Stripper Trash

I've got that joy joy joy joy down in my heart WHERE? down in my heart WHERE? down in my heart TO STAY!

Sunday, July 31, 2005

hickey time
Lover,

My stay in Texas has been extended, and I am writing you from Killeen-Fort Hood—one of our nation’s largest Army bases--––where I have been conscripted by my sponsors into over two weeks of nightly humiliation at the hands of Korean women with perms in an attempt to satiate the fleshy desires of these abandoned Army-wives.
Sometimes I wonder about the life I have chosen. Little do these women know that they are rubbing their finely manicured hands over the torso and into the g-string of a Doctor of Composition and a graduate of the Stockhausen Summer Retreat for Radical/Mystical Serialism, not to mention a big ole queer. But nature has granted me this perfect, if a bit too white for my personal tastes, body and absolutely symmetrical facial features—a face like the perfect symmetry of the octatonic scale, and I intend to use it. Yes Yes Yes, I can hear your voice right now wondering why I don’t move to Hollywood and pursue a career in the movie business writing hack drivel for all of the––and we can thank John Kennedy O’toole for this––theatrical abortions currently in production in our splendid United States. But No No A Thousand Times No!
All of this leads me to my point and my question, which you must thoroughly research and answer to the best of your abilities within the week.

Why do Latin men tend to mark their lovers with hickeys?

We have talked about the fact that sometimes I get lonely for a man’s touch out here on the road, and these Korean hands only made my desire all the more undeniable. Please remember that it is only YOU that I love.

Last night I noticed a very handsome Mexican man watching me the entire evening. I have no idea why he was at the Knick-Knock Korean Karaoke bar and club, but he was, and he obviously wanted a little R&R from his, no doubt, tedious and rigid Army duties. I recognized the haircut as pure Army regulation. One thing led to another and we ended up back in my camper for some fun and games.

It was quite nice, but I was a bit weary of the over zealous sucking of my neck, and this is not the first time that a Latin man has taken a keen interest in my neck and shoulders. I said, “ I hickey easily. Please be careful.” But the morning revealed the mark and the shame. It looks like someone stuck a vacuum cleaner hose with teeth to my neck, and frankly I feel like the biggest piece of curler-wearing, beer drinking trailer trash ever to walk the face of the planet. I’ve tried everything I know to get rid of it: Cold water, hot water, rubbing it with a quarter, rubbing it with a penny. I even thought about trying to somehow hickey the entire lower portion of my neck to make it look like some sort of burn or shingles or something. Nothing worked, and now I am reduced to base concealer and loose powder, but that will be gone in ten minutes once I begin my dance sweating.

Oh Omar, your boyfriend is just a talented, brilliant, hickeyed-up, horny piece of stripper trash on-the-go.

Do you still love me?
Marco

Wednesday, July 27, 2005


Is there beauty in this world, Omar?
Yes, it is you.

As I write I am doing my only impression—the FREE BIRD impression:

Smoke the day’s last cigarette
remembering what they said.

More about San Francisco later, but I want to tell you about tonight in Dallas. I worked tonight in a terrible place called the CRUISE INN—terrible! I had my lime-green G-string on, and you know one can see everything when I wear it, so I made quite a bit of money. But I write because the strange was in my mind. Over and over in my head was the incidental music for Pelleas et Mellisande by Sebelius. You must understand, Omar, that many composers during the early 20th century wrote music to and about this Maeterlinck play. The most famous is Debussy, but Maeterlinck hated this opera so much, I swear he put a hit out on Debussy. But why should Debussy care? He did what he wanted with this work, as he should have, and he gave no mind at all to the ridiculous political aspects Maeterlinck had hidden within the text—such is the problem with vagueness: the French can interpret it the way they want—which is always contrary to the wishes of the initial “want”.

But tonight, Oh tonight: Tangent: I don’t care for Sebelius’ music about Pelleas, really it is just trash, but the second scene introduction with the complete muted string section is something I could not get out of my head this evening. The room was full of early 80s music THUMP THUMP I AM ON ECSTACY I DANCE AGAINST A WALL MUSIC—of course I love this 80s trash, but the muted string trash––

THE TRASH.

What I am trying to say to you, baby, is that it is all TRASH. Trying to put feelings into music only makes the music trash.

But what else is there to be put into such a thing as music: what else?

feelings—the nothingness of tomorrow, the forgotten, the dated, the colorless.

YOU CAN’T GET AWAY FROM TRASH.

I wish you were here. I miss you, and I need your touch.
I wash my G-string for you,
Marco

PS I talked to the lawyer this morning, and she will ($5,000 advance, mind you—but you know my ass is good for it) procure your work permit within the week.

I eat jam for you in the morning--Marco

Thursday, July 21, 2005



Omar I love you and I miss you:

Troll Trolley! Troll Trolley! Troll Trolley!

As I am sure you have seen from the recent pictures I sent via this new email, I have grown my beard out to mimic yours. Please forgive me. I know that a white boy like myself can not encapsulate the power of a culture in facial hair like a man such as yourself can. I trim mine. What can I say to you—I must. My French lineage makes me so very hairy and these snow white witch twigs on my face disturb my concentration. Your fine hairs are the result of an almost Andean lack and subsequently, Herculean act of hair production. I realize you have never felt the sweet burn of the razor on your skin, but believe me: grooming for the French is a necessity.

My salutation no doubt confirms my presence in the great lusty capitol of gay life: San Francisco. Pleasure is abundant here, but I have saved my loin children for you and only you. I realize that your interview was not a success, but I have spoken to a great and expensive lawyer here in California—do not think bad of me when I say they are the best here because they know that everyone is out to get them—and she has informed me that with much dollars American and time, we shall accomplish our task of VISA for you. As I have explained before this is not something you pay for monthly, this is our ticket to love and freedom. This is our FAG DOCUMENT.

What to say of this city? Let it speak for itself:

What? You're leaving so soon?

Yes, I am quite burdened by tremors resulting from this strange smell of “stink bugs.”
(an insect unable to live in your homeland, my Omar)

You mean these Poppers?

I eat nothing named as "Popper". I only eat freshly killed animals or freshly sliced vegetables.

So you really are leaving?

Yes.

I CAN STICK MY TONGUE ALL THE WAY UP YOUR ASS!

I miss your smell, baby doll,
Marco


Dearest Omar,
How I miss you! There is no man here who can match your dark, grizzled handsomeness. How I miss the smell of your finely trimmed beard! How I miss the sweat on your thighs. As you know we started off in the Alsace—A wretched country I hate most of all for Strasbourg, our point of inimitable departure into unforeseen adventure. I thank God that I live in a time of advanced deodorants and antiperspirants; although I feel that the very unkind people of this land do not share my love of such modern amenities. Not only do they smell, but they also leer in the most unagreeable ways, especially on Bastille night when too much alcohol and cocaine takes the very notion of orientation in their fair Europe from their head to their cocks. How many times must a boy ask, “ Which train to Mannheim?” before he gets an answer other than, “I’ve got your Mannheim right here little piggy.”
Alas we found our train and after much scrubbing and pricking of, to my dismay, quickly grown eyebrow hairs, we were on our way north into the great Prussian lands. My colleagues desired to go straight to Frankfurt then on to Hamburg, but I insisted that we stop in the greatest of all cultural centers on the face of God’s musical earth: Darmstadt. In this city I felt my true greatness, my dream of perfection in the abstraction of my own life in terms of numbers in rows in feeds in data streaming from my all too overactive musical mind, come into full fruition. I spoke only in matrixes relating one word to eleven words and systematically working out in my head each permutation for the appropriate response. Oh, you would have shrieked with joy at my creative responses, yet my colleagues only laughed a curious, rather uncomfortable laughter when I replied to their quarry about a good place for a beer and some victuals: qwerty uiooopasd fgghhhh jkkkl zzzzzzz xcvbnm: those cretins are about as used to hearing chords without dissonance—meaning, as you know, my love, there is no such thing as dissonance anymore––as they are hearing words without vowels (which I quickly discovered they were not) Imagine, my sweet, how they must be so limited and unsatisfied in sexual intimacy if they had not practiced and did not understand fucking without vowels. You must remember our first night of passion, our deepest lovemaking: ghhhhhtp ghtp ghtp ghtp thp thp thp kffffffkth lllllssssssss ssssss sssssss ffffff ffffffff btKl FLK FLK FLK FLK FLK WWWWWWttth th th th th nggr nggr nggr nggr nggr nggr nggr nngrr HHHHHHH fck mch fck mch FCK MCH FcK
How tenderly you uttered those consonants. How tenderly you penetrated my vowel center without ever stooping to take from the very center you despoiled with your love.
All my love and good luck with you interview,
Marco