61 Frames Per Second by John Constantine Today in Nerve's videogame blog: Street Fighter. The movie. A new one. With that chick from that Superman show. Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about!
The Remote Island by Bryan Christian Mad Men's January Jones struts her stuff in Vanity Fair. Plus: Damages returns, the latest Gossip Girl guest star and Donna Martin capitulates.
I make Dave buy this oversized collegic sweater — white with red piping
— and I have a vision! His canoe capsizes and, half-drowned, he drags
himself to shore where an older lady pulls him into her house and takes
his clothes off by the fire, her hands trembling with trepidation and
shame. Though past her prime, sexual longing has not abandoned her.
But her husband has. In the bedroom, at least. Without his clothes on,
Dave looks boyish, so fine. She gets out the favorite sweater of her big,
mean, absent husband, who plays golf and has a drinking problem no one
acknowledges. The fire crackles as the storm hurls mud against the
windowpanes – great danger is afoot. She pulls the sweater over Dave's
head. Brandy spills from her shaking glass. Swollen, ignored, drooping
hips and breasts are refreshed under Dave's avid hands. Will they be
done before the oversized husband is home?
So Dave goes back to Boston and sees Tor at a party. She hates the
sweater (calls it "a Dover thing") and they have a fight about it! Later
that night, Dave has phone sex with Tor, using MY capsized canoe
fantasy! Then immediately calls me and tells me all about it. She was
giddy and breathless, he informs me. She even worked baby bunnies into
the equation. I get so mad I break a stapler with my bare hands, break
up with him, and he threatens suicide! At least I think it's suicide he
threatens. Then he says I have to forgive him; he's using The Touch
voice, calling me Baby. I say, "You can't just turn me on and off and
upside down whenever you want." He says, "Well . . . yes I can," and
laughs. I hang up on him.
He calls back, we make up. He says I'm noble and tells me to take all
my clothes off. I do, right away, completely forgetting how mad I was.
He tells me to put my finger in my mouth, get it wet, put it on my clit.
He says, "I wanted to be free, it made sense. But there's something
about you I like so much, something that makes all my logic and
resolution useless. Tor was right down the street and so pretty and I
could just go there and have sex with her, but even while she was
giggling in my ear I just wanted to be with you. If I couldn't be with
you, I just wanted to go to sleep until I could see you again. You're a
real person, a whole person. And I'm so proud to have your love. It's a
fine thing. I'll give you power over me piece by piece, like it's a
big chocolate cookie and you're a bird. I could give you the whole
thing, but I like to watch you swallow each piece. You're such a good
bird. Now admit you started this whole fight just to arouse me, to add
some fire." I say, "I will admit no such thing! Leave me alone!" He
doesn't leave me alone, until I've fallen off the bed, all wrapped up in
my fuzzy peacock blanket and the telephone wire, panting and feeling
pretty fine.
