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Friday, February 15, 1992.

When the male and female strippers had lined up against the gray mustard colored wall, some nude, others in garish feathery costumes, one very large man passed in front, and behind, fingering this or that. He even lifted the tip of one breast, and finger fucked another between her things when he asked her to assume this position or another. Finally, at the end of the line, he rested his hand on one of the male dancer's shoulders. He seemed too comfortable there, Angela wrote in her diary.

"Numbers four, five and six step forward," the large man's Assistant barely spoke.

The morbidly obese man, picking at his face, having dropped his connections to the male stripper who seemed almost an end to line, said, "No, give me five, six, and nine. Fuck these shits," he said.

"Two are skinny and one is almost as much the fat slob as I am. Get them the fuck out of here."

The Assistant Director paused; thinking it appeared as if the fat man had impatiently pushed his way into the face of the much smaller man.

"Did you hear me, you sad shit," he said. "Get them the fuck out of here. Five, six and nine only."

Angry, shuffling himself about, the fat man sensing he was about to fall off the stool, balanced, and jumped down to the floor catching himself on the breasts of the small dancer who had been watching Billy as if transfixed. She reached out to help, but before Billy could grunt himself up on the rungs, accomplished too easily for such a large man, he rolled his belt up over his belly, and wheezed. Instantly, he was out of breath again. The small dancer with the slight breasts, pointed, bizarre, reached over to Billy and hugged him. Billy seemed out of sorts. He did smile at the child woman. Within the landscape of mercy, Angela scribbled again over the hasty gesture drawing of the small woman; "We marry odd attractions when we step out of the stage and onto the pavement. Who is the victim and who the perpetrator," Angela wrote in dark strokes above her sketch of the fat man kissing her breast.

Angela wrote quickly in her note book, kept with her sketch pad. She seemed almost a fury as she wrote five or six times, "MY BREAST," as cut the paper with the black ball point she loved. Kept the pen on a wire necklace, and it often fell between her breasts only to be retrieved by Aaron at times when he teased.

Having been commissioned by the fat man to sketch the strippers, Angela also kept had detailed notes about the sessions. It will make a great book she thought and besides the extra money, the juxtaposition of the fat man and the dancers, as they posed against the other, broke the spatial plane, she thought.

It makes me laugh. Don't get me wrong. It's not his suffering or the hurt the dancers feel. It is the imbalance really.

Angela having always desired truth, wrote, and painted it. She also realized that she her husband, Aaron, had a very rich client who loved the mixture of porn and art.

Continuing her notes, Angela wrote, "He weighed 400 plus pounds and had a sad innocent school boy face. He was miserable and almost pretty, but fat as a cow.

"Meet Billy Baker," Angela wrote in the margin next to a picture of the man dressed as Satan complete with tail. "Runs a Porn shop, she wrote against another sketch. This one showed the fat man poised on one foot looking into an old-fashioned movie box presumably at some new porn. Angela wrote the Letters XXX over his head instead of a nimbus. "Had a sister Dolores, who disappeared, they say," she wrote across another sketch. This one showed the fat man and an old lady presumably his mother, as Angela had written under the sketch, "His mother was murdered during a holdup in 1975 at a convenience store."

Continuing, she wrote more, "Now, Billy hangs with male and female whores, and bangs a transsexual bitch variously called Rachel or Richard."

Writing under her own self portrait, Angela continued the narrative, but first she circled what appeared to be her symbolic image five times, "He told me, the bitch keeps me fat so I cannot fuck. I love proving the prick wrong."

"All of this," Angela wrote in the margin next to a sketch of the fat man playing with himself in his bath, "makes me more than miserable."

"There is more inside the story," she continued on the next page, a blank one without images, "but chapter one is too long now, she added, and actually, what is more important, and quite amazing, is how little anyone cares about anyone. Why should anyone care about Billy? Yet they do," Angela wrote, "they fuck'n do. I saw one of the models rub his shoulders after she had sucked him off. Witness to this tableau, Ah yes, I am the witness. More later. Makes me glad I have Aaron and I no longer wonder how it is possible nothing matters? Nothing"!

End of entry Friday, February 15 1992; 23:58.

Diary of Angela Leven: Saturday, August 22, 1987

In the first lovely touch of fervor, I live inside my throat, making love with Aaron, Henry, Laurie or some real or imaginary man or woman. It could be some casual eye, breast, ass or lips that I tracked from then to when. The object doesn't matter.

When that excitement blurs between us, usually in myself first, my hands tingle, burn, and then I shake them and my mouth opens, barely, and my sweet lips taste dry rubbing themselves into my inner lips, when I stop too soon (or wait too long) my moist lips steam above desert when ocean waves run my ass down, taking the cheeks into my palms, caressing them too easily, whacking my skin, driving the pitch of my legs higher to pump the sea and polish the ribs of the shells where sand stuns heaven while lying about weather forecast and fucking predicted, and while I rise across Aaron's lap, I do not resist the walls, and I take his thing inside my hands swallowing thick fingers making his balls drift inside out as I drain his cocks (mine and his) inside mouth and cunt, letting my tongue tip to the semen, finally grabbing my eyes, raging down the tunnels of the every abandoned beach, careening left and right, screaming at naked men and masked women blocking song or sight when taking hold of Aaron, no Henry, last time, as they change back to the other, as I did finding my mask too, wanting them, myself, to fall inside while I suck my own cock or cunt, whatever the season, and then I watched too long, my imaginary video stripped of its reel and the Lady, outside at the curb, who resembled my mother, said Good. One final word and this troubles. I am not sure that Lady is my mother. It could have been her mother. Perhaps any mother, or my father in drag. Or grandfather fucking his mother during Sabbath worship. How dark we dream. Notice how I cannot leak without pederasty or incest.

Returning to the beach, tuning in illogical fantasies, return to camera one and my imaginary beach lovers drifting across the plumb of the waves, surfing bright umbrellas, as I seize my sex in my palm, and break open the rib and eyes just for myself.

Imagine if Aaron (or Henry) could know my cunt as I do. They would jerk off forever, entranced.

Whet if they knew my belly, breasts, nipples as I wear them, spun into gristle and the sinew that demands one, two dreams, and then more.

Henry doesn't move away but takes that fake cunt in his mouth. But it's Aaron, actually, who had turned into some transsexual mad thing. I am not too kind to the intersex.

Not Henry. No. Forget it. It can't be Aaron; he's too fastidious.

That man, no woman, she is actually a child from where I grew up within some youthful curiosity.

He played my hands. He made music when I breathed. Now, and when I dream, I have no mercy drilling through it all, worn down, not truly satisfied. Sure I came if that's the criterion. I am not sure if I know the exact path where I walked with that imaginary childhood boy now a handsome younger man, but I appreciate his attention, and the ease by which I drift from that to this, between that recent swollen mouth and the memory of how easy children pluck each other, unmaking terror into a scheme for death or not. I am finally defeated you know, Henry. I cannot lift myself out of your kiss. I am finally satisfied Aaron, you have driven my ass into my weeping, and the tears after come with bliss for an anthem.

Stare, I yell. Love doesn't hear it. I sing. He moves away. I take him in hand, and he growls, driving my back into the chair, couch, bed. It really doesn't matter where?

When I am there deeply inside, it's usually late in the evening, after working hard, twisting metal, making silver into shells, and I look around at the signs, I feel a greater threat, while sun shelters my skin, and I wearing my full, darker eyes, hold my lovers over edge. My words appear serene, easy, invisible as I twine inside his skin, doubling him.

When I leap forward, I soar. Perpetual distance. Every event, more disturbed, as I meander between dysfunction and delirium: taste my hands I say. Suck my eyes. Rest inside my mouth. They respond, wanting what is not, frustrated by the distance between terror and satisfaction. Meanwhile, I use them to leap forward, bridging that great leap forward, as the Chinese and Russians predicted in their endless ten-year plans. My plans are less formidable. I want to soothe that ache brought into my mouth by first the tongue, then fingers. I want to show it off, expose it, watch them watch my belly tremble, legs laughing in wonderfully obscene yes. Yes takes it all on, and when they look inside lip upon lip, crater upon dune, into the muddle, feeling the internal ribs, then the cervical cap, pushing against my flutter, tasting the sweet pee as if I could control it, I descend from their eyes, and do myself, watching my own mouth swallow my cunt while first Aaron and then Henry watch. I want the spectacle. I want to be used as wings bear trees from the field to the pond.

One seed and I am full. One seminal drink and I have faked that blush too long. I kept it as a medal, and when swept up in my own passion as I drink myself, lick my lips, split my cunny into ocean and then marsh, I dance inside in my own salt, bashful, almost.

It was the risk Angela wanted, and like her spirit, Tina Louise, also known as Christina, an entity, special to Angela, she often heard the heat before the rage in her clit, and she took up the lantern to welcome sweet men and get down, greedy on the devils, or them on her.

Angela loved the irony of her name, and Christina always there, watching each orgasm as if it were her own, felt what she knew in her bowels when Angela held by Christina, or Aaron holding Christina, or Aaron fucking Christina, yes there was something in Aaron that drove both women man, raging on each other or with these two odd brothers, Henry and Aaron until one or both of the men, usually Henry first, cried Uncle, letting Angela roll away, satisfied, while she finished the other man off, and in that delirium they both swayed, holding the back of their grist, letting the sweat, wet, spit, and semen lubricate that seminal social tension until each of my men, as she put it, set the child (or its embryo) moving downstream into Conrad's Heart of Darkness or Date's Paradisio.

Sometimes we love that sane ice and heat that ricochets until the trembling with parted moist mouths cannot pause close or rescind that love.

Not ever, she screamed back at Henry, and Christina laughed with Angela, at the ease by which the men could be teased, and how little they really knew about that spiritual cloak that covered Christina, Henry, Aaron, Laurie and Angela, often inviting Sheila, when Aaron longed for her rage, and so it was, spirit and human, man and woman, elder and child, linked as the ragged picket fence dotting the Provincetown dunes when paint dried the sky and art was assuaged by Pollack and then Hoffmann, what a casual and most uncomfortable, but humorous pair of lovers, Aaron joked, letting all of them know that the sexuality of flowers, men, women and honey bees had only a tentative and temporary connection to gender.

Most of us, spiritual mass, hubris, honor and glory, event and anticipation were set down in large print long before the play back.

Henry loved them all.

And Aaron loved Henry, so what the poet and artist would dance in each other's arms fucking the other, making women come watching the joust, and then stark and male they serviced the mares, so they laughed, knowing how they were serviced by the gods inside the whims of their art.

Laurie unsettled the equations. Sheila unsettled Laurie. Sisters, they held secrets. As lovers, the sisters played their own musicale. Some wag suggested Sheila and Laurie were the female in Aaron and Henry, or Henry and Jimmy, and yet, they pushed guilt away, cleaning up, emptied, combusted after fires, rapes, molestation, and the pursuit of pleasure. Just hold my skin, crawl inside, Laurie spoke, robust, loudly to Henry, forcing the large man to jump back. Just hold my eyes, Angela begged Laurie let me come in your mouth while Henry comes in your gig, while Aaron sucks my tits, milking until they are aching and dry, when I came, I expressed my life, wild as a film hiding sin from goodness or wrong from right. Come on there are no such concepts as good and bad, and as a sociologist, Sheila, you could know better. Fuck you too, Sheila laughs at Laurie, touching hair and cheek, feeling the sweet wet breasts of her mirror as she came in the song resting the lyrics and punching up the chorus.

Christina walked slowly around the couples, joining one body or another, by whim, the caprice of that frenzy stripping away guilt, can spirits feel such human waste as fear, or more than life, Christina rose up, sitting high on Henry's shoulders, playing water tag with Angela and Aaron, before falling down, feeling Henry at her tit again, pushing him away, no more, I ache, try my black tonic, my cunt, it has that brown hair for garnish. You like the press of soft hair on your mouth, and deep cunts on my thumbs. Yes, dear life, she said, be tranquil, dear Laurie, Sheila wrote all this down later, and Laurie when she woke put on her sister's coat, erasing the tapes, burning the dairy, keeping the secret swarm alive for at least just now.

Wouldn't it be wonderful to know humans as they hunted passion as we swim, crease the surface tensions, and enter, bring fist up inside the primal soup, taking out the softer breath, as if the sweet recipe wasn't enough, and then my Angela, that great laugh, banged down the chasm, splitting open the balloon, and if the plan kept the peace, made boy balance boy, or man front man, a stalemate, as the thick pea soup brim, hot, as my mouth, or the split in my tongues, as I am jealous, dear Angela of your first fuck, or the last moment, when done, how you drip, with the style of your wiggling out of bed, falling limp on the floor after the fourth time, not counting orgasm, or the pump of the grind, and when Angela thought of Joe, or any male child alone on a bus, as the sun, wasn't a shift of ray, just the middle opened up, as I spoke, and when they laughed I hid, ashamed for what, you tell us. Yesterday and again today.

Yes, I wish they would follow, she thought, as she watched the empty streets behind her shadow. Sometimes, no matter how hard she tried, the fucks didn't join her let alone come. Each of Angela's legs manufactured more than harm. She wanted magenta and amber lights to show clear in the field of tarantulas. She wanted her opaque armor as a foundation for furtive glances, for snickers, for odd conversations about and over the geometry of breasts. Angela wanted her sad preoccupation of whim and whimsy codified to color what she did when she couldn't stand being alone. "I want to be heard," she screamed to herself. "I want love and everyone to join my shadow." It is more than being loved. Forging obsession is powerful; Angela spoke as a prayer to the great sculptures in the museum park. How their loins, steel or brass, cover the metallic skin I stripped last century or so ago. Unable to stop the prayer. Would they follow, Angela screamed without moving a lip, breathing hard, or raising the great spite of tired bitches crafting their lives within the fake portraits they consume for a pledge or an offering. I hope it's not too late, Angela kissed the back of her hand, brushing the sun off her skin as she enters the cold dominion of her own best room. I do wish the boys would listen; Angela imagined how the clouds could hold her away from too much philosophy, too little immersion in the sentimental and the not too clearly original. What is a King, but an arbiter of what is true? What is real is not interpretation, as royalty would treasure the ache of voyeurs calling their pets from their lairs. Did they notice my face, blue eye shadow, the stretch of my lust in their mouth; I wish they could speak, search for my lies as all that we own. Old men shoot sticks, dice and inert logs. He stood, reformed, on the corner everyday marking her usual inventory: breasts, thighs, mouth and ass. Nothing passed easily, nothing counted the invasive scrutiny of their expressionist memory.

What wonderful bullshit, Angela told her best friend, Marie, the night before Marie was murdered. What is the best piece of ass?

What was the corner before I came to it?

How do I anticipate each male or female creature before appearance?

Nothing had changed, and they looked at the suggestion of my sex, held me open to their sometimes juvenile ear. I knew they couldn't reach me. Aaron does. He keeps me by allowing my "preoccupation."

Angela:

When he kissed me last night. I wanted the air to bend from him, and to hear some other birds curls their songs around the edge of my toes as they struck the mattress wishing to bring my legs inside some wall; wishing I could hear his heart through the stretch of my mouth. I open his book, his mother blacked my face and I am held outside my own skin accepting my arousal. I am never soft; he played his mouth to waste words as I prepared for his ascendance. He is not God, Angela thought. She likes to make her humor a god. She wanted safety to reach besides the calm gathering of her children (or mine).

Angela released, breathing hard, stretched until her legs parted slightly, and the moisture brought inside kept some reason for life alive. She filled with thick storms, preparing the assault as darkness and strafing crimson lights streak without stars, nor without careful hands that life away the translucent past covering legs and heart with a faithless jelly to bless any unstopped mouth. They, each boy, each lover, Aaron, Father, my hand cannot stop sucking air and milk: children knew how her hands harden ice, but he skates, without obvious reward, across the horizon.

Man knows her tenderness. They scream pleasure; my brothers enfold into her dreams. If they could just pause watching the memory of all my mother (or all his, really anyone), and all our fathers darn the web, the fabric will reach across the street into unknown wells, and the terror in spit, in the wasted well that shines a stretch of kiss, when we purr, the cat like satisfaction starts with an opposing field. I am connected. Why?

Aaron, that great Jew, held Angela prisoner and she was sucking a chalice full of gray wine and pale bread. He was a disagreeable host. He carried all we neglected. "Why are we filled with the unreachable climax," she screamed, "when you start you must finish. "If you held back, she told me, you lost it like some androgynous priest kissing a plaster Christ when he could really have had the first and genuine savior in his bed just by praying with his palms and the butter of his spirit.

The Catholic host was sex, Angela also thought.

Transubstantiation of what we desire made whole into some approximate vague abstracted youthful God we all can recognize as omnipotent. We talk too little after sex or orgasm, Angela suggested, and she was filled with him or her even as she denied connection and genesis with any corporeal fake: there was androgyny in the search for what we released when the passion was soaked into the bed with the sweet miracle and sorcery of knowing the sticky chemistry of the open mouth and the level of petals as the flowers of the lotus, the open legs, the Karma Sutra bargained that scream with a willingness to lick the rings of one heart as Angela into another as orgasm struck, and we streaking across some inner pages to life broadened with one short electric art, when Aaron (or was it Henry) cupped accidentally Angela's breast as a ceremony from marriage, then blessed against later your soft, pregnant belly on one of my (or was it his) obscure vacant birthdays unsettled as spiders choosing up for a baseball game played on Mars, some time in the later future.

End of entry Saturday, August 22, 1987.

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