The Sexual Life of Russell J.
Sex in the Sub-City
Shot of the Month
I've just come from the J.T. Leroy reading at Barnes and
Noble, where I spent the majority of the evening sandwiched
between a B-grade model and Michael Stipe. While I was vaguely
interested in the former (at least why she had decided to
attend the event), it was Michael who seemed interested
in ME. We exchanged many sultry glances, but even the thought
of bedding him in order to further my careerbe it
directly by helping out my band or indirectly by getting
me published, as the guy is the artistic equivalent of E.F.
fucking Hutton and when he talks people listenwasn't
enough to make me seal the deal. Maybe if he was cuter.
Or taller. Maybe if I had the smallest inclination to hook
up with a guy. Whatever the reason, I simply smiled, told
him I was a big fan and left it at that.
In any case, it was certainly a better exchange than the
first time we met, at a club in Portland, Oregon. After
approaching his table and drunkenly exclaiming: "What's
the frequency, Michael?" I was met with a bevy of scowls
and then escorted to the other side of the room.
Maybe this is why my career hasn't taken off, why it has
stalled, is stuck on the runway, awaiting clearance. Maybe
I need to be more of a slut. Or gay. A gay slut would be
the best. Look at J.T. Leroy. That's his whole thing. Guy
was a juvenile prostitute and now he's a literary icon.
He's the modern-day Jim Carroll. Maybe if I did drugs or
slept with men or played basketball when I was twelve I'd
have a book deal. Or maybe if I was a woman. Just today
I was reading about the newest book on the shelves, The
Sexual Life of Catherine M. Here we have yet another promiscuous
lass detailing her various sexual exploits. Woo-hoo! I mean,
don't get me wrongI'm all for women having sex, and
have no problems reading about itbut do we really
need another one of these things? First you had Bridget
Jones's Diary, and even though it wasn't just about
sex per se (more about looking for love, albeit in an annoying,
highly-detailed way, kind of like reading a very, very long
Cathy cartoon without the pictures), it was basically the
Then Sex and the City the column becomes Sex
and the City the sitcom, then people like Amy Sohn from
the NY Press get book deals, The Vagina Monologues
opens on Broadway, and now it seems that anyone with a pussy
and an "open for business sign" is getting signed.
While I don't have a pussy, and have no plans on obtaining
one, I have some ideas. For example, I'm willing to walk
around with my dick between my legs for as long as it takes.
Years even. I'll only take it out to piss and fuck, promise.
Or I could gain so much weight that I get man breasts. At
the very least, I'll utilize a "woman's point of view"
in my work. Check this out:
INT. CARRIE-ANNE'S APT. - NIGHT
CARRIE-ANNE ARRIVES AT HER APARTMENT. AFTER SLIPPING
OFF HER MANOLO BLAHNIKS, SHE LOOKS AT HER ANSWERING MACHINE.
HER MACHINE, WHERE A BIG, FAT "0" TELLS HER
SHE HAS NO NEW MESSAGES.
Why hasn't he called? He said he'd call and he hasn't.
It's been three days and he hasn't called. What does that
mean? He knows I want him to call. Is he doing this just
to annoy me? Is he playing games? I hate game-playing! That's
so high school. Although, do I really want someone who calls
right away? Wouldn't that be kind of weak? I don't want
to be dating a pussy. Heck, maybe he's doing this because
he cares about me! He's just giving me my space, and by
doing so he's empowering me! He's letting me call the shots!
How I underestimated this guy! Hell, I'm going to go over
to his place right now and fuck his brains out. He deserves
that at least. And even if he's not alone, if he's got some
other girl there, I'm gonna fuck her brains out too! Cause
that's just the kind of girl I am!
That's some quality shit! Are you reading this Darren Starr?
I'm still waiting for YOUR call. Get in touch with me and
I won't let you down, I swear. And if you really let me
do it right, you'll have more Emmy's then you know what
do with. Just imagine this: Four young, attractive, single
guys in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. They always have lunch at,
say, Relish, or Diner, you know, one of those "hip
but in Brooklyn" places, where they talk about their
love lives. Miss Big could be Fabiane, as in the woman who
owns Fabiane's, or maybe some rich Manhattanite who hangs
out in Brooklyn for kicks. To play me I'm thinking Johnny
Depp, or possibly Skeet Ulrich (I mean, what the hell has
he been in lately? He's got nothing but time on his hands),
or even Ethan Hawke. You get that brooding intellectual
guy from American Beauty to play the brooding intellectual
guy, Tobey Maguire or Frodo Baggins for the "straight-out-of-the-midwest,
fish-out-of-water guy," and Steven Dork, I mean Dorph,
to play the stud. Can you picture this?
Imagine the four of us scoping out the girls at The Stinger,
then going to Rubulad for some "color." Maybe
there's a new band playing there that Miss Big wants to
sign, and after the show she and the lead guitarist and
the tamberine girl and myself end up in a curtained room
at Cokie's, doing bumps off of various parts of our anatomy.
Later we go to a Shout! Magazine party at Yabby and then
stumble down to the waterfront for some skinny dipping!
Can you not see this? This shit is screaming to be made!
So call me. I'll be waiting by the phone. And Michael,
if you're reading this, I'm sorry to have spurned your advances.
I promise it won't happen again. For the sake of my career,
I'm willing to work with you. And I think I've come up with
a nice compromise. Two words: hand job. Think about it and
get back to me. And that goes for you too Darren. I'll even
do you both at the same time. I've been practicing with
a lava lamp and a Pez dispenser and I think I can do it.
Hurry though, because this offer ends soon. I've already
got Bill Gates and Bono waiting in the wings. They've got
a million-dollar bet to see who will be the first to blow
his load, which, personally, I find a little distasteful.
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