in every blog post a heartache...


Jamie told me it was going to be hard to quit and he’s right, especially when I read tidbits like this that remind me of a story that the real Fitzcarraldo told me, or, I should say, the real man who I based the fake character of Fitzcarraldo upon. This man who was once my best friend and is now my best enemy—but that’s another story to build another blog around. Anyway, when he was still a teenager and living at home this real Fitz got picked up by a man who claimed to be a fashion photographer. He told the real Fitz that he was beautiful and that he was going to make him into a star. It was the beautiful part that got the real Fitz’s heart fluttering—only his mother had ever told him that before. After dinner somewhere fancy, the photographer drove the real Fitz back to his place in his silver sports car where they made out on his black leather couch. The photographer wanted to have sex, but the real Fitz was hoping that this would be different from his usual, meaningless one-night stands. He told the photographer that he preferred to wait in order to sweeten a future moment, adding that it had already been the “perfect” date. The seamless veneer of the photographer’s gentlemanly nature began to slip: he became pushy, and then pissed off. “What the fuck did I buy you dinner for?” he growled. Before the real Fitz could come to grips with the Mr. Hyde who had materialized before him, the photographer had handcuffed him to the stainless steel leg of the dining room table—an enormous, custom-made piece of furniture, the top of which used to be a butcher’s block.

The photographer left the real Fitz chained there and went to the garage. When he returned, he held a pink square of pink fiberglass insulation in one hand and a .45 in the other.

“I’m going to make sure that you enjoyed our date,” he told him.

He placed the square of fiberglass in the real Fitz’s hand, the one that wasn’t handcuffed. Then he pointed the gun at his head.

“Our date will be finished once you cum,” he said, as he reached over and unzipped his pants for him.

Needless to say, the pain was immense. The real Fitz sobbed hysterically, blacking out and straining so hard to break free from the table that the handcuff cut deep into his wrist.

He showed me the scar when he told me the story.

“People think I tried to kill myself,” he said, taking a deep drag on his smoke.

“How did you finally get away?” I asked.

“How do you think?” he said, in that matter of fact tone of his. “I came. Finally.”

He looked off into the distance, although his eyesight was so poor I knew he couldn’t make out much.

“It would be the last time for many years.”

(i swear to god the roxy music song from which i stole the title of this post just came on the village voice radio as i was about to hit publish, on this, the first and only real and actual and TRUE post i ever wrote)

...remember...there is no such thing as chance...

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