Michael could be a bastard. And Michael is killing me softly in Room 828 at The Algonquin. His pose is butch but he can be sweet. He is dynamite bright, confused, a beautiful guy. Pink cheeks, ice-blue eyes, ash silk hair. Remember Wheaties. Michael is dirty Jack Armstrong and his hands know my body as if he invented it. Never mind Kate Alexander. He knows who I am but he is utterly uninterested. He doesn’t ask if I hated what those clowns did to my last movie. Or what happened between me and Max Palevsky. He wants to know: “What do you think when you’re eating me?” “How does it taste?” “Would you whip me if I asked you to?” I am my gender. “Woman, eat me,” he says. “Woman.” Never Kate.
“Why me, Michael?” I ask. “Why not some of those cute little groupies that lurk in the corridors waiting for you?”
Brutal Michael: “You could catch the clap fooling with that trash, love. Kids today all have the clap.” Flexing his wrist, admiring fist framed in leather and heavy chain links. “They talk. They sue…crazy jailbait. I have to be careful.”
Michael could be a bastard. If he were ever in town long enough. Michael wrote that book of love poems for the illiterate and the retarded. Made a fortune. But he’s even richer from writing jingles for television commercials. Does the music too. Whenever he comes to New York, he checks into The Algonquin and between his appointments and mine we fuck like there’s no tomorrow. And there rarely is. Tomorrow he is gone. How often do I get to Santa Fe? Never since location for My Friend Larry. That’s where I met him, playing the loony crooner in the nightclub scene. And he comes to town now maybe three times a year—a beautiful crazy from Santa Fe “direct in concert” or imported to orchestrate a chorus of dancing toothbrushes. Ideal transient bedmate for the wife who strays and stays, superKate, loving hausfrau. I wouldn’t need these free-lance Don Juans if my once-a-month lover weren’t so goddamned elusive, you prick you, Jerry Glass. In a halfway amusing George Segal film, Jerry Glass would be a constant of my afternoons, tempting me away from the typewriter to Connecticut hideaways, waylaying me in the laundry room and Gristede’s. Instead, I pursue the bastard and his primitive insults. So I need the Michaels just passing through. Michael loves to do all these things as much as I do. “The stranger who desires you and convinces you that it is truly you in all your particularity whom he desires, brings a message from all that you might be, to you as you actually are.” I cut that out of The New York Times Book Review. I feel more official now, acting out all my erotic fantasies with the Times Book Review’s cognizance as it were. I come and I come and I come again and then when I don’t think I can stand it anymore, Michael grasps the soft little hill of my pussy bone and does diddle diddle diddle till I am nothing but a pussy on fire. Out of my head and into the cunt. That glorious sense insanity just one screaming millimeter this side of unconscious. That must be what this is all about.