"I love farting in the bath," Ron says.
(unfortunately it's just a fragment. a blur. and, o, God, how I wish I knew what came before and after that).
What I do remember next, though, is that Ron and I are at a huge party rollicking and thronged with naked men, women, beasts, children, galaxies, diseases, arguments, Artworks, hot dog stands, clocks, etc, etc
And I'm staring at a ravishing young woman and (snap!) I'm in bed with her surrounded by the party's seething chatter, energy, mirrors, cigar smoke, etc. But it seems like we're alone.
Hours seem to pass. Physical luxury surpasseth. Pancakes, topped with maple syrup, powdered sugar.
I orgasm—and I'm with Ron, again.
"These are all me," he says, turning his palms up in front of him in a magnificent and generous gesture.
"Yes," this is all me, Ron says. And he's winking at me.
I'm not well focused on my man, though, because I'm staring now at an agile guy dancing behind him, and (snap!) we're in a steam room, tight. And again the chattering and energies of the party roil about us, timeless, lost.
I orgasm, again—and I'm with Ron, again.
A dog barks. It's a mangy, rabid Dachshund and as soon as I've looked at it we're alone in a dark alley and it's tearing away at my thighs. The party looms in the walls. In the darkness. But, again, we're completely alone.
Hours seem to pass, again. The torment, agony and dripping is the greatest pleasure of my life. Till the dog sprouts wings and ascends, winking, as though off to herd, nipping away at the heels of celestial orgies.
I am so content, like a scene from Sex and The City.
But I am afraid. And alone now. No party. No Ron. Nothing.
The stars—they are hungry. And the wind's insatiable. I hear a monkey howl, seductively, but menacingly.
The trembling hiss of a boa (an extinct type, I think).
A child asking table to table if someone would please buy a rose.
My eyes are shut.
I have no desire to fuck the world. Enough is enough, I think. Enough is enough.
But then I think why not? And I open them.