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‘We should go to the doctor.’
‘Doctor?’ Adi began coughing uncontrollably and fell back on my bed. ‘You think I’m going to a doctor?’
I reached out and touched her shoulder. ‘My father’s a doctor. We could go to his nurse. She’s a good nurse … ’
‘Your father? Your father? Your father wants to stick his hands in my pussy? Your father probably already sticks his hands in my pussy!’
Adi got up again, clutching her gut.
‘You have any pot?’ she asked.
I shook my head.
‘Hey, come on, you have pot.’
I rolled over and faced the window. I didn’t know why I had brought up my father.
‘Sorry,’ I said quietly. ‘I think Lani has some.’
After a few seconds, Adi slammed my door.
Gio Mogilevich was an amoral Je
w. I had never known an evil man Jew.
He grabbed my waist and smacked the back of my ass. He started moving his knee between my wet thighs. I knew Michael wasn’t watching my breasts onscreen. They were jiggling out of my nightgown. I was hot on his lap. He placed one hand on my thigh and one hand on my breast.
‘Where’d Johnny-John find a treasure like you?’
I felt like laughing so hard when Michael said that. I knew he didn’t like it. Michael was gay! I only did stuff with him because I knew he was smart.
‘Mira is creative,’ he’d said to John after he met me and watched me on tape. ‘She is the maker and you are the taker.’
I felt his big knee coming up through my panties. I slid myself forward, tried to let myself melt. It felt like a glass was spinning on my chest. Michael had to be rough, otherwise he couldn’t come. He yanked my wrists behind my back and never let up with the bounce of his knee.
‘I swear it’s relaxing. To see a young girl fucking is a totally relaxing thing.’
‘Shut up!’ I said.
His cock was a lump. I really knew Michael was gay from the second I’d met him.
‘Mira, that’s good,’ I heard John saying. ‘Look up at the camera.’
Michael was grunting, he only took a few minutes to come and he never actually went inside me. He sat there afterward, hunched over his dick. Michael really made me laugh. I couldn’t believe he was John’s uncle. He was twenty-nine but he looked like an old man. He was going prematurely bald. Three long black wrinkles were stuck in his forehead, as if his whole life had been gouged up in there.
I tried to imagine the story that John had told me about Michael, how Michael stuck his cock up John’s shorts when they were kids. The reason I couldn’t really see it was that I couldn’t imagine Michael ever being young. I kept imagining a skinny little boy’s body with his man-sized bald head.
The three of us used to sit around drinking beer after shooting and Michael would talk about all the books he used to read in university: Genet, Ginsberg, Ferlinghetti. This one time I started going off about Genet. I’d just read the book Our Lady of the Flowers, or most of it, on Michael’s recommendation, and by my third beer I was ranting that I didn’t think it was such an ‘erotic masterpiece.’
‘Genet was the best thing that ever happened to literature, Mira,’ Michael said flatly. ‘He writes for people like me – “a child-roughneck whom chance had given gold.”’ Michael recited those words with his eyes closed.
John agreed, he was nodding his head vigorously, but I knew that John had never read Genet. He barely read any books. He just wrote, which was so stupid. How can you write and not read?
‘Fuck you, Johnny-John, you don’t really know how to read!’
Michael said that the second after I thought it.
I thought it was amazing that Genet wrote Our Lady of the Flowers twice. He was in prison for stealing and he wrote the entire manuscript out on the paper bags they had to make there. When some guard figured out what he was doing, he stole the manuscript and destroyed it. But Genet just started it all over again.
