The Remote Island by Bryan Christian The burning question of the day: Life on Mars or Eleventh Hour? Plus: Britney goes on the record, USA may not renew Monk, and our Grey's Anatomy recap.
As
a little girl, I mostly thought about two things: what naked
people might be doing to each other behind my back, and Jesus'
crucifixion. I'd draw representations of both on paper plates. As I grew
up, Jesus' death just sort of dropped out of my daydreams, but I've never
gotten tired of thinking about naked-people possibilities, even after
having acted out most of them. I don't know why. I've considered the
question a lot though, and I've come to this conclusion: I'm not a
pervert. It's normal and natural to, say, have sex in a dirty movie
booth. Those other gross people swarming around your booth are the
perverts -- not because it's perverted to be there, but
because they slink. You can do just about anything and remain a
decent, lovable person as long as you don't slink.
Some time ago, I got in the habit of emailing Genevieve at Nerve
every Monday with my weekend exploits. I wrote in my diary too, but she
was more fun because she'd write back. One day she asked me if I'd let
Nerve run my sex diaries. I said, Sure! It always seemed like a waste to
share the drama, tragedy, revelation and humor of sex with only a few
dozen people in a lifetime. I've never bought that sex is a private
concept. I figure if you need information, ideas, commiseration and
perspective on anything, this is it. Plus, the ultimate definition of sex
remains elusive no matter how deep we probe, so why not?
My Nerve diary kickes off as I try to break up with Lyle, a dreamy alcoholic.
He's a good person but we're forever ending up in these stupid scenes
where one of us threatens suicide. You'd think that would lead to
passion, but no -- it leads to someone or other running away and
sleeping somewhere else. So in the early pages, at least, sex is particularly elusive.
I complain about Lyle to Dave, who is polite and secretive, and Dave
complains to me about Tor, his vacillant girlfriend (an Uma Thurman
lookalike). I met Dave six months ago at a party, when I chased him
around and told him I was pure evil and promised him that he would be
mine. He managed to elude me that night, due to Tor and other bothersome
realities, and we've since become friends. Dave is a really good-looking
friend. I refuse to call Tor by her name; I refer to her as "Your Coy
Girl"; he calls Lyle "Your Bottle of Beer."
Welcome to my diary.
, featuring curious yet marvelous infusions of cucumber and rose petal.
