Bret Easton Ellis: Unanswered Prayers
By Dale Peck
So I'm guessing that if you're reading this magazine you have a pretty good idea how the next five or ten minutes went (actually, I'm guessing that if you're reading this magazine you're in an STD clinic in Chelsea or the Castro, but whatever), so I'll skip to what happened afterwards. Not all the way afterwards, by which I mean that Ellis still had his dick in me and was kind of leaning over me, not in a tender way, or even a tired way, but a can-you-put-your-head-between-your-knees-so-I-can-get-to-the-coke-on-the-counter way, while I stared through my legs at his size twelve Bruno Maglis, which were so big that they stuck out from beneath his bunched-up cuffs like a pair of clown shoes. He snorted up the last line so deeply that I swear I could feel it scour through his body like a sandstorm and shoot out the head of his dick into my asshole. I found myself wondering if that could happen. If your insides could get so completely blasted that there was nothing left anymore, just a shell through which things passed on their way from one place to another. Which reminded me:
I lifted up my face and found his in the mirror. For a minute I thought he was crying but then I realize he was just sweating, although the sweat seemed to be leaking from his eyeballs.
'I wanted to ask you something.'
'Huh?' His head turned and his face seemed to follow a moment later, like a latex mask coming loose from his skin.
Suddenly I realized it was very cold in the bathroom, even though it was summertime and sweat was pouring out of Bret Easton Ellis's eyes.
'A-about your books,' I stuttered, wanting to stand up but kind of stuck there, if you know what I mean.
'Yeah, they're not really my books.'
'Not your books?'
'Once you publish them they're not yours anymore.'
I was about to ask him what he meant but he was reaching a hand up and pulling on his hair and there was a sucking sound and his face stretched out like Edvard Munch's The Scream and then with a rubbery snap his face pulled off his head, and there was --
'Keith?' I blinked in disbelief. 'Keith Toma --'
'It's Julien now. Jew-lien.' He pulled out of me and it felt like my spine left with him, and I fell to the floor. 'You'll probably write that 'Jew-lien' in some lame attempt at a joke, won't you?' He wiped the sweat from his face and flicked it against the wall. 'I've been waiting to do that for more than ten years.'
I stared up at him in disbelief. 'I don't get it,' I said, because really, I didn't. I mean, I give a good ride, but not wait-for-ten-years good.
I glanced at the mask of Bret Easton Ellis's face, which, hollowed out, deflated, looked remarkably like Richard Nixon's. 'Was it you? At Matthew and Jack's?'
'Why don't you ask him that?' Keith said, jerking his thumb at the empty mask.
'But'but why?' I said, and even as I heard the word come out of my mouth, I realized that was the question I'd come in here to ask in the first place.
Julien smiled at me, his face sweaty, satisfied, and completely opaque.
'I'll never tell,' he said, running some Aveda styling cream through his hair, straightening his Gene Meyer tie, tucking his dick between the teeth of his YKK zipper. He pushed the door open, nearly knocking over the attendant, who was standing with his face pressed against the shellacked zebrawood. 'Feel free to write about this,' he tossed over his shoulder. 'No one'll believe you.' He paused, reconsidered. 'Actually, they probably will, but then, that's always been their problem, hasn't it?'
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