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 are ten penises on my face. I wake up and say (kind of mad), "Hey! Who put these cocks on me?" They're attached to men, but pretty much only the penises are in focus. Sighing with resignation, I start licking my way out. Just when I think I'm done — I've licked maybe eight of them away — two or three of the original eight come back for more, and I say, "Oh, you!"
Grant and I have been talking cock all day. I email him my cocks-in-the-face movie idea and describe Japanese fertility gardens (giant stone penises of all sizes — some eight feet high! — and cock flowers); he calls and tells me about his boyhood English circle jerks. Dave came home from work and I was already naked. He had plans with his new computer music system in the basement, but I said, "This won't take long," and dragged him into the walk-in closet. It must be convenient for him, because he doesn't have to fuss with foreplay, and he doesn't have to come up with new compliments for me either — Grant still has plenty of them, not being married to me.
October 14
"No." That was Dave's whole answer this morning in New Hampshire, when I asked if I could sleep at Grant's while I was in New York overnight. That's not true — he didn't even say no. He shook his head and didn't open his eyes. At the exact moment I was getting "no"-ed, Grant was getting laid by a girl I don't know. And he has a date scheduled two hours after my departure, with a girl who read about him in the Diaries, found him in my chat and told him she wanted to make his face greasy. Not with butter. She says she looks like Brigitte Bardot.
Tonight, I sat across the restaurant table from Grant and rearranged my chop sticks and balled my napkin up and then unfolded it and smoothed it out.
"You're not saying anything and it's making me nervous," Grant finally said. "You have to say something right now."
But all I could think was how attracted I was to his promiscuity. It was as if there was a flesh party, and I was stuck outside behind a glass "No." I pressed my nose and palms against it and sighed.
October 15
Have you ever seen those Swedish men running on barrels on a river? They keep their balance by constantly shifting. There are two men to a barrel — they have to cooperate with their shifting, or they fall. When Dave was on tour last year and he wanted to fool around, I said it was fine as long as he called me in the middle of the act and made the girl describe to me everything they were doing. I don't know how other people stay in love for a long time, but the barrel thing has worked pretty well for me and Dave. The situation with Grant was different, because I still wanted to see him after fucking him. But things are always different. That's the barrel turning. I never thought Dave would throw the whole thing away. I needed it to keep my brain busy. All those other people were like revealing clothes and mood music Dave and I put on before it was "time." I called Dave from New York and I felt all alone on the line with him. It was so quiet. It felt embarrassing.
I have to hand it to Dave — he surprised me. He made the big power move.
October 17
I returned to Dover to find out how to be married when we're alone with each other, and was confronted with . . . it. The bouffant. His hair grew in the couple of days I was gone! This unfortunate yet lively hairdo is reality — not twenty-four-hour visits to New York in your best outfit.
Dave decided to be sadistic for the first time in a long time. He ordered me to take off his shoes and bend over, but he looked like Jacqueline Kennedy saying it! I had to shut the lights off, and then it was fine.
October 18
I ate Dave's special chocolate frog. It was a gift to him, very expensive, and I lay down on the couch and ate it all up. Then I called him at work and told him. I left only the feet. He seemed really excited; he had to hang up — I think he was afraid his coworkers would see his erection.
If I keep eating his things and harassing him at work, perhaps Dave will reconsider his new rules. I'm like the ferret who must be played with all day or it pees on your important papers.
