The basketball players are like me: they don't leave the hotel. Everything we need is right here. Things come in and out on shiny carts pushed by porters. If need be they also come through the back door but in the end it's the same thing. In and out. Consumption and creation. A big hotel is like a biosphere or some other kind of autonomous environment experiment. You get to watch things grow, flourish, exist flatly and fall apart--eventually or all at once.

6AM, Sunday Morning: I was having a drunken breakfast on the terrace in front of the "fantasy" pool. A famous basketball player covered with tatoos and glistening with coco butter went on about his evening's exploits to a table which included myself and a pair of idiot twin italian brothers.

"So bitch wanted to suck my cock, she got on her knees and was like, please, please, please let me suck your cock, and i said, bitch no way you're suckin my cock. You're dome piece is just too damn ugly to look upon! I was like, maybe I'll fuck you up the ass though. A little back door delivery. And you know I'm like fuck that condom shit, y'all. I like that shit raw. Bitch gets pregnant, it's like, too bad bitch."

He spit into his coffee and knocked over what was left of his cristal. Meanwhile, the italian brothers gasped, 'yeah yeah yeah' and laughed like monkees. I looked at them looking up at him in love and admiration and I realized this was one of those times when I'm just one of the guys and not thought of as something to be fucked, at least not at the moment.

i'm the boy, who's learned to enjoy, invisibility...

I leaned back, scratched my left tit and watched a scrawny pigeon with no feathers on its neck poke around behind the basketball player's chair. Talk about liberation.

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