Theoretical Girls

I’m into it. The cold, the bad moods on the subway, the frozen fucking oranges down in Florida. I can think better in this kind of weather. As I wrote that last sentence I heard TRUE in my head, finishing the rhyme off—“I make the track wetter, bag extra cheddar.”

Or even better, Method Man can finish it off:

I put the fucking buck in the wild kid, I'm terror
Razor sharp, I sever
the head from the shoulders, I'm better
than my compeda, you mean competitor, whadeva!
Let's get together… (“Shame On a Nigga”)

I’m holding back on dishing the dirt about my phone conversation with TRUE. I know Fitzcarraldo’s dying to find out what she said to me, and he’ll have more time to hound me about it now that his pothead boytoy’s gone back to Purchase—but oh well, too bad. It’s between TRUE and myself. It’s good to have a secret with her again. I can feel her crazy vibe like an untamed angel on my shoulder. I’m reinvigorated; I know the plan. I stand tall beneath the midtown skyscrapers, carefully turning the razorblade in my mouth over and over with my tongue as I wait to cross the avenue. Steam rises from the manholes in slow motion, and the busses zoom past like spaceships. I head straight for the flagpole in front of Phillip Morris, where the overweight office workers are smoking their heads off. I can smell the cold coming off the metal as I carve my name in full view of the crowded sidewalk. I get as far as the first curve on the first ‘S’ before a navy blue security guard chases me down.

Sterling: my name’s Sterling Fassbinder. And I’m the biggest dyke you’ve ever met. Girls are my world. Girls with shiny hair who wear ear muffs that match the color of their Northface jackets. Tipsy girls who make their mustached boyfriends carry their Bloomie bags while they make eyes at strangers. Girls who step to the side and finish the page they’re on in their Norton paperback edition of Anna Karenina while everyone else rushes up the stairwell and out of the station.

Teenage girls with old eyes and too much powder on their faces. Lesbian girls with fat thighs and canvas sneakers. Girls with dreds and metallic pink eye shadow. Girls with perfect nails reading The Economist. Sporty girls jogging by with red faces.

I want to know them—I want to feel them.

A girl like Alana, who makes me wish I went to college, because her sedate brand of funny would make her the perfect roommate.

Or sweet Jenny, the Berkley girl in her indie world.

I’ve mentioned her before and I’ll mention her again, just so she knows I’m thinking about her. She’s straight and as much as it pains me to imagine her with another, I can’t help but think that she and Tony Pierce would make a really great couple. Their offspring would be a lyrical genius, no doubt. Either that or completely illiterate, you know how shit happens.

Whatever, it’s Friday everyone, go on and get your fuck on.

...And TRUEBOY, stay safe tonight...

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