The Remote Island by Bryan Christian Please, Drew Barrymore, don't do a dating reality show! Plus: Christmas at 30 Rock, another Gossip Girl couple, and since when is Elisha Cuthbert 'sloppy seconds'?
You know how in real life, men commit the violent crimes? Not in Salem. No
one knows exactly where Salem is; while it's cold there at Christmas,
there's never any snow; and though home to a dozen billionaires, there seems
to be only one café. Victor was the love of Kate's life till she violently
killed him twice. After Kate arranged for a mob hit on Victor at a coronation so that she
could inherit his fashion business as well as his territories and the
mansion, Victor's ghost began to haunt her. (Even in death, Victor doesn't
lose an opportunity to yap away at Kate, listing all her faults starting
twenty years back — in Salem the gender roles are always in reverse.) Kate
wakes up in her white satin sleeping gown that shows her perky fake tits
(Kate must be fifty-five but during the day she has to fight off the
twenty-five-year-old men with slicked-back hair who appreciate her
experience) and she puts it all together: Victor had faked his own murder at
the coronation with a bulletproof vest and ketchup and then put sleeping
pills in her water and "haunted" her. When Kate finds Victor lounging
downstairs by the mansion fireplace, she takes a poker and bashes the old
man's head, burning down the mansion to cover her tracks. "They can never
catch me for killing a dead man!" she screams, looking really good in that
music-video-style, her billowing gown silhouetted against a wall of flames.
The real sex in Salem is not the muscled young people rolling in queen-sized
beds by candlelight under a video camera stuck in the revolving ceiling fan.
The real sex is in the revenge. That's when the characters truly lock into
each other. You wrestle with how sexy you find Victor and Kate's
relationship. On the one hand, Kate was drugged and violated. On the other
hand, she's a vicious murderess. Then you shake your head and remember that
she is approaching sixty and he must be eighty and you ask yourself,
"What is wrong with me, that I am turned on by these elderly people?"
I'm trying to convince Dave to come home and have sex with me mid-day, but I told him: "Just don't get here between one and two. That's when my soap's on."
Slimy Polaroids
Dave is a very busy man. He finally agreed to meet me, but only if it was at the spa next to his office. That way he could take less than an hour off. We used the hot tub, which is too slimy for my taste. And so unsexy. Water not only kills lubrication, but it makes you not care about anything. We lay with our heads on opposite sides of the concrete, half-heartedly feeling each other up with our feet. We felt friendly. Once his cock was in, I held my Polaroid camera at arm's length and took my favorite picture of us ever. I want this photo on my tombstone. Our hair is wet and his expression is "Must . . . learn . . . computer . . . program," while my thoughts appear to be what I suspect dogs are thinking twenty-three-and-a-half hours a day: "Oh boy!" I hate porn magazine photos of people having sex because of the facial expressions. It's orgasm-face from start to finish. How long can an orgasm be? This street person once told me he had twelve- to fourteen-inch orgasms, but I think he was just lucky. So, as I said, we were feeling lazy. In water, all the sensations are diversified. His thing kept falling out and I kept laughing. It was warm and bubbly and the exact opposite of my
sexual ideal, which is two enemies trying to out-scheme each other and they accidentally fuck when they're both in disguise and they're so angry when they discover who they're really doing. If I was scheming against Dave, I forgot it in the steam. I think this is how other people feel when
they're happy.
The front desk girl rang a bell to signal we had ten minutes left — we scrambled out to finish and my knees got ruined doing it doggy style on the concrete outside the tub. Dave finally came by looking at the polaroid of me giving him a blowjob. What a weirdo.
That way he could take less than an hour off. We used the hot tub, which is too slimy for my taste. And so unsexy. Water not only kills lubrication, but it makes you not care about anything. We lay with our heads on opposite sides of the concrete, half-heartedly feeling each other up with our feet. We felt friendly. Once his cock was in, I held my Polaroid camera at arm's length and took my favorite picture of us ever. I want this photo on my tombstone. Our hair is wet and his expression is "Must . . . learn . . . computer . . . program," while my thoughts appear to be what I suspect dogs are thinking twenty-three-and-a-half hours a day: "Oh boy!" I hate porn magazine photos of people having sex because of the facial expressions. It's orgasm-face from start to finish. How long can an orgasm be? This street person once told me he had twelve- to fourteen-inch orgasms, but I think he was just lucky. So, as I said, we were feeling lazy. In water, all the sensations are diversified. His thing kept falling out and I kept laughing. It was warm and bubbly and the exact opposite of my
sexual ideal, which is two enemies trying to out-scheme each other and they accidentally fuck when they're both in disguise and they're so angry when they discover who they're really doing. If I was scheming against Dave, I forgot it in the steam. I think this is how other people feel when
they're happy.
, featuring curious yet marvelous infusions of cucumber and rose petal.
