she tries to make me jealous and i dont fall for it. why should i?

this morning she sent me an email of a story one of the British tabloids wrote about she and Enrique messing around in a hotel:

Quiet please!: ENRIQUE IGLESIAS and ANNA KOURNIKOVA�s romps kept hotel guests up all night.

The reception of the plush Four Seasons in London was bombarded with complaints about screams and moans which went on until 4am on Saturday. The tennis beauty and her Latin heart-throb lover made the racket in his hotel room after canoodling at the Mayfair Club in the West End.

One hotel insider told me: �They were so noisy. I could hear Anna screaming and it sounded like cries of pleasure.

�Another guest several doors down the corridor complained twice about the noise and there were complaints by people in the next room and also from the room below. People were calling the reception until past four in the morning.

�It was obvious what Anna and Enrique were up to. There was a lot of laughing, it went quiet for a while then it started off again. The two of them were giggling for hours.”

i didnt write her back for a while. she got on AOL chat and asked me, “so what do you think?”

i said, i dont think too much of it. sounds like two kids having fun the night before you lost a big match.

she said, youre not jealous?

i said, why should i? i want you to have fun.

she said, oh, i had fun alright, can i tell you what i did?

i said, fire away.

she said, “first we drank this vodka my aunt sent me from moscow. not the bullshit vodka that you get here in the states, but the real deal. we drank a little and enrique’s back has been hurting him a little bit – guess why – hehehe – and so we spilt a vicodin.

that mixed real nice with the BODY SHOTS he was taking off me. all over me, tony, my belly, my neck, my back, my bum, my hehehehehe. we were toasted, but not too much. just right.

uh huh, i said. bored. i taught her this shit like years ago.

then we went into the anteroom, enrique doesnt like to do it in the bed that we sleep in because he’s a neat freak and likes to sleep on clean sheets.

i coughed.

she said what was that?

i coughed haggot cough.

shuttup, then he lit the candles, he had all sorts of candles and they smelled nice. i dont know what it is about candle light but its a lot better than those cheap christmas lights in your house.

when i sell a million records off my daddy’s name i’ll be sure to get you some candles, hun.

i dont know what it was about that night but we were super aggressive, he ripped my clothes off and threw me on the carpet. my skirt was around my ankles, i tried to kick them off but they were tangled. he held them down with his foot. and sunk his head where it BELONGED, american boy. and the combination of being restrained and not wanting to move got me so crazy that i started screaming and unlike you, he let me.

i bet he lets you do lots of stuff i dont.

the phone was ringing, people were knocking at the door as lamps broke and the music boomed but you know what tony, we didnt give a shit, somehow we made it to the bed and i got on top of him, twisted his neck to the side and gave him the biggest hickey he ever got.

sure you didnt rip off a mole?

no! i sucked that thing hard and he wasnt afraid to let me know that he liked it.

sing a little song, did he?

no, he flipped me over and tried to… but i flipped him back, he nearly bashed my head on the bedpost and you know what, i wouldnta felt it if he had. nor would i have cared.

nor?

and in one movement he took the condom out of the drawer, out of the wrapper, put it on and omg OMG right away it felt great. i pushed him close to me with my feet and he kept working on my neck but i wanted to kiss him and he was doing me so good, no offense, but so good. hes a dancer, he can move.

moved right to america from honduras didnt he.

but i wanted to see him so i flipped him over and got on top and i pounded him. i got up on my toes and slammed down. got up and SLAMMED down. it was like we were trying to kill each other.

dont you mean “bore”?

it was exciting, not boring.

pun, baby, pun.

but the vicodin was doing its magic and i could do anything i wanted to him and i wanted to feel it harder and deeper.

so you called in the black man from down the hall?

no, i was backwards, head on the floor almost, ass on the corner of the bed, and tony, he was using gravity to help him get at me harder. shit it was awesome. i just wrapped my arms around the back of his head and thrust my hips and met him with each bash.

what was on the cd player?

CD PLAYER? who the fuck cares. i came like six times.

you lie.

i swear to you.

then…

then?

then we got in the doggy style.

oh shit, anna.

but i wanted to get close so i backed into him and he got close. first my hands were where the pillows would be, but as we got going he got closer and i was running out of bed and i put my hands on the headboard and crept up until my hands were on top of the headboard and he didnt care he kept at it, i dug my fingernails into the wall, i grabbed whatever i could. i grabbed the painting that was over the bed and he had his hands on my hips whaling away and it was perfect and i was coming again when i heard a horrible crash.

what, you woke up?

no! i had pulled down the painting and the glass frame had broke.

bummer.

he didnt care. he flipped me over his shoulder and we did it in the front room right on the couch. me sitting on his lap. him looking at me, then him leaning back a little and me leaning back a little.

how do you remember all of this, anna?

because, tony, he fucked it into my memory forever. i could never forget something like that even if he hadn’t.

guess so. so is that why you lost your match the next day?

no, it’s why i love him. and why i dont want to be with anyone else. ever.

oh, so its like that? mexican fratboy gets lucky with booze and pills and thats it for the rest of the boys of the world just like that?

just like that.

i say youre back in a month.

i say you better not put this on your site.

i say you better work on your serve.

only the fool is king. ask puffy, ask korn, ask flava flav. the wind might howl, kicking up plastic grocery bags that once served mankind, but now only dance with the forgotten sports page in front of an east hollywood titty bar advertised to neighbors as Cherry’s but known to the undercover miscreant as home.

her name was lola, she was a show girl. see thru high heels up to there and blonde streaks all through her hair.

tony sat at the bar. alone.

normally the ladies’ favorite with a joke and a laugh and a welcoming lap, this afternoon he mindlessly stirred his rum punch with the tiny plastic flamingo and stared through his happy glass and followed the trail of condensation down the dirty glass, down the curvy side, down into the puddle at the base slowly soaked up by the generic napkin that had the word “napkin” imprinted in cursive.

napkin tony thought to himself. napkin. what sort of name was that, what did it mean. where did it come from. latin?

lola lifted her g-string and released the hard earned dollar bills and counted them one by one. organizing them by denomination, lining them up neatly on the bar, folding them and rubberbanding them and placing them finally into the tiger print mini purse that hung close to her heel.

buy you a drink, stranger? she asked tony and winked at him.

he didnt even look up. just bit his bottom lip and traced his finger on the glass.

disco lights gave the illusion of motion on the ice that melted in the tumbler as kid rocks american badass blared in the nearly empty club. women’s pro beach volleyball, muted, gave color to the unwatched zenith big screens as the ceiling fans twirled lazily and rosalita slapped the first hand away from her cooch.

lola leaned over and put her heavily made up face on the xbi agent’s shoulder and tried to see the world from her hero’s perspective. what fascinating mystery was buried in the alcoholic refreshment she wondered, what was visually more interesting than a dozen latinas, four asian cuties, three barely legal blondes, and the nastiest black girl and her micromini catholic girl skirt as they all waited for the whistle to blow and for the construction to stop and for the party to get started proper.

he thought about baseball. specifically the looming strike. motely crue’s girls girls girls signaled the end of the round of two-for-one lap dances and lola spun around in her stool and scouted out the gentlemen to see who she would choose to enjoy her dancing next.

tony sipped from the skinny straw and lola whispered that she had a line of crystal meth if he wanted it and he told his napkin no thanks.

body shot?

gracias, mi bella senorita. no.

and she tapped her feet to the disco beat and the ladies of the house said ho.

ho ho.

finally the sadness was broken up when the bubbly korean teen called lei gently pulled back tony’s tshirt collar and dragged her tongue stud across his exposed collar bone up the base of his neck around his ear lobe and behind his head sending shivers and awakening the giant within.

there was an unusual silence.

and then the familiar three swats of a high hat

of ac/dc’s back in black.

and indeed he was back.

just like that.

checking out: yambiguity.com

my landlady is 178 years old. shes been living in hollywood for most of her life and i like her because she’s a racist and she isnt ashamed and she likes me and i like her.

she knows im not white and she knows that im a preacher and she hates religion and i dont blame her. we’ve only known each other for a year and yet she says that im one of the few people that shes met her whole life that she likes. i say, you say that because you dont really know me, she says i know you well enough.

she asks me what things are like for younger people and i like when she asks me those things because i feel old, not young, a lot. i say things are about the same, i suppose, as what she had to deal with when she was my age. she says what do you know about what things were like way back when, and i said, i read a lot. she says you do, i say, shhhh, dont tell anyone, but yeah. she says what do you read? i say, penthouse forum, shes all, ive never heard of it, i say, its good.

i never ask her about the olden days. shes a pessimist. she likes to worry.

she says do you have any regrets? i say, that i never learned how to shred on guitar. she says you’re still young, i say, yeah, but i still have to work on my kissing. she says i doubt that.

she says, do you have regrets about who you kissed? i say, i only regret who i didnt kiss. she says that she regrets who she kissed. she says she regrets the boy she kissed in nyc who then convinced her to move to hollywood, this damn city, she says.

her bed smells like urine, her sink is lined with rows and rows of rubbing alcohol and i wonder if she drinks it and she offers me Ensures as i leave and what can i do, i have to accept it. she says you really dont regret any of the girls you kissed? i say, no way, i think when we’re done with all of this we probably should have kissed about three times as many people than we ended up kissing. she says oh, but that ruins the specialness of it.

i say, i eat dinner every night and some dinners are special because of the people, some because of the presentation, some because of the location, some because of the circumstance some of because of the magic.

she said that she once ate french bread on a train riding through france with a man who knew no english and the bread was warm and the cheese was runny and the wine was cold and her toes tingled each time the train would bump and their feet would touch and i say tell me that if you had a train ride like that a week later it still wouldnt be just as special she said, who said i didnt have a train ride like that a week later. and i said, see.

she said, you have a very special way about you. i say, you can see that with just one eye, she said i dont even need an eye to see that.

checking out: edrants.com