Lana usually played volleyball after work. I noticed that one day as I was driving back from the garden taking the beach road. She was a very sexy young lady. She had her misgivings, mostly her face still having zits, but there was a sense of pride in her as well as a positivity rare in girls in general, let alone from the village. She was good at volleyball and I noticed it was the girls vs the guys. I got out of the car and watched. Her friend was next to me watching, being the odd player out.
“How old are you? ” I aaked.
“19,” she said, looking at me as if talking to a creepy bastard.
“I’m Thad. You? ”
“Helen, ” she said, looking at the game and losing eye contact.
“Are you friends with Lana? ”
“I just know her from the hotel. She waits on me. Do you live in town year round? ”
She didn’t answer. A guy named George came and looked at me funny. He was a nice young man that Helen seemed to find attractive. Lana turned around and I could see her nipples through her wet black one piece bathing suit. She smiled and gave a little wave. Helen looked at me again. Still a bit bothered, but less so. The familiarity must have made me looked less creepy. I interrupted George at mid sentence and gave Helen my number on a fake business card I’d made for Greece. It said ‘Thad Varvaros, CEO, INTERNATIONAL TALENT AGENCIES ‘. I’d made sure that a Google search would take them to my website of the same name that looked very real and authentic. She looked at it as George gave me a leer. He resumed speaking to her. I proceeded to leave.
Two days later, as Lana came to get my order, I asked her how Helen was doing. Lana smiled and said “trying to find a talent. ”
“How about you? What talent do you have? ”
She started blushing and lost her smile. “What kind of talent can I possibly have?” She got the courage to look at me in the eyes and utter, in a low but steady voice, “what talent do you want me to have? ” She turned around quickly not waiting for a response. I felt the elation and excitement only the act of such a scheme in action could give. In a place far from home where there was more neediness and despair around, it was much easier to become the maharajah every sociopath aspires to being.
The shrink stopped me at this point. She was a psychiatry intern and seemed unamused while at the same time very affected by this.
“Before the session ends, tell me what made you want to be scheming. ”
“Rita. She taught me how to be pure and honest. ”
“Did you feel sorry for people? ”
“Sometimes. But I lost all rationality when attaining power over others. “
It doesn’t take much to shock people. But it takes a lot to leave one in awe. On a day like today, every little move seems to count for a lot. Too much. It started with my appointment at the friendly doctor. Totally overly polite, he told e that he had only received one of the four blood tests he had me do. He called the Jewish General incompetent and gave me a new prescription to go do them at a better hospital.
Chyna died. Yes, she had become a porn star after being forced out of professional wrestling because her boyfriend got attracted to and eventually married the owner’s daughter. This is no wrestling storyline. Unfortunately, this is reality. And when you see Stephanie McMahon being one of the first to tweet an unfelt and scripted message, it is the ultimate hypocrisy of it all that just makes the world a bit cheaper. A bit less kind. Not that Ms . McMahon -Levesque acted differently than anyone else in her place would. But it would perhaps have been better had she said nothing. And how did Chyna die? Probably from a drug overdose in her Rodondo Beach apartment. Maybe between porn movies. Maybe watching others taking full advantage of their opportunity while she had to bite her lip and forget where her long lost dignity and pride were. If it can kill a country, it can certainly kill a person. Even a big Amazon like Chyna.
I have many memories when I think of Prince. He was the representation of sexuality when I go back to my earliest recollections. He promoted women. He blurred the line between misogyny and female empowerment. He was a bad role model and an icon. He chose to remain nameless, and was still popular just being a symbol.
I was in Chibougamau, in northern Quebec, for a summer when I was a young teen. “Raspberry Beret ” was the hit song and even the French people sang it. It was everywhere. It was as common as blackflies on a baseball field. It was the favourite song of our resident nerd, an apathetic yet sensitive overweight boy that was trying to find a friend in the middle of being bullied mentally. Even some of his friends couldn’t escape the temptation to bully him. He had begun to blur the two. The only time I think about him is when “Raspberry Beret ” plays. It’s something music and art do. They hold moments immortal. And someone 57 years old dying of the flu sounds strange.
So I still don’t know what’s wrong with me. But nothing has gone as planned today. I am now writing in a café that has very bad WiFi. The owner just said that there must be many people using it. I can count maybe 3 with a computer. The coffee at MELK has deteriorated. The last time I was here was 3 years ago, when I was unemployed and getting a generous amount of employment insurance. Now I couldn’t even enjoy my Thursday off work down time between doctors’ appointments. I guess the biggest reason is the eclipse of my stressors. No solutions. I should be at my fake job being a hypocrite. I need the money. I want my health to be proven fine. I want to enjoy life again. Be more carefree.
Although the only certainty in life is eventual death, it is how you have come to live your life that matters.
Today is the turning point I need to take advantage of.
True to her word, I met with Rita on Monday. We went to an old Persian café with a limited kitchen. Rita seemed unkempt. Her hair was messy and she seemed hurried. She watched me scarf down my lunch. She smiled and started talking.
“What do you want to do with me? ”
“Be your friend. ”
“Tell me what’s really inside your head. If you could do anything. No hard feelings. ”
“That’s a loaded question. I’m not answering.”
She still stared at me smilingly, waiting for an answer. I went back to eat the last part of my lunch. She watched and kept on smiling, unflinching.
“Ok then, let’s go somewhere, ” she said.
We were close to Chinatown and she took me to a massage parlor. We took the one that said “the good massage ” on the wall. She spoke to the lady who seemed to be from China. Probably the countryside. She seemed to know her. I took a shower and got ready for a massage. I dried myself and the woman said “no towa “, and forced me to go naked on my back for the massage. I was about 25 at the time and the lady was about 40, plain, and not too attractive. Her face was fine and some of her teeth were becoming prematurely black. I closed my eyes and enjoyed my massage. She was pretty good. Near the end, I opened my eyes as I heard Rita’s voice say “Ok Lin, give him the happy ending.” And so it was done. I felt strange, just as I had 2 nights earlier. Rita took the trouble to wipe me again and tipped Lin.
“Are you gonna tell me what you want, Rita? ” We were in the car still parked.
“I’ve always searched for the right guy. I imagined a tall guy, not Italian, pretty good physique, who was strong and a bit uncaring. Not a sociopath, but rather someone who didn’t care what others thought of him. Then I found all these guys and they were all fakes. Little pussies and momma’s boys. Then I came upon you. You were tall and not Italian. But fuck you care a lot. Too much. Did you enjoy how I’ve taken control of you in so many ways the last few months? ”
“I’ve enjoyed being your friend. And you’ve been a good friend. As for the last 2 little adventures, I sort of had fun watching you go through the motions of being in charge of something. ”
“What do you mean? ”
“Rita, I’m a sociopath with women that I’m attracted to. I try to blur that line with you. I let you have your way. I honestly don’t give a fuck if some ugly Chinese woman gives me a happy ending. It sort of made me feel my power over her. She is off the boat promised the moon and is probably without a passport doing that for a living. Her misery should make me feel ashamed. It doesn’t. It turns me and everyone involved in it, including you, on. So, do you wanna be friends or not? ”
“I guess you told me, ” she said.
She spoke of normal things like the inevitability of snow in December and the plight of the working class as I drove her home. I had enjoyed our eventful 2 days. As I parked to let her out, she didn’t invite me in. She kissed my cheek in a way where I could feel her warm cheek hit mine. She then gave me a quick kiss on the lips. She said nothing and just got out of the car. I watched her unlock her front door
The fishy Portuguese desserts were excellent. Rita was not as well as she had seemed earlier. It was a blast having been forced to dance to traditional Italian wedding songs by Tony Curtis and doing that traditional Italian dance that just got faster and faster. No, Rita looked dismayed, as if she had been ill – treated. The people were attacking the pig. Nothing like a blended Portuguese – Italian wedding to show the dichotomy between sheer savagery and well – felt celebration and love. Then there’s the jealousy and the sadness of not having this kind of celebration for you. There’s that built up and pent up anger coming out that you can’t will back in. Then there must be that dismay.
“I’m leaving soon, Ted, ” Rita came and whispered in my ear amid the loud music.
“Wait a bit. I’m part of the wedding party. We can chat about the other day before I have to drive Enzo home. ”
She smiled uncomfortably and said, “I’m leaving much sooner than that. Doesn’t Enzo have a car? ”
“No. He has an acute back problem that takes time to heal. Maybe Mike can drive…”
“I’m not waiting that long. ”
“Ok. Let’s go out and chat now. ”
“I wanna talk to you at my place. ”
“Let’s drive Enzo home and come back alone in the car. He lives a good 20 minutes from you. ”
She started crying slowly. Just a tear can be seen going down her left cheek. She grabbed my hand and ran outside. People looked at us weirdly. We went by this overdone fountain. The warm day had turned into a chilly midnight hour. We were both trembling. Rita cried into the right part of my neo -muscled chest. She was whimpering. Adrianna, her sister, was watching from afar and looking pissed off. As usual. Rita and I were friends for a few years now and Adrianna wanted to be romantically involved with me. Sometimes Rita would rub it in and get cozy with me and even sit on my lap while Adrianna tried flirting with me. Mike once told me that the sisters would get into fisticuffs over people that Rita would flirt with just to irritate Adrianna. Rita was rather tall and quite skinny. Not typically Italian. Adrianna was barely 5 feet tall and more curvy but less cute than Rita. Rita was the artist.
“What’s going on, Rita? ”
“Do I need to spell it out for you? ”
“Yes, sorry. ”
“Mauro getting married. Joe next. It’s the beginning of the end of an era. ”
“Why can’t you just be happy? You and Mauro became old history when we met. He went his way and you’ve been my best friend ever since. ”
“It’s not enough.”
“Ok. Let me get Enzo and we can drive him home. ”
I got Enzo and she told us both to come over to her house first. Enzo really had no say and I agreed. When we entered her house, she told Enzo to leave us alone and placed him in the telly room and gave him pillows and a blanket for the Murphy bed. We went into a big mostly empty room. She had me take off my socks and tie and lie on the floor. She gave me a foot massage trying to catch my sensitive spots. She must have been good at it, because it felt great and she repeated what reflexologists had told me. My liver was sensitive. She hit a spot that started giving me an erection. She pressed on it harder. I started moaning. She took off my shirt and kept on manipulating. She squeezed my nipple hard and stopped the massage. She bit my other nipple. She took off all my clothes and lightly stroked my cock, always stopping before I came. This went on for 5 near orgasms. “That’s the biggest cock I’ve ever seen, ” was all she said until she decided to just let go. “I’ll go see how Enzo’s doing, ” she said.
“He wants to leave, ” she said, as she locked the door behind her. She stroked my cock till I came and wiped the cum off me with a tissue. She kissed me and said, “you’re fucking amazing. Take him home and we’ll meet Monday. I’ve got shit to do tomorrow and Monday’s Labour Day anyway. ”
Enzo had slept through it all. He said “what did that crazy bitch want? ”
“I’m not sure, ” I said, frankly.
What do Bukowski, Hemingway, and Morrissey have in common? They all hate women. Apparently. Bukowski writes from the gutter and explicitly explains how much pleasure young women with big asses give him. Hemingway just objectifies women. Morrissey just seems to ignore them. And all this leads people to define them as misogynists. The truth is very different. The thing they have in common is their unique voice. A voice which comes from the heart and that is honest and usually pure. In today’s neo -liberal society bereft of unique thought and the encouragement of sheepism, it is no doubt that freedom of speech and opinion are being more and more discouraged and any well thought out ideas are seen as a threat to some oppressed special interest group or other. In something completely different, I will now explain how Donald Trump represents honest thought, no matter how much against the grain it goes.
Donald Trump rubs people wrong, and often for good reason. He attacks innocent groups and indirectly causes people to show their hate. But is he turning people into haters? No. He is just enabling these haters to have the freedom to act out in very narrow minded ways. These people exist and either suppress their feelings or act them out under shadow. No matter what the case, no new haters are being created nor is Trump condoning the racist actions of these individuals. This is in the same vein that Bernie Sanders isn’t creating new socialists. He is giving them a voice. We overestimate Trump’s power and influence. He is an egomaniac who knows what words to use in order to make people react. The bottom line is that he speaks frankly, albeit from a voice that I don’t agree with. But that gives me nor anyone else any right to suppress this voice. He is doing nothing illegal and is actually helping us out by exposing the civil evil that is running rampant in a seriously skewed nation that has been living in a bubble and a facade.
Trump’s evil opponent is Ted Cruz, someone no one is shutting up even though he is more dangerous than Trump. But people are more comfortable with him because they have heard his kind of hate before. They have been given the inhumane policies by the Republican party all wrapped up in a nice package. This is like your millionaire boss telling you how much he appreciates your work while giving you more of it and enforcing a company wide salary freeze. We’re used to this slavery, this neo -liberal version of the emperor’s new clothes. Ted Cruz wants to abolish the IRS and have a flat tax. He wants to control women’s bodies by abolishing abortion. He wants guns for everyone to apparently stop terrorists. And he has this annoying little smirk you want to slap off his face.
Back to Trump. He speaks of the same things your neighbors speak of. He relates to his public. As does Bernie Sanders, a man who is really aiming to improve his nation and empower his people while taking on a woman that only knows how to use political speak and follow all the rules of false promises and power mongering while sleeping with the same bedfellows as the Republican party elite. Thus the neo liberal invasion. Neo -liberalism is a very long extension and expansion of political correctness gone amok. This is based on a bastardisation of the well – intentioned idea of human rights. This is what separates the socialists from the liberals. The liberal movement in the USA has become a group of spineless individuals that dare not speak badly of or condemn anyone. This separates them from the social democratic movement.
What is the point of all this? Simply put, I want people like Hemingway and Bukowski, whether I agree with them or not, to be able to let me know what they’re feeling and what they are experiencing to feel as they are. On a personal note, at the risk of sounding like so many before me, Morrissey took me out of a very bad place decades ago when no one else could. And that’s what a righteous and truthful person needs to go ahead and believe in humanity.
This writer was sitting in his car on a posh Westmount street waiting for the time to pass to see the allergist. So many memories were running through my mind, from finance, to love, to death. It had been 9 days since my right upper lip had become swollen beyond recognition at 7 o’clock on a Tuesday night as the American Republican presidential primaries were taking place. It took about a minute to swell up. After 13 hours in the emergency waiting room of which I slept for three, I was seen by a nice doctor who never took the smile off his face. Allergies, he was fairly sure. What else could it be? Ergo, the referral to the allergist.
The next day I just started calling a bunch of allergist on Google. The third one gave me an appointment the following Thursday. I took it. He ranked 4 out of 144 allergists in Montreal. The non-chalant male voice on the other side of the line said “and remember, no antihistamines for 72 hours. ” At that point, that was the scariest thing in the world. What if I needed them? What if my lip got big again? What if I couldn’t swallow? Breathe? I couldn’t put myself through the whole process again. Not again. My body was weaker than any stress.
My diet was the same for the next few days since I had a few foods I had not had an adverse reaction to. I would be able to have bread, eggs, peanut butter, cheese, and butter for breakfast. It would be pasta with beef sauce and cheese for lunch. For supper, it would be a piece of veal or pork along with rice or potatoes. I could have bananas as the only fruit, any kind of dairy, and fig bars as snacks. That sounds easy to do, but try it for more than a day.
The office was narrow. People were sitting in the hallway waiting to catch hives on their arms. They were mostly young. The doctor called my name and he invited me to his office. He was a very capable looking man. He asked all the symptoms and situations and quickly asserted that I had, no allergies. “No need for a test. No need to waste your time and take your money for the test,” he said, “you have what I think is a protein in your body that’s not doing its job properly. Do the tests on this paper and I’ll call you back with the results. Go to a university hospital. The tests are more controlled there. ” He quickly ruled out anything but a protein. Almost certain he said he was. I was not relieved. I was hoping for a simple allergy. I have no idea what a runaway protein may do, but I’m too afraid to Google it and I don’t want any comments here about it, lest you want a curse to be put on you. I’ll update you on this next week.
To the hospital in the slush and rain I went. Hungry. Dizzy. Maybe a protein was attacking, I thought as I parked in the hospital parking lot. I had no sense of direction and felt that I had to just escape. But for the first time ever, I knew that there was no escape from disease. Whatever it was, if anything, needed to be discovered and taken care of as soon as possible. It was a humbling situation. If I get out of it, I thought, I will chase my goals without care. Please God, let this be something easily taken care of.
I always add ingredients to my Zahtar, usually mint leaves, olives, and tomatoes. The Armenian fast food place was still there 30 years later. The Arab girl working there this Easter was her usual arrogant self who lacked any semblance of customer service. I had learned to get used to her and I’d often laugh inside and smile on the outside. She thanked me coldly as she handed me the pita.
I came out and smelled the spring air. Mild and sunny. I felt strange. A bit despondent, but mainly this feeling of unfulfilled potential and an urgency to do something about it. My next scheduled stop was the café. I felt going there would make a difference.
2 minutes after I walked in 4 girls from Greece walked in. They were new ones with fresh English accents. Undoubtedly, they were there escaping the hopelessness of their situation back home. And they just sat on the next table, so happy. One of them, Maria, would throw an eye at me every once in a while. They spoke of how fresh the air was. How much they had to walk to get to Roula’s house. How too much coffee would bother their mood. They spoke of mundane things, yet they made me feel less emotional. When Maria and I decided not to let go off of our eye contact, it was a much easier feat than this would usually be. They spoke, yet she kept the contact. No one noticed. She went to the washroom and came back and rubbed my neck and gave me her number. It was heartwarming. I had dreaded such feelings before, yet my insides loved it. I feared going beyond anything further than deep like and sexual attraction. And Maria was cute and short and nothing spectacular. Yet it was this simplicity that made her special. This and the reality of her being maybe 20 years old. I wondered how people would react to this. Yet I shouldn’t care, right? Why would anyone see us having sex in the first place? Oh God, I thought, please don’t let me lose my self control and revert to my needy self. Let my self – induced sociopathic status take over. Please.
I called Maria the next day. She sounded happy and busy and told me to meet her later in the evening. We met at the corner of Stuart and Liege, or what I had decades earlier named Hope and Dignity. Maria was alone and it was dusk. We walked to her apartment. 1 of the other 3 girls was there. Her name was Eleni. She was having problems placing me. She was hotter than Maria, yet seem somewhat aloof and stupid. Maria took me to her room and closed the door.
“You’re that guy who writes the poems, ” she said.
“Am I popular in Greece? ” I thought.
She smiled, “No! Roula knows you and was too shy to talk. I then dared her to talk to you or I’d hit on you. ” She took off her panties and lifted up her skirt to show me she had shaven. She put her cunt in my mouth. “I want you to fuck me without a condom, ” she said. I had no condoms. I had no power. She took off my pants and boxers and made me enter her as I sat on her bed and she on me. She was very tight and told me to pull her hair hard to cum. I did and then she did as she had said. “You’re good, ” she said, “not cumming before me. ” She got off me and started getting dressed. She said she would have to start getting ready to go out.
At least I would no longer have a chance to get hooked.