Tonight I received a sign from God.
It was terrifying.
I went to an orgy in an apartment on the Upper West Side. When I got there, there were four or five attractive guys entangled in each other, so I joined in; several attractive guys came in after that, and I more or less appointed myself the unofficial welcoming committee. Everything was going beautifullythe atmosphere was relaxed and full of cameraderie and yet sexually charged; I was discovering where the various people I was doing things to preferred me to do them, and was also enjoying having things done to me. It was lovely.
And then who should walk in but the disfigured man from last week’s unmitigated disaster of an orgy?
It was as if I had been at a party at a friend’s house having a great time playing charades and suddenly Anna Nicole Smith had walked in.
Horrified, I accomplished what I had come to do, and, rather than sticking around and accomplishing it a few more times, I hightailed it out of there and walked 25 blocks home, hoping (in vain, as it turned out) that the exercise would rid me of some of the despair.
Perhaps this wasn’t a sign from God, and I am actually in some sort of pornographic spy movie without realizing it, and he is an enemy agent after the the microfilm someone has planted, without my knowledge, somewhere deep enough in my body that it hasn’t yet been dislodged by all the other things that have been planted deep in my body.
Upon reflection, that idea isn’t really any more comforting than the sign from God theory.