May 30, 1978 - East Village - Journal

Alice is very disturbed with the lack of the progress on her senior project THE GENTLEMEN FROM VERONA at EST. She hates everyone. Mostly herself. She started on me, as we walked away from CBGBs. She had once more been made to pay. I never did. I had wanted to stay to see Patti Smith, but Alice was still recovering from her drink at the Four Gemini party two nights ago. Too much Jack Daniels. same for me. I was only drinking beer.

"I hate you get in for free. Why? It's not that you're anyone."

"Can't you channel that hatred?" Most people transfer their self-hatred to the one closest.

"What do you know? Are now a psychiatrist?"

"No, I know nothing." I readily accepted my role as whipping boy. My adolescence had two years of bullying and my self-esteem was still scarred by the beatings.

"Nothing?"

Alice had her own issues. Like mine they never saw the light of day or the depth of darkness.

We're on the Bowery and silently head over to West 11th Street. She hated my SRO. I hated it too.

yeah ask myself doesn't stop bending her anger at me for over a month is the breaking point because I came upstairs to get my contacts Alice thought I was leaving for CBGBs. we walked back to my SRO. she said, "Fuck you. You expect me to come upstairs?"

"You can go home."

"I don't want to be alone."

I didn't either. We entered. The desk clerk didn't lift his head from the Post. Probably had it turned to the horses. I didn't say hello.

"I hate this place."

I hated her sublet. I might have been there once. She shared a room and thought her lesbian roomie wanted to fuck me. Both of us. She wasn't my type and I loved Alice. not that I didn't have sex with other women. I was sure Alice did too.

On the 4th floor we stripped naked. I threw her a towel.

"Shower."

There was a grimy shared bathroom in the hallway. This late at night is was free. The water ran hot and long. I soaped her back and ass, then turned around, so she didnt see my erection.

We returned to the room. my feet stuck to the linoleum floor. Alice lay back, her belly pouting. Legs apart, blonde hair rimming her vagina. I stuffed the towel over my groin.

When I turned away seconds later her voice broke,

"Don't hit me."

"You stupid fucking bitch. Who do you think I am? A rapist? You say you love me words, but fantasize about me raping you. I'm not that man. That's all you care about. getting fucked like an animal. Go find someone else to filfill your fantasy. Someone else to use."

I pushed her away.

"Don't hit me, please." She was begging me to be hit like the heroine of THE STORY OF O.

I was very hard. I wanted her badly. Like this, but no.

"I don't want to hit you and I don't need this shit from yo. That's all you've been giving me and you know it's when you know it's my birthday. All you care about is yourself."

"Same as you."

She was right on the money. Women are always right and I admit it I care about nothing. Notto her. only about myself.

"But I do love you."

"I'm sorry."

She said the words like she had learned the line for a play.

"Big shit. More words show me that our words all you have to do to make me stay."

"I'm afraid of everything. Afraid to do anything. Afraid I want to be afraid."

"I'm here. Don't be scared.".

I shut off the bed light Alice and I don't talk. The bed is too small to sleep apart. She guides me in. She cums. I fake it. We sleep. I have a nightmare of being hunted on an interstate chased by unknown monsters.

I wake up. Broke. I'm twenty-six. She gets up. We kiss. College is over. Alice is leaving New York to go back to West Virginia for the summer. Apart will be hard. Once again I care for some someone. Alice and I want her to see how strong this love is. January to May.

May 25, 1978 SRO - Journal

"Don't you want to fuck?" asked Alice. She was naked under a sheer and I sat in my unzipped black jeans on the edge of the small bed in the West 11th Street SRO. I wanted to have sex, but I wasn't going to make the first move, since I often felt her cringe to my advances. One of the main problems with our sex life was that I always had take charge. I looked at her unmoved by her request. THere was no invitation in her eyes. Her hand reached out to touch my cock, as if it were uncooked hamburger. No erection.

"Not if you aren't into it. I don't feel like raping you again."

"What are you talking about?"

"It's nothing."

She slipped over to rub her crotch against my thigh. No erection. I asked myself why. I knew why. This was all pretend.

"So you don't want to fuck?

Silence was the easy way out, but I looked into her eyes.

"Every time we fuck, you act as if I'm raping you. Even if I'm gentle. You like it rough. I don't like the rape game. Lastly I'm not fucking you, unless you want me to."

"I want you to fuck me. Physically." She rolled away with wet eyes. "I don't know what is wrong with my libido."

"I do. You like sex. You cum every time we have sex. I don't think you're faking it." I faked ejaculation, since I had leather dick from jerking off too much. "Before me you were a lesbian. Maybe you want to go back to girls."

"No, I want your cock in my cunt. I want it in my mouth."

That got me hard and I fucked her hard. She came several times and I finally came in her mouth. Wiping away my sperm, she asked, "Was it good for you?" Breathless I said yes.

It was the truth, but it wasn't the best.

Across the street from the SRO were the ruins of 18 West 11th Street. According to Wikiedia the Greenwich Village townhouse explosion occurred on March 6, 1970, in New York City, United States. Members of the Weather Underground (Weathermen), an American leftist militant group, were making bombs in the basement of 18 West 11th Street in the Greenwich Village neighborhood, when one of them exploded. THree of them died. These were the only three deaths in their campaign against the industrial-military complex.

We felt that doing nothing in a period of repressive violence is itself a form of violence. That's really the part that I think is the hardest for people to understand. If you sit in your house, live your white life and go to your white job, and allow the country that you live in to murder people and to commit genocide, and you sit there and you don't do anything about it, that's violence.

— Naomi Jaffe