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The Sexual Life of Russell J.
Sex in the Sub-City

Cheap 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 career—be 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 listen—wasn'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 wrong—I'm all for women having sex, and have no problems reading about it—but 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 same thing.

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:






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.

--Russ Josephs

E-mail: [email protected]

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Free Williamsburg© | 93 Berry Street | Brooklyn, NY 11211
[email protected] | June 2002 | Issue 27
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