On an early Sunday morning a reporter called to ask me questions about women with AIDS. Don’t waste your time with me, I told her, I’m nothing more in the scheme of things than a rather charming statistical anomaly. Meaning?Read more.
The day I was 18, Sally and I had a reunion because we were still friends though we saw less and less of each other. We went to Pupi’s, a place devoted to cake, overlooking the Strip. I invited her to this surprise birthday party my mother was giving me that night (though she would never do anything so unforgivable as actually surprise me; I hate surprises).Read more.
She had feigned not to hear him and had walked on. She had not turned her head until she was out of the village, she expected at every moment to hear him come bounding up behind her. Had he done so, she thought she would have turned round and snarled at him.Read more.
Our lips had achieved a reconciliation, our kiss of dalliance held firm.Read more.
Recently, someone asked Myriam Gurba a pointed question about Painting Their Portraits in Winter(Manic D Press), her new collection of short stories. He wanted to know what her book was about and, more specifically, who she’d written it for, exactly. “I told him, ‘I wrote this for Mexican girls who sit alone in their bedrooms at night painting their fingernails black,’” the 38-year-old writer and visual artist says, by phone from Long Beach.Read more.
Even on weekends, I would sit at my desk, sipping on a screwdriver while cutting arguments out of my skull, until I would hear my friends shout to me through my open windows, telling me that they had come to rescue me: it was time to go out and get fucked up.Read more.
Watch a video of Chloe Caldwell reading at the San Francisco Public Library.Read more.
A few months ago I woke up one morning in bed with this dude with whom I was having the most frustrating and confusing non-relationship in the history of ever, and he rolled over, apropos of nothing, and said, “you have the tiniest nipples I have ever seen.” Then he rolled over and started texting someone; probably a woman with a normal breast-to-nipple-to-areola ratio. Well isn’t that just exactly what I wanted to hear at eight o’clock on a Monday morning while my chest was still clutched with the panic that I might have leaked leftover vaginal goo into his crisp white sheets overnight? His tone wasn’t necessarily negative, but it wasn’t like he was fucking cooing over their miniscule adorableness, either.Read more.
Notice is brilliant at capturing the equilibrium the sex worker strives to maintain, down to the moment to moment adjustments I make, especially during a truly bad call, so I can keep my remove: How long can I keep the leering mouth breathing client happy just licking me rather than having him want me to go down on his pruney, old man smelling cock?Read more.
Notice shouldn’t scare me. The novel is, in subject, like the stories of my second life—like Law and Order: SVU and the canon of Catherine Breillat; like Lolita, Story of O, Freud, and Kathy Acker; like the Davids: Lynch and Cronenberg. Of sex and violent death.Read more.