I get filthy postcards in the mail.
The great American novel is a picturesque.
It sexes me up. I remember reading about a feminist writer
who after a morning writing would go in the bathroom and pull herself off.
I think of girls at summer camp. Girls in Phys Ed class. Girls in boot camp.
Basic training. Girls in a women’s barracks.
Locker rooms.
Athletes of Seacrest.
Actually, my fantasy was making
a technical writer’s wages writing enema vérité.
I didn’t make the income but I got the books written.
422 of them. If I make it.
