« The Rules of attraction » de Bret Easton Ellis (1987)

I’m so horny I’m not even excited, just weak. I look at Roxanne, who I owe lots of money to. She’s wearing too much jewelry and looking okay. I wonder if she’ll fuck me tonight. If there’s even a slight possibility. She’s smoking a joint and hands it to me. 

“What’s going on?“ she asks.

“Drinking beer” I explain. 

“Is it good? Are you drinking a good beer?“ she asks. 

“Listen”, I tell her, getting to the point, “Do you want to go back to my room?”. 

She laughs, drinks her beer, bats her thickly mascared eyelashes and asks me why. 

« Old times ? » I shrug. I hand her back the joint.

“Old times?” she laughs even harder.

“What’s so funny? Jesus.”

“No, I don’t Sean,” she says. “I have to pick up Rupert anyway.“ She’s still smiling.

The bitch. There’s a bug, a moth in her beer. She doesn’t see it. I don’t say anything. 

“Lend me a couple bucks,” I ask her.

“I don’t have my purse with me,” she says. 

“Right,” I say.

“Oh, Sean. You’re still the same,” she says, not being mean, but it makes me want to hit her (no, fuck her, then hit her). “I don’t know if that’s good or bad”.

I want her to drink that bug. Where did Candice go, damnit?

The seeds of love have taken hold and if we won’t burn together, I’ll burn alone.

Je ne sais pas si tu as eu une opération du nez mais ton nez est parfait. (…)

Rappelle-toi que je pourrais te rendre très heureuse. Je sais bien baiser et j’ai la carte American Express de platine. Je suppose que tu l’as aussi.

… I had been in the hippie’s Intro to Poetry Workshop my first term and this girl on the first day of class, so high her head look like it was on springs, like some doped-up jack-in-the-box, raised her hand and said slowly, “This class is a total mindfuck.” I dropped the class, disconcerted, but still waiting to fuck the hippie.

… I was intrigued why India was “groovy”

“The people are beautiful,” she said.

“Physically?” I asked.

“Yeah.” 

“Spiritually?” I asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“How spiritually?”

“There were groovy.”

I started liking the word “groovy” and the word “wow”. Wow. Spoken low, with no exclamation, eyes half-closed, fucking, how the hippie said it.

We were on my bed and we were listening to a Bob Dylan record I had bought in town a week earlier, and she just said, sadly, « Fuck me », and I fucked the hippie.

I had gone to the phone booth with intention of calling Victor, but because Reggie Sedgewick had come up to me, completely naked, and asked, “I wanted you to…”

He looked ugly and pathetic and was staring at the porno movie that was being shown on the ceiling and I was looking for the bar, and said, “Yes?”

And he said, “I want you to… suck my cock.”

And I looked down at it and then back at his face and said, “You’ve got to be out of your mind.”

And he said, “No baby. I want you to suck my cock, really.” 

And I thought of Victor and started for the phone booth. “Suck your own,” I said, near tears, walking blindly for the door.

“You think I’d be asking you if I could?” he called out, pointing at it, drunk out of his mind or, even worse, maybe sober.