Sex and Death in the American Novel by Sarah Martinez Read Free Book Online Page A

with men during our junior year of high school. We managed to lose our virginity, but he also decided the female body was not for him. Lucky for me we stayed friends. He inspired me to write about male relationships and was a constant source of diversion and support. In addition to the dance competitionswe entered together, several of which we won by the time we graduated high school, we also both loved books. I still had a lingering crush on him.
    “What about the orgy scenes?”
    “Those were great. I crossed out a couple words here and there. Mostly, you just have to speed things along. You spend too much time on people's eyes.”
    We went on like that for a while. After we finished I wanted a diversion. “Let's have some people over. I just spent the last two days out on the island getting totally depressed. I want to have fun.”
    We called a few people, then hit the market to buy Porterhouse steaks, mustard, salad greens and a few more bottles of wine. Vlad, a Russian who was also possibly the most gorgeous example of the male body I'd seen outside of a museum, came with a girl I didn't know. A couple from the investment banking office where Eric worked—unhappily, alongside his father—showed up as well. We ate, laughed, drank too much, then after that we all decided to hit Neighbours, a nightclub on Capitol Hill.
    Barbara, a drag queen, was a staple there, and whenever she saw me, she made a big show of being one of my biggest fans. Sometimes when we showed up to one of her shows she would work my name into one of her performances. Vlad mentioned at dinner that she would be there and possibly bringing members of the Bolshoi Ballet, in town for the week. She liked to drag visiting celebrities into the club—once we had a movie actress from the 1980s watching us all dance from the second floor balcony. Another time, I got to meet a popular comedienne who was in town raising money for AIDS research. This night the prospect of lithe, straight men who knew how to shake their asses had me all aflutter, imagining the illicit possibilities.
    People like to pretend we're not animals, but really we're more like dogs. Anyone who doesn't believe this should spend some time in a nightclub. Women at certain times already know what the urge feels like when everyone, whether short, tall, square shouldered or slight, looks like the tastiest piece of meat you've ever seen. Most men I've talked to will tell you that if left alone with a woman who is ready to go, they won't hesitate. Ever. The smart ones know how to keep themselves out of trouble.
    Eric and I first started going to Neighbours in college. Sometimes I would bring kids from my classes to dance the '80s theme nights or watch drag shows. Eric and I still liked to show off by reviving our competition routines to some club anthem like Insomnia or Sandstorm . I would spend all night dancing and hanging on Eric and then go home with some other guy I had just met. I was young—amusement came easily then.
    In my later twenties, Neighbours, with its colorful crowd, free atmosphere, and familiar vibe, was my favorite place to go to work off frustrations, check out the local scene, keep up on who was doing who, and get lost in hedonistic excess in a relatively safe environment. It didn't hurt my storytelling abilities either. There was nothing like watching two beautiful men first lock eyes, then cruise around each other, then finally sink into the shadows and slam each other up against one of the black painted walls of the club while the crowd danced on. While I danced on.
    I still loved to dance. I loved the attention, I loved getting lost in the thumping beat of the music and the flashing of the strobe lights—I felt like I could just take off spinning, catching the energies around me, twirling higher and higher with the music. I always expected to open my eyes and find myself floating near the smoky ceiling, lost to everyone. There was a thrill to get up on one of the