Sam Haskin “November Raincoat Open” print $2,500, Kiki DM.com
“So any idea of what your story will be about?” My dad’s question curves up with his lips; he smiles. After years of telling me my fashion writing was fashioning my writing into meaningless fluff, he was happy to hear I was tired of wordsmithing complicated coos about overpriced shoes on my dot-com. And while I always disagreed–I care less about what I write about and more about how well I write–, I was ready to move from commentator to creator, to build a whole new reality revolving ’round–
“Most likely sex,” I say, reaching for another piece of bread at the same time as him. He pauses, his hand hanging in the air, and lets me take a slice first.
“I’m sorry?” he drawls, still the southern gentleman after more than half a life in Los Angeles. “I didn’t hear you.”
“Sex. More ‘adult’ topics.” I use finger quotes, my polished nails snagging the air in the restaurant. Little hands like his, with the same long fingers. Only mine jammed against a keyboard all day long to make money and pay for blowing bucks at ‘Bucks, and his strummed a guitar to earn a living, when he wasn’t fiddling with the espresso machine he’d taught me to use when I was eight.
“Oh.” He swallows half his beer. The liquid was clear and gold and light, like his faith in Jesus’ virginity and Eve’s original sin.
“Not typical sex writing,” I explain, “not some sort of Sex Mafia and the Cashmere Jungle dating diary. But I think my stories will be situated around sexuality, around gender. Gender’s so much more cultural than physical.” My dad might blame naming his only daughter “Kristopher” for her interest in sex being bendable. “Plus, the sex industry is getting more glossy and pop. Adult toys are like luxury items.”
“I can’t say I’ve noticed.” The rest of his drink disappears. I suppose being sick for a couple weeks had loosened more than just my strict schedule of sleep: my tongue wagged like I imagine it would if I ever drank more than soy lattes (unlike my dad and brothers, I avoided alcohol because I hated to relax my hold on reality). I take a long sip of water, and the ice tinkles like my internal giggling: I’d told my dad I planned my next career move to be a strip tease of words, when I rarely even discussed dating with my parents–my family had first learned about the last boyfriend from my blog.
Maybe now my dad’ll say a little prayer for me at church, which could lead to an extra blessing from god for using my writing to build my heaven on earth. At least god’ll be comfortable with my move. Besides being called upon too often from women in miraculous positions parting a sea of red sheets, it’s written in black and white in the dusty grays of the Bible:
Even Jesus hung with hookers.
