Love is the strongest feeling a person can have. Love for friends, for family members, for your country… some people love the whole mankind. Anyway, the most enigmatic incomprehensible feeling is that mix between sex and love. Different authors have tried to explain it: Flaubert, Tolstoy, Clarin… Today, you can read a strong story about sex and love, a strong story full of beauty and fear, full of sublime metaphors and ordinary argot. A great short story by a great American author. Take your time and enjoy it!
Jay’s Birthday. Clarion Hotel Phoenix Tech Center Room 400
By Rose Stanoff aka Rosario Naturelle
For my Man
I just got back from picking up some candy for him from Rich. He flipped it to some Puerto Rican dame on the second floor in fifteen seconds. We smoked a cigarette and old Jim Evanoff kissed my hand. We listened to some old Rakim Allah, talked about our future family, and how we are on the same wave. He was on that perfect Cutting Class Stanoff A GAME. Joking about The Rza, doing a Vietnamese Tupac, doing the best Tracy Morgan that is to be believed. He even obliged me with the infamous voicemail of Keanu Reeves/Woody Allen fucking each other up the ass. We drove through South Tempe and it felt like some Hell’s Angels were tracking us. We went to Yucca Tap Room to cool out for lunch.
Neil just smiled that sweet smile and held my hand. We held hands and cried tears of divine love. He just watched my lips like he had seen the holy ghost of Christmas. He sat like a paranoid android working furiously in the fresh comp book I bought him at Office Max. He says the book is called Ruby Quiche. He wont let anyone read it. Not until its perfect like you Queen, he said.
He smiled, that manic Kindergarten smile. He is not manic, just pure in heart. The Door’s played on the jukebox, he looks deadly in his Oakland A’s hat. I wanted to fuck him right on the booth. He kisses me hard. A good Stanoff Parisian kiss.
His cheeks were golden. Rocket Man came on the jukebox. Our eyes met and both teared up in crestfallen supreme unity. I felt like a Goddess. He cried into his Cherry Coke, and got back to work on the novel. At that moment I knew he was not a man. He was a fallen angel, a perfect saint. In love with me, his brothers, his nephews, and the new Sullivan God Son he is so thankful for. Mr. Jump called while Stanoff was writing and he told Uncle that Matt Cain was going to pitch another perfect game for the All Star. All of a sudden Neil got scared and asked Uncle permission to be with me. Even Jump felt guilty for the slugger. He looked like a scared Will Hunting. So I slapped his ass as hard as I could ever hurt him and devoured his left earlobe with my tongue. The stud of my tongue drove him mad. I felt him against the side of my Diesel basketball shorts, and the tension melted from his face. He took off his green hat and I played with his shaved head. His hair was coming in fuller than when he had lost it at 20. There was new hair where the bald spot was, and I became frightened because he was truly being healed by me.
Ruby Tuesday came on the speaker. I melted like a Mexican Rosary candle. Another perfect moment. He took a long look at the Talib Qweli flyer next to his pack of Luckies.
I miss Talib he says.
He scratched at his beard. I rub his dirty bronze cut hands and remember the cuts are from breaking the radio at the Rodeway. The cuts are almost gone and I wish I could fathom his resiliency. I wish I could take away that mad pain of those old soul Spanish Hemingway eyes. I knew I would one day. I had all the money in the world and he insisted he owed his life to me. It was not bullshit, it was not absolute. It was the cold stinging perfect fucking truth. In that moment I felt a sense of Peace. He was never bi-polar or crazy or manic or skitzoaffective or whatever bullshit the state poisoned him with. He was simply one of the Broun Fellinis, The Mad Cassidys, The White Jones’, The Black Thoreaus, The Golden Mumias.
He looked up from the notebook. In a flash of telepathy I saw James Joyce come out of his raised eyebow. Butterflies possessed my insides. I could feel the moisture flood my Cunt. I wanted him more than I had wanted Colin Farrell. I was sitting next to the greatest writer of all time. I twirled my hair and nervously thought how long I could be his muse. He dropped his pen and whispered forever in my mouth. We kissed softly. He was reading minds again. He brushed my cheek with his index finger. His finger pulsated Islam. The genius, the genius from Hollywood was back on top.
I had done nothing but come back to him in complete respect and brotherhood. I wish he would have talked a bit more, told me those crazy lucid miracle tales.
I couldn’t hurt but entirely love him. He had beaten Bukowski at sixteen. Automated Dialer was the most brilliant prose I had ever seen. Christ, the proofs of Letters To Naturelle make me weep like a beaten tenement eight year old girl. He is the only being who understands me. He brings back the poetry and poverty of a black girl squatting. Jesus. Stanoff. I wished for his poor soul that he never left Hollywood. I told him this . A writer is forged in injustice as a sword is forged. Hemingway again. I remembered the quote from the chapter of his first novella. Dostoyevsky was made by being sent to Siberia.
He was at his best. Spirit In The Sky came on, we both relaxed. The poor saint just needed a home. I reached into my platinum Gucci purse. Eat boo, I begged.
He was too busy guzzling Coke and Grenadine and writing. He was so focused he hadn’t smoked in three hours. I wondered what his dreams were like. Whether they were dreams or some kind of Absinthe, Cezanne Expressionist murmuring.
I sat there next to the sexiest man alive. The most dangerous and the most devout. The mastermind who lovingly calls Bin Laden Uncle Sam. I knew he could not abstain from fucking other woman. I understood the old ceremony the act of POW!er. I knew he had been with more beautiful women than me and I was terrified I would lose him if he did go to LA. I knew he would get lost there. He knew it too.
Fuck!!!!!! I had all the money in the world, but he hated money. He didn’t want my money. He wanted me for me, I came in my shorts. I rubbed his POW! Tattoo and I could feel in his Veins he missed The City. He didn’t talk much about Josh Trenk, Matt Carr, and Dean Crispen. I stroked his golden arms, and I could read minds too. It was like living in the Comic Books. It was like living in the Trinity. Back at 888 O’Farrell. I felt the happiness of a twenty-three year old who hadn’t quite blown up. I pulled out my white iPhone. He mumbled something genius about Wozniak not having invented it. Keep in touch my nigga I said.
More than anything he loved being called “nigga”. That was his most cherished compliment. I already knew this, remember I’m an actress. The child in him came back, that 3rd grader joy. He wanted the phone. He wanted to call me. To finally converse with his hero David Benioff. We walked outside the Yucca. He lit a DuMaurier that was left from Justin’s birthday. I couldn’t help but blush, and I got wet again. Parisian Loyalty. The Saint of 26 rue de Bonaparte. He was not shaky like last night before we had made love. He wore a tight white Under Armour shirt. He was Superman. He stapled a still from the 25th Hour of me. It was the best still that had ever been shot of me. I swore I would kill for him again and he teared up and tongue fucked the shit out of my mouth. You could hear u2’s Angel of Harlem loud as hell from a Jeep outside. I fucking came again. I WAS THE ANGEL OF HARLEM.
A pure cannabis, opium like bliss peeked into my conscious. He was the opposite of Cocaine. He was beauty, and Islam and all that Five Percenter shit I gave up on years ago. Fuck, he was Nas.
He carelessly tossed the DuMaurier. He looked Divine is his Goodwiill Oakland hat. I could buy the bloody franchise for him. He could run it. He could do anything. I gave him the card to the loft in Tribeca. He shook his head and kissed my hand. He was getting sick of me. Sick of my 1800 dollar purse, my perfect iPhone. Sick of my steadiness. It was all terribly true, and too much to bear and I was exhaustingly his servant. It was no longer pure love, like it was last night. It was sick, savage and brutal. It hurt in the best way imaginable. It was better than Kink. I felt different in that second. I was no longer the Ugly Swan. No longer the Halfie. The skank, skeezer Mixed girl. I felt Caramel. I felt like a Caramel Sundae Deluxe burning back home in Harlem. My swollen lips that I had hated for years felt naturelle, juicy, and unified. I began to love my lips. We kissed goodbye and I was 25th Hour Wonder Woman. I wanted him never to leave me, and I think he desperately needed that too. It would be half a year before the movie was done. I suddenly hated acting. I wanted to give it all up for baseball, like he had.
As we said goodbye. I prayed that Matt Cain would have a good start. Matt Cain was all Stanoff had left. He had three dollars left on him, which he tipped to the bartender to ensure unlimited refills of Cherry Coke. I am not much of a writer, but he is much of a writer. He is the end of me, and an unborn anniversary. So I hope his dear friend Isabel will publish this and Stanoff will relax a little bit. We’ve all heard stories about Michael,, Michael has nothing on his only son.
I’ve never in my life wanted to get married. I’m too selfish, I digress. The point is I had lunch with Superman. The writer that made Keanu Reeves famous. The nigger who wrote about half of the new Nas album. I’m actually kind of bitter in retrospect.
I spited him for never selling out. I sold out. Everyone sold out except for him. I guess that’s why Im entirely obsessed with him. That tragic Jim Carroll pureness.
Fuck my Agent. We made love. It was not the first time either, but it was the best. I didn’t want to ever leave Stanoff then, but I had to earn a living. I wanted to own him again like when we were young, but I was now property of NewHemingway.com. He sold me with his perfect dope.
Dear Baby, I hope you write a hardback one day but I know you never will. You’d rather put it online and have Spielberg kike it into some horrible sci-fi film starring Tom Cruise. You are amazing. You make me feel like the Nubian Princess I know I am. Fuck. I’m crying now. In the remainder of your red moleskine of your second novel. The asshole just handed it to me in the Hotel Room, after we had made love. I’m crying into your novel.
The resident Hemingway of the Fucking Universe, Cries of tears of joy onto old childhood pictures of me that no one has. He remembers everything. A white-striped Elephant. I wish he would live with me. He’d rather live on the wire, on the line. By the seat of his perfect stones. What a set. Gushing. I kissed his golden cheek one last time. I wanted him but not until we were in Paris. I wanted him to make me mad with jealousy. I wanted him to fuck Keasha again. I wanted him to make out with Meg White. As I kissed the newborn virgin once more, I got stupid Maternal. All over again. I wanted to give him 25 zillion sons. The lips of my Cunt were still bloody. I broke his ruby Rosary, palmed his Cross and prayed the whole flight back to Palestine that I was pregnant. Im glad we Reunited like some old unreleased Wu Album. I don’t know if you can always wait for me, and I don’t expect you to. It was the best night of my life, and I love you. Now I’m begging YOU please Marry Me. Funny how roles reverse, and you stay exactly the fucking perfect same. It was better than the old Aley-Bee days. So God Speed You Black Emperor. I wish you good luck but I know you don’t believe in that anymore. As I sit on my small jet I listen to My Hands are Tied by Starsailor and discreetly finger myself in the back of the plane while crying to your second novel. I’m smoking that last Lucky Strike I ‘burroughed’ from you. I ordered you the new PowerBook, just waiting for you to come back to Paris, and rape my bloody heart all over again. I’m happy that your back in Your New York State Of Mind.
With Love Entering Palestine,
P.S—please do not post the sex videos, their hidden in your gmail account. I have your ass on lock.
P.P.S- Your filthy moleskine is soaking