Picture it: Manhattan, 1932. An old, shriveled hag with a dollar and dream knocks on the door of Camp Bowery. They invited me in with open arms. We laughed. We drank wine. We made love until the sweet morning sun. And then with tears in our eyes, we parted ways, promising to see each other just one more time, before the war was over. Those people were Benito Mussolini, Adolf Hitler, Emperor Hirohito, and Eva Braun. You think I’d do anything with those disgusting Black Table lechers? Feh, not a chance.
Oh, those Black Table boys—I do declare. That A.J. just gives me the shivers, he does! If I were twenty years younger and he were forty years older … and if I were still able to feel sensation below my waist … oh dear me, the things we’d do! It’d be enough to make Dorothy’s gray, hoary pelt blush! Ah, I remember the first night I met them, at an illicit after-hours soirée in some undisclosed little dump downtown. Eric, A.J., and Will were laying naked upon the bar, their bodies platters off of which high-rolling Japanese businessmen were eating sushi. I remember saying to Aileen, if Will wasn’t completely hairless, he’d be cleaning wasabi out of his netherlands for weeks. Aileen laughed so hard she spit up her sake. Good times.
The Black Table site shutting down reminds me of the time my Uncle Sven Fingerbinger ran a newspaper back in St. Olaf.
The St. Olaf Gazette was the #1 newspaper in town. Everyone in town read it. But Uncle Sven didn’t like the paper because they’d run an editorial that said Uncle Sven was feeding his chickens and everyone stopped buying eggs from him. Well, that and because Aunt Phyllis used all the eggs for her famous “House of Eggs” sculpture that won second prize at the Minnesota State Fair.
Anyway, Uncle Sven decided that he’d had enough of The Gazette and he started printing a newspaper out of his barn. He had everything lined up, ran off 200 copies and left them in the town square. Of course, Uncle Sven forgot to put ink in his press and all of the copies came out blank, so The Fingerbinger Times never got off the ground. Eventually, Uncle Sven got caught in a rundown motel with a cheap trick named Ted, which is what I was reminded of when I heard about Gillin.
I wouldn’t fuck Gillin with Jeffrey Ross’s dick. But that Leitch! Oh, that sweet little Leitch. Those big doe eyes, that cornfed innocence … he can make a haggard, mannish old crone feel like she’s seventy again. And he did. Last night. With a rolled-up New York magazine. Twice. Oh that Leitch. He’ll fuck you raw. What, why the shocked looks? Blanche is the whore, but I’m the real filthy bitch.