ITT: What are you working on right now?

Yeah. You read right. This is for everything that doesn't have anything to do with Eva.

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Sailor Star Dust
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Postby Sailor Star Dust » Sun Sep 19, 2010 2:37 pm

View Original PostIrkenEvangelion wrote:I'm gonna try my hand at learning moonspeak using Rosetta Stone. Anyone have any experience with this that can offer any tips?


I haven't used it personally, but this thread might be of some help: http://forum.evageeks.org/viewtopic.php?t=9267

Good luck to you.
~Take care of yourself, I need you~

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Postby dedguy » Sun Sep 19, 2010 10:17 pm

View Original PostOz wrote:@dedguy: I love those sketches. Keep 'em coming. :lol:


danke, no more sketches, but more work on the poster. Starting on the final illustration, colors and stuff still in flux and tentacles not done yet, etc. I want to also kinda rethink the boat scene bellow. I'm happy with the boat and Berry parasailing but still not totally good on the sea monsters attacking them.

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Postby MugwumpHasNoLiver » Mon Sep 20, 2010 1:55 am

My god. This story is really, really, really, really gay. I can't go more than two sentences without tripping over homo-eroticism thinly masked with tired irony. Not that there's anything wrong with that, it fits the character and context perfectly, just damn. I thought I had too much shame to write this much!

Oh, and while I'm here: those sketches are really cool. Can't wait to see more.
"Now, from Nature we obtain abundant information about ourselves, and precious little about others. About the woman you clasp in your arms, can you say with certainty that she does not feign pleasure? About the woman you mistreat, are you quite sure that from abuse she does not derive some obscure and lascivious satisfaction? Let us confine ourselves to simple evidence: through thoughtfulness, gentleness, concern for the feelings of others we saddle our own pleasure with restrictions, and make this sacrifice to obtain a doubtful result." -The Divine Marquis

"I agree Hans, but we have talked about those anal fisting analogies." -Werner Herzog

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Postby dedguy » Mon Sep 20, 2010 2:05 am

When I try writing stuff I often find myself trying to avoid things I like… which then I realize how nuts that is which is what lead to Kris Leamas being a cross dresser.

I enjoy doing Spooky Dicks stuff as it's in a style that kinda diverges from my normal more semi-realistic illustration style.


Changed up the tentacles some, much happier with how they look now. Not sure why my first inclination is to always draw tentacles as bunt tipped. Also worked some of the sketches on the bottom, re-drawing a bunch of stuff.

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Postby MugwumpHasNoLiver » Tue Sep 21, 2010 1:59 am

Good news! Finished the hand-correcting last night, and I'm finally typing the bitch up on my laptop, which will obviously make digital distribution much easier. I mean, I've got maybe one or two friends, I'll show it to, but you can't email paper. Although, I suppose you can scan and fax typewritten pages, but there's way too many squiggles and corrections to be distracted by. In any case, every time I find I've written something really, really gay, I need to go distract myself with something else for a bit, hence I'm here telling you about it.

What exactly do I mean? Why not let the third paragraph speak for itself?

SPOILER: Show
I can’t go home. I can’t face them anymore. I can’t face him anymore. The way he looked at me yesterday was just too much. I can’t believe it’s been ten years, man. Ten years of talkin’ about the girls we’ve fucked over a few beers. Ten years of un-ironic manly tears shed over lost loves, of insecure rage over deceitful, vengeful, gold digging bitches. Ten years of drills and laps and meets, pinning each other, tackling each other, showering with each other. Damn Johnny my boy, I’ve tasted your sweat, your blood, your tears . . . Why not let me taste your come?


That couldn't get any gayer if you put a bright pink feather boa on it and made it dance the YMCA. At least I don't refer to myself as a 'queen', at least not yet. The exact next thing my narrator does is berate himself for writing something so 'faggoty', so you can see the authorial indulgence at work. I was actually thinking about nixing that whole last bit, but I'm leaving it in now, because it seems to work in context, despite the fact that it's already scribbled out on paper.

All right, I need to go back to writing, because I'm just looking for ways to distract myself now.

And dedguy . . . :thumbsup: Nice coloring, I can't wait to see how the whole thing looks when it's done. I did like the blunt tentacles in the context of the rough sketch, but with clean, solid color, the pointedness is nicer.

. . .

And I'm back. Four hours later. Just for shits and giggles, I'll drop off my night's progress. I doubt any of you will read this, but I hope if the incredibly bored out there manage to, please leave me a comment or two. It's about six Works pages, which I guess is decent. It's difficult for me to position my manuscript in position to my laptop, so I can copy quick enough, but i think I found a system that works. Whatever, I want to be asleep before the sun comes up. Good night.

SPOILER: Show
I’m sitting alone in a bathroom stall. The cylindrical fluorescent lights are flickering overhead, flaring off the filth encrusted tile floors, grids of shit and piss, discharged pink, soap and the white enamel walls smeared with fingerprints and rifled with decay. The smell is faint, dry linger, but repulsive. It’s a vague miasmas of cheap cologne and menstrual blood (strange, seeing as this is supposed to be a en’s bathroom) intermingling with the filth on the walls and floor. I can hear the door opening and shuttering closed, footsteps over the floor, going clack, clack, clack, then the dribbling gurgle of piss in rusty brown urinal. I’m scared. There’s a tremor in my heart, a chill at my spine. I’m lonely He won’t look at me any longer, won’t take my calls, respond to my letters. I’m sad, man. Really, really sad. I feel like there’s something eating me alive, writing throughout my body. This cluster of decay. It’s spreading throughout my entire body, choking me.

This mood . . . It’s incredibly unerotic. It heightens the danger, the desperation. I’m breathing very heavily. My hair is matted into a wet drape, a sweat soaked helmet under my hat. It’s rolling down my head, onto my nose, dripping off at the tip. That is, the sweat is dripping, not my hair. There’s a ball of nerve tissue in my throat that I just can’t swallow. Whoever was at the urinal has walked over to the sink. I hear the echo of a metallic clank, the guy is punching the soap dispenser. The faucet is on. He’s walking away. He door slams shut. There’s nobody in here.

I can’t go home. I can’t face them anymore. I can’t face him anymore. The way he looked at me yesterday was just too much. I can’t believe it’s been ten years, man. Ten years of talkin’ about the girls we’ve fucked over a few beers. Ten years of unironic manly tears shed over lost loves, of insecure rage over deceitful, vengeful, gold digging bitches. Ten years of drills and laps and meets, pinning each other, tackling each other, showering with each other. Damn Johnny my boy, I’ve tasted your sweat, your blood, your tears . . . Why not let me taste your come? Fuck, did I actually write that? That has to be the single saddest, faggotiest thing I’ve ever conceived or written. Ever. In my entire life.

I feel sick. I’m not ashamed, I’m telling myself that I’m not. Denise probably hates me now. I let it slip to her before I told you and she’s probably trashed her dorm and is crying into her pillow this very second. I can understand a little shock. A little discomfort. Hell, I can expect a lot of shock and discomfort. It took me by surprise, too. Ten years, in fact. Ten years of your hard, curved, roughly angular jaw. Ten years of your rock-hard chest, your chiseled abs, your delicately arranged teeth, each one like a block of polished limestone. It’s not a hyperbolic claim to say that Michelangelo sculpted your flesh out of marble. Ten years of staring you straight in the face, into those green eyes, those smooth jutting cheekbones, and I could never articulate this, never connect the two stings dangling in front of my eyes. Christ, I must read like the most hysterical kind of fairy when I describe you like this. How could I not know? There’s nothing queer about noticing another man is good-looking, nothing strange or depraved about admiring his body. And you know I’ve always admired your body, admired you. When did admiration, observation, turn into this sick fairy lust?

I’ve never told you this, but back when I first met you, in those white hot vapors of early adolescence, I could barely stomach to look myself in the mirror. Not because I was ugly, far from it, but because without trying I’d become so angry and distant from everybody, mostly because you know, I was always alone throughout middle school. I’ve probably brought this up before, but I know I never made the extent of my loneliness as clear as I should have. I know this is the kind of stuff that would make Denise cream herself, but that’s exactly why I’m not telling her. I couldn’t go anywhere or do anything without dragging the soul-crushing weight of my own contempt with me. If I didn’t meet you, I don’t know what I would have done. You were such a cute kid back then, and the kindness and respect you showed me in the early days ot our friendship endeared you to me in a way I’d never thought possible.

That’s why you hurt me as much as you did. What could be so bad, so wrong, that it would warrant that look you? That look. The way your lips quivered and your eyes dilated, it looked like I’d just told you that I found a malignant tumor on your prostate. That look completely petrified me. It was a look of complete revulsion and horror. Your breathing suddenly got very erratic and mine just stopped completely. You couldn’t even look me in the eyes anymore, your head was always at an angle, tilted away from me. I didn’t want to betray you, or scare you, but I couldn’t keep it to myself anymore. I could never imagine you, the boy I met that day, giving me that look.

Do you remember that day? I know I’ll never forget it. The moment I first met you, Johnny, was after our first day of freshman Wrestling practice. Obviously, I use meet in the nontraditional sense, the sense I really got to you know you, became acquainted with your soul, cause I was aware of you before then. But when we played football the previous semester, there was no bond between us yet. We knew each other, but only in the same sense as a neighboring prisoners. We knew each other only because we were forced into close proximity for a long period of time. When I first met you, really met you, was when I walked back into the gym after that first practice to look for my notebook. It was important to me that I find that notebook, I almost felt my heart sink when I found out it was gone. It had the first draft of this really angst, crappy story in it, and being that I was just fourteen and incredibly naïve, I thought it was some fucking masterpiece. This was before I found my typewriter in the attic, I wrote all my first drafts by hand.

As I was scouring the bleachers, I’d noticed you on the mat, by yourself, stretching, so I thought I’d might as well ask you if you’d seen my notebook. It was a larger version of those leathery Moleskine books that are really popular with the hipsters and art students now, but in the vague sense of superiority and entitlement that permeated my fourteen-year-old mind, I thought it was a more than adequate tome to house my undying genius. I’m laughing now, but you were amazed that I like to write, thought I was ‘deep’ I think is what you said. Mentioned you liked people who were multi-faceted, who could divide their attention between multiple things, said you always had a one-track mind. After we talked for a little longer, you said you were impressed with how intelligent I sounded, but that’s really only because I was the most pretentious little fuck you could ever have ever met.

Please, you remember this, don’t you? Football, wrestling and boxing were the only things you were good at, but you said you could have probably picked up other sports if you tried them? Since that was our first practice with grappling, I told you how great you were, easily the best freshman on the team. You said I was good myself, and asked how long I’d been dong it. You were shocked it was my first time, and you’d been doing it since you were six. Then, right then, you wanted to have a match with me. Since we were, and have always been, really close in terms of height and weight, I didn’t object. Although I knew full well that you were all muscle, even then, and I had significantly less, with a bit more fat. Still, I thought whatever. I wanted to get better, you seemed like a cool, competent dude and my notebook would turn up. It has my name and address written in it, and it’s not like my writing is valuable to anybody but me.

Now, you pinned me in five minutes and I was exhausted afterward. I remember struggling and flailing like a trapped animal in your vice grip arms, and feeling really stupid and powerless. But you were impressed, said it was a good struggle for a newbie. Now, I don’t remember my reasoning exactly, either because I didn’t like the smug look on your face, or maybe just because I was a total masochist, but I immediately challenged you to a rematch. I don’t remember that second match as well, just this sense that I was being suffocated and blaming it on my lack of discipline and coordination in the light of your sheer technique and skill. I imagine you thought of me the same way a hunter feels about a particularly pervasive prey, a disregard for tact so wild you can’t help but admire it.

But you flipped on your stop-watch and told me I lasted three minutes that time. Told me I was a real tough bastard after you tossed me in an arc over your shoulders, right off the mat, straight on my back, at least after I’d fallen off that precariously placed folding chair . I could’ve sworn I felt the metal break off and cut right into my spine. Okay, maybe you called me a tough bastard later, after you started shaking me and asking if I was okay, but that’s only because it might not have been entirely appropriate to say it then. The pain was searing, man. I’m sure you could tell, seeing as after I tried to pull myself up, and fell right back down, square on my back, you helped me up. That’s when you threw your arms around my side, and I leaned against you, like I was mortally wounded. In retrospect, it almost reminds me of the war, but you know, I’m still not in the mood to talk about that. It was almost like you were carrying me. You led me to a bleachers and pulled up my shirt, audibly flinching at the enormous bruise crushed between my shoulder blades. The tension must have been too much because you laughed and said something like “And that’s why we have refs. So we don’t go off the mat.”

But, you apologized about five times and bought me a Gatorade, which I thought was kind of underwhelming, honestly. At least you walked me to my house, even if you stopped letting me lean against you, because you didn’t want to be seen “like that”. The inadequacies of you affect us all in different ways, don’t they? No that I needed it, as long as I kept my back still, I could walk just fine, really it was just bending it that hurt like a bitch. Of course, I couldn’t wrestle like that, so you offered to run laps with me for a few weeks until my back felt better. Said I had natural talent and that you didn’t want to be responsible for me quitting the team. Well, that was that. We became workout buddies for life after that, and I even got to double as your personal tutor. You were practically humping my leg, after you aced our freshman Lit. class, because you were sure you’d have failed it without me. I know I’ve said this before, but I just gave you direction and competence, you were never as dumb as you thought you were.

Fuck, you’ve got to be wondering why I’m wasting your time relaying you own life to you. Well, I don’t get sentimental or nostalgic often, but I am now. I want you to remember how much we’ve been through. This trip down memory lane is, if I can be honest with both of us, just a crass attempt on my part to manipulate your emotions into taking pity on me. That’s bullshit, I’m sorry I even tried it. You deserve better. Or maybe I’m just being harsh on myself? Maybe starting from the very beginning is the only way I can think straight. But that could just me giving into denial, another cheap attempt you trick you. I hope you can read me better than I can, because I’m just not thinking straight right now.

I’ve fucked a lot of girls in my life. None of them ever did it for me. I mean, you know, I thought they were just bimbos and that I needed a woman who could engage my intellectually. Emotionally. Johnny, you’re no genius, but you’re not a moron. When I could get you interested in a topic, you could really stick with it. And you could always read people far better than I ever could. I have to say that your biggest strength has to be your determination and your drive to succeed. You know, I never had any of that. If I didn’t excel at something immediately, I would just give up.
I can’t deny it, Johnny, what little drive I have, I got from you. I would have failed as a wrestler if it wasn’t for you. Whenever I start writing, I think about you, and how much more I want to be like you. That’s the only thing that gets me past each keystroke, each painfully agonizing sentence. That notebook I lost right before I met you? It probably had about two pages of legible prose and six pages of frustrated scribbling, because my thoughts weren’t coming out right. Yeah man, you were right. Kerouac worship just isn’t enough.

The way it happened . . . I mean, the way I found out about the extent of my admiration for you . . . It was actually pretty funny. I was in bed with Denise. It was our third time fucking. I thought that it might get to be ou first time making love. I still amazes me how different she is from the other girls. It felt like the first time I made a connection with a woman since my little sister died. But that night I couldn’t focus on her body. My mind drifted away from me and I realized that I could never keep focused on any woman while I fucked them. I tried to look at her, in all of her desperate honeybee and hummingbird, look the fuck at me, glamour. Her tits are actually relatively small and she’s just really good at propping them up. But because of that, they were a lot easier to grope. I realized then how little I cared about tits. Sure they felt kind of nice and all, they’re squishy and they make me giggle, and fuck did I feel juvenile writing that, but I never got any real kind of satisfaction out of them.

That’s when I needed to ask myself what I did think about. At first I thought, and this made me sick to my stomach, that I must think about my little sister when I get off. She was the only girl I’ve ever felt like I had a meaningful relationship with, it made sense at the time. But as my fingers ran over Denise’s smooth, supple body, and I could feel my muscles flexing and stiffening, it’s almost like my body went on auto-pilot. Without even thinking about it, I started getting really rough with her, throwing her to the ground, rolling around with her on the floor, trying to pin her to the sheets that were torn off the bed and splayed out all around us. And that was when I first got really into it, really hard. She was enjoying it too, like she was feeling it for the first time with me. She wasn’t moaning, she was laughing. She wasn’t trembling, she was flexing and her muscles were twitching, like she was trying really hard to get on top of me. It must seem really obvious because of the way I’ve described it, but at the time I couldn’t piece together why my actions seemed so familiar. I had to trace it, so I stopped. I searched my mind. I held her close to me and started thrusting at her wide-open cunt, and that’s when I started to loose interest. It started to feel cold and alien. Not bad or anything, I was enjoying it, but I was getting limper than before, like it wasn’t really worth the effort.

That’s when I realized I was wrestling with her. Only I was naked and had my cock in her. In my defense, that is a pretty fine distinction. I felt her lithe, soft-smelling arms and realized it felt wrong. Revelation hit me like a brick to the jaw. I need bigger, stronger arms, a mans arms, your arms, man. Thicker, rougher, punctuated with veins and hair. I felt her tits again and almost threw up in my mouth because they felt so soggy an loose. I trembled at her smooth navel, her flat, ridgeless torso like an ovarian plain. Her swan-like neck, her hairless cunt, her light feminine aroma that filled the room, passively aggressively asphyxiating us. But it must just have been shock. It would be too cruel and melodramatic to say I felt disgusted, because the whole act felt so completely hallow. So joyless and empty of intimacy. Like fucking a plastic cast or a faceless mannequin.

Somehow, this whole time, time entire years, the only thing I’ve ever wanted is o be with you. And I never knew! I went completely still. I tried to keep going. I thought about you. About your smile, about how your jokes are only funny about half the time. The vacant, dumb puppy look you give me after saying something stupid. The time I got you and Kathy drunk and taped you two fucking. I thought about how I barely looked at her, about how I wasn’t right to look at my buddy’s girl, despite the fact that I was watching them fuck. And about, hell, how I’ve seen you naked tons of times, so that there’s nothing about that being what I’d watch. It seemed like an honorable sacrifice at the time. I thought about how when I would wrestle you, your singlet would hug your body, about how I could see the outline of your muscles and cock through it, accenting your flesh. About how the strap of your undone headgear would dangle just above your chest, and how it made you look like a recently unleashed puppy. I thought about your ass in your football gear. The way the pants would hug your lightly bronzed thighs, stopping right above the hard knobs of your kneecaps. I thought about the sweat glistening in your dark brown hair underneath your helmet. How the full the tendons would peek out around the white hard plastic of your shoulder pads.

God, I’m a fool. A stupid, fucking fool. You’re beautiful Johnny. As I lay in bed with Denise, thinking about you like this, that’s when it finally clenched it for me. That’s when all the horror and shame finally sunk in. When I thought about you, in that way, I got really hard, really fast. In fact, I’m hard right now. Denise was looking straight into my eyes, sighing with a look of, you know, that look she has. The motherly, disappointed look. Well, everything came together then. I went completely soft and I started sobbing. Right there, on top of her. It was really quiet and dry at first. My eyes were clenched shut. As hard as I could possibly clench them. Then I felt the tears, dripping onto my lips from off of my lashes. Right then, at the same time, I felt that not only had I failed myself as a man, but that I may never been a man in the first place.

Then Denise pats me on the shoulder, whispering “It’s okay, Charlie” and I could feel my tears, hot and wet, running down he palms of her hands and onto my back. I didn’t want her to comfort me. I just wanted to run away from her. I couldn’t look at her. I held her as close to me as I could, so that my face was long past her shoulders. So I could open my eyes without looking her in the face. It didn’t help much. My eyes were so wet that I could only see light refracted through tears in bright spots. It was like when we were in High School and we swam laps with Mark and the swim team sometimes. Every once in awhile, I’d like to let myself sink to the bottom of the deep end. I looked up through the sixteen feet of water above me, at the sparkling waves, rippling across the surface, right where I knew the light hit the water. Suddenly, as I lied in bed, it was like that was all I could see. This single memory of fantastic beautiful light was almost trying to comfort me in this moment of sublime and pulverizing humiliation.

Until, of course, I remembered how good you looked in the Speedo jammer Mark lent you. You were far more tone and top-heavy than the other guys, not like the swimmers with their thinner, streamlined profiles, but it suited you very well. I remember knocking on your exposed chest, and it seemed innocent enough then, but I probably just wanted to touch you. In fact, I think you looked better tha they did, almost more natural because you’re so hard and angular. I think I pulled it off, too. I mean, by that point, any differences in our body type had narrowed considerably. I’d burned off all my baby fat and sweated the rest off. I don’t know, man. I guess I just try not to think about myself very often. Reminds me of something Hemmingway said once. I don’t remember it exactly, but the gist of it was that the only psychiatrist he needed was his typewriter.
"Now, from Nature we obtain abundant information about ourselves, and precious little about others. About the woman you clasp in your arms, can you say with certainty that she does not feign pleasure? About the woman you mistreat, are you quite sure that from abuse she does not derive some obscure and lascivious satisfaction? Let us confine ourselves to simple evidence: through thoughtfulness, gentleness, concern for the feelings of others we saddle our own pleasure with restrictions, and make this sacrifice to obtain a doubtful result." -The Divine Marquis

"I agree Hans, but we have talked about those anal fisting analogies." -Werner Herzog

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Postby WonderBug » Wed Sep 22, 2010 2:11 am

I haven't had photoshop in a while so I haven't really been able to do much. But I downloaded GIMP last night and got this:

Image

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Postby soul.assassin » Wed Sep 22, 2010 5:01 am

<-- Tweaking the new Wordpress blog; LJ maybe simple but they restricted user customization.

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Postby Defectron » Fri Sep 24, 2010 11:43 pm

[URL=http://img534.imageshack.us/i/capt2pag04.jpg/]Image[/URL]

Uploaded with [URL=http://imageshack.us]ImageShack.us[/URL]

Here's ch 2 page 4, had lots of fun coloring this one
Parasite Galaxy: An experimental webcomic

http://www.parasitegalaxy.com/ Updates Monday and Thursday. Vote for me on top webcomics

If you want to support this comic buy something from me on amazon

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Postby planet news » Sat Sep 25, 2010 1:12 am

View Original PostMugwumpHasNoLiver wrote:Good news!
Gay  SPOILER: Show
gay stuff
Well, at first I was all TL;DR, but then I was like "this is emotional and arousing".

Personally, I can't relate to some of it. The jock stuff, I mean. I get the gay stuff just fine though. Especially what you write here:
Gay  SPOILER: Show
I need bigger, stronger arms, a mans arms, your arms, man. Thicker, rougher, punctuated with veins and hair.
In general I like how you don't hide in figuratives and go for the direct route without being "stuck up". All of it strikes me as completely "accurate" too. The wrestling thing is something "I've heard" before about gay sex. I'm a bit indifferent about how you make the comparison. It did strike me as obvious, like, even before you did it, so I guess the self-conscious "when I write it like that" thing is good. I wouldn't know how to avoid this without stretching it out, which you shouldn't do. The pace is very comfortable.

The characters... I can't tell yet.

---

The only thing I could "suggest" (lol) is the beginning 2 paragraphs versus the rest of the story. The intro is sorta more stylish and dark while the other bits are more conversational or self-conscious. I can only say that the intro made me feel like I was in store for something "heavy" while the story was general pretty "sweet" but with "bitter", right?

I dunno. All I can say is that it's going very well, as usual, and it's especially interesting because it's gay.

---

And I know this post sorta sucks in terms of grammar/punctuation and communicating anything of substance without scare quotes. Sorry.
"Crab People, look like crab, talk like people. Crab people . . ."

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Postby MugwumpHasNoLiver » Sat Sep 25, 2010 2:54 am

Oh Planet, your incredible hotness proceeds you. I was waiting for you to stumble across my excerpt. I want you in particular to read this because I feel you're my only contact who analyses the artistic worth of my fiction, and this piece, on the whole, feels really weird to me.

First of all, it (hopefully isn't, but might be) difficult to gleam from context that this character is Charon's idealized perception of himself (meaning he's, by extension, my idealized perception; I'm doing a critique on authorial self-indulgence or something, let me know how that turns out), so I need to strike a difficult balance which is very difficult. The 'conversational' bit goes on for about eight pages, but I can't help but feel it's too heavy on the self-loathing. What I want to get across is that this guy isn't going into catatonic depression because he's gay, but because he feels rejected by his best friend. So not only do I not want him to sound whiny, but I also don't want him to sound . . . I don't know. Too gay? And yet, I want repeated and flowery descriptions of male beauty. It's hard.

I was fortunate that Miss O went on one of her extended "there is such a thing as Bi" rants, because that made it much easier for me to get into the character's psychology. The way it reads now is . . . strange. I'm finding it a bit hard to swallow that this guy suddenly lost all attraction to women after being an apparently awesome ladies man, but honestly the harder brick to swallow was how he managed to delude himself for so long.

Can I ask what you mean by "stuck-up"? The jock stuff was hard to write. Partly because I only had a vague idea of what I'm describing and secondly because holy crap, I can't believe I'm finally writing jock stuff! It's well, incredibly distracting. I have a fixation. This story might have actually cured it for a few months, though. Out of everything I've ever written, it's my opinion that that is the weirdest I've ever written. But as for the intro . . . It's sort of essential as a framing device. I've typed up to page 22, but I need to move some more shit around (originally that description of the first meeting was near the end), but just two scenes really.

There isn't a dialogue scene until page 9, but I am going to say that the narrator's girlfriend Denise is now my favorite character to write dialogue for. Hopefully you'll see what I mean. I'm just going to say that my intention is to take the piss out of Rand's weird romance plots, because they're weird. His friend Johnny is more of a challenge. I need him to come across as masculine without being stupid, eloquent, but awkwardly so, and have this puppy-like adorableness without loosing credibility. Again, difficult.

Fuck it, I'll post another excerpt. This is most of my second and third day's work.

SPOILER: Show

But I just can’t do it. I can’t put myself on the page. I can’t imbue the written word with my soul. The more I think about it, the more I realize that during our entire friendship, I’ve been using you as a grail to hold all of my hopes, dreams and aspirations. My stillborn dream of being a writer is all I’ve left for myself. I must be drawn to failure like a bee to pollen. Or whores to street corners. All the successive I could’ve claimed, in athletics, in relationships, in war, I’ve cast aside to pursue the impossible. Remember Junior year, when I could’ve gone to State with you? I don’t regret what I did. I don’t regret blowing off practice for an entire week to finish my first attempt at a novella. I don’t regret locking myself in my room for hours, my fingers in constant pain, the pen in my hand feeling more and more like a sacrificial dagger more and more every second, as I crossed and wrote over the poorly typed manuscript lying dead on my desk. I don’t even care that it ended up being one of the worst pieces of shit that I’ve ever written. A grotesquely overworded plea for recognition. I thought it was the experience that mattered. The thought of being one step closer. I thought it was all right to sacrifice one dream for another, because my dead dream could live on through you.

And it almost did. Yeah, it was all a lie, I wasn’t going off to practice by myself. I still can’t believe you believed that. Have I ever, in my life, practiced without you? I don’t think I can, honestly. I think I tried it once, when you were breaking up with Kathy, but I really didn’t get much done. It felt too strange. Like how, before today, I’ve only ever jerked-off maybe three of four times in my entire life because it felt too strange. You know, doing it by myself. But I remember loosing in that last Sectional meet, the one that stopped me from going to State. I don’t think I slept the night before. I was so disgusted with that story, by the sound of my own voice, that I could’ve leave it alone. Premature. Half-aborted. I wanted it to live. But I’ll never forget that cloud of disappointment, that creeping malaise only half-passed off because everyone you did succeed, because everyone was so thoroughly convinced that I had tried my hardest.

Well, now you know the truth. We trained our asses off next year. I pushed you harder than I ever pushed myself. That should have been an obvious indication that I gave up on winning for myself. It should have been clear that I resigned myself to failure for your sake. That made it all the worse when you lost in the semi-finals, after making finals the year before. I know I could’ve won. If I’d been training harder, for myself, and not just acting as your cheerleader. I know I could have one because I had you to inspire me. I know I could have one because I had you to push me. So why did you loose? You didn’t even seem to care. Did I not inspire you? I tried my best, but it doesn’t feel like you need me. Your dedication is so strong, it doesn’t feel like anything I do could strengthen it. But I don’t blame you. I don’t even blame myself. What’s done is done. There’s no point in regretting it. But come on dude, I love you, but how could you loose? You are my idol, you taught me everything about the sport. Did you just give up, too?

Love . . . I’ve said it. I love you, Johnny. And not even entirely in a gay way. You’re like a brother to me . . . And I want to fuck you. Christ, I’m disgusting. Last month, when I was doing our laundry, I found one of your jocks in your gym back. It looked clean, man, seriously, it was starch white. Didn’t have any discoloration or anything, wasn’t wrinkled or tangled like the rest of your clothes. Well, I did the rational thing, I sniffed it to see if it was dirty. And yeah, it was completely pungent, ripe with your sweat. A thick, stagnant musk. Of course, my hand pulled it away from my face almost instantaneously. But I didn’t throw it in the basket right after. I held it out, dangling from the vice of my fingertips. I thought about it for a second . . . And I realized that I really liked the smell. I brought it back slowly to my nose, inch by inch. I took a quick sniff. Then I pulled it away again. I looked around, crumpled the jock into a ball and shoved it in my pocket. I ran into the bathroom and I locked the door. I started sniffing it some more. At first, very lightly. Very faintly. But after awhile I was forcing it against my face with both hands, inhaling as hard as I could. Man, it got me real hard. I did this for about twenty minutes, just hiding in the bathroom and sniffing your jock, rubbing my hard cock through my pants. But I didn’t have the nerve to come. It felt inappropriate. It felt like too much.

I admit that I was distressed by what I was doing, of course. Because, you know, it’s weird to smell your friends underwear. And even weirder to enjoy it. Of course, there was guilt, too. And embarrassment. That’s why I locked myself in the bathroom while I did it, I didn’t want you to see me like that. I didn’t want to explain why I was doing it, because, honestly, I couldn’t fathom why. My first guess was that it was just a pheromone thing. We’ve been with each other for so long and are so close, I didn’t immediately connect what I was doing to homosexual attraction. If anything, I thought it was completely removed from any kind of sexual attraction. This might just sound like complete denial on my part, but at the time I thought it was a purely Narcissistic attraction. An olfactory aesthetic.

I don’t mention this often, but sometimes I’ll talk about you to a girl I’m dating. I mention that, to me, it feels like we’re two parts of the same soul. I thought it made sense. Sense as to why I always feel so lonely when you’re not around. So bored and without meaning. For the longest time, I’ve felt like I’ve owned your body, like it was a part of mine. Why I’ve always felt so uneasy and distant, and I really mean this, afraid of other men. I don’t know how to say this, but It’s always felt like you were there to protect me from other guys. We both know I can hold my own in a fight, it’s just that I feel fundamentally incomplete. Like my backbone, nerves and muscles are all attached to you, and not me.

That how it’s always been. I feel ripped from somewhere. Like I’m part of something else. Just a fragment of somebody else and that I’m not really in any control of my own life. That’s why I’ve tried to hard to be self-reliant, self-sufficient. I tried my hardest to prove myself and have confidence in myself, knowing that if I crumbled for just a second, I would be nothing. That’s why I was so angry before I met you, that’s why I could only open myself up to my little sister. I felt like nothing. I knew I’d be nothing if anyone else found out. If I gave anyone one weakness to exploit, exposed one inch of my naked, tender, flesh, they would tear a whole in me that I could never close, wound me beyond recognition.

Look Johnny, I’m sorry. I don’t want you to hate me or be embarrassed by me. I’m not asking you to become a fag for me, I just want you to know the truth. Please, just stay my friend, my comrade in arms. I can’t imagine living without you. Just stay in my life. I promise that if I try, I can suppress these feelings I have for you. Things can be almost like the way they were before. With the exception, of course, that I’ll be bringing dudes home instead of women. I’ve heard that a lot of girls these days are going to gay bars because they know they won’t be hit on there. Come on, this might even turn out for the better. Look, I can’t change who I am. And I won’t try to. The more I think about it, the more I realize this was always how it was meant to be. I’m not ashamed. I just don’t want to loose you.

That incident with Denise . . . I’m sure you’ve talked to her by now. It was more sock than anything. I hope it was just the same with you. Shock, nothing else. You’ve never been homophobic or ignorant about these things before. You’ve always been a really smart, opened minded guy. Shit, Mark and Greg are both ‘that way’ and you’ve never seemed to care. (But I’m sure Greg will be thrilled, he’s always seemed to have a thing for me. So has Mark, now that I think about it, just not as badly as Greg.) I just know that look you gave me had to be shock. Wasn’t it? Like I said, I was shocked, too. But thinking about it has made it clear to me that I’ve always been this way. I just needed some time for it to sink in. I hope that by the time you read this, you’ll have come to the same conclusion.

I would have preferred to tell you all of this in person, but you really scared me. I just needed to organize my thoughts. You’ve got to need me, and even care for me, just as much as I do for you. In fact, I know you do. I don’t even know why I’m so worried. I’m just not in the most rational place right now. I know I’ve always been very stoic, I don’t know what’s happening to me. I don’t know where his deluge of fears is coming from. You can’t just walk out on me Johnny. I need some more time to think. I probably won’t be gone for awhile. That’s okay thought. I’m sure you need some time to think, too. I think next time we talk will be much better. We both just need time. Remember Johnny, I’m still Charlie, your friend and your brother. You can’t abandon me now, not after all we’ve been through. Especially over something like this.

That’s what I said to him. Basically. That’s the gist of it. I was so disgusted by my own words that the second I pulled the last page from the pleaten, I pushed my typewriter off of my desk and into the garbage. Johnny had left right before. Right after I told him. I left the letter on hid bed. I regret the whole thing. I never should have written it. Not only was it the most prolonged and agonizing act of masochism that I have ever endured, but once John reads it, he’ll loose all respect for me. I come off like such a bitch in that letter. Did I really mean most of it? Wasn’t I just imploring him for his pity? Why did I stoop so low? Why am I so desperate.

I couldn’t stand being there anymore. I got on my bike and rode all the way out here, into this slum, into this strange bathroom. Think I saw a motel down the street. I was at a bar. I saw a movie. Yeah, I remember. I was sitting in a theatre. On screen there was a man and a woman. They were making love in the center of a ring of obelisks carved from black, volcanic rock. They were on a deserted island, really idyllic place, a tropical paradise. I don’t know how they got there. I remember all this sunshine and white sand all around the girls creamy naked body. There was a wail of a horn. A thick sheet of fog. There was chanting, in the background, really deep chanting, and the girl was gone. The guy spent the rest of the movie looking for her, but I can’t remember how it ended. Looked old, it was grainy and over-saturated, probably made back in the seventies. Maybe I can just hang around here for a couple of days. I just can’t stop thinking about Johnny. I can’t stop reliving every sentence I wrote, every single, piteous, desperate whining line.

Christ, I should have left out all that stuff about being stupid and hating myself. Of course Johnny will never respect me again, why is there any doubt that he won’t? He might not hate me, he might learn to tolerate me. He might stay around, his body in the same room, but with his mind off somewhere else, telling his body that it has to stay there, in the corporeal realm. Trapped in that room. With the faggot who used to be its best friend, it’s brother and comrade. I would rather never see him again than have him stay in my life as some half-visible apparition. Where did my balls go when I wrote that tripe? I don’t want blood on anyone’s hands but my own.

To paraphrase Kerouac: I am writing this because I am going to die. But what am I writing this with? My typewriter is gone. Yeah, it was a really dramatic and symbolic, but in retrospect, it feels like a waste. I’m literally writing this whole story on toiler paper with a leaky fountain pen I found under a chair in a coffee house. I can’t stop writing words already written, words that fill me with a hatred and repulsion for myself. I feel like a fetus torn fresh from a fruit bowl full of placenta. I’m naked, vulnerable and stick with the stem-cells of a dream that will never grow. These words are the umbilical cord that will unknowingly wrap around my neck and kill me.

Oh Denise . . . What about you? I still feel like I love you. You are the flame that burned down the entire madhouse. The spark that inspired my lunacy. Only you could do, you magnificent and brutal bitch. Only you could elegantly, merciless, and best of all, unknowingly set up this whole con. She could tell something was wrong. Apparently the look on my face was one of the utmost horror, the electric shock that seizes the entirety of your nervous system after and unwholesome revelation, reducing the whole thing to tattered, torn, twitching circuits, the sparks of knowledge flying everywhere waiting to ignite the oil slick of tyrannical self-awakening.

She kept calling after me. After I jumped off of her and started to pull on my pants. “Charlie, what’s going on!? Where are you going?”

“I have to go, I’m sorry.”

“Has he found out?” she asks, laying in bed, in the red room of night, head askew, her silk sheets hanging off the rosaries of her A-cups. Her voice is like honeysuckle laced with arsenic. My voice, meanwhile is resigned and dismissive.

“No,” I say, tucking my shirt into my pants. “It’s nothing like that.”

“Then what is it? Why did you stop? Why are you leaving? I know that look. I can tell. You’re terrified. What is it. I have a right to know if I’m in any danger.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you know. Just trust me, you’re not in any danger.” I’m straightening my tie. I’ve already put on my vest and I’m eyeing the room for my hat.

Denise sighs. “Sorry. That’s all? You’re sorry? Well, that’s not good enough. You promised my clitoris filet mignon and left without even giving her a burger.”

“Why do you always have to drag your clitoris into this?”

“Because she has feelings too, Charlie. All of my pretty little gorgons feel neglected and they want you to pay attention to them. They want you to feed them. You’ve been neglecting all of us. We’re starving.”

“That’s a big order. Could you pick up the tab?”

“With gratuity.”

“Well I’m sorry. About everything. That’s all I can say. I wanted tonight to be special. I really wanted to . . .” I pause. I thought I’d wiped away all of my tears, but I feel more now. “I really wanted to love you, but now I know I never will.”

I pick up my overcoat off the floor and I start to button it up. I hear Denise ruffling in the sheets. I hear her scamper across the floor. I knocked over the lamp while we were fucking and now it’s askew, half off the nightstand, the shade covering most of the light. What little there is that escapes comes out warped, covering the room in a blistering red twilight, how and murky as a mother’s womb. The light sense of vanilla and lilac that permeated the room on entry is devoured by the moist insulation of sweat. Denise is standing in front of me and I see her for what seems like the first time in my entire life. I’d never noticed her before, outside of this room. Her long hair twists and curls like the roots of an oak tree, sticking to her face with sweat, then dissolve into twin streams of chocolate silk that run down over her breasts. Her hair completely obscures most of the right side of her distinctly peach shaped head. In this light, it’s almost the same color as a peach, too. Dark pink, with a pity of juicy black bone. Her hair almost seems to have shifted color with it. I almost see a familiar dark, bloody red. That hair color . . . I know I’ve seen it before . . . It has to be my imagination. It just has to be.

“Why?” she says, pulling her shimmering pink sheets up over her cleavage. “Why can’t you love me? I don’t care what you say. You’ve got contempt for me because I’m just a little girl. I know you think I’ll be in danger, being with you, and I don’t care. I don’t need anyone’s protection.”

“No!” I say, placing both my hands on her shoulders, bending down to look her straight in the eye. “I’ve already told you that it’s not like that. I can’t explain right now. You need to trust me.”

“I’ve always trusted you, Charlie. I’ve done everything you asked. I played the submissive housewife routine for too long now. But that was my mistake wasn’t it? You don’t need my trust. You’re just entitled to it, right?”

As she talks, I’m scanning the room for my hat. It’s not in the corner, near the overturned lamp. I’m sweating so hard now. I’m completely flushed. I can’t really concentrate on either looking, listening or talking. It’s like the whole rooms become blurry.

“You’re not even listening to me, are you? You mustn’t be. You’re only this vague when you’re not listening. You can’t fool me, you know. I’m smarter than the average nympho. If you were paying attention, you’d have written me a dissertation on how wrong I am, in a very authoritative tone.”

I know what I have to do. There’s only one to shut her up. I drop my hands from shoulder to hips and pull her towards me, bend ding down to press my lips against hers. I lock my jaw line against hers and I hold it there. For several minutes. Lapping every splash of her lip gloss, feeling every caress of the rolling eaves of her tongue. Its strange. I do this mechanically, without joy. As a labor, something rehearsed, acted. But didn’t I enjoy it when I kissed her yesterday. Didn’t I enjoy the smell of her hair, her perfume, the feel of her skin, the glimmer in her eyes? Did I not feel like I truly loved this girl? Like I would do anything for her? Did I not dream of her veiled in white, walking to the rhythm of ringing bells? Did I not dream of her bearing my son? Her body blossoming in tandem with his? I did. Now I can barely look at her. As I kiss her, I feel a light spell of nausea. Yet, I feel like even that could grow into something approaching joy. What’s going on? What’s happening to me? Is the chasm and denial so deep and black that I’ve lost my sight in its darkness?

I pull my lips away from Denise, and pull my head away from her at an angle. She was on her tip-toes as she kissed me. I let her slink back onto the heels of her feet. She looks up into my eyes, her face like a pulsating heart, fiery, backlit in the red light. Her voices reaches out to me in a naked whisper.

“When will you be back?”

“I don’t know. But I promise I’ll tell you everything then.”

“I don’t understand you, Charlie Decameron . . . Do you play this coy will all of your girlfriends? Or just the dumb ones?”

“I swear to you that I’ve never been coy a day in my life.”

“You’re so full of shit. I wish I could be sickened by you. But I can’t. You must think I’m pretty dumb . . . Why wouldn’t a man like you have settled down. Do you want me to beg? Do you want me to satiate your massive ego?”

I laugh.

“Oh, you’d like that!” she says. “Fine, Charlie I will. This is how stupid I am. You’re beautiful. You’re intelligent. You’re witty. Even when I have no idea what you’re talking about, I can just relax and enjoy listening to the sound of your voice. If I’m a whore, I’m you’re whore. But you won’t talk to me like one. You won’t slap me like one. You’ll just stand there and pretend like I’m a lady. A beautiful, classy lady. The kind of girl you can bring home to mom. You’re the classic con man. You can convince me bullshit is apple-pie. Why else would a guy like you have not settled down? You just want to play the field forever.”

She grabs my balls and squeezes them really hard. Her fingers are like crab pinchers on my dick. I chuckle to myself, although I’m not breathing. She squeezes harder and I gasp, groan faintly. I stay composed. Look her straight in the eye, smiling mockingly.

“But that’s all right,” she says. “It’ll be all the better when I break you.”

“I forgot. There was another reason why I liked you.”

“In what way?”

I grab her wrist and I twist it as hard as I can. I don’t let go. Her body has flug around and she’s facing away from me, her arm in an arc over her back. She tries to pulls it away, moaning, whimpering softly to herself. Then she gasps, give one last hard tug, fails and laughs in her next breath.

“It’s not because you’re kinky. I can tell you that. Think I’ve never dated women with an edge before? I’ve dated tons of them. Psychos, sadists, dominatrices. They all wanted to tame me. That was what they called it. They come at me with their whips and their leather and their boots and I let them do whatever they want. I kind like it, too. Maybe I’d like to be tamed. But they’re always so dull once the corset comes off. Once they put down their riding crops, they’ve got nothing. There’s nobody behind the leather. Take away their fiendish smiles, the commands in their heads and they’re nothing but mannequins in store windows. But it’s not just them. I’ve dated nice girls, mean girls, smart girls, dumb girls, big, little, geeky, athletic, artistic, ballerinas, princesses, maids, zoo-keepers, editrices, actresses, strippers, porn stars, traps and phone booths. Most of the had great tits and tight, narrow little cunts, but none of that mattered. That all needed one word, one label, one identifier to encapsulate the entirety of their souls. They make themselves into caricatures because they think it will make them easier to fuck. And it does. It just doesn’t make for a worthwhile fuck.”

She takes a succession of three heavy breaths. “Have I mentioned that I’m a feminist today?”

“You can’t do it, Denise. You can’t simplify yourself. You’re far too passionate. Too complex. That’s why I’m with you right now.”

“I might even be a psychotic dyke,” she groans, sweat pouring down her brow. “This might just be my bi-curious phase.”

“An individual should be treasured, Denise. I could say you were a bitch. A raging feminist. A borderline dyke. But you’re too smart for that. Too sweet for that. Even if your sweetness is far more humiliating than your cruelty. Your moods change in accordance with the content of your soul. You’re not a role you feel you need to act out. Most human beings are content with being as close to nothing as they can possibly be. But not you. Reducing you to a common word, compacting you into a single phrase, would be a great injustice to you. It would white-out your astounding literacy, your love of cinema, you gamer-chick bravado. Your beautiful voice. Your musical dreams.”

“So it’s perfectly all right to reduce ones soul to multiple labels?” She sighs. “I swear Charlie, you’re so good at spouting bullshit, you’ve managed to convince yourself it’s true.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t believe me. Don’t squirm either. It’ll only get worse.”

“All right . . . Let me go now. Pretty please?”

I release her arm and she falls to floor. She’s cocooned herself in her silk sheets, tenderly rubbing her wrist.

“What did I say?” she says, cooing. “An authoritative dissertation. You just have a speech for every occasion, don’t you? Do you write them out in advance?”

“Do you practice sarcasm in the bathroom mirror?”

“No, I use a special little compact. I bring it with me everywhere I go.” She laughs. It’s very faint. “Maybe we are a pair. And now you’re going to walk out on me? Abandon me? Why? You can’t explain it? It’s the only thing you can’t explain.”

“I’ve been looking for you for ten years. I thought it would be the happiest day of my life. I never wanted to play the field. It just sort of happened. I swear I’ve always wanted to find someone to share my life with. I swear on my sister’s soul. Someone I could call my girl and really mean it. I ‘ve always wanted to settle down and I thought that it would be with you. Just for one fleeting moment. But now that I’ve fond you, well, suddenly realized . . . That what I’ve wanted . . . Is someone I’ve had the entire time.”

“What? . . . Who?” Then it’s like a spark runs through her spine. What it took me ten years to figure out, she got in ten second. “You don’t mean Johnny?”

I look straight into her eyes. Straight at her as she lies curled up in the floor. She looks so wounded, so alone. I croon my head downward. I’m looking at my shoes. I hear her sheets rattle. I hear her pull herself up. Drag her body across the floor. Collapse on her bed. She’s sitting up, slouched forward, her entire body rattling slightly on the springs. I never take my eyes off of her. I can’t tell how long she’s been sitting there.

“I should have known,” she says at last. “The way you look at him. It seemed harmless enough. I thought maybe all you males looked at each other like that when you got to be close enough. Maybe all of you men just secretly want to fuck each other. We woman are just an obligation, right?”

“I’m really sorry Denise. I didn’t want it to be this way.”

“It’s not a big deal, Charlie. After all, we all can’t be cold logical men, now can we? Some of us have the gall to be born women. To be big boiling bots of hormones and emotion. Maybe if you’d had the decency to knock me up, get my clock to stop ticking so hard, then I could’ve let you go. I wouldn’t even have cared who or what you fooled around with next . . . You’re a real pig.”

She opens her bedside drawer and fumbles around a bit. She pulls out a pack of red Marlboro 100s and a Zippo. She light it, takes a long furious drag and lets out a puff of smoke, grey and spectral, into the room.

She stares at the wall. Directly in front of her. She keeps taking intermittent drags on her cigarette. She sits like that for a long time.

“Are you still here?” she says, not turning towards me. “Of course you are. Why wouldn’t you be? You’re just looking for this.” She leans back over to her bedside table and pulls my hat out of the drawer. She turns it around in her hands, feeling the edges. “I was going to keep it. Kind of as a trophy. I wanted everyone to know that I fucked the great Charlie Decameron. Fucked the hat right off him.” She fans the smoke away from her face. “Maybe I’d even wear it. Pretend I’m Holden Caulfield and this is my shooting people hat. Then I’d find a few guys and unload some hot lead in their faces. I’m sure you could appreciate the symbolism. Especially now.” She mashes the butt of the cigarette into the pink ashtray in the shadow of the overturned lamp. “But there’s nothing about you worth keeping. You’re just a man.”

With hard, pinching fingers, she flings that hat at me and it glides through the air, into my hand.

“Thanks,” I say.

“A guy like you could never be a fag . . . You’re too old fashioned. You’re too real. You’re a real man.”

“You’re lying.”

“That makes two of us. Playing the ‘Sorry, I’m gay’ card? Classy. Really classy. I thought you were better than that.”

“I’ll call you in a few days. After you’ve calmed down a bit.”

“Don’t bother,” she says, tearing her pack of Marlboros open and lighting up another. “You may have wanted to love me, but I never wanted to love you. You’re a seducer . . . A rapist. I’m just a defenseless little girl who fell for your charms.”

I want to smack her. Right across her mouth. She thinks I’m incapable of pain. I’m not.

“I’m leaving now.” I turn towards the door. I take slow, heavy steps. Right as I touch the knob, Denise speaks again.

“When we first met, when you compared me to the sunflower. Did you really mean it? You said, and I quote ‘You are like the sunflower, a beautiful maiden who grows taller and more radiant than the dandelions, the whores that feed off the earth.’ I thought you were full of shit then, but you seemed sweet and funny, almost like a real gentleman. Well, now I think I know for sure.”

“I meant every word of it, Denise. When I was a boy I saw a single sunflower growing in my yard and it struck my tender young mind as the most beautiful thing in the garden. That impression stuck with me . . .” I sigh. I don’t take my hands off the doorknob or turn back towards Denise. “And that’s what I was thinking of when I saw you that day. But there’s another side to it. One time I saw an entire meadow of sunflowers and had a small revelation. ‘In meadows where only sunflowers grow and there are no dandelions, the sunflowers had nothing to look beautiful besides. They all sway, stupid and blonde in the breeze, and accomplish nothing. There’s so many of them, all the same, all without purpose or distinction. Then they wither and die. And nobody misses them. New sunflowers pop just as quickly. There is no single stem, nor bulb that matters to anybody because they’re all as commonplace as grains of sand. Sand churning in the transparent bowels of an hourglass. Their only value is in a cluster. The only thing they could ever strive for is a quick death, without the ravishments of decay or filth’ I could say this applies to you, but it’s a lie. I’ve only see that meadow once since then, and I don’t really want to go back. I only say what I mean. I only express what I think. That’s what separates the two of us.”

Her throat is quivering. I can hear. “Charlie?” she asks.

“Yes?”

“Could you do me a favor?”

“What?”

“When you see Johnny. Please, choke on his dick for me.”

“ . . . Just for you?”

“Get out.”

I open the door, walk under the frame and slam it shut. I’m standing directly in front of it. Staring into the wood grain. I can hear Denise crying from out here. I think about opening it back up. My hand almost reaches for the knob. But before my finger makes contact with the brass, I pull it back. I hear a loud crash from inside the room. Then another. And another. I turn around and walk down the hall.

Denise, I love you. I just could never love you as much as I love Johnny. I hope you’ll understand soon. Maybe I should have tried harder to open up to you. Am I scared of you? Am I scared of what you could do to me under the spell of emotional turmoil? I’m a coward. If I had the balls to express how depressed and confused I am, all because I love you, then maybe you wouldn’t loathe me as much as you do. But how could I? Would you even accept that? You would just keep pushing me away. I hope I did the right thing. I hope leaving you like that was what I should have done. No, that’s just an excuse. You don’t deserve me. You won’t try to accept or understand me. You’re looking for a reason to stick an ice-pick in my heart. No, that’s not true either. I’m just as emotional as you are. I just won’t express it. I’m a hypocrite. I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do. But you’re slipping away from me now. Our encounter is becoming a vague memory. A half-forgotten dream.
"Now, from Nature we obtain abundant information about ourselves, and precious little about others. About the woman you clasp in your arms, can you say with certainty that she does not feign pleasure? About the woman you mistreat, are you quite sure that from abuse she does not derive some obscure and lascivious satisfaction? Let us confine ourselves to simple evidence: through thoughtfulness, gentleness, concern for the feelings of others we saddle our own pleasure with restrictions, and make this sacrifice to obtain a doubtful result." -The Divine Marquis

"I agree Hans, but we have talked about those anal fisting analogies." -Werner Herzog

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Postby VoidEater » Mon Sep 27, 2010 3:55 pm

Just my perspective: The jock stuff works great for me. I feel more masculine in the presence of masculinity.
"I would like to see a clown remake of 'Terms of Endearment' or 'The Thorn Birds.' Or maybe a big disaster movie, like 'Towering Inferno.' That's stuff I'd pay to see. Nothing says entertainment more than burning clowns."

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After reading Look Both Ways: Bisexual Politics Chs.7-8

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Postby Sailor Star Dust » Tue Sep 28, 2010 2:30 pm

I don't care if this is crap. I'm venting.

My Self. wrote:Sudden onslaught
Pain Confusion Isolation Fear Depression
Not the only one, and yet the feelings swallow me whole
Not gay or straight but myself
Best thing to do with "privilege" is use it for good
But how?
When self-fear of rejection
from either "side" instead of [s]support[/s] acceptance
When beloved is isolated
When self has hate, fear, depression
When writing isn't enough to make your self or others
Understand
Understand what?
~Take care of yourself, I need you~

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Postby Defectron » Tue Sep 28, 2010 4:19 pm

Heres chapter 2 page 5

[URL=http://img440.imageshack.us/i/capt2pag05.jpg/]Image[/URL]

Uploaded with [URL=http://imageshack.us]ImageShack.us[/URL]
Parasite Galaxy: An experimental webcomic

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Postby Xeroko » Tue Sep 28, 2010 5:26 pm

currently painting one of these:
http://www.games-workshop.com/gws/catalog/productDetail.jsp?catId=cat440312a&prodId=prod50016a
Clocks and Maids
Don't believe in yourself, believe in the maid who believes in you! <3
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[url]http://i603.photobucket.com/albums/tt111/Xero103/1297051910683.jpg[/url]
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Postby MugwumpHasNoLiver » Wed Sep 29, 2010 6:23 am

The whole thing is finally typed. I swear, it felt like the story was conspiring against me in about five different ways, but its' typed. Now I just need to sit back, look it over and correct the little nonsense, while punching up the good-stuff. I can get that done in a day, although there's a lot of stuff I know I'll need to fix. At least it's all digital now.
"Now, from Nature we obtain abundant information about ourselves, and precious little about others. About the woman you clasp in your arms, can you say with certainty that she does not feign pleasure? About the woman you mistreat, are you quite sure that from abuse she does not derive some obscure and lascivious satisfaction? Let us confine ourselves to simple evidence: through thoughtfulness, gentleness, concern for the feelings of others we saddle our own pleasure with restrictions, and make this sacrifice to obtain a doubtful result." -The Divine Marquis

"I agree Hans, but we have talked about those anal fisting analogies." -Werner Herzog

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Postby GasmaskAvenger » Thu Sep 30, 2010 1:18 am

been ripping DVDs into editable formats so I can get started on making my long delayed fan edit of Rob Zombie's Halloween movies
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Postby ran1 » Thu Sep 30, 2010 9:37 pm

Muggy, the whole meta-gayness of the story you wrote was really entertaining. From a totally aesthetic perspective, I'd have to say its quite wonderful. The dialogue was what really made it for me, though. At first I was going to suggest putting more in, but the dialogue that you presented in that is sort of like presenting jagged, edgy gems in a story with exposition that reminds one of Salinger.

Goddamn, I seriously doubt that made any sense whatsoever -- so TL;DR keep doing what you're doing -- the style you're using works very well.
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Ran's persistent irony is a coping mechanism he uses to try and create some understanding of his paradoxical attraction to and disgust of the elitist bourgeois slaughterhouse in which he's forever trapped. --Muggy

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Re: After reading Look Both Ways: Bisexual Politics Chs.7-8

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Postby Eva Yojimbo » Thu Sep 30, 2010 9:48 pm

View Original PostSailor Star Dust wrote:I don't care if this is crap. I'm venting.
I think it's a good vent, nonetheless. The roughness of the form seems to resonate with the emotional nakedness itself. My one suggestion would be with such pieces is to keep an eye on moderating between impressionistic sentence fragments (like the first and second sentences), and full sentences like lines 3 and, to a lesser extent, 11. In essence, I think pieces like these work best when you can provide as much linguistic compression as possible. IE, long (or even full) sentences tend to stretch out a thought while sentence fragments and non-sequitor words can act like swords striking through in text. Donne portrayed this concept brilliantly in the poem I quoted here (though this version is somewhat badly edited since it removes the elisions that would be implicitly understood by a 17th century reader. Essentially, Donne runs a lot of words together, and violent mashing of words echoes the kind of painful venting he's expressing himself).
Cinelogue & Forced Perspective Cinema
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We're all adrift on the stormy seas of Evangelion, desperately trying to gather what flotsam can be snatched from the gale into a somewhat seaworthy interpretation so that we can at last reach the shores of reason and respite. - ObsessiveMathsFreak
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I've seen so many changeful years, / to Earth I am a stranger grown: / I wander in the ways of men, / alike unknowing and unknown: / Unheard, unpitied, unrelieved, / I bear alone my load of care; / For silent, low, on beds of dust, / Lie all that would my sorrows share. - Robert Burns' Lament for James

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Postby backseatjesus » Fri Oct 01, 2010 1:41 pm

Preparing to do a paper for my Western Civilization class. The subject will be pretty much be the life of Socrates. I'm gonna need some cigars for this one.

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Re: After reading Look Both Ways: Bisexual Politics Chs.7-8

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Postby MugwumpHasNoLiver » Sat Oct 02, 2010 2:43 am

View Original PostSailor Star Dust wrote:I don't care if this is crap. I'm venting.


I hope you don't mind, but after reading that, I suddenly got the urge to read it aloud dramatically. And doing that gave me the urge to read it out again, but solemnly. But if I have one complaint, it's just that I just don't think you take it far enough. I sense the spark of raw naked passion, but what I want is a raging inferno! I want my whole house to burn down! Go deeper! Go darker! Let the whole of humanity tremble at the acerbic rage barely contained inside of your humble flesh! Run! Run, SSD! Ignite the barbaric and stupid masses that isolate you, that deprive you of acceptance and emotional well-being! BRING THEM TO THEIR KNEES!

tl;dr: I liked it. Give us more.

Ranny wrote:The dialogue was what really made it for me, though. At first I was going to suggest putting more in, but the dialogue that you presented in that is sort of like presenting jagged, edgy gems in a story with exposition that reminds one of Salinger.

Goddamn, I seriously doubt that made any sense whatsoever


No, I think I understand what your saying. Although you like the dialogue, it feels a bit jarring after the lengthy opening 'monologue' style letter section. Right? Well, the rest of the story is primarily dialogue driven and it goes on for about another twenty pages, so it should hopefully seem less jarring once you get used to the style change. (I'm not sure if it's a bit overlong, though) But thanks for reading. I started looking this thing over, and it upsets me that you had to suffer through my typo-ridden, syntax raped second draft. I was so focused on typing as fast as possible, I didn't realize how illegible it really was. Every time I write a new story I get so excited, I forget the important lesson of never sharing shitty drafts, because they're shitty.
"Now, from Nature we obtain abundant information about ourselves, and precious little about others. About the woman you clasp in your arms, can you say with certainty that she does not feign pleasure? About the woman you mistreat, are you quite sure that from abuse she does not derive some obscure and lascivious satisfaction? Let us confine ourselves to simple evidence: through thoughtfulness, gentleness, concern for the feelings of others we saddle our own pleasure with restrictions, and make this sacrifice to obtain a doubtful result." -The Divine Marquis

"I agree Hans, but we have talked about those anal fisting analogies." -Werner Herzog


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