Wear your best suit said Kitty. I am understandly perplexed, Kitty says, “I want you to look good, we are going to an orgy.” She hands me a fresh pair of socks. “I hope you have clean underwear on?” I nod; I had to stop the shrug of the shoulders. I never thought that clothes mattered at an orgy. I always pictured naked people at an orgy.
I put on the fresh socks, they make my feet feel good, that is a good start. I slip into the trousers. I have put on a bit of weight. In the mirror as I fix my silk tie I think about my suit and what's under my suit. The thought of going to an orgy can have this affect upon you. You start to contemplate the most puerile matters. You are reduced to a nervous wreck. You still want to go, even though the anxiety is intense. You start to mull over the unconjecturable, the otiose, the nugatory, the pointless. But nothing is pointless when you are readying for an orgy. You pretend to blubber in the mirror and pull the most hideous faces. You stick out your tongue. You puff out your cheeks. You mess up your hair. You rub the flesh around your eyes. You smack your jowls. You flick your lips and produce the funniest of noises. You stick fingers into your ears. You pick your nose and pull nose hair. You check your teeth. You squeeze the black heads upon the tip of you nose. The last time you did all this was, well only you know. Sometimes you regress without even knowing it. Sometimes you only find out about the declivity once you've rolled your hand over the bumps protruding from your head. It's always the anxiety, without the anxiety there's nothing. Sometimes you fall because you desire the fall. The shadow maybe monstrously huge but the source is always predictably small in comparison. Once one specter is dispelled inevitably up jumps another. Individually we know the mendacity of our imagination but collectively we are fooled each time.
There is nothing on the television, which always depresses me, I think I will watch cable news, twentyfour hour news, how can you be depressed, we are lucky, it is the best of ages, simply the best, we have anything we want, need, desire. We have three televisions! I want to watch the televison because I do not want to think about the orgy, but I can't help myself, I think, worry about it nevertheless. “So who's going to be at the orgy?” I ask. This is an important question I feel, it is a question that I have delayed hitherto. Kitty says, “Larry, Tim, Peter, Saul, William, Carl, Lee, Jake, Richard, Sam and Eliot,” she stops, she hesitates, it's the competition, she continues, “Macy, Lucy, Jane, Mary, Jean, Elizabeth, May, Wendy, Lilly, Fanny and Viv.” “Wow,” I emit fatuously, “it's going to be a big orgy.”
I don't know why Kitty has just smiled, but the smile has left me tumescent.
I will be the only one that is uncircumcised. This thought worries me. I hate to stand out in a crowd. If I tell Kitty about my worry she will only say, “nobody will be looking,” but I know they will. They will stand me up in the middle of the room and inspect me, judge me, compare me, I will stand there feeling like John Merrick with their eyes perusing every infinitesimal area of me.
“I hope you have a few dollars for the taxi,” says Kitty. I check my wallet, I have two twenties. I wanted to drive but Kitty said, “You'll get too drunk.”
For the orgy I have a wonderful bottle of Domaine Cauhapé Jurançon Sec Chant des Vignes 2005.
In my pocket for the taxi ride I have Georges Bataille's The Story of the Eye.
Sick of waiting for the taxi we go back inside.
To change the subject I say, “on the pyramid of the moon thousands were sacrificed to placate the gods but still the rain fell on Peru and with the rain their civilization fell but Vico and Spengler could have told them about how civilizations inevitably fall without all the blood shed and tears.” Kitty watches Tocqueville and grunts. Sometimes Tocqueville disappoints her. Kitty says, “silly Carter.” “Do you want a beer?” I ask. I know I want a beer, but I'm not too sure about Kitty. “No,” says Kitty. “I'm going to have a cup of tea,” I say. “Do me an ice tea, no ice,” says Kitty. The peccant cat follows me into the kitchen meowing constantly. “Feed Carter,” says Kitty.
I feed the cat. Still no taxi. I really need a beer. I ask Kitty why she is wearing gold lipstick, and she says, “you want to know where I've been.” I chuckle, but I could cry. It seems all the girls will be wearing different colored lipstick. It was Macy's idea.
“Will you write about the orgy?” asks Kitty. I shake my head. Our age is an age of lies. I had a terrible dream the night before. "You were faking it?" I said to Kitty after dream sex. "I was faking it,” answered dream Kitty, although she looked like Macy. "You're not a fake!" I screamed, my scream was as though it was the end of the world. "What," laughed Kitty mocking, although it again could have been Macy, "everybody's a fake, everything's fake, fake television, fake radio, fake breasts, fake tans, fake teeth, fake chicken, fake bacon, fake coke, fake personalities, fake jobs, fake fake fake the whole world is a fake so why should I not fake sex?" When I woke I told Kitty, the real Kitty, and she laughed.
words: Paul Kavanagh, North Carolina
image: Eva Konstantopoulos, California (Lost Angeles)