The Voyeuristic Lives of the Author

V sipped his beer, observing two friends dancing with a single girl. The girl rubbed her hips between the bodies of the young men, who had her locked in between them, one kissing her lips, the other's hands pulled her waist closely against his pelvis. A few minutes later they paid and left the bar. V waited a few moments and followed after them. When he stood outside, he was just in time to see them slip into the little park across the street. V followed at some distance.
V's latest novel had been a great success, reaching the top five of every bestselling list. His trademark was to invent perversions of ordinary characters by describing the most intricate, common details of their day to day lives. Often journalists and critics asked how he came up with his descriptions, how he was able to see the extraordinary in the ordinary and some politely suggested he was depicting none other than himself. But the truth was that V. was simply an average character with little fantasy or imagination, nor did he possess a lot of life experience. He was by account of everyone who knew him, a very stable and reasonable person who disliked extravagances. His only mischief was perhaps that he was extremely curious.
The phone rang. V answered, it was A. They met an hour later at the Auberge de la Butte. A felt exhilarated, she kept on talking without end, panting in between words. S called me yesterday. You know, I didn't want to see him anymore after we broke up last month. But we talked for an hour, just as friends, and I realized how much I enjoyed talking to him, so I felt there was no harm in meeting simply for dinner. So we ate at this small restaurant S knew and that serves foie-gras specialties. Before I knew it, it was midnight and we were the last and only guests still present. They didn't push us out of course, but you could tell from their impatience that we were obviously holding everyone from being able to go home. So we decided to leave and walked without a particular sense for direction until we suddenly stood in front of his apartment. S asked if I wanted another drink perhaps, and before I knew it, we were fucking like animals in the staircase. V had been listening quietly with full attention and expectation. He interrupted A with brief to the point questions. Were you still wearing your clothes or had he undressed you by then? Did you kneel down and suck him? Did he come? Did you use a condom? Did you say anything? did he call you names? A unraveled rapidly the thread of what had happened, answered V's questions diligently, as V ushered her into the detailed descriptions of each moment. V did not understand how any event could really have meaning, come to life, without the slow sequence of scenes following one another patiently in full detail. It were the details of the single word that brought the fucking in the staircase to its culmination, not the impatient pounding of two lonely people pressed against the wall. A however kept stumbling over her words and excitingly rushed on, while V interrupted her.

Catharsis 1: Portrait of the Artist by an Italian Man

So the guy is a faggot. What do you want me to say? Yeah ok you could say he's nice but what do I care for nice. I ask him what he thinks about his team winning the Grand Prix. He don't know fuck all.

One time we are both stood by the till and he tries to ask me about the World Cup. I say, what do you know about the world cup? He don't know nothing, forget about it.

This morning I tell him he's shy. He thinks for a moment and says yes, do I think that's a negative thing? Do I think that's a negative thing? This faggot don't know nothing about the city. The city breaks you, you know? Like it makes you tough like in that film Taxi Driver. I tell him you gotta get strong like the city and he says or the city can adapt itself to me. I ask him to repeat himself 'cause I don't speak fag and then I say oh yeah, that'll be a cold day in hell, because the day New York welcomes faggots like him, forget about it.

He gets nervous around me which I like. I say don't get nervous, I don't bite, but I'm going to fire him next week so there you go, that's life.

Mid way through the day this girl comes in and he says its his girlfriend. She's nice you know like she speaks Italian and that. She says where you from and I say Sweden you know 'cause I'm funny like that. When she goes I'm confused a little and I say to him that's your girlfriend? I thought you were gay? I dunno if I ever thought he was but it makes him uncomfortable you know and I like that.