By Catherine Wagley
By Channing Sargent
By L.A. Weekly critics
By Amanda Lewis
By Catherine Wagley
By Carol Cheh
By Keegan Hamilton
By Bill Raden
A quick and distant crack-crack tells me I will soon be hearing the far-off flutter of a Los Angeles police helicopter, too far, too late. I don’t care; it’s too cold to sleep out here anyway. Laurie is haunting my mind. Perhaps I’ll find some inspirational warmth hidden under the increasingly unwholesome scenarios that play out behind my eyes and feature her oh-so-supple body. Unlike the other girls I have encountered here over the years, she is, despite her questions, somehow on target. There is a comfortable quality to her demeanor that I’ve never seen in a new guest, and I can’t help but think she has something to teach me. I must also suspect that she will be none too popular with Maggie and Zipper as they are now feeling quite established and will no doubt resent the more nubile competition. The fact that they, themselves, are both quite attractive will only exacerbate the situation. But this is perhaps as it should be.
Much like Laurie, though I think with different intentions, Maggie simply stuck around after one of the larger parties. This was about six months ago, and unlike with Laurie, Double Felix nailed Maggie immediately. I’m certain that this eventuality was part of her plan, for I had seen her at an earlier party quite aroused, intoxicated, piqued and piquant as she sampled her surroundings and conducted her investigations in a state of wonderment.
Zipper Allele is quite a different story. Petite, dark-haired, a hopelessly complex amalgamation of Third World gene pooling, Zipper came to us through a phone call over a year ago. Almost immediately on that first evening our professional relationship began and ended; our personal relationship began and remains. This has happened to me only only before with a prostitute — and I have been with many prostitutes. It’s like falling for a girl in the supermarket or the library, except that you’re already in bed together. The whole situation was enormously exciting for both of us, highly unusual and unexpected. We slept well, side by side.
The next day Zipper returned with her suitcase. I, of course, with my Midas touch, had her running scared from my bed and established in her own room by the end of the week. But, more than even Double Felix, she has accepted my need for distance, and she and I have found a truly friendly groove of congenial dependence laced with very occasional sex. It has been many weeks since I’ve slept with Zipper, longer since I’ve really talked to her, but, oh, how I dread the hours that she spends away from this house.
The sharp sound of breaking glass awakens me. As I dozed my drink fell from my hand, rolling for seconds? Hours? It has apparently left the deck and shattered on one of the many large rocks that lie just over the edge. The sky may or may not be lighter. Looking west at this hour requires imagination, which then steals the show. Consulting my watch, I find that I have just under an hour until Morning Vodka, so I pout a short gin in a new glass and wait.
More and more I am emitting the telltale odors of an alcoholic, though I think I have merely the proclivity and not the condition; more and more that seems like a fairly innocuous problem, though I suppose I know better. No matter; without comment Double Felix will tolerate the organically tinged scent of liquor emanating from my pores this morning. He has his own troubles, and I shall shower in lieu of lunch.
I wait here in the very chilly morning. Now I am certain that the sky has grown lighter. I must remember to lean close to Double Felix this morning. Perhaps by now he carries Laurie’s redolence on his breath; it would be of fresh air.