When I booked my haircut with Stage, I did not picture him as asian. But he is asian, and I like him instantly because I am also asian. 

His spiky hair is juxtaposed with a slick side-shave, adding just the right amount of badass to his otherwise pale, innocuous, schoolboy look. He’s dressed simply in a baby-blue cashmere V-neck sweater and pearl-grey corduroy pants. 

I wish my painfully straight brother could look this fabulous on his own. 

I trust him completely with my neglected ponytail of gangrenous split ends. 

After we’ve agreed on keeping my hair long (but adding subtle layers and sexy, side-swept bangs), he asks me the difficult questions.

“So are you a student or do you work?”

“I’m not in school, and I don’t have a job.”

Sensing the awkward silence, I quickly add: “Well I just graduated in December.”

I suddenly realize it’s like…almost fucking April.

But he nods along sympathetically, “What field are you looking in?”

“I’m not looking.” I stare at my scummy self in the mirror and feel unforgivably scummy. Snip snip snip

“But I got my degree in biochemistry,” I offer, desperately defending my credibility, “only I kind of hated it.”

Stage laughs, and I’m relieved, but then he hits me with the most incriminating inquiry: “So what do you do all day then?”

I think fast on my feet. “Walk dogs. And read books. I read a lot of books.”

Before he can probe further into my ridiculously unambitious life of unmitigated inaction, I turn the spotlight on him. 

“So do you like cutting hair?”

“Absolutely,” he gushes, “I love it.”

The orgasmic energy that accompanies career fulfillment flows from his pale hand through his busy scissors, my hair, my brain, my heart, my soul and into my own fingertips, which tingle with something like inspiration. 

Or maybe I just have peripheral neuropathy from never wearing gloves while handling toxic reagents.


My professor is so fucking hot

During my junior year in college I became obsessed with my Philosophy Professor. 

I think it was his voice that led me to believe he was ten years younger than his actual age (34). It was almost whiny, but in a charming way—the antithesis of deep and booming. His spoke like a motherly mouse or an overly concerned therapist. Sometimes it even cracked. Like a teenager’s. 

He was about 5’ 9” and had the body type of a scrawny adolescent who gained enough weight to no longer be scrawny. He was not trim or slender, but simply average: the result of never working out a day in his life (well maybe he jogged occasionally). But generally his physique indicated no conscious alteration to nature’s intention for him to rely on his intellect rather than his (nonexistent) muscles for survival. 

His boyish face was handsome enough that on the first day of class I made the objective observation that he was objectively good-looking. 

His brown hair was sincerely parted and combed. I wondered what he looked like when he first woke up in the morning. Probably outrageously sexy.

He had precisely two facial expressions (that I bore witness to): thoughtful and concerned. When he listened he looked thoughtful—mouth slightly agape, nodding, eyebrows furrowed. When he spoke he looked worried—that we might misunderstand him, or that maybe he wasn’t making his point as clearly as he could? 

I never saw him zoned out, relaxed, angry or sad. The idea of him having sex or even just sleeping thrilled me. It seemed magical and surreal that he existed anywhere outside the classroom as a normal human being. He was like Santa Clause. 

Every time we made eye-contact, I had to bite myself to keep from smiling like a crackhead. 

I would pay so much cashmoniez just to be able to touch him. My hand would look perfect resting on his narrow chest. 


I live for crushes: obsession, fantasy, the release of dopamine triggered by nothing more than a mere, evanescent thought.

I fell in love with Boris: a baby-faced, freshman boy in my philosophy class. We never physically touched, but it was unmistakable: the paroxysm upon eye-contact.

He wore opprobrious Oakley transition glasses, and always showed up late dressed in the same, horrifying outfit: a striped Dolce Gabbana shirt and faded Dolce Gabbana jeans (I googled the symbol, DG, on my iPhone to deduce this minutiae). 

He spoke with a thick Russian accent that sounded like pure seduction. 

Boris always had an interesting opinion, but more importantly I silently (but emphatically) agreed with everything he said. 

He hated Plato as much as I hated Plato, and I fucking hated Plato. 

But I really liked Boris. I wanted to kiss his mouth. I thought about it constantly.

We left the exam room at the same time, and I convoyed creepily behind, telepathically professing my love for his beautiful soul and being.

I considered offering him U.S. citizenship–reprieve from his ramshackle, Russian village–in exchange for his pale and fleshy hand in marriage. Stay with me. Forever.

He went left. I went right. But perhaps we will meet again.

More likely I will die alone. 

Pretty shitty dream

I have this recurring nightmare where giant pistachios carrying daggers are after me. They’re not fucking around. They want me dead.

They chase me into my house. Mom! Dad! Help! Everyone’s at work. I sprint upstairs and hide in my closet. 

They hurl their heavy bodies against my door. Thump. Thump. Thump. I don’t have much time. 

I know it’s going to hurt when they stab me, so I try to wake up. 

Sometimes I escape back to my harmless reality. My room is dark and quiet. I’ll have a sip of water. 

Other times I can’t open my eyes, and the door breaks down. They corner me. I scream in terror. It’s a shitty feeling: anticipating your own disembowelment. The pain of being stabbed is never actually that bad. But the terror. The terror fucks me up. 

Trying new things

We’re watching a clip of Yuja Wang playing Rachmaninov’s Piano Concerto No. 3 on the apple TV in the living room of his professionally decorated Upper East Side high rise apartment.

You’re right, I say, she is really, really sexy.

Right? I told you. I mean her face is eh, but that body. That ass.

I disagree emphatically but don’t say anything. Yuja Wang has a lovely face-the cute, childish kind that is perfectly complimented by a feathered pixie cut. 

That ass though. Ass ass ass.

He kisses me. He tastes like cigarettes, but I don’t mind. 

When he reaches to undo my corduroy shorts, I place a heavy hand on his chest and sigh.

Hello. It’s me. The bearer of terrible news. I’m on my period day 1, the heaviest. It’s coming out in ungodly clots.

Oh don’t worry about it, he says with understanding—almost too much understanding. Where is his disappointment?

Have you tried ear sex? He asks excitedly. 

No–no I haven’t. I have never tried that ever. Has he? 

Yes: he has. It’s great fun. Do I want my ear fucked?

The idea makes me uncomfortable, I tell him. I just don’t think it’s natural, to have my ear fucked. That particular orifice is designed for listening, not for accommodating a large, uncircumcised penis. I’m not sure it would even fit. 

The ear can stretch, he assures me. We’ll use plenty of desensitizing lube. We’ll start slow

He admits he’s been checking out my cartilage. My cartilage is beautiful. The perfect kind for fucking. I should try it, just once. He strokes my lobule. I don’t want it to feel good, but it does

Tie your hair up. I tie my hair up. 

He carries me to the bedroom and lays me gently on my side. He gives me a tempurpedic pillow to rest my head on. The lube feels cold on my bare ear. He starts slowly, just pushing his member around the anterior notch. He moans in pleasure. 

Your ear is perfect. He strokes my inner helix. Your Tragus turns me on so much. 

It’s a strange sensation, but not altogether unpleasant. 

He begins thrusting into my canal. The feeling is intense. When he orgasms, I can actually hear the semen pumping out. Glug glug glug

That was amazing, he breathes, kissing my jaw and neck. 

Cum is oozing out of my ear. 

Waiting for the metro, I desperately jump up and down on my right leg with my head tilted to the side. I hate the sensation of fluid trapped inside my head.

An overweight, middle-aged black woman stares at me curiously. She probably thinks I just went swimming at the Manhattan Sports Club. Lady if only you knew: I got my ear pounded by a massive nine-inch cock. 

Sleep on yo side tonight, honey. Her voice is warm. It’ll all drip out by the time you wake up.

Fuck my life

He’s steering his gray Porsche with one hand and puts his other hand in my lap. 

Is this ok? Do you like it when I touch you? Am I making you uncomfortable?

Of course not, I assure him. I really like it. It’s comforting. 

I try to keep down my nausea. He is the most disgusting, depressing person I have ever eaten dinner with. I would rather saw my own legs off with a dull instrument than fuck this ogre. His ex-wife must have had Down’s Syndrome to have married someone so simultaneously boring and repulsive. 

I will see you again soon, I hope? 

I stare into his dark, sad eyes. Sure thing. 

I hide in the lobby of an apartment building (that I don’t live in) for twenty minutes. The doorman looks at me warily. 

I fucking hate writing

I wake up at 10 a.m. to the sound of impatient honking and horses’ hooves on the pavement. I take a sip of water. The water tastes like blood. Or maybe my mouth is bleeding.

I roll up two earplugs, which re inflate inside my head and block out the sounds of the external world. I am in the womb again.

I wake up (for reals) at noon to the amorphous sound of dread.

Despair sits in the pit of my stomach. I drag my useless body out of bed and catch sight of my reflection in the mirror. I resemble a hooker on a bad acid trip.

I go out to buy a toasted bagel, but twist my ankle on the curb. Limping, I continue to cross the street and nearly get flattened by a yellow taxicab.

Eyes wide I stare back at the driver. He thinks I’m suicidal. I reassure him with a toothy smile. Good morning! Happy Chinese New Year!

I hobble into Starbucks where there is a short line. I practice what I am going to say. A sesame bagel please. Toasted. With cream cheese.

Skinny caramel macchiato for Carl.

I’m overcome with the giggles, which get worse and worse and worse. I’m silently shaking with laughter, struggling to catch a breath of air. A fabulous black man wearing all black walks in, but awkwardly leaves without buying anything. Did I frighten him away?

I read the obituaries in the paper.

I avoid writing.

I go to Bed Bath and Beyond where I smell the candles, squeeze the memory foam pillows and feel the 1500 thread count Egyptian Cotton sheets.

I read about ankle sprains, chronic inflammatory demyelinating polyneuropathy disease and psoriasis with delight. Bodily betrayal is horrifying.

I switch to Murderpedia. I try to get through all the Manhattan homicides since 2005. There are a lot.

I jerk off to the idea of being published.

I down melatonin, a fistful of Benadryl, and 10 mg of Ambien so I can pass out before sunrise.

I wake up at 10 a.m. and take a sip of water. The water tastes like blood. Or maybe my mouth is bleeding.

My ankle is puffy and swollen, so I stick it in the freezer. I wonder if I can fit my whole body in there. I can, but the door won’t shut. The cold is leaking out. The heat is seeping in. This won’t do at all.