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A Purposeless Memory


League Member
Jan 1, 2000
When I was in my early twenties, an Afro-American man approached me on a street corner, penniless and parachute-pants’d. He explained that he was once a very popular entertainer, but that he’d since lost the fortune he’d accrued. I felt sympathetic to the man’s plight, and therefore did not mace him like I had so many other minorities in the past.

The bankrupt black man shucked and jived on the spot, right there in front of the pretentiously gay little coffee shop I frequented daily, in a futile attempt to effect recognition in me, for him.

I merely shrugged. He proceeded to ask me for the time. I gazed skyward for I did not possess a wristwatch, or a timepiece of any kind for that matter. I squinted, trying as best I could to decipher the sun’s position in the sky. I replied that it was 3:46 p.m., causing his face to immediately screw up in a sort of startled recoil. He responded fervently that I was incorrect and that it was, in fact, “Hammer Time!”

Later on that night, we performed cooperative cunnilinigus on a freshly bar-admitted young lawyer whose scalp hair was silky smooth and golden brown, and whose pubic hair was neatly trimmed and smelled of lavender. She screamed in delight as our tongues fought for supreme control of her vaginal opening. I won. I always win.

I never saw the man again, but I remember fondly his enthusiasm and chemically altered state of being. Should our paths one day converge once more, I’ll remark that I purchased one of his shirts at market in a third-world country, while in town to bed a HIV clinic nurse so fair you’d swear she was an angel who’d fallen from the fictitious heaven.

She wasn’t, of course. When it came down to brass tacks, she was as sexually depraved as all the others, if not more so.

I presently lay naked amongst a chaotic mess of feathered pillows, reciting this story to Trashy, whose eyes are fixed on my hairless scrotum. He thinks I don’t notice, but I do. He scribbles down my words in a fancy notebook complete with a red place-holder tassel. I finish eloquently guzzling the bottle of red wine clenched between my thighs, and slowly drift off to sleep.

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