Life in Manhattan is like living inside a gigantic Twitter stream.
“Do you want to be my boyfriend?” I texted this message into the digital ether like a drowning man reaches for a wayward lifeline.
Two men had descended on Stoner G and I, “The ghost of pussy past, and the ghost of pussy future,” I told Stoner G in a cynical tone. The ghost of pussy past had curly hair and was wholly unremarkable, the ghost of pussy future was from Canada and had recently started chatting me up. He had two buttons undone exposing some chest flesh, he had a swagger of a smile and said things in my ear like “let’s move, I just farted.”
I thought I felt crabs, and I think I knew who gave them to me.
When I sat I felt crawling vicious things running rampant between my thighs. I’d only felt this feeling once before when I found crabs in my nether regions at the tender age of 19. I was living in Harlem all alone and–for the first time–living away from my mother or any sympathetic ear.
I wrote my mother a tearful fair well in spanish before I left Los Angeles. I told her I loved her and that I would miss her. As I left her at the airport she told me to be good, and what happens when I came to NY?
Hostile alien life forms invaded my genitalia.
The saying is history repeats itself, first as tragedy and then as farce. I was scared when I was 19, but now I was disgusted.
“I think I have crabs,” I told Fly G over instant messenger. He is my pill popping rock, my alcoholic confidante.
“EWWWW LOL You have what?” Was his response.