...new neologism: "confessive" (right column)...yes, we're into new adjectives...next one will be "celebrate"...

Sep 28, 2016

The semen stains of my husband on Monika Levinsky's dress... (reposted)

After disappointing debate performance, Trump "threatens" to make Bill Clinton's marital infidelity a campaign issue. So, let's re-post this:

We're keenly following the US election campaign, including Hillary Clinton's preparations for the televised debates between her and Donald Trump. The communis opinio appears to be that Trump will throw any conceivable dirt at her, including Bill Clinton's affair with Monica Levinsky. What should be her answer? 

Sep 25, 2016

Flame-red and wind-tossed are always the preferred color --- This is heaven --- teaser (12)

So, Ben has been tricked by Alex into answering this outcall, and the next morning we're told by Brigittå Haagen Dasz, the erotic writer, what happened next. Hold on: this fragment also has the first authentic description of John's looks. Enjoy:   

“So, let me tell you the story,” she say when she’s back. “Yesterday evening, we return to the hotel, the Lupo di Mare, the auberge of Italianate style nestled squarely near the central traffic circle of this charming seaside town. My Håågen feels exhausted, the good man and husband, but he’s so kind to offer me a spousal refreshment at the bar. I know my Håågen and send him off to bed where sweet dreams will soon engulf him and/or usher him into Morpheus’s arms.”

Cover of a book by Susan Johnson,
the writer who provided the model
for Brigitta Haagen-Dasz

She interrupts herself. “No, drop the ‘and/or,’ let’s say 'will soon engulf him and take him into Morpheus's arms.' Be this as it may, I am content to spend a few minutes alone with the drink and my poetic musings, yet find myself soon distracted by a current of lush air wafting into the room. The patio door flung open and there comes a woman, the hair flame red, the curls wind-tossed, the striding apparition of a true equestrian gliding on eloquent thighs through the late-night crowd. She alights on the bar stool next to yours truly. Her voice is lazy with provocation as she speaks more to me than to the tender of the bar when she says: ‘I would fancy something stiff and strong and tonight.”
‘Amaretto,’ I reply instinctively, feeling a sudden craving for the sweet-night liqueur of carnal reputation. She giggles knowingly. 
‘Not exactly a drink one would think of as stiff, but the best aphrodisiac know to sisters,’ she answers. She orders two glasses of the amber-colored stimulant. It transpires presently that her name is Jane.”

A touch of old-fashioned self-reference

"What are we going to post today?"

Fragment, fragment...here, from Chapter 9 of This Is Heaven, John, Alex and Maurice reminiscing about the first day of the Festival, and in particular about the encounter between Juliette [sic] and "Romeo":

The third candidate is Richard Roper. We know this because each candidate was introduced to the crowd, and because Roper is Romeo’s sugar daddy—-Romeo, the kid that had returned from the trailer under the pretext of buying junk food from Ben and alighted on a canvas chair next to Juliette, who then asked more questions about Romeo & Juliet & so on. Romeo didn’t say Roper is his sugar daddy, but described him as his trailer-mate, dropped out of school some time ago (Romeo), and does errands for the guy, like buying cigarettes or not buying condoms, except when the credit cards go bump. Despite all this Juliet read a few more lines from Shakespeare’s script, and Romeo answered from his inner teleprompter. It was prep school in an old-fashioned sort of way, in particular in view of the fact that the girl has completely lost her mind—-yes, Alex interrupts, she has, she put paid to the notion of romantic gravity, falling is love is so yesterday, not a split second of gravity wasted, nothing to break the fall, boom. Romeo as in Juliet, boom, although that’s not his real name, he made it up on the spot (we inform Maurice). (Would be a nice addition to the play (Maurice suggests), wouldn’t it, a touch of old-fashioned self-reference, Romeo’s real name being, say, Rudolph, and then he happens upon Juliet at the party and says “call me Romeo,” and boom.) He’s disturbed youth, though, Romeo, tormented one minute and less tormented the next, and he’s upset when you say the wrong thing, like “boy,” which Juliette did. We managed to calm Romeo down, though, and they are still in love because Juliette can see beauty in the eye of the beholder. He resembles Ben a bit because he’s black. And when he talks to Ben, Ben talks back like Pogo Possum. 

Sep 13, 2016

My erection beat time in my underwear (update)

(This was posted quite a while ago---we promised to steal a quote from acclaimed author Manil Suri---and there's an update now (finally), scroll down:)

You remember our post about Walter Kelly and Pogo Possum, the comic strip, where the mice of the world meet to invent a worser mousetrap. Along those lines, the writers of the world have met to write a worser sex scene, and now we know who won, Manil Suri, a professor of mathematics in India, apparently, for a section in his novel The City of Devi, a story of three characters interlocking in inter-galactic intimacy:

“Certainly explode at this moment somewhere in a distant galaxy Supernovas. The hut around us disappears, along with the sea and the sand. Only Karuns body, firmly intertwined with my remains. We race as superheroes past suns and solar systems, we dive through swarms of quarks and nuclei. Statisticians the world over rejoice in the face of our groundbreaking fourth star.“

We will steal this folks, statisticians the world over rejoice, trust us. Talent borrows, and...you know who... steals.

Some more: Susan Choi’s "My Education" made a good stab at first place with her “magma” that “still heaved and groaned and was yearning to fling itself into the air” also taking a geophysical line. Also in competition was Woody Guthrie’s House of Earth: “in the fires of her stomach she strained and moved to bathe his blood into the rumble and the thunder of her own.”

And then there is Rupert Thompson, with: “I closed my eyes as well and penetrated her. I imagined the stiff meat and the smooth ring of muscles before. Mauve and yellow flowers fill the black screen of my eyelids, the petals expectorant and down floating, to soften gray stone. I kissed the soft stubble in the hollow of her armpit, then I kissed the smaller trough on her collarbone. “

And finally, Eric Reinhardt, “The Victoria’s System”:

“The zipper of her skirt between her fingernails stuttered like a motor boat on a calm sea … My erection throbbed every second in my underpants.”

(Update:) The steal is official. Here, from Chapter 15 of This Is Heaven [context: our characters Juliette and Romeo have just left the scene, holding hands]:

The cell-phone rang.

It’s Maurice. He’s stuck. Writer’s block. He can’t think of any decent trivia-wise. Nothing with a snap-your-finger feel. “Does it matter?” I ask.
“Certainly,” he says, “that’s why we are in the business of writing, isn’t it, to feel inspired, and by feeling inspired becoming more inspired.”
“You sound like an expensive graduate course of something,” I say.

He falls silent.

“I’m sorry,” I say, “I apologize. I went too far.”
“Indeed,” he says.
“The trivia,” I say. “Think of it as a commission. Quick and dirty. Deadline approaching, copy editor leering over your shoulder.”
“Well, nobody is leering over my shoulder.”
“Ben still asleep?”
“Hold the line,” I say.

‘Hold the line,’ I said, because Juliette’s friends are upon us, the children of vampire trivia. “We missed you yesterday,” Alex has said to them in the meantime. 

Well, they have been busy finding accommodation and stuff, somebody had sent them on a wild goose chase for a motel without GPS and they got lost behind the Okefenokee Swamp. They’ve rented tents now on a camping ground nearby.

Juliette, have we seen her? No, we haven’t, we have no idea that Juliette is losing her virginity as we speak, possibly in a real-beautiful way to a really beautiful kid who calls himself Romeo, can you believe this, this happens only in soap operas written by the washed-up screenwriter, but it does happen, against all odds, statisticians the world over rejoice. We have no idea. 

“Today,” I say a bit out of turn, “today is your day.” 
“Trivial pursuit, vampire trivia.” I wave my copy of the program to cover the act of slipping an active, connected cell phone into a pocket of my shorts. “You’re into this, aren’t you?”

No, they are not. They are serious. 

Stay tuned, more is coming soon. We're are almost done with the first draft now, finally. Four more chapters to write.

Sep 12, 2016


So we go for a walk along the Augstbord water pipe, a duct that exists since 1320 and distributes meltwater among the villages in the neighborhood. Last time we visited was 8 years ago, when we got almost killed by falling rock (Michael, for unclear reasons, had stopped walking, perhaps waiting for Chang behind him, and 6 seconds later, at the exact location were he would have been, a massive rock slipped and would have killed him---not making this up). So we avoided the trail for superstitious reasons, but then Chang got his new Nikon D3300, and we had to go.

Click for a larger picture

It's funny how memory works. You don't remember anything about the trail 8 years later, save for the falling rock, but then, five minutes into the hike, things come back, and you recall having walked past this house (the Swiss call it "Hütte" --- hut). Last time, you remember, the structure was empty, or abandoned. This time, a dog (center) charges down the slope, barking, and, upon arrival, turns immediately on its back in expectation of cuddling and caresses. 

We continue. We're above the Matter valley at ca. 2100 m (Zermatt and Matterhorn are up the valley to the south (to the right of the picture), and frontal you have the entrance to the Saas valley that plays such an important role in Michael's story The Fountain of Geneva (Roman Emperor Hadrian, a shadow of Antinous, an erotic SWAT team, crazy Vikings).

A thunderstorm breaks (almost), we turn around. There's the dog again, plus his master, Marcel. "She has her beauty from me," Marcel opens the conversation (he means the dog, a Border Collie mutt). Marcel is a cowboy, really, he guards cows during the summer, and lives here. We talk about (a) language, how the Swiss dialect relates to ancient German, (b) the locals (god-fearing, superstitious Catholics, still), (c) afterlife, and (d) we promise to be back soon with a bottle of Fendant, the favored local wine (also mentioned in Michael's story). Later, during dinner at the Moosalp, the favored local restaurant, Carmen, the publican, tells us that Marcel writes plays.

Sep 9, 2016


(Hat tip: Homo Desiribus)

In the woods and on the heath --- another book of prayers --- by Jan v. Rijn

Cool, folks, cool, we're in Jan v. Rijn's highly bibliophile book "In the woods and on the heath." And it's not, as you might expect, another explicit exercise. No, it is, as the subtitle says, "another book of prayers," so more in the old-school, Aubrey Beardsley style of cheeky suggestion. Jan's drawings are subtle, elaborate, time-consuming, black-and-white, and AROUSING! Michael is not the only author, there are contributions by Paul Eluard, Louis Aragon, Vanessa de Largie, and many others. 

Here's one of Michael's stories, accompanied by the corresponding picture. The story was written after Michael saw the picture, and the hero of his tale, Jeffrey, really is a spitting image of Jan's model. And as so often with Michael's work, the story is mostly true. Enjoy.  


The town house was located in an off-center residential street of Amsterdam inside its own red-light bubble: Blue Boys said the neon-sign on the façade. Jeffrey was one of the boys, although he’d come into the picture only after I’d failed to talk up a hot guy who sat behind the improvised bar on the second floor and assured me he’s a customer himself. 

The sex with Jeffrey on the third floor was so-so, so we had time to talk. He’d just enrolled with the Blue Boys because he had no place to stay, and no money, and a bright future with me—-if he could stay with me, that is, at my place, which wasn’t far.

Jeffrey spent one more working night at the brothel and then we had sex one more time, although I failed to penetrate. He pushed me away, wrapping himself in the blanket. I don’t remember how I came.

We separated, and he would sleep in the second bedroom. He’d “help,” or “contribute”—-he’d keep the place clean, which he did very well. 

My friends would comment on him, especially my female friends. He’s beautiful, they’d say.

On Saturdays he’d ask me to give him a ride to the acting school for poor boys/gals. “Cycle faster,” he’d say while sitting on the luggage rack behind me; he was from South-Africa.

We’d organize parties with his class mates and his new boyfriends. He had a Moroccan class mate, Muhammed, who’d complain later that the gals would never leave him alone and that he had to have sex in the spare bedroom, early-on during the feast, under the cover of the guest’s overcoats, and then more sex with somebody else later on, and it wouldn't stop; he didn’t look the part.

Jeffrey needed the money that I didn’t give him, but then he remembered Phillip, who had more money and was much older. I spent a lot of face time with Phillip while both of us were waiting for Jeffrey to show up. Phillip made his money running drugs but he’d always been honest with his clients, I learned. And he was addicted to Jeffrey.

Sep 7, 2016

Handsheet for the erotic writer --- This is heaven --- teaser (11)

Very short, this teaser. We've created a handsheet for erotic writers, which Brigittå Haagen Dasz, the erotic writer, will need when she recounts her encounter with Ben Fletcher, who has been tricked by Alex to answer an outcall directed at John's A-level escort service. And there's a short fragment from Chapter Nine (Alex tricking Ben). Enjoy:   

The Handsheet (click for a larger picture)

(There are a few typos; it must have been the excitement)

The Fragment from Chapter 9

"The doorbell rings. Ben of course, or the cops (certainly the cops if anybody knew the real story). I’m asleep. Alex will buzz the buzzer and let homeless Ben in who will explain. Alex will suggest a beer, perhaps, and the couch in the kitchen. Would Ben expect to sleep in my bed? Our bed? Ben and Alex must have bonded during the twenty minutes of my jury absence, the voices in the kitchen sound conspiratorial, familiarized. The phone rings (my cell), which is lying on the computer desk. I’m asleep. Alex answers the phone. It’s for John (surprise), for the escort service (surprise). Alex knows about the escort service, I had told him about the money, or the lack thereof, and the failed outcall on Saturday (on Saturday). John, Alex says to Ben, your real name is John, isn’t it, they need you (he half-grins (I presume) (Alex)). It pays. It pays well. Right up your alley. Outcall. What’s an outcall? You’ll see, you know that stuff. Hold the line. Alex googles “escort + service + Georgia Beach” on the computer on the desk (I can follow him through my half-open eyes), and arrives on the website of the Georgia Beach A-level Escort Service. Why does he do this? To get the numbers right---two-hundred fifty bucks for an outcall (per hour), two thousand bucks (per night) (prohibitive (on purpose) (the rate)). He whispers something to Ben. And where? Lupo di Mare. You know where Lupo di Mare is. Yes, Ben knows (I know). We owe you, dude. Alex slaps Ben’s shoulder (dude) (again), and sees him off---make sure you get paid in advance. John is asleep. Alex returns to the bedroom, resumes his recumbent position next to me, clutches his i-thing, and fidgets with my tousled hair. John falls asleep."

For an earlier teaser of Chapter 10 ("A box of sleepy kittens"), go here.

By the way, the picture underlying the sheet ...

...is by Liliya Peter

Are you still there? Then you may like the GREEN EYES. The first part is out, available as Kindle book on Amazon, under this link:

Night Owl Reviews

Aug 30, 2016

Albert Camus --- This is heaven --- teaser (10)

Context: John is called to the police station, where Ray is held as in connection with the mysterious death of Neill Palmer. Inspector LaStrada from the homicide unit wants to "chat." And, there's a new addition to the offices of the police department, a goldfish bowl.

The detective points at a transparent folio-sized zip bag on the counter, holds it up, and dangles it in front of my eyes. It contains a used sheet of paper, crumpled and refolded several times, letter size, written upon in what appears to be an approximately legible hand. LaStrada flips the bag, and the reverse side of the sheet appears to be written-upon as well, in Alex’s hand, to be precise. This was Alex’s suicide letter, the outdated letter I handed to Neill Palmer on Saturday night when the drunken rice queen had asked for a sheet of paper as I met him in the street, I staggering home, defeated, while Alex, the survivor, was busy falling in love with Amy-Lou.

Let me interrupt myself and talk about James Bond again. It doesn’t matter which movie, so let’s talk about the last one, Skyfall. Daniel Craig introduces himself to Dr. No or one of No’s co-workers, like Bérénice Marlohe, say, and says “The name is Bond, James Bond.” And while any other person on the planet would now go, like, ‘Great,’ or ‘Can you give me an autograph,’ Bérénice has apparently never heard of the super-hero of popular culture, grimaces distantly, and shakes the stranger’s hand.

Albert Camus (1913 - 1960)

Analogies break down somewhere, and this one breaks down im-mediately, except that LaStrada has apparently no idea he’s dealing with one of the most outlandish documents ever featured in erotic writing. He flips the zip bag and reads: “‘Some people expend enormous energy merely to be normal’… Sounds mysterious, doesn’t it, Mr. Lee.”

Aug 28, 2016

Italian for beginners --- an Italian review of the Green Eyes

Cool folks, cool, we have an Italian review of the GREEN EYES in:

The downside of international fame is of course that---(terrible sentence)---that you don't understand what people are saying until you invoke Google translate---and even then. But the Italian sounds so much better.

Questa è la trama del romanzo di Michael Ampersant, ma se pensate che sia sufficiente per capire il valore, e la complessità del testo vi sbagliate. C’è molto altro in Green Eyes: c’è il sesso – esplicito e sconcio, ma no per questo volgare-, ci sono i riferimenti culturali, le citazioni, c’è ingiustizia che ancora oggi chi è gay subisce e c’è una scrittura, che nel suo stile sintetico che a me piace tanto, è in grado di suscitare nel lettore un miscuglio di emozioni e sensazioni pazzesche. 
Sono tanti, o forse è meglio dire diversi, i personaggi che John incontro lungo la sua ricerca di una vita diversa da quella attuale, ma Maurice, un turista inglese, è quello che più di tutto acquista importanza ai fini della storia. Infatti viene violentato da un poliziotto, in una scena vivida che sconcerta e fa incazzare.

Doesn't it?

Aug 23, 2016

We sat down with Queer Voices

Cool, folks, we have an interview with Queer Voices, a fairly large outlet by our modest standards. Have a look.

Okay, here's one question and one partial answer from the interview:

Q: Do you have a favorite author? Your writing is unique.

A: Mark Twain would be the most important author. I really aim to poke fun at the world the way he does (I must have read Tom Sawyer 20 times). My writing style reflects in some sense my difficulties with the English language; it’s not wholly intended, and it’s not Twain’s style, of course. I can construct long sentences since I’m German, but often do I stumble, and the process of getting back on my feet, that’s also reflected in my style.

Mark Twain

Aug 15, 2016

The Hindu God --- This is heaven --- teaser (9)

Context:  (1) A new morning has arrived, heralding Day Two of the Vampire Festival week(2) Ben (whom we met first in Part I in a chapter titled "A hitchhiker's guide to gay sex") has returned from an "outcall" and is sleeping on John's bed.  (3) Since his failed suicide last week, Alex maintains he has arrived in heaven. He also labors under serious amnesia. (4) Maurice is staying with them, still reconvalescent from the bloody fuck last week that almost cost him his life. 

“Okay,” Alex says and hands me the coffee mug. He sits down on the bed and peers through the window. The Davis Canal runs right by the condo and there’s a water tower on the other side, a tripedal contraption expecting the sun to kiss it back to life each morning.

“Do they have water towers in heaven?” I ask.
“Apparently,” Alex says.
“We’re still in heaven?”
“We’re still in heaven … a bit less though, this tower barely qualifies.”
“You knew about Ben,” I say, “before you…lost your memory.”
“Tell me anything.”

Ben moves in his sleep. Don’t ask how, but his unconscious hand is now in Alex’s lap. “Maurice knows about Ben,” I say. “Every-body knows about Ben, ask Maurice.”
“Ben was … is …”

Why the rich need more tax brakes

Aug 6, 2016

A box of sleepy kittens --- This is heaven --- Teaser (8)

Context: The first festival day is already over, John and Alex have returned home, lying on the bed. For more context, refer to the earlier teasers (link below), or this post.

He’s trying so hard to be sweet---licking my face now, more lover than alpha dog up here, this after having licked my dick, more alpha-dog down there, drawing a semi-semi erection that soon folded because I’m exhausted after seven breathless days. Plus, him just being nice is so much nicer than him just fucking me, especially after the two pissing-outside-the-tent events we (he) had today, with the flashes of his adult part inside Albert and Godehart still fresh on my mind. “Enough atonement for today,” he says and arranges himself with the back against the pillow against the bed head, pulls the blanket over my limbs, and reaches for his iPad. He’s caressing my hair now, absent-mindedly, his palm resting on my crane, two fingers fidgeting with my hairline.

This is the first time we’re chillin,’ just being there, just being a box of sleepy kittens. Maybe I should fill him in about his past a bit, some basic stuff he needs to know, things I know, but then I know very little and want to avoid talking about his mother, especially about her death at the age of ten (his) (age), the only thing I know about her, the catastrophe that triggered his depression.

Jul 30, 2016

Chamonix --- Mont Blanc

We're still in Switzerland, and so we go for another excursion, this time to Chamonix, the town that hosts the Mont Blanc, the Alps highest mountain at 4,870 meters. In our days, the Mont Blanc was Europe's highest mountain, but then this James Bond movie came out, where the spy identifies Mount Elbrus, in the Caucasus, as being photographed from the wrong (Russian) side, and Elbrus is 5,642 meters high, which is unfair, and then somebody else figured that the Caucasus is still Europe.

"Sorry, Blanc, way it is."

Jul 24, 2016

The white stud

We receive a letter from---hold on---his pseudonym is The White Stud---and he writes: 

"I am a sexologist with a Harley Street clinic in London, where I have developed a new, you-know-what therapy based on photography. I took the liberty to download one of your pictures for my highly medical purposes. I hope you agree with the result. Sincerely, your 'Stud'." 

There you have it folks, what can we say:

And here's the original, from a recent post:

Jul 23, 2016

What we like about Ted Cruz

Lets get this in briefly. We hated Ted Cruz, and still do. But now we've found something we like about him. His reasons for not endorsing Donald Trump. He's not going to endorse a person, he said, who's insulting his father, or his wife. I wouldn't do so either, by the way. And the Republican Party---the party of family values---is all aflutter. Of course.

Jul 19, 2016


We felt uninspired, and so Chang suggested we should make an excursion to Lake Geneva. We passed Montreux twice---coming and going---and so had a chance to contemplate on the life of Vladimir Nabokov, who lived his last sixteen years in Montreux Palace, the hotel.

Jul 15, 2016

"I love your soul, Alex!"

We're excited to be back to "This Is Heaven,"---which is, among other things, about terms like "excited," "awesome," "renowned," "inspired," "accomplished," "creative," "award-winning,"(not to forget "wonderful," basically the only word left in the language of contemporary literary criticism). Anyhow, we're re-posting teasers according to the plot line, but here's an in-between morsel written a few days ago. Context: the story is set in 2014. Alex and John have a quarrel, Alex has already decided to move back to his own place, and John fears being ditched for good by the love of his life, to whom he has just said: "You are beautiful."

Alex & John

We’re trudging through the evening crowd along Georgia Avenue, heading seaward. He grabs my arm, then lets go. “Okay, John, for the sake of argument…my physical appearance, or my perceived physical appearance---that’s the reason you want me back?”  
“Of course not.” 
“What is it then?”
“You soul, Alex, I love your soul.”

“Ha,” he snorts. “You nailed it.”

Jul 5, 2016

Good writing: About a dog --- James Joyce

We've started reading Ulysses, and we're not disappointed. Yes, sure, there's a problem with the tome in that there's a problem with literature anyhow, especially the literate sort: the writing coasts on the associative skills of the reader, and them skills tend to diminish with space-time. Hundred years later, us never having been to Ireland---or to Dublin, where the "plot" is set, mercilessly---not sharing much of Joyce's classical education, there's a lot of stuff we don't dig. Thousand years down the road, it'll be worse. But we are learning. We've begun to steal already ("in the shell of his hands" has made it into the penultimate chapter of This Is Heaven). And we feel assured; Joyce---hundred times better than us, of course---uses roughly the same observational distance to his characters that we keep when engaging them in a dialogue. 

Good writing. Here, from the first part, Episode III (Proteus), about a dog: 

A woman and a man. I see her skirties. Pinned up, I bet. 

Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, trotting, sniffing on all sides. Looking for something lost in a past life. Suddenly he made off like a bounding hare, ears flung back, chasing the shadow of a lowskimming gull. The man's shrieked whistle struck his limp ears. He turned, bounded back, came nearer, trotted on twinkling shanks. On a field tenney a buck, trippant, proper, unattired. At the lacefringe of the tide he halted with stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears. His snout lifted barked at the wavenoise, herds of seamorse. They serpented towards his feet, curling, unfurling many crests, every ninth, breaking, plashing, from far, from farther out, waves and waves.

Jul 4, 2016

She pulls on his shorts --- This is heaven --- Teaser (7)

Context, context: (1) The festival is about to begin. (2) Ben, the black guy whom we met first in the chapter "The hitchhiker's guide to gay sex" of the Green Eyes, will run the market stand of Luke's convenience store; Alex will sell Bavarian leather shorts for Godehart. (3) Barbette Bienpensant is an expert of rapture and related events, and also the sister of Juliette, whom we met earlier in the day when she (Juliette) told us she's still a virgin but would do anything for ice cream. (4) Alex, in his previous life, dropped out of computer science because he judged computational complexity theory "bad mathematics." (5) John and Barbette just met during the first meeting of the festival jury. 

The market stands (still being put together when we arrived) are ready, and it appears from a distance that two young men are busy at two neighboring stalls, Ben to the left, and Alex to the right, both unpacking merchandise. They are unaware of each other, ap-parently.

I just stand there and wonder: How is it possible that a person of recently professed sexual insouciance ignores another male person 20 feet away that sports the toned body of a basketball player, silky black skin, lips from Angelina Jolie, profile from Raphael, teeth from a dental catalog, and the kinetics of a Bolshoi dancer? Conversely, how is it possible that a person with a documented history of two homosexual encounters ((with me)) ignores another male person 20 feet away that sports the toned body of a hunk, silky brown skin, shiny black hair cut short on the sides, eyes as bright as a Caribbean lagoon, and the overall deportment of an alpha dog?

What happened to sexuality? People are not gay anymore, Alex is just playing nice until another angel needs his love, like Juliette Bienpensant, the morning vamp without piercings, who wears less mascara now as she ambles all the way across the Surfside Field to ask more questions about ice cream and virginity. Or Professor Barbette Bienpensant, the renowned metaphysicist and festival jury member, who accompanies her much younger sister, pushing forty already, but still hot enough to require Alex’s humongous dick be-tween her shapely thighs.