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.
Simone fulfilled her assignment: she thought of me at her business meeting while wearing the Catholic schoolgirl outfit. She wrote: "I thought of you leaping from the couch and alighting in front of me, then the whirling kiss and your eyes — I can't properly explain my impression of your eyes, how they look a high temperature." I wrote back that she is a good girl, and she is.
Guess what else. She met Lyle when his band played at the same club where she met me. She said to him, "You've kissed Lisa Carver, haven't you?" He turned around and said, "Who are you?" She told him her name, and said that since they'd both kissed me, now they should kiss each other. He was dubious, he has a new girlfriend and wants to do right by her. She wrote: "In the middle of explaining my complex rationale to him, he grabbed me and kissed me. I felt like you and I were in secret communion!"
What to do with this Simone? She's like one of those neon bug-zappers — electric and crackling. I want to kiss her again, but I'm so smitten with Dave, I don't want to fool around on him. So this is my plan of action: first, entice Simone to New Hampshire, convincing her beforehand to have sex with my boyfriend, sight unseen, as well as with me; second, convince Dave to have sex with this girl I don't know but kissed in a dark and smoky bar in Chicago. I'm not even sure what she looks like. I do remember what she feels like. Squirmy.
I printed out one of Simone's emails and brought it to Boston for Dave to read:
"You remind me of a steak I fell in love with one night. It was a petit filet, rare, in extra butter, so tender. The blood in my mouth . . . ! My eyes were rolling back into my head and the entire time I was eating it I was whimpering and moaning. I couldn't make dinner conversation. I was in the love vortex with my petit filet. It was the perfect steak. It was a supernatural steak. I went to bed dreaming of it and woke up with an honest–to–god love pang. I still think about this steak and I had it in January."
We were in Dave's bedroom getting ready to go to a party when I made him read this. We were already late; he said, "I'm just going to read the first two sentences and then we have to go." But he kept reading, and by the time he was halfway through we were having sex. I never had anyone read while fucking me before.
