Scott Covert

Scott Covert was pissing in a bathroom. A Harlem bar's toilet. No phone numbers offering sex on the wall. No penis or hairy anus grafitti either. 2026. But he had better than that on the other end of the phone line.

A sexual outlaw like himself.

Scott hadn't had a drink in ages. Twenty-seven years sober. Now a vodka gimlet in his left hand. It wasn't his first. His right hand holding a phone. His cock out and he was pissing like a race horse. It felt so good, but not as good as when Peter answered the phone.

"Scott, you're the last man to suck my cock." He ust have read his caller ID.

He hadn't seen him since the Club 57 MoMA opening. A kaleiscope of Anthony Scibelli's 1978 photos of Peter, Klaus Nomi, Connie Mueller, Andy Reese and Clover Nolan. Black and white. Times Square, S n M. Drugs. The late 70s. Greeted the crowd at the entrance along with scores of that era of errors. Scott had gotten hard dreaming about kneeling in a toilet sucking off Peter in the 70s, at MoMA and now.

"Peter, I love you. You wre the samertest of all of us."

Scott Covert shook his cock. Pee drops on the urinal. His cock hard.

"And I love you for always being wicked."

They spoke. No one came into the toilet. Scott Covert spit into his palm and stroked the head of his cock. A miracle. 72 an still can get hard.

I'm not that smart. You're in Wikipedia."

"You're right." Wikipedia had him on file for his support for Club 57. Very little mention of his gravestone paintings. No mention of Peter in Wikipedia. None of that mattered. He had a full head of hair, and hard cock in his right hand and Peter on the phone.

And for the first time in months he was happy to be alive. Peter had answered his call on the second ring.

Scott Covert was alive and even better Peter was not dead. Oh joy. He had been dead. Everyone said he was dead. Scott Covert had called expecting no answer.

"Scott, you there?"

"I love you Peter."

And like that he came for the first time that day.

CARDBOARD NOIR by Shannon Greer and Charlotta Janssen

Earl looked out the window. Grady's gang was out on the street. The mobster wanted his moll. Helen was safe in the hotel room. The shadows on Broadway offered too many endings to this story.

I hit the pavement running. My gat was good for one-on-one. I needed serious back-up to deal with a gang.

Grady's goon offered money for Helen. Helen wasn't anyone's dame. I blasted the gunsel with my chopper. Grady got the message.

Grady and I fought it out on Broadway. The crowd fled from the bullets. My .38 ran out of ammo. My brass knuckles cracked Grady's head. He went down like a bag of mashed potatoes.

Helen got in my car. She looked good behind the wheel. Grady's gang sought revenge. Helen drove fast. My chopper shot faster.

Helen and I were safe in another town. We weren't staying long. Grady wasn't dead and live men have a memory. Me too and Helen in a cheap hotel for a long weekend was one of them.

I loved these photo-paintings.

My friend wrote about CARDBOARD NOIR

After having so much fun collaborating with on our cardboard cutout story with kids, I thought it would be wonderful to do one with an adult. Taking our inspiration from Bogie and Bacall, we decide to do a noir story in cardboard. Although labor intensive, it was so fun to shoot it was easy to forget the long hours of creating our set pieces. At least it was for me — Charlotta might still hold a grudge. I hope the whole crew’s enjoyment collaborating on this project is reflected in the results of: “Cardboard Noir!”

Art: CHARLOTTA JANSSEN Model: BROCK GLOOR Styling: LIZ TEICH Grooming: SABRINA ROWE Digital Tech: ROBERT BREDVAD Production Assistants: EVA MARIE LANSBERRY, Paloma Lansberry Wardrobe Assistants: NICHOLAS ADEDOKUN and MORGAN LEYKAM Location: TEN TON STUDIO

SEE SHANNONGREER.COM

ps i provided the text

Frank Holliday - Painter

A big painting of Frank Holliday. I called it BIG PAINTING # 1 Frank Holliday and I go back to 1978. He never gave up on his friends or art. His friends love his paintings. He sold ten small ones to a gallery owner. Another two big ones to privates. I love their layers of light and color. Frank is getting into symbolism. He's reading Rimbaud. The man is forever young.

Peanut Butter and Jelly by the painter Frank Holliday

Peanut Butter and Jelly by the painter Frank Holliday 2012 Out at his Bushwick studio.