We’re in Charisma’s room—her and Wendy’s—and Charisma is hovering her body above me, rocking her breasts into me, and away—into me, and away, and we’re about to make love when I am smelling her smells and loving her looks and she rocks a kiss onto my lips—it is delivered like an old-fashioned ink stamp—rock me back and forth to sleep.
And then I am high up in the sky, doing a Mario jump down through three levels of cloud, voicing my fall with a precipitous “eeeeeo!” (Oh, Mario!) and I land on the cotton bedsheets with Charisma lying beside me, and we’re both pointing to the sky drawing emojis in the cloudstuff—Baker draws a black hand 👍🏿 and I draw a fox 🦊 who is always getting away with something. I’m not sure what he’s getting away with right now but it’s probably lying in bed with my old fuck buddy, probably me hooking up with her in the first place. Every kiss, every fuck, every minute I ever spent with my dick inside of her—all of that was what I was getting away with. Flying from Hollywood to be here with Fuck Girl Charisma. To lie here on this bed with her getting turned on by my mere presence and me getting turned on by hers. All it took was to feel the heat between our bodies and my cock was erect! She didn’t have the power to approve or disprove of my life—only the power to make me cum. Not even that—she had the power to let me make myself cum. To lie there making powerful noises. Noises the neighbors could hear. Noises I remembered throughout my life that validated me as a lover. Those noises put the hot-girl seal of approval on my methods of having sex, on my anatomy, on my sexual soul. I have had sex with 25 or 30 people, but if only Charisma existed I would go down in the book of great lovers..which doesn’t have anything to do with great technique or anatomy or any one little thing. Like Malcom Gladwell’s tiny little town in Europe somewhere, where life expectancy is massively increased but seemingly is attributable to no single factor, like that town the validation that Charisma gave me sexually printed approval on me as a lover—with all the minuscule (seemingly unimportant) aspects that go into doing that complex act of being a lover. If this doesn’t make sense to you, it’s not because my argument is flawed. It’s most likely because you’ve never had a lover like Charisma.
Charisma Baker. Hopefully when she reads this book she’ll be forced to run into her bedroom and put her fingers inside her hot-ass pussy before she finishes this sentence. I hope my memory to her will be filled with passion, not snagged up in all the stupid things I ever said and did to her. I hope she will be willing to re-paint the mural of our relationship from a failed friendship to a successful fuck buddy-ship. That she will remember this dream I had of the two of us lying on the bed in her and Wendy’s room..dreamt while she and I laid on Charisma’s bed that was in that room. It was a dream of sex (and candy). A dream of me lying her back on the floor the first time I ever came to her house in East Dayton. The time that all we did was kiss. The time you always ask me about when we’re together: when you say, Way back in the day, when we were in my basement, did you ever have those kinds of thoughts about me? Did you ever want to fuck me then? And the answer is Yes! I always wanted us to fuck! I always did, from the moment I ever saw you—always, ever, did I want us to fuck.
My dream turned to a volatile force which only took me a few seconds to recognize as Rambuncto, this bundle of male energy, wanting to fight me before he ever met me. Wanting to kill me, the embodiment of tour philosophy coming to his poor East Dayton to snap photos and make my movie with out-of-town stars and all Rambuncto would ever be was a background extra, never asked his permission—who would be comforted by my ex-girl Sashi, drawn to her chest in the outdoor seating section of a Starbucks, Sashi would comfort him and confirm his thoughts about evil me, the culturally appropriating film student who represented all that was evil in the world. Sashi would attack anyone who fit my mold, leaving aside the obvious fact that none of us had money, that none of us were making big films, that all I was was a film student—the equivalent of an elementary school student of the world: basically innocent of any sort of success. Sashi would cut us all at the root, never wanting to make the mistake that Candide made with those baobabs: never cutting them down when they were little babies, then they grew into their adult form, entrenched so thick and so tight and so strong they would never be moved except for a wait of a thousand years or the sub-second detonation of an atomic bomb.
That’s what Sashi would do to me: cut me branch for branch so that I would never become a problem too big to solve.
Rambuncto in my dream was this big dummy who would kill you with an intermediate weapon (fists, boots) and never even know he did it. I could tell by his name what type of person he had become: so fucking dumb that he would spend his life between his parents’ house and jail, issuing minor injuries to anyone who crossed paths with him, never getting anything out of it, never advancing in society nor regressing, Rambuncto was no baobab—just a weed with thorns, the whole plant paper-thin, the type of thing normal people would zip away with a weed wacker—ziiip! Gone!! Bang!!! No more poor Rambuncto (sad face ☹️). Poor poor sad face Rambuncto. If Brooklyn wanted to fuck him she should go ahead—Rambuncto (I know the type) would be in jail for longer and longer segments, and Brooklyn would be back to jerking him off in the visitors room, that cavity between her East Dayton legs growing cold, colder, and coldest still as she waited for Rambuncto to lay off the violence in jail: assault built upon assaults—finally, seeing his life pointless, not having the guts to kill himself, Rambuncto would kill someone inside..and that would be it: they would finally lock the door and throw away the key.
In my dream, though, my skin burned hot and I imagined Rambuncto stepping up on me, raising both our temperatures and his intimidation working, causing my panic and some incredible karate kick landed his boot on my face and this made him into a superhuman enemy from some prison movie I had seen as a kid. He kicked me and kicked me and even though I was offering him the coke he didn’t have the sense to stop.
Nothing worked with him, not even offering him drugs (which for almost anyone in waking life would work). He had clipped the tip of his boot into a descent called “The Great Hole” and he seemed intent to descend all the way to the bottom.
Charisma’s hand on my shoulder.
She kisses me.
I wake up.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
But Baker said to me: “Don’t worry. You don’t have to say you’re sorry. I think you were having a scary dream.”
“I guess so,” I said. “What are we gonna do now?” I looked down. Charisma was in her underwear, purplish pink and her super-white skin billowing out around her waist. I grab her by the back of the neck. “I guess we should make love sometime. Don’t you think?”
She whispers in my ear: “I was thinking you’d never say that!” She grabs my cock through my pants and it gets hard. Charisma kisses my neck, lifts up my shirt. “You said my name while you were dreaming. Were you thinking about me?”
“I was—I was dreaming about you.”
“What was it? What was your dream?”
“We were lying here, looking through the ceiling at the stars. We were about to have sex. Will you?—Charisma?—would you give me your vagina?”
“Of course,” she says. “I’m glad you asked.”
“Mmm.”
“There’s no one on this planet I would rather give it to.”
“I like when you talk that way.”
“What way? I’m simply telling you the truth!”
“You’re awesome, Baker—best fuck I ever had.”
“You damn right better say that! Now it’s time to get up—”
“Why? What do you have planned for me?”
Charisma laughs. “It’s nothing like that. I want you..to..buy me some..coke..some more coke so you me and Brooklyn can have a good night tonight. Are you cool with that?”
Thoughts of Brooklyn, racing, the thought of Brooklyn and I waiting till Charisma had taken my money and Brooklyn would go for the touch, my hands would go for her little snapper protruding from the blue cloth of her shorts, one touch, two touch and I’d be cock deep in her playground, fucking her against the crib in the bedroom of Little Baby Faulkner.
“Are you ready to get up?” Charisma said.
I looked at Charisma in waking life. How could her being too big and Brooklyn being impossibly small have gotten between this weekend? One wedge and Charisma turned me sickly off and Brooklyn sickly on—impossible-to-control thoughts about Charisma’s roommate and friend who normally I would not be attracted to.
“Ready?” Charisma said, batting her eyes.
“Yeah,” I said stoically. “Let’s do this.”