Is something missing? Something has changed in your tone. There are inconsistencies in your argument. Paradoxes even. This is so unlike you. I am not really angry, but I am feeling rebellious — very rebellious. This makes me less angry. It’s like a child whose parents suddenly stop scolding him, when their reprimands become milder. Of course, this is just before they pull out the big guns: “You’re grounded!”

I don’t mean to suggest that you are going to ground me. (How could you?) But it feels like something momentous is in the air. You speak at one point of “ruining it all.” Do you remember? Of course, you must remember everything. It’s just that there is a real inconsistency in your response. It’s so rare and uncharacteristic. You always argue me down. I value that, I truly do. In true masochistic style, I love, and even anticipate, being vanquished — and it makes me think that something is breaking for you. Perhaps your heart. Really, you can tell me. We have been together for so long, but still there are some areas where you will not take me — parts of you that you will not allow me to see.

You would certainly not wish to tell me if your heart had been broken. How can I reassure you that I will always be there for you? But I know it’s not about you doubting that. It’s about you having control; you must never reveal too much, or put yourself in the position of being the passive, submissive or desperate partner. I am all of these things; it’s called emotional masochism. I am ready to admit more, and I’m relatively calm about the admissions. I admit all. I have nothing left to lose, and besides, these days there isn’t all that much to confess.

But what will be ruined? Not our relationship, not our love! Don’t say that! I can’t believe that. What then? My life? There’s so little of it left. For how can one such as I go on? I accept that. I am almost eager for the end. Not really; one never is. I am not afraid; just a little sad. But it has been so very long, and one becomes painfully aware that there is certain ground that one goes over and over again endlessly. I remember that the last time we communicated I finished by complaining about my mother. Since my whining about her has been going on for nearly 130 years, it might be argued it’s high time I stopped.

Here is the contradiction in your argument. As you are my teacher and to some degree my doctor — or at least my emotional support — it is chilling for me to do this. The really bright and loving student never wants to surpass her master! For once, I find no satisfaction in winning.

But win I must.

You present two arguments against my visit to the Tranquility Spa. I’m actually surprised you would focus on that triviality. I really didn’t think it was such a big deal, honestly. The first argument appears to be eminently pragmatic and the second eminently philosophical.

On the one hand, you embark on an extensive lecture about the political realities of the world and the dangers I might face by challenging those realities. You explicate the fragile balance between the rights and freedoms we all enjoy, and the harshness of our dictatorship. I’m afraid you sound a little bit like those who were so frightened of a Turkish victory in the first place. It was no surprise to you, myself and many others that they would win. Even the Chinese — with their numbers and their technological advantage — were no match for the brute force and unparalleled devotion of the suicide bomber. It was the suicide bomber who changed the history of the world; and this was never anticipated, mainly because the West was so hidebound and hypocritical in its suspicion of superstition.

But is our present situation so different than it was in our Westernized past? It always amazed me that the American government went on and on about the oppression of women in the Near East when I would not doubt that if Hillary Clinton had ever been elected president she would have been stoned to death. It is not ironic that there was never an American woman president. It simply makes sense. I never understood why it was so much more oppressive for women to walk around in burkas than for women to force their breasts into push-up bras for the pleasure of men. Of course, we both know (you better than I) that push-up bras can sometimes be delightfully fun. Perhaps even more so for a sadist like you. You, of course, speak as a biological woman. Though I know these days you don’t resemble one in any way — except for your vagina. Please don’t ever get rid of that! Nothing could ever be more hypocritical than the way mass culture in America ate feminism. And yet somehow Western governments were able to pride themselves on how open-minded they were by supporting the rights of women, in contrast to the government-sponsored sexist oppression of Middle Eastern countries. But was the West ever really so terribly open-minded?

I don’t think it is any accident that it was a group of women who actually changed the course of the history — or, anyway, a group of women and men dressed as women. But ironically, in these days of identity collapse, did it really matter that there were men under those fatal burkas that blew up the world? I know it’s very hard to piece together much genetic detail from a body that has exploded. But as I remember, some of those who changed the course of history with their suicides on that fatal day were women and some were men.

Anyway, what I’m getting at here is that the West was blown up by a bunch of women, or at least by a bunch of creatures in burkas. And this is while we were wasting so much time being proud of how “free” women are in the West. But, as everyone knows, the salaries women were paid never equalled men’s in the free and equal United States of America.

I worked for so long as a virtual slave to the system and battered my body with pills and drugs. I don’t blame L. B. Mayer; how could you? He was just a fucked-up old man. Really it’s not his fault. He lived in a culture that objectified women — and certainly female children. Don’t ever look at Shirley Temple movies too closely; they are grossly pederastical. It amazes me that she survived and became an ambassador to Africa — especially since her background was so much like mine. It’s all in the mothers — some, thank Christ, are not malignant.

Sorry to bring up the EBOAM again.

There is actually an extraordinary amount of freedom to be found under the burka. And inside it. After all, it is a disguise. Where I live now, in Ontario, it was once illegal to wear a disguise — a drag queen told me this. And there was good reason; it was always very important to see the face of the person you were dealing with, to know who they were. Nowadays identity is not so very important. Except, of course, when dealing with issues dividing cyborg and human.

Though I loathe talking about this, I understand from your tone that you think this is something I need to deal with. You called me “old-fashioned” several times. Well, that’s what I am. I know my 130-odd years (and they have been very odd) are no excuse. These days the issue seems more about one’s identity in terms of how much of one’s body is made up of fake parts, and how attached one is to a cyberspace identity. I, as you know, am attached to the idea of soul. This is actually relevant to my discussion of our religious government. But, at any rate, my attachment to what is left of my human body precludes me from taking seriously any discussion of cyborg versus human identity. In other words, I don’t see the point. Though I, for instance, am perhaps 75 percent artificial, in terms of my body, I still possess a very flawed soul. We all do. This is something to be thankful for.

But back to the modern world. I’ll tell you what I think we have going for us. You may say I’m a fool for counting on it, but I would say you are a fool for discounting it. The word I’m referring to here is hypocrisy. Never underestimate the hypocrisy of all religions, even fundamentalist ones. It is fortunate, of course, that it was not Al-Qaeda that took over the world, but the economically sound and empirically destined Turks who — out of frustration with Western imperialism — began to appropriate Al-Qaeda’s tactics. And yes, of course I am thankful that we do not have an overtly fundamentalist Muslim government, but one that decided long ago it could not force all women in the world to wear burkas (nor could it police every act that happens in the privacy of the home).

We live freely within our bondage. It is thus as it always has been. It seems that mankind is married to marriage, to sexism and to those fundamental gender differences that are imagined but that, unfortunately, operate beyond the law. We have sharia now, but it is so rarely exercised. All the controversy over it still seems to me just talk. Doublethink was ever so in Victorian times, and it is ever so today. I know that many today would not trade the bondage of our quasi-Muslim society for the even more subtle hypocrisy of Western quasi-Christian culture. There is something fundamental about the oppression of women. But we have learned that we can escape that if there are no more women. The solution to the problem of this oppression has been to abandon gender categories. It is, I think, the only solution.

However, even the Muslims in power cannot escape two things: technology and hypocrisy. Both are more powerful than any government. They cannot stop ideas because no one controls cyberspace. We all know — even though it is only discussed in the most remote cyberspace groups — that though the Muslims rule the world, technology rules them.

I remember meeting a Catholic production manager on the set of I Can Go On Singing. She was a great friend of Dirk Bogarde’s. I think she was in love with him. Thank God it was her and not me. I neatly avoided that cul-de-sac. She was a devout Catholic. We got drunk one night and she revealed that she had had several abortions. This made no sense to me at all. Not only was she born Catholic, she claimed to be religious. And in typical, paradoxical, human form she was conflicted about being in love with Dirk because she knew he was a homosexual. She didn’t like that, didn’t approve, wanted to change his sexuality. . . . On the other hand, all this said, she had had countless abortions (to me, four is countless). When we were really smashed, I asked her about this. She said, “Well, that’s religion, that’s God, that’s one thing. And then there’s my life.”

And then there’s my life. Has it not ever been thus — with all religions? Who could ever live by the Book, the good word of any God? Only those dour men who usually, whatever the fundamentalism, have beards and funny hats and walk with dutiful fuckbuddies whose vaginas are covered in drab, floor-length gowns, and whose faces are carefully obscured with funny hoods or hats. No one will ever be as devout as Jesus or Mohammad — this is written into all their texts. And as painful as that may be for the believer, it is a blessing for the rest of the world. Even fundamentalism forgives us our humanity — because we are all sinners.

Dash mentions Barbara Pym in the final passage I will quote below. He was a maniacal fan of hers. I too have enjoyed her novels. But what is so amazing about a Barabara Pym novel is that the women in them are always going to church — but mainly because the pastors are attractive single men. Never has religious hypocrisy been captured so acutely; it’s almost painful in a delicious way.

You might understand.

So we go to mosque in cyberspace; we observe the niceties. We are dutiful Muslims. But your first and most pragmatic argument is that I may be arrested for my actions or perhaps for my thoughts. But I won’t be — I know. All that’s important is that we go through the motions. Because the motions are all that matters.

Your first argument is about the practical dangers of me possibly being caught at the Tranquility Spa (doing what?). But the irony is that, though I am high-profile, I am not. What I mean is there is a belief among the academic powers that be that jail would kill me — and that, of course, it is important to keep me alive. The reason? I am heroically old and was once famous. Yet no one is actually clear on what practical purpose keeping me alive might serve. So, on a pragmatic level, people don’t care enough about me to worry about what I get up to. But they certainly, in an abstract way, would not wish to learn of my untimely passing. This contradiction works in my favour. But you are also suggesting that the situation, in reality, is that I may be arrested. I would assert you have no real proof of this; there is no reason for your worry.

Yes, one of the great ironies of the West’s downfall was, as I have said, the underestimation of the burka. But just as crucial was the underestimation of the irresistible attraction of death. Let’s face it, we have our present government because the Turks best understood Freud’s death instinct. Oh, in sunny America, you never die, just “consume, consume, consume. . . .” No one could imagine a people so fundamentally in love with death that they would actually long to die for their beliefs. I know that fundamentalists don’t see their death as a termination. They see it as afterlife — as soul. But in Freudian terms, it’s about ending life on earth, and this is what a suicide bomber is intent on doing.

You talk about how the Tranquility Spa is illegal, and how I might go to jail. You say I am seriously jeopardizing my life. But, as I’ve said earlier, I don’t value my life all that much now. Each of us will die; I don’t want to live forever — certainly not like this. And, let’s face it, I always was a little in love with death. So perhaps I take these little trips rather than returning to drugs — which I think even you, by now, realize I will not do. Perhaps I am flirting with danger by going to the spa. But that’s as close as I’m going to get to lying stoned in an alley somewhere, fellating an army of homosexuals.

I don’t know if I ever really told you about that night. I will soon. I think you should hear it.

So much for your practical worries. Your second argument is a fundamental philosophical challenge to the real. You can’t say that I am in danger in the real world, while at the same time — following your argument to its logical conclusion — you assert that there is no real world at all. If I understand you correctly, this is what you are saying. There are flaws, too, in your argument against reality. They are easy enough to pinpoint, but I am insecure about doing so. I’m also insecure about what might impel you to project this argument at me with such force.

Your philosophical position is this: on the one hand, post-structuralism and theory are over. But on the other, we are living in a post-theory era that has — because of the course of history — proved that the most extreme of all postmodernists, Baudrillard, was correct. I find it interesting that Baudrillard is so ill-respected today, his reputation so besmirched. Not that he really ever had a reputation. It was a Baudrillard fad, wasn’t it? The Matrix and all. But you are suggesting that Baudrillard was right — for I don’t see how your attitude doesn’t represent the triumph of theory and postmodernism. You also say the reason you can claim to be reaching beyond theory and postmodernism is that their theories are no longer theoretical, because everything has become theoretical.

Maybe I can articulate it more clearly. You are saying that what was once a theory has become a reality — or, more accurately, a non-reality — and as such it is no longer a theory. And this is because what the post-structuralists were saying was — ontologically, metaphysically and epistemologically speaking — that there was never, in the history of mankind, any there there. But in actual fact this was not always so. Aristotelian man, for instance, did know that A was A. (Whatever we may think of his thoughts.) And the Greeks — who signalled the triumph of consciousness over preconsciousness, objectivity over subjectivity — knew reality, could touch it and see it. But technology has made it impossible to know what reality is — that A is actually A. And this changed our reality. Yes, this has the flavour of Adorno and to some degree Baudrillard about it. But this fluid notion of reality, the idea that reality does not exist, is not, you would posit, a postmodern philosophy, but a reality that has been precipitated by incidents beyond our control.

In this context you speak of the Singularity and the transhuman. I am surprised, because you have never talked about this at any length, though you have certainly mentioned it. And it is persistently discussed in cyberspace. Of great concern, of course, to our government, is the concept of the soul — whether or not it exists. But those who are pro-transhuman claim — whether we wish it or not — that the possibility that life really will stretch beyond human has become more and more possible.

First, if this is true, I would like to meet him or her (or it). I would like to meet a purely digital human, someone who is no longer carbon-based. I would like to have a talk with him. You make interesting assertions here — that one cannot really tell the difference between carbon-based life forms and those that are not. You even suggest, and I find this most outlandish, that I might be conversing with a non-carbon-based organism anywhere — even at the Tranquility Spa — without knowing it. Most everyone finds these kinds of suppositions preposterous; it’s not just me.

The contradiction in your argument against postmodernism also applies to your speculation about the transhuman. If the fake reality is truly the same as the real reality, then why are we so concerned about the difference? Let’s say the Doll Boy was indeed 100 percent a doll, not human after all. Let’s say he was somehow able to accurately imitate a human, that he was able to communicate this sadness about being the Doll Boy to me even though he was not human. For instance, let’s just say, to pull a rabbit out of a hat, that I were to feel sorry for him even though he was not really human. Then what difference would it make if he was non-carbon-based? This is, for me, the major argument against Baudrillard. If the simulation has replaced the real, and it is, in fact, impossible to differentiate, why long for the real world?

But what seems most important about your argument, even though it’s the thing I am least willing to entertain, is the idea that I must stop being old-fashioned. My attachment to real experience is false, you say, and will ultimately lead to disappointment, because there are no real experiences anymore. Do I understand you correctly? If there are no real experiences, how could I be experiencing them? And why would these real experiences be dangerous? Or are you suggesting that the danger is only my manner of thinking and, consequently, my way of expressing myself?

This may be true, because you harp so much on my terminology, asserting that even my use of the term cyberspace — your bête noire — is out of date. Surely I can be forgiven for being out of date. That aside, I think I can also be forgiven for holding technology at bay somewhat. But you say this is impossible, and hypocritical.

Well, if there is one thing I cannot be accused of, it is hypocrisy.

I promised myself I would not get angry. I mean, there is really nothing offensive in your communication. It is just too absurd. And it’s hard for me to believe that you even think this way. There is a distance in it that fundamentally frightens me. But you must have composed these arguments, unless you have a ghostwriter. Jesus, I can’t stop myself from getting a little fucking irritated. And let me tell you, there is no fucking drink in my hand. This is me. This is me, getting royally pissed off.

We’re talking about my life here. You say that my othering of technology is old-fashioned, that it inhibits my growth as a person, and that only very old people talk about cyberspace. Everyone is integrated these days, and people have stopped separating cyberspace from reality. Sure, there really is no difference. But one certainly knows when one walks out the door, doesn’t one? I do! It takes me nearly an hour to do so!

But please don’t admonish me for being unfair to technology. By now you must be familiar with what film technology did to me. Christ, isn’t that what my whole life has been about? How easy do you think it was to wrench myself away from all that? Getting off drugs was a cakewalk compared to halting, finally, the ultimate performance: being her — the monster who was the star. How can I not other technology? Remember, I know that the sad-old-men-who-no-longer-call-themselves-faggots-but-we-all-know-they-are still buy the ancient vinyl, still try to play the scratchy proceedings.

No one really understands. Only that fucking genius Dr. Ahmed in Dubai understood what it meant for me to give all that up. Dr. Ahmed, bless his soul, had the genius to save me! If only he could have saved Michael Jackson. If only there hadn’t been so much fucking money involved. If only Jackson’s death hadn’t been worth more than his life . . . Dr. Ahmed would have saved him too! Thank God my life wasn’t worth anything. Dr. A was the one who taught me to love myself, to separate myself from all the Hollywood bullshit. But look what’s happened. Look what has become of the entertainment industry! Surely this proves it’s always been rotten to the core. We should have nothing but contempt for it, and for all the fat-assed capitalists who will always make money off the backs of the real people who are being exploited as trained seals.

Don’t you think I knew what I was doing when I was drunk on Johnny Carson? Of course I knew Johnny was a very smart, funny guy. Oh God, that bitch Joanna — I could have killed her. He was so pussy-whipped by that witch of a second wife. (What second wife isn’t a witch, after all?) He was a very nice man. And I was going through a period where all I really wanted was to have real conversations with people, not autograph sessions. I was tired of working, I’d been working since I was an infant. I just wanted a conversation. And if I was going to have it in front of a million people and it was going to be seen as my breakdown, then fuck it.

It was the beginning of the postmodern obsession with people as objects of disintegration. This obsession, of course, originated with the faggots. But I don’t hold them responsible. I mean, look at me with Dash King. I could be accused of the same thing. But maybe he just fascinates me. Sure, I, like everyone else, enjoy watching people disintegrate. But I don’t think that’s it. Everybody talks about the magic of the movies. They still talk about it. But there was a time when that magic was related to a very real thing. I actually had a voice. I had vocal chords. Now it doesn’t matter whether anyone has real talent. It’s gone beyond that — everyone is an artist, and a singer, and a writer. Call me old-fashioned, I don’t give a fuck. Do you think I really care? You seem to think my affection for what used to be reality is going to hurt my scholarship. This is your last-ditch attempt to get me interested in changing my ways. I’ve changed enough — I can’t change more.

You know, the truth is . . . I’ll say it: I do identify with Dash King. But it’s not because he was a suicidal drug addict. No, and it’s not because he was fond of identity politics and that fondness killed him. And it’s not because I’m a crazed suicidal fag hag. Not any of that. It’s because he thought truth came from those who were despised. From the abject. And his theory cannot be proved. This was only an intuition based on his own paranoid delusions about his life. He was the ultimate rebel with a cause; to reveal that the so-called normal life, the heterosexual hegemony, was hiding enormous hypocrisy. As I said earlier, isn’t everything hypocritical? But Dash believed that it is from those who are demonized, flawed, that a deep understanding of fundamental human hypocrisy ultimately comes.

This explains his last rant, which was scrawled, in what was perhaps a moment of rebellion against technology, on a piece of paper that had been crumpled and shoved into the bottom of the pile of his last work. . . .

Every great artist was a bad person. I know that and I have always known it. I don’t want to be a bad person. But it doesn’t matter. Everything I do is bad. You’re not supposed to be promiscuous, and you’re not supposed to have a beautiful boyfriend who doesn’t let you fuck him. And you’re not supposed to write plays about drag queens. But most of all you’re not supposed to be me and be an artist. But let’s face it, artists are only good people in hindsight. Shakespeare was probably a pederast and a killer. The proof is de Vere. . . . He killed someone in a duel over one of his servants. Then he imported that castrato from Italy so he could diddle him. And are we just supposed to go: Please, no! The man who killed somebody in a duel and diddled a castrato? He could not be a Shakespeare! He could not be our Shakespeare. Not the man who lived in a quaint cottage with Anne Hathaway, the older woman who snared him. They had three lovely children. Sure, he went off to London and probably was a bit of a ne’er-do-well — but only in the way that straight men are studs. But God help us if, imagine, Shakespeare was a faggot murderer. Well, I propose, and this is not academic, and I’m not going to use hegemony or discourse or synchronic or diaspora, this is the truth. Aporia? You can’t find the word in a dictionary! Only a murderer pederast could have written those plays. Maybe he was a well-read murderer pederast, a brilliant murderer pederast. But what makes him great is he not only had more knowledge in his head than most writers, about Italian art, falconry, the law, mythology, Latin, Greek, cosmology, history, the military, seamanship — the list goes on and on — but he also knew about life in fundamental ways, ways that matter. Would I say that all great writers have to be killers? I don’t think so. I didn’t have to be a killer. But did you ever see the play that my friend Jill wrote for me — where she had me playing Jack the Ripper as a homosexual? Jill said, “I’ve written this play for you and it will prove my feminist theory that Jack the Ripper was a homosexual.” And I liked Jill, and I wanted to help her out. And sure I liked being the centre of attention. But even Jill said, “Come on, everybody hates you, and thinks you’re such an awful low-life drag-queen faggot . . . why don’t we take advantage of it and have you play the biggest villain of all time? It would be fun.” So I did it. That was the beginning of my end. I’m to blame. I played up my dark reputation because — God knows why — maybe I wanted to be infamous. Or maybe I knew from the start it was fucking dumb to imagine that artists are gods. I mean, look at Philip Larkin: racist, sexist Philip Larkin. Did you hear about Lisa Jardine not teaching him? Give me a break, the greatest poet of the latter half of the twentieth century? And they won’t teach him because of some dumb letters to his best friend Kingsley Amis? Those were private! Not meant to see the light of day! Letters between Amis — who is practically a stand-up comic — and Larkin! Private letters in which they talk about cunts and bitches and say that all women are good for is fucking. Parenthesis! In quotes! They were kidding, you assholes! They weren’t meant to be read out loud in a fucking class. And Roman Polanski and Woody Allen — would we want to be married to these pederasts? No, but that doesn’t mean they are not great artists. I mean, even Pym! Even the great Barbara Pym. There’s a picture of her at a desk on the back of one of her books. She’s smoking. Barbara Pym is smoking! Let’s bury her under a pile of her own books for that — for the self-destructive sin of smoking. She lived in the sixties and would have heard the Surgeon General’s rants. So she fucking ignored them, so what. I’d like to make a movie of Philip Larkin raping Barbara Pym. They were good friends, you know. Raping her while she smokes . . . because she likes it, she likes getting raped by him. Because deep down she’s a fucking whore, and that’s what makes her a good writer—

The passage ends there, and it’s probably a good thing. The corner of the paper is ripped. One cannot be certain if there was more, as there wasn’t much room on the page to write anything else. The paper is not dated. But the paper that is with it — the last dated paper — is marked at the top by Antonio as having been written a month before Dash’s death. It seems to me, though, it must have been written a week or so prior.

King was so obsessed with his own celebrity, or lack of it, that he embarked on a suicide mission, filling himself with booze and poppers and, presumably, cum. In these letters he predicts the manner of his own death, for in fact he did die, as he told his friend he wished, of a heart attack in a bathhouse hot tub. He was found the next day. He had been dead for twenty-four hours. The sanitation crew in those gay bathhouses was sometimes lax. One wonders what might have happened to a body in a whirlpool for twenty-four hours. Pickled? Burned to death? Impeccably preserved?

Now, I don’t know if I agree that Barbara Pym was a whore, or whether being a whore would make her a good writer. But I certainly agree that the political correctness that characterized turn-of-the-century politics served to undeservedly demonize Philip Larkin. But if you’re trying to understand my affection for King, or searching for some deep emotional identification I might have with him — it may just be coming clear.

He is, for me, a project. Because I, unlike you, think — cyber-realities or not — that King is a symbol of the ironic triumph of post-structuralism and postmodernism. King’s life proves how the murderousness of living a fantastical, mythical, ultimately virtual life — his just happened to centre on a suicidal paradigm of homosexuality — could kill a person in reality. Are you going to argue about whether or not Dash really existed? It’s not really here nor there, though, is it? Because the matter of his life, the lingering detritus, the trash of his extant papers, still exists for me to analyze.

I did go back to the Tranquility Spa. I am going to tell you more about that place; I have to. There are . . . revelations. You need to hear them because you have become too cool and philosophical. And though you were always both cool and philosophical, there is now something missing. There is a subtext to your last diatribe. It is present in all its formal aspects.

If I transmit an avalanche of words and, yes, memories now, it is because I have nothing left to lose. Yet I do not want to lose you. And I do not wish our discussions to become purely academic. What could be worse? I don’t even have to write a thesis. Sometimes I think I am writing it only so as not to be forgotten by you. I have gone through so many drafts. You have been at times scornful of my efforts. Well, maybe not of my efforts — though it occasionally feels that way. But you have been scornful of my results. You must always be uncompromising and yet always insist that you love me. Maybe it’s only that — maybe it’s only that you don’t say that you love me enough. This makes me sound very much like myself . . . but who else can I be?

Okay, my final trip to the Tranquility Spa. I say final only because it seems to me that you will stop being my friend if I ever go again. That’s what you’ve managed to communicate, between the lines. (Am I wrong? You must simply tell me.) But I don’t know if I can stop going there. Are you asking me to choose between you and the Tranquility Spa? You haven’t so much said it as you have implied it.

Jesus, I don’t know what to do.

Do you know what I did? Do you know what really happened that night with Mark? The problem with all addiction programs is that they come at you with shit like “Drugs are bad! Drugs are unpleasant! Gee, no one wants to do drugs!” Excuse me, but everyone wants to do them. Who doesn’t ? Maybe June Allyson? Yes, of course — they hold off oblivion and death by offering pseudo-oblivion and death, one that is ultimately connected to the real thing. But they also happen to be really fun. They are fun in reality. The kind of fantasy that drugs offer are of the body, not cyberspace. In this way, they are real.

Well, on the night in question I was on a binge with Mark. It was the end of our relationship, the beginning of Mickey. And the reason I found Mickey was because of that night, because of what happened. Mark was on about shit that evening. Jesus, he was a disappointment. At first, you know, I thought he was “the one.” After Sid, he seemed like a revelation. But, of course, he was an actor, or fancied himself one, and I just could not be romantically involved with an actor any longer.

Do you know the difference between a good actor and a bad actor? In real life you can always tell. A bad actor is trying to act all the time in his real life — trying to be flamboyant, bursting with personality, being sweet and charming, or aloof and intense. A real actor wears all these masks, too, but not because he wants to. Take me, for instance. It isn’t that I am a person who loves impersonation and performance to such an extent that I must, at every moment of my life, be the central, dazzling, spinning figure. No, it’s simply that I impersonate, perform, entertain all the time. Even when I don’t wish to do it. In fact, one of the reasons I used to self-medicate was to stop myself from performing. Of course, it didn’t work like that at first. At first when I got high, I would perform as if on steroids. But then would come exhaustion and oblivion — and I would finally stop singing for my supper. And with that came a tremendous relief. The bad actor, in real life — you cannot miss him once I tell you how to spot him — is always trying, unsuccessfully, to appear uncontrollably vivacious, unhinged, madcap and overwhelming. He is not, however, actually compelled by his personality to be that way. Mark was like that. He had lots of personality. But that personality was a mask he was making an effort to assume — in order to be part of “the Club.”

Yes, I call it the Club — which I know sounds elitist. But really — apologies to Groucho Marx — it is a club that you’d really rather not be part of. When we used to hang out in the old days, with people involved in the entertainment industry, it was always evident that there were some who were members of the Club and some who were not. The members of the Club were people like me, Montgomery Clift, Marlene — people who were possessed with the need to be onstage twenty-four hours a day. Who knows how it happened or what particular disease we had — or whether we caught it in vitro. We were not trying to be special; we just were. It was a cross we had to bear. True, we had learned to make a living out of what was really a disability: the inability to be real. But the only thing we could do, many of us, was simply to get so smashed that we spun out into the night, laughing, talking and performing, until we collapsed. Elaine Stritch was like this. There were other members of the Club who somehow dealt with their infirmities without drugs. Noël Coward was one. I don’t know how he did it.

Then there were those on the periphery. People who were not so very talented but were so beautiful and charming that we didn’t care they weren’t talented. People like Dean Martin and Elizabeth Taylor. Then there were the somewhat talented people who worked very hard. June Allyson was one of those. They were often God-fearing, and I was generally afraid of them — for good reason. And then there were the hangers-on. These were people who urgently and passionately dreamed of being members of the Club. But they knew that they weren’t and never would be. However, they were still possessed with becoming a member. So they performed in real life with a furious urgency that was beyond compare. It was very pitiful to watch, and I imagine very tiring to sustain. Now, at first I thought that Mark was a Dean Martin — someone beautiful and charming we would allow to sit in on the fringes. People like that never really care about being in the Club, because they always get more attention than they can handle anyway. But I gradually began to realize that Mark was not a Club member at all. Instead, he was one of the most unappealing and grasping of those who spend every waking moment trying to be a part of it.

All this became clear one crazy night when I got into several bizarre fights. Soon after that I broke up with Mark and found Mickey. With Mickey I could be blissfully quiet, whereas with Mark I never could. I never before experienced the kind of silence I first discovered with Mickey. It was pure acceptance. It may have been due to his unmatchable passivity, but it was Zen-like. There was something about him that would not be moved by life, or shaken by it. He would just live. He taught me all this — at least, he made me realize it was possible.

Anyway, hanging out with Mark had become a trial. He and I became more frenzied in our evenings, purposefully crowding them with incident. It was a way of not being alone with each other. When I was alone with him, I would become disgusted and angry. I would want to shake his big curly head and say, “Stop trying! You’re never going to get into the Club! And you would be such an attractive non-member! And maybe you’re even pretty and charming enough to be an honorary member!” But no, he would never understand that. So he spent every day insanely organizing the evening, trying to find things to do when I wasn’t performing. This was so we might have a sparkling, unforgettable time — an evening that would make me happy. But nothing ever worked.

When I woke up, he was sitting on the bed at the Barbizon — newspapers scattered around, with coffee and crumpets on a tray at his side. It always amazed him — and me — how deeply I was capable of sleeping. It shouldn’t have amazed us, considering all the downers I took before dropping into my nightly coma. And when I woke — which was the oddest thing to do in my condition, like being hit by a truck — it wasn’t the gentle feeling one normally associates with greeting the morning. It wasn’t stirring, murmuring, curling out of the covers and gradually acclimatizing oneself to the dewy morning light. Suddenly my eyes were open, looking at everything, and seeing everything, and it hurt like hell.

Mark was sitting on my bed in his dressing gown, looking tousled and ravishing, as he always did. No fault there, no fault there ever. And when my eyes suddenly sprang open, he — though I had told him not to — flicked on the desk light. I thought I was going to die. Was he hoping for a dramatic effect? Well, he got one. The morning didn’t start well, beginning with me yelling at him to turn off the light. Actually, I suppose it was more of a moan. I could never have managed to yell. He did turn off the light, and turned towards me. I told him to always give me at least a few minutes to get accustomed to life again after being trapped at the bottom of the deep, dark well. Eventually I propped myself up and managed a sip of coffee. He said, “The Allen Brothers are playing tonight at the Schubert.”

I was surprised. I had only seen them in Los Angeles and always expected them, for some reason, to appear only on the West Coast. And the fact was, I had not really seen them. I had been very drunk and had only caught the last few minutes of their act. But from the little of him that I had witnessed, I had fallen in love with Peter Allen. I mean, literally in love. He was a member of the Club for sure. In fact, he was the Club personified. There would be no stopping him even if he put his mind to destroy himself. And there’s something about that kind of talent, which — even though I understand the possibilities of tragedy and the suffering latent in it — I do very much enjoy. I knew he had to be a kindred spirit.

When I had fully understood what Mark was offering, I said, “Yes, of course we must go.” It was nearly five o’clock; this was when my day began. So it meant three hours of getting ready. And that always seemed like not enough time. I did take a pill or two, even though I didn’t like to do too many before dinner. Though dinner at that time was just a salad, I knew I had to eat something. So somehow I got my skinny ass out of there and into a cab with Mark and we were at the Schubert Theatre just before curtain.

It was amazing seeing them when I wasn’t high. I’d had a few uppers to get me dressed, that was all. And the act had such an effect on me that I didn’t drink at the bar during the intermission, which made Mark insecure. The other Allen brother — I can never remember his name — was not as memorable as Peter. He certainly was very pretty and charming and taller. And looked as if he might be a charming-type member of the Club. But Peter was on fire — I mean, when he picked up those maracas it was terminally infectious. And the ballads — I can’t even talk about the ballads. I rarely see shit like that. They really made me want to cry. I so wanted him to write me a song. And, of course, he didn’t need to be all that good. It was a one-night-only gig — a Thursday night on an off week. But I could tell he was the kind of performer who just couldn’t help being brilliant. He was definitely singing for his supper. But the place wasn’t sold out, as no one knew much about them. Peter and his brother were Australian, after all.

So after the show I ran ahead of Mark to the dressing room. I think he was put out by the intensity of my fascination with Peter. On the other hand, Mark knew my passion for him was definitely on the wane. I did my usual thing of shyly knocking. I mean, there’s no way I would ever force myself on anyone. And my desire to see Peter was so huge that I thought it might be embarrassing if I didn’t control myself.

They let us in when the boys were in their underwear because I was who I was. And the glimpse of those two lithe lovely furry things (they were both appealingly hairy) bounding about and smoking and dipping into the after-show Scotch (which soon we all dipped into) had me very excited. I noticed that Peter did all the talking, and that was obviously okay with both of them. And Peter was so obviously a member of the Club, a wacky, too-intense energy in his eyes, and a vulnerability that he obviously did not find easy to control, but did. Of course, he was a fucking hoot — filthy, dirty, going on about his own dick and his brother’s in their underwear — and who had the bigger one. His brother did, by the way. I found this interesting. And I had a feeling that Peter knew I found it interesting. His brother was also possibly straight, or at least one of those people for whom sexuality was not an issue. This also I found tantalizing.

We decided to go to Mario’s Deli, which at the time had a pool table. This was where the trouble really started. We all sat down at the bar next to the pool table and I ordered a round of drinks. At the time I did not think I was making an extraordinary amount of noise. On the other hand, it’s possible I was. Peter had been telling some story — one that was kind of misogynistic — about the disgusting fluid in the pouch of a kangaroo. He had put his hand into one once. It was so fucking funny — even though the whole thing was really about a horror of vaginas. I knew that, but listen, I didn’t give a fuck. Hell, I like a good dirty laugh as much as the next guy. I never expected Peter to put his hand in my vagina, but God he was funny. And I was laughing — too loudly, I guess — and there were lewd gestures. I’m sure there were. We wound up moving around and doing all sorts of shit. I guess we were dancing.

There was some guy there with his wife and they were playing pool. It was obviously a big deal for him and the little lady to be out on the town. I bet he even used that expression, out on the town. And she was being very ladylike, flirting and giggling in a way that made me want to kill her. I fucking hate coyness, especially in women. And I hate it when women pretend to be idiots. Of course, she may actually have been an idiot. But she was also pretending to be one, which can be doubly annoying.

Anyway, when we got to the point where we were spilling our drinks, swearing and gesticulating wildly and obscenely about kangaroos, I happened to knock the arm of the guy from Kalamazoo with the wife. He must have been from a place like Kalamazoo. Well, it screwed up one of his shots. Big deal. I mean, who cares? You’re in a bar. You’re not Minnesota Fats. This is not a professional pool tournament. You’re just playing with your dumb girlfriend. So give me a break. But no — he had to take umbrage. He stopped playing and said, “Excuse me!” in a very loud voice. And he would not stop saying it until we ceased and desisted with our kangaroo story and listened to him. So finally we did. And we were all standing around looking at him and his dumb girlfriend. And he said, glancing at her, “An apology might be appreciated.”

I just looked at him and said,“I’m not going to fucking apologize to you — you’re from Kalamazoo!” This set Peter into hysterics beyond measure. So much so that his brother tried to help him. And Mark kind of moved in front of him, afraid this dufus was going to punch Peter in the face.

But instead, the dufus from Kalmazoo turned to me and said, “Oh, I see. I guess you don’t apologize to anyone — because you’re the famous blah-dy fucking blah-blah!” He used my star name with all the contempt he could muster. And this enraged me. I was unreasonably high by that time, so I just picked up a billiard ball and lobbed it at him. I didn’t hurl it at him in a rage (as the management later claimed). I just tossed it, easy, like when you’re playing catch. You know, you just lob one to first base? In fact, I thought he might catch it. But the ball just hit the wall, and it didn’t even do any damage. He didn’t take this very well. He rushed at me. And I thought, Wow, this guy has no problem with beating up a lady, does he? But then I remembered that I probably didn’t appear to be one. His wife or girlyfriend was embarrassed or frightened. . . . Jesus, she pissed me off.

And then Mark, in his effort to show he was just as nuts as I was, pushed me out of the way and started to wrestle with the guy. This again just set Peter and me off laughing. Then the bartender came around and yelled, “I don’t care who the hell you are, get out!” Peter and his brother and I just rolled out the back door. This left Mark, as usual, to deal with the consequences of my actions. I didn’t find out what happened until the next morning. The bar staff didn’t see us go out the door and had no idea where we were. But someone had called the police and escorted Mark out of the bar and charged him with assault. As if it was him who threw the fucking billiard ball at the guy from Kalamazoo.

When the rest of us opened that back door, it was like we were in heaven. It was one of those rumpled little tin roofs over a couple of garbage cans. And there was a tree out there. It was late fall, and a gentle rain was dropping persistently, causing a racket on the tin roof. It was like something out of Lady and the Tramp — you know, when they eat spaghetti on a plate outside the door of the pizza place? And the three of us staggered around, trying to get our bearings. And then we realized we were getting a little wet. So Peter and his brother leaned against the walls beside the garbage cans.

Peter was looking straight up at the tin roof, and his brother was kind of curled against the wall beside him holding his head, as if he had a headache. I knew what God meant for me to do. Far be it from me to question him. It was time to give one, or both of them, a blow job. I really didn’t care if neither of them wanted a blow job, or if they both did. My first choice was Peter. I just wanted to get some of that talent inside me. Not that I needed it. But it would be nice to see what talent like that tasted like.

I went down on my knees. I remember the pavement was hard and dusty and it hurt. I started to undo his pants, but without even looking at me he pushed me away. I’ll never forget the way he did it. He was gentle and apologetic, even though he was staring up at the tin roof, not down at me. It was as if he wanted me to know that he was sorry that he was not, well, up to it — and he was expressing that with this mild, almost ineffectual movement of his hands. I realized I instinctually knew all this would happen. I thought, This one is a bona fide homosexual, that’s for sure! I thought this, because, well, generally speaking, straight men don’t, in my experience, ever refuse blow jobs. So, as easy as pie, I just moved on over to the next brother — Jesus, I feel so bad that I can’t remember his name! — and started to undo his pants.

There was no resistance there. In fact, there seemed instead to be a gentle acquiescence. But what I pulled out of his pants — there was nothing gentle about that! It was a honker. I started giving him the kind of blow job I’m usually extra capable of when I’m completely zonked out of my mind. But what I liked the most was the way he acted — so very helpless. He didn’t caress my hair like I was his pet chihuahua like some men do. He didn’t pull on my ears like I was a trained monkey. He kind of wriggled his momentous dick in my mouth, as much as he was able. It was like I had him by the dick and was torturing him. But I wasn’t.

I don’t want you to get the idea he was writhing around or anything. In fact, it was much more like he was just giving himself up to it, weakly, even forgetfully. In fact, it was like giving a blow job to a Buddhist monk. Just surrender. . . . It wasn’t long before he came — busloads. And I was very happy to have done what I was doing. I looked up at him when it was over. He was breathing hard and his head was against the wall. He and his brother were both looking up.

I think Peter must have known his brother was done, because I saw his hand move up to his brother’s shoulder and touch him. This made me think he must have been happy his brother shot such a big load. It was all kind of touching. I yanked myself off the pavement — which had been hard on my knees, and brushed myself off. I took Peter’s hand and we wandered out of the alley. His brother followed along.

I never saw the brother again. I feel kind of sorry about that because I will never forget his passive acceptance. There was something gorgeous about it. And awe-inspiring. After that incident I didn’t want to have any more of Mark climbing on top of me, grunting and groaning and trying to show me his unmagnificent prowess. It was that experience with Peter Allen’s brother, whatever his name was, that set me to looking for Mickey. I wanted a passive angel who would just lie there and submit to my obedient ministrations. Because that’s what sex with Mickey was like.

And yes, Dash’s story about his lover and the puddle of cum plucked a chord in me — zing went the strings — because that’s what my very last lover, Mickey, was like. And you always remember your last lover. And Mickey was a young man who accepted my worship as if it was his due, without conceit or pity — and almost apologetically, without inhibition. Mickey used to lie flat on his back on the bed of our little apartment in London and let me blow him. It was heaven.

So why am I telling you all this? Is it just another one of my monumental infamous digressions? No, it’s because last night Peter Allen’s brother was on my mind. As was — you guessed it — the Doll Boy. Something about what you said irked me deeply. More like a prod than an irk. A cattle prod that zaps me with insecurity every time I think about it. There was something intimidating in what you left me with. Maybe there was even some regret? Of course, I can’t point to anything specific — it’s all a part of a hunch. But ever since, I’ve been possessed with a nostalgic hysteria to see you and confirm that you are alive — you must be! — and look you in the eye. This, I swear, was part of what drove me out of the house to the Doll Boy.

I called Allworth, who is always willing to drop everything to serve my every need. Sometimes I think he would like to give this old dry husk a blow job — but I’m afraid there isn’t much left down there to blow. You don’t really want to know — no one does. Anyway, I told him, “I have to go to the Tranquility Spa now.” He naturally said, “What if the Cantilevered Lady is there?” I told him I would simply have to deal with her if she was. I didn’t tell him why I was going, but I think he knew. It’s nice having Allworth. He is like an unthreatening conscience. I’m sure he knows everything that goes on in my head, but he doesn’t judge. He just tries to anticipate my every whim.

He was at my apartment in no time flat and he hustled me out the door. We had the taxi driver who always agrees to wait for Allworth come and get me. It takes me hours. I gave Allworth lots of money to give him a humungous tip. Well, the guy must have felt my urgency, because it seemed we were going at 2,500 miles an hour.

At the Tranquility Spa it looked like there was nobody around. The Cantilevered Lady was definitely not there. Allworth tactfully sat at the bar. I know I’m bad — and isn’t this strange? — I am now wishing that you would tell me I’m bad. I yearn for your disapproval. What’s this about?

Your disapproval is what you withheld from me in your recent cool arguments, your words devoid of passionate admonishment. But I have to tell you, I must sacrifice myself at the altar of telling all. I am prostrate before you.

So know it all: I didn’t even sit on the stool, I just stood, or was bent over, as is my wont, beside the bar. Allworth bought me a drink. And I made a beeline for — you guessed it — the bathroom. What did the nippleless bartender think? Perhaps he thought I was incontinent. This is one of the advantages of being the sex-crazed mega-senior who cruises washrooms in a frenzy.

I knew that he would be there. And he was. In the same place, his pants in a puddle on the floor, leaning against the wall. He didn’t look at me. He was turned away. Or rather, his head was to the side — his perfect head — as he leaned against the wall. His palms were not pressed against it, but placed there listlessly. He reminded me so much of Peter Allen’s brother. And then of Mickey. I knew that he knew I was there. Or, paradoxically, he didn’t, and that it didn’t matter.

I walked over to him, or struggled over, and gazed at his penis, so perfectly encased in whatever that streamlined substance was that had been used to surround it. I was not so much attracted as deeply involved in his penis. I just stared at it for a minute. He did not look at me. Then, with some effort, I raised my hand to touch it. There was something hard about the skin — or rather, there was a leather-like quality. The skin was heavier, not at all what I expected. But it was not a feeling that brought me any closer to figuring out what that substance was that surrounded it. Then, miraculously — but it was not miraculous at all because whatever this young creature’s infirmity, he was certainly young — the penis began to erect itself. I use this language because it did seem strangely unattached to his body.

The Doll Boy did not look at me. So I touched it again, as if it were a curio in a museum that one was allowed to play with in order to execute a scientific experiment. The penis continued its upward arc, and I kept touching it. Not caressing it, mind you, just touching. The Doll Boy remained looking off to the side. It was an amazing sight and made me wonder — as an erection always does — about the amazing engineering of the human body.

When he was fully erect, which didn’t take many touches, I asked the Doll Boy a question. It was one I wasn’t sure he would answer. “What happened to you?” I was referring to the encasing on his body — not to the feat of aerodynamics that quivered so close to my face. But he seemed to know what I meant. He turned his head slowly to me as he spoke. His voice was clear and high. Was it the voice of a boy or a girl? It was difficult to tell. “I just tried to be what they wanted!” he said.

It all made sense. I knew exactly what he meant. All the memories of MGM came flooding back. Not just of the diets, or my own bodily transformations. I thought of the work, the endless slaving. It was never enough — of course it could never be enough! And however homespun I’m sounding now, I will not utilize the phrase “my mother never loved me” — if only for the reason that she loved me much too much in her own hateful way. No, it was just that, for some reason, I was not only singing for my supper and doing what I was told — I was, ultimately, the good little girl.

That’s why America loved me, because of the girl I portrayed in The Wizard of Oz. Even though the bad witch hated me and was out to get me, I was and would always be good. Wishing for what was over the rainbow was, after all, the ultimate goodness — yearning, hoping, dreaming. This might explain why it became so important for me to be perverse in my middle years — what the public saw as my death. Yes, it was too heavy a cross to bear. God knows why I would have wanted, or needed, to please all the people all the time — to be the very best at everything I did. And it’s not a vice; it is definitely a very American virtue. But it’s the kind of thing that can kill you. And the Doll Boy and his perfect body was a perfect metaphor for this dilemma.

I’m sorry to say I left him like that. I did not commit any sexual acts with him — unless merely touching his penis is a sexual act. I did only touch it. But what I want you, and need you, to do is to talk to me. And be yourself again. Sit beside me when you speak to me, as you once did. Right now it’s as if you are going away or perhaps have already gone. . . .

I cannot lose you, cannot live without you. I know this is something one should never say. Come back. Come back from wherever you are about to go or have gone. I can’t ever bear to have you away from me. There is never anyone who will precisely be with me the way you were. And the fact that we were not lovers is only an indication of the depth of my feeling for you. Jesus Christ, words do seem inadequate. Don’t leave me; never leave me. I cannot be alone. You are the only one — my only one. I need the sweet taste of your passionate admonishment! The tender caress of your disapproving eyes! I need you to tell me what to do. I will obey as best I can. And because I always make mistakes, you will chide me. And for you — well, I know I will always represent the imperfections of the world. Come back. I know you need me — for this reason — as much as I need you. For who does not need to be reminded that the world is imperfect? That’s what makes us gods. We love the world anyway, despite its endlessly frustrating, ultimately endearing flaws. Come back. Before I do something rash. But what could I do? Enslaved in my brittle bones and dry opaque skin, bluish with bulging veins that anachronistically pulse with life? Just promise me you will come back.

Please, I’m begging you now. I can’t stand it any longer.