:: Article

From This is Not a Love Story

By Jennifer Best.

The Beginning

This is how it was:
I woke up one day in December and I was dead. When I looked in the mirror I looked the same. But his scratch marks from the night before were stinging and red. I’m dead but I think of how he came. I’m dead but he still turns me on. I don’t know how I died. It could have been the drugs. It could have been the booze. Maybe he killed me in my sleep. Maybe his cannibalistic sperm killed me. Mate and die. All over the world people are fucking only to die. Sex murder. Every time we get in bed with someone we put ourselves in danger. We’re just setting ourselves up for death. He’s still alive though, barely. There’s so much junk in him he might as well be dead, but instead I am. Me. Innocence dressed in black jeans and Rimbaud soul. We never did quite get each other. I figured him out too late. I cared too much. Fucking and love. I don’t mix the two anymore. It’s like a bad cocktail. Southern comfort and sour puss. You end up puking your life out. At least you can flush that down the toilet. A surrealistic swirl of yesterday’s stolen meal. I have one photo of us looking happy. His eyes are bright. He’s clean. I keep it in my worn, tattered copy of A Season in Hell.

The Other Girl’s Guy

I always wanted to be a stage actress. For some artfuck little theater in boho NYC or Los Angeles, or even Montreal. Whichever would take me. Dressed in tight black jeans and black slim fitting turtlenecks, talking about life love and rocknfuckinroll, smoking cigarettes while rehearsing lines with some James Dean look-a-like with a big dick and even bigger ego. I’m not an actress. But I am pretty good at acting like I would never bang another girl’s dude. He said he would leave her eventually, but I don’t really care. I’d end up feeling bad and I don’t want to. That would get too messy and I would bail. I’m in it for the dick just as much as he’s in it for the cunt. Once I wouldn’t have been ok with banging some girl’s guy but conventional morality doesn’t matter much now, does it? And now I’m the other one. The one he goes to when he wants good sex and a booze-laced breath on his tattooed shoulder. He says he likes my style, the way I live. I sleep until four in the afternoon and write bullshit on napkins at 4am in the little dive bar with pool players who bend over so I can check out their ass but I pretend not to notice. My only real income comes from random modeling gigs I do for artists. The models aren’t supposed to interact with the artists but I wrap my kimono around me and make the tour of the easels. I like to see how these strangers see me. A simple form of exhibition. I’m better looking on paper. But my ass looks better in person. Henry Miller would love my ass.

The Greek

It was such a typical dive bar hook up scene. The only thing I regret from that night is not fucking the Greek against the wall in the dirty barroom bathroom. My soul was drunk. Riding high. He tried to teach me how to play pool. I told him what he wanted to hear. I didn’t think about the fact that this was my best friend’s ex-fiance. The Greek knows he’s hot. Girls fall in love when they’re fucked good. The Greek has a big cock and he fucked me good. Once we did it on the side of the road leaning against his jeep with our pants down around our knees. The only thing that freaked me out was seeing my friend’s name tattooed on his forearm. It kind of turned me on too. We always had hot sex, him and I. That’s what happens when two scorpios fuck. It’s an intensity that you think only happens in indie movies or grainy rock n roll albums.

Jennifer Best
is a twenty-something writer in Montreal. Her writing and art have been published in The Common-line Project, ditch, Lit Circus, Prose Toad, and Blank Magazine. Her first book, a collection of poetry and other writings, is due out in 2008.


First published in 3:AM Magazine: Sunday, March 16th, 2008.