I'm blinded by Jimmy Bob's fluorescent cock. I was thinking about buying a pair of sunglasses, but Jimmy beat me to it. He's a hat man, my Jim. Whenever he comes to town, he scopes out hat stalls downtown. Last visit he bought a Panama hat to wear with his white linen suit. I tried on hats for him but I winced every time I looked at myself, so he bought me a pair of black movie star sunglasses.
When he fucks me, "You love it when I fuck you, don't you?" slam bam, "Missed my big cock, did you?" slam wham bam. He tells me to open my eyes because they're green which he thinks is unusual. I always thought my eyes were hazel, but maybe they turn green when Jimmy Bob fucks me.
I really like this man. He's a writer and I worry he's wearing his fingers down to the bone. He types and types. Sometimes he sleeps, but not often and not for long. He's a coke man. I interviewed him for one hour once when we were stuck on that 401 parking lot. I needed details, all the where's and how's. Maybe I should have focused on the why's, but I just wanted a complete movie scene.
"It feels like you're picking at a scab," Jim said after sixty minutes of my questions. "I must love you to spend an hour talking to you about something that highlights my failure in life and as a human being."
Of course he didn't say exactly that—he's been writing for over thirty years, nationally published and all.
"There are things I need to know," I said. "Like what the contact wears. I want a picture, beginning to end."
"He dresses well."
"You mean coordinated colours?"
"Yes. That sort of thing."
"Suits?"
"Not exactly."
"Then what?"
"Track suits."
"Sweats?"
"No, expensive track suits."
"Oh, I know!" I said. "I read this book about a rap artist, co-written actually, and his contact always wore track suits too."
"There would be no leisure-wear business without dealers," Jimmy Bob said and I laughed. We laugh, Jimmy Bob and I, and that's neat.
"OK. So he wears track suits. You ever see his closet?"
Jimmy Bob Snorts
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