing creaks here; the apartment is kept in a state of perpetual relaxation by reverent oompaloompas, groomed like a pedigree dog. The entire place has a round, fecund feeling, in fact. I suspect the library of housing larval homunculi. Maybe Joan pups them, whelping out fat brown ova in glorious full fucking lotus. I actually have to shake my head to dismiss that one before I turn around.
Praise god and all his angels, it's only George Harrison. I couldnt have taken one more verse of Joan's predatory hysteria. I say something stupid about expecting someone else, but he saw me relax already, and he takes a big gulp of his drink. He looks almost sulky! 'Mr Harrison? are you okay?' I ask, and he walks over to me and my back is against the bookshelves, and, oh, man - then - something so unexpected happens that it actually warps time, and I can't feel things in their proper order -
His face near mine makes no sense. I think there's a cloud behind my eyes. It's there even before George wordlessly slides the olives off the cocktail stick and pushes them up my nostrils. Before the reek of their vinegar fills my sinuses, before he pulls down my dress, pulls down my body and cockslaps my streaming eyes - turn off your mind, relax, and float downstream -before breathlessness and books falling down, and my lungs bursting and his cock in my throat. It is not dying. it is not dying. my eyes run vinegar. There's cum deep in my chest. Now that, Joan, is what we call transcenmotherfuckingdental.
posted by white hotel | 8:25 pm
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