has anyone read that book? i think it's beautiful. it's erotica with a fantasy poetic touch that makes me swwwooonn. hehe. heres a sample from it. After she has let War, the skinhead from the valley, fuck her, he shows her his swastika tattoo on his heavily muscled thigh. She says, "Do you even know what that is?" trying not to be sick from her hangover and the slashes of blue ink. He laughs, "It’s a fashion statement." "Have you ever heard of genocide?" "Why? You a Jew?" Suddenly she feels as if he can see through her flesh to her organs and bones. She gets up and pulls on her black lace dress. It still stinks of cigarettes and the beer she spilled when he grabbed her to dance with him. Picks up the pointy toed black satin pumps because her feet her too much to wear them. As soon as she comes home she takes a long hot shower, scrubbing herself everywhere until her skin is bright red, and then she wraps herself in white towels and calls Plum. Plum is still sleeping in and her voice is hoarse and even softer than usual. They’d been at the gig together and Plum had told her not to go home with anyone who called himself War but she joked it was probably short for Warren and kissed Plum goodbye on the cheek for good luck. There is something charmed about Plum, Sylvie believes. Nothing too bad can happen when she’s around. "But I should have known even your magic doesn’t work when I’m alone with Warren and he shows me his swastika tat." "Oh God" "I know. I still feel like vomiting" "I’m coming over." While she lies on her bed waiting she spreads her thighs and rubs her clit gently with her knuckle until she feels the tightness and she comes guiltily, counting thirteen contractions. She wonders at how her body can still want this after, what it has just been through. But it is the only way she ever feels release. When Plum gets there they don’t talk much, just eat the muffins Plum has brought, watch Juliet of the Spirits again and give each other pedicures. She looks at Plum and thinks, what the hell would I ever do without you? They met at a poetry workshop in Venice and fell in love with each other’s imagery—blood, lace, booze, angels, emaciated coughing boys. Sylvie’s poem—the one about her brother, David, dying and the beautiful nurse—made Plum cry in front of everyone. That was enough for Sylvie to recognize her future best friend. Also they were both shy, their hair was bleach blond then, choppy with dark roots; they only wore black thrift shop dresses or torn Levi’s and vintage rhinestone jewelry. The first night they went out together they got drunk in Plum’s ‘65 Mustang on a bottle of Fra Angelica and then slammed in the pit with a bunch of sweating bald boys, stayed up till dawn eating burritos, deconstructing punk rock and trying to figure out why they were attracted to it. After that the friendship was established and the one thing that helped relieve the depressions besides sex. Much better than sex because the times with Plum never backfired. Plum always made her feel better, like holding her grandmothers tiny pink rhinestone chandelier earrings up to the light or watching the sun come up over the city and listening to Iggy and the Stooges in the Mustang. They know they should stay home tonight but after they’ve napped and had some take-out sushi and green tea they feel so much better that they decide go for it. Nothing to hardcore though—they’ll go to the Odyssey, which plays new wave music and has its share of goofs in bandana’s and spandex, which can be sort of comforting. It is always fun to get dressed with Plum because she makes it like a costume ball or something, putting gel in their hair and doing their make-up so they are porcelain pale with dark looming eyes and shiny red lips. "Lets not wear black tonight," Plum says, but they know almost everything they have is. Plum starts rummaging around in the closet and finds some white satin, which they’d used once to decorate the apartment for a party. She makes them each a bandeau top and short sarong skirt and they wear the gauze and glitter kids’ angel wings they’d bought for Halloween and tossed aside when they decided it was much more punk rock to be she-devils. The wings have straps that cut into their armpits but they look good, like fairy wings, because of their small size. Plum has some pink blue and silver glitter in her make-up bag which she uses on their eyelids instead of dark stuff and when’s she’s through she says, "Were Nymphs, now." "Nymphomaniacs. At least I am" "Fine. Just be a choosier one, please" At the Odyssey, Nymphs turn the color of rainbows. In the strobe lights their wings look as though they are beating, as if they Nymphs will take off into the air. Skinny-hipped boys and metallic girls are gyrating around them, glinting with sweat. The Nymphs dance for a long time without stopping, close together so no one can break into the circle of their energy. It feels like casting a spell. Later, they sit out on the patio with their cranberry and vodka. When Sylvie tries to get the tiny piece of cocktail napkin out of her ear it sticks so Plum has to help her; they always use the napkins as ear plugs because real rubber ear plugs gross them out and tissue paper is too thin and they both have the irrational fear of loosing it down the canal. Even with the napkin ear plugs their ears ring and clang for twenty-four hours afterwards. The Nymphs look around at the boys with their cropped hair and leather jackets, the ones with leopard t-shirts and pointy boots. They all look either too mean or too young or too gay. Plum asks, "What’s wrong?" And Sylvie says," Maybe I should be hanging out somewhere else trying to meet someone. This doesn’t look to promising." "It means a lot to you, doesn’t it?" Plum says. "I can’t help it. I’m obsessed. I’m one of those people that never feels whole unless they have their partner. I know not everybody’s like that." Plum’s eyes are so big and dark, like compassion spilling up and out. She says, "You’re lucky you feel that way. When you find the right person it will be totally amazing." "I don’t feel like I’m ever going to" Plum looks down at her nervous little hands and takes a breath as if she is about to speak. "What?" "I have something I’ve been wanting to tell you" She waits. They tell each other everything. Plum never hesitates. It must be bad. Sylvie’s mind begins going though a list of bad things—she slept with one of my ex boyfriends, she doesn’t want to hang out with me anymore, she’s sick, or…"Plum." She says, "You better tell me. I’m starting to get scared." "I don’t want to freak you out. It’s nothing horrible, just it might make you uncomfortable." She takes a big gulp of the drink and hands the last sip over. "We’re not uncomfortable about anything with each other." "I guess its because I haven’t been totally honest. I mean, you might have felt more uncomfortable if you’d known it’s this." Plum says, "There’s this weird thing. Since I was a teenager every one of my friends, after they sleep with me they end up meeting the person of their dreams within a really short time. I can’t explain it and I know it sounds like a sick come on but it’s the truth." "Doesn’t that hurt your feelings?" Plum shakes her head. "I’ve started feeling kind of detached from it in a way. Like, accepting. I might as well use it as a gift." "I’m flattered you’d want to," Sylvie says. Her face is getting hot and she touches her cheek with the back of her hand. "I mean its not that" Plum examines her own hands again. They are so delicate. It is as if the light could shine right through them. "You don’t have to say anything" "No. I want to. I’m just shy. I’ve never …" Plum nods. "Forget about it" She says. "I must sound like a freak" "No. But you really are a Nymph" "Like how?" "Like a woodland sprite. That’s what you remind me of. Like a little love goddess or something." Plum smiles. "I believe you Plum" Plum is beautiful, Sylvie has always thought that. She’s even imagined a few times what it would be like to kiss her. It makes so much more sense, somehow, to want to touch this delicate sweet soft person you love, rather than any of the weak boys or the angry boys or the mean boys or the Nazi’s she’d let inside without even getting to know. In Plum’s stucco bungalow perched in the Silver Lake hills, the moon through the leaves makes the whole room seem to sway. The Nymphs lips touch, yielding and girlish sweet, no threat the way it always feels with men. Then they are kissing, languidly, liquidly. Plum tastes of the sweet minty things she always keeps in her purse. She takes Sylvie’s shoulders and they fall to the bed. Everything soft and silky and their hair flickers and tickles their skin so petally. Plum takes off her top and then unknots Sylvie’s. In all the time they’ve been friends they have somehow managed not to see each other’s breasts. Now Sylvie knows why, it is because of their hidden fear of this thing that is happening now. Plum’s breasts are high and round and the nipples are small and delicate. Plum starts to untie Sylvie’s skirt. She whispers," Imagine him. He just walked in. He’s like a wild animal, so quiet and strong. He’s sitting over there. He’s unzipping his pants and touching his cock" "Where?" "Over there. Hey," Plum whispers into the dark corner. She slips her hand into Sylvie’s panties and pulls them gently off her hips. The way she does it, angling Sylvie so the imaginary boy can see, is like she’s showing someone something very precious. "You’re beautiful," Plum whispers. "He thinks so too. He can’t stop staring at you." She gets off the bed and kneels in front of Sylvie, pushing apart her thighs with her hands. Sylvie’s bareness spread open at the edge of the bed. She can feel the warm night air on her clit and her womb is heavy inside of her. She holds her breasts, the nipples pointing at the boy in the corner. The she looks at him and he is looking right back at her. He doesn’t look away. She loves him. She loves him so much that she wants him to get hard looking at her best friends slim body. She licks her lips as if she is licking plum and lets go of her breasts and pulls plum’s head close. Plum’s tongue teases Sylvie with tiny licks, up and down, then in little circles. Sylvie tries to breathe. Plum puts her hand on her belly and she relaxes a little. She imagines the man in the corner watching them, moistening his hand with his saliva, wetting the shaft of his cock. Plum moves her mouth away and says, "He wishes he was tasting you. You taste so good and sweet." Then she goes back down, pressing her tongue hard and flat this time in steady heavy licks. Sylvie pushes her pelvis up against Plum’s mouth and grips with her thighs. There is a fluttering deep in her belly. She keeps moving her legs, spreading them to let Plum in and then gripping again to drive Plum’s lips against her. The man in the corner would be aching now, huge. The veins standing out in his neck and arms and in his cock. Sylvie feels it coming. She presses up harder and Plum keeps going. Then it starts, big and deep, a bunch of lush wet blossoms opening in fast motion. Plum feels so delicate and small in her arms afterwards. Sylvie kisses her mouth, tasting herself, clean, salty, sweet, and they smile at each other in their kiss. "How do you feel?" Plum asks. "Great." "A little weird?" Sylvie doesn’t want to admit. "It’s okay if you do. You know it wasn’t really about us." "What do you mean?" Plum draws the sheets up over her breasts. "It was about you and him. That’s okay." Sylvie loves her then, even more, for understanding. "You’re still more fun to dance with" She says. "We’ll still be dance partners no matter what happens" "Thank you Plum" Sylvie sleeps more peacefully beside her than she ever has with a man. When they go to the Tropical Bakery the next morning she watches Plum over the steaming coffee and guava pastries and knows that both of them have silently agreed that what has happened won’t ever happen again. But she also knows that it wont hurt the friendship they have. Maybe it makes it stronger. Two weeks later Sylvie and Plum are doing their first poetry reading at a coffeehouse when Sylvie looks up and sees Ben. His hair is buzzed at the time, and she thinks that is cool and he is wearing canvas high tops which she hadn’t been crazy about before—they seemed so lightweight and she preferred hard core combat boots, but after War she has changed her mind. Plus, this guy listens to attentively as she reads and he comes up afterwards and says he thinks she is really talented and he has openness about him, the way he stands and smiles, and his eyes. Maybe something about him reminds her a little of David, too. Sometimes when you meet someone you know you are going to sleep with them and that is how it is. She thinks she notices that he has an erection, the beautiful outline of his cock in his jeans. Her panties get wet and her nipples pop out under the thin black silk. She has to cross her legs to quiet the jumping. Later, she wonders if she would have ever felt all this if it hadn’t been for the night with Plum. You have to believe in magic in order to recognize it
