"Fashion show, fashion show, fashion show at lunch!"
-Kelly Kapoor
Emerz is wasting his life, he says, as we watch the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show on DVR. Again. I'm deaf after the thunderous Usher performance (Emerz has an incredible home theater system), thankfully deaf, but I can read Emerz' lips. He has beautifully plump lips, mounds that simply fade into the soft pink pale of his face. He has beautiful lips but that is not why I can read them. I can read them because Emerz has only said two things all night: "Pass the ginger ale" and "I'm wasting my life." Aren't we all, I think, sitting there watching, sitting here, writing.
All those toned, glowing and pinched stomachs look like they are built especially for appreciative lovers to rest their heads on, a pit stop on the long trip in either direction, ears down, listening for the faint sounds of human mechanics. After all, there is a chance the woman is a forgery, a robot, a Japanese sex-doll implanted with a (limited) artificial intelligence chip, sent from the future to bring about mass suicides, mini-Jonestowns in every fraternity living room, thereby dooming the human race.
I finally say this to Emerz, sounding like I'm screaming underwater. He says this would be preferable to any real future that did not involve carnal knowledge of these women. But that's absurd, I say. There's Puff daddy in the audience, worth hundreds of millions, able to get just about any girl he-
And there's P. Diddy, gnawing on his fucking knuckles, says Emerz, triumphantly pouring more ginger ale into the mug. The fizz bubbles up and over onto an old Robb Report we use as a coaster.
Well what about the girls themselves, I say. By this logic, their lives are meaningless - they can't be with an appropriate male counterpart.
But they can fuck themselves, says Emerz. And each other.
I nod. My hearing is returning. But, I say, when you find out a girl will fuck you, even wants to fuck you, even told another girl that she has considered the possibility and even gone so far as to imagine what it might be like, isn't there always a certain part of you, behind the blush and the ego and the flattery, that says, trust me babe, it ain't all that.
I continue. And they can't enjoy the novelty of their bodies the way another appreciate lover might be able to, the way another human being can. Even then there are often problems. I can't believe this is happening to me, you think the whole time. You try to remove yourself from the moment, concentrate on the dark shapes in the room, memorizing the scene so you can remember it later, to prove to yourself that it went down this way, just the way you tried to remember it. That's also why there's mirrors on ceilings and nanny cams. Ever see yourself have sex before? I ask Emerz. Did it look the way you remembered it?
Pretty much, he says.
Well, that right there makes it not worth it, I say, content to let the matter drop and get back to Two and a Half Men.
But P. Diddy could fuck those girls, says Emerz. Chewed up hands or not, he could probably pick one out and be in it that night. If not that night, than I guarantee that with a little work he could do it. Flowers, whatever, some Mystery shit.
You know how to do that too, I say. You know how to do the work.
Yeah, but I don't have fucking 300 million dollars, Emerz says.
True, I say. I can hear so painfully clearly now that the bubbles popping in Emerz' Canada Dry sound like pistons in my ears. But your not exactly indigent. You have free time, access to Mystery, access to these girl's autobiographical backgrounds. You say you're wasting your life not fucking these girls than go after it, be like Seal.
Well, said Emerz, I'd rather be here alone than be like Seal.
We finally retired upstairs. Our twin beds looked remarkably prim and innocent, with their matching blue comforters (duvets, says Emerz) and hospital corners. Emerz flipped through an old yearbook while I thought of the women who have cat-walked through my life, taking wide declarative strides, leaving behind them a wake of longing, confusion and confetti. Then it was lights out. The crisp sheets rustled like autumn leaves in a storm and then there was a collective sharp intake of breath. Then silence. As silent as Jonestown after the sun came up, but before the dogs started barking.
P.S. (See Kelly's greatest moments, Seasons 1-3, by clicking link below.) (Embed it, says Emerz...)
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