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.
"There's this . . . this . . . woman in my cyberspace," I complained to Dave. "'Kitty.' Ha! She's 32, I'm almost 32. Her husband goes to work and she thinks about having sex with unlikely political types. That's my whole life! Why'd she come to my site? Why aren't you saying sympathetic things?"
"Well," he said, stroking my leg, "I'm sure everything will work out
fine."
"Oh yeah? Well when she and Pat Buchanan take their clothes off, she calls it 'sartorial sovereignty.' That's in poor taste! I hate her. I'm jealous. I don't even like Pat Buchanan, but now that she got him I'm mad."
"Do you want me to go over her house and yell at this Kitty?" Dave was
leaning me back onto the bed.
"Do not involve me in your sick fantasy with my competition. Not
one more word on the subject. She's a bad woman!" I shoved him off me and
he kept quiet for a minute. Then:
"What if I went over there to chastise her for you, but she was really
beautiful, and I couldn't help having sex with her? I'd be thinking,
'I'm a bad, bad man. I'm attracted.' And then I'd come inside her."
"Hrmph."
"Okay, I won't come inside her. Where should I come?"
"On her face! But I'm going to walk in and catch you, and stop you!
And fight with her. You're not coming anywhere. All that sperm's going to
get sucked back inside your body and make you nauseous."
It was dark and I could feel Dave enter me but I couldn't see him, and I
felt like I was Kitty. At first I (Kitty) thought maybe it was a set-up.
I tried to say no, but I'd been fantasizing all day long about Fabio, and
even though Fabio must be a billionaire — what residual deal did he get
for all those Harlequin covers, I wondered — still I did not feel that
was quite Wall Street enough for my column. I thought maybe some sexual
activity with this strange husband of my fellow columnist might provide
the proper stimulation, get me out of my Fabio rut. So I let him take my
clothes off and lean me back on that red couch, and then I was surprised.
He was really good! Here were ancient rhythms, the tolling of the eternal
bell of fuck . . . belly undulating like a snake, penis like a steel girder. "For what kind of building?" asked a male
voice. I must have said that last part out loud.
"A skyscraper!" I sighed.
"A penis building," the voice corrected.
That snapped me back into me. "Dave," I groaned, "you just interrupted
my dream. Don't be so ridiculous."
"I want to live in a penis building," he insisted.
"Shut up!"
Then I was me, walking in on Dave and Kitty. I'd been spying on Dave and
tracked him to her house. I walked in on Dave riding her.
Though enraged, I was also interested. I'm so used to feeling him without having a good view of him, I decided to watch. It looked good. Dave with his honey-colored skin; Kitty a bit frowsy, looking like a piece of fruit that's been left uneaten one day too long. They made an attractive, rather foodish couple. Instead of the crisp black suit I'd expect on an e-trader, Kitty was in a little-girl velvet dress. Or rather, halfway in it. Dave was all the way naked, a sinewy contrast to the soft and overripe limbs wrapped around his back and the fuzzy velvet dribbling down the couch. I let the door bang behind me.
"Kitty!" I announced authoritatively, my legs spread and arms crossed.
"Get out from under my husband with your hands up!" She did, scrambling.
I made her stand against the wall, and
frisked her.
"We hadn't done anything yet," she mewled.
"This is not about sex, Kitty. This is about columns." I had the voice of
Mira Sorvino. "Did you think you could just exploit celebrities — real
people with feelings — and there would be no consequences whatsoever?
Just a paycheck? Well, little lady, tonight, consequences have come
knocking at your front door!"
I found a People magazine and held open all the pages while Dave
resumed sex with Kitty, holding it in their faces so it was like the celebrities were watching them. That was Kitty's punishment. Then I got into the act, biting Kitty and kissing her and stuff (because actually, overripe fruit is the sweetest of all) — which was not very good for my fantasy revenge enactment, but by now in real life I was about to come, and that's how every plot ends up when I get like that. And then Dave came on Kitty's back, which was of course my back — because I'd forgotten to take my birth control pill two nights in a row, so we knew he had to pull out anyway. This whole fantasy was probably built around that required plot resolution. It's true — necessity does breed invention. (Necessity being to not, at this moment, breed.)
