Henry's stuck on the opening paragraph feeling like his words are beached in his craw.
Lu Lu, his Cuban wife walks into his study with a drink in her hand asking sincerly,
darling, am I good at sex?
Oh my God, yes, your sister, the nurse, teaching you to give blow jobs wrapping your lips around your teeth was is brilliant.
Really how nice, I’m going to take a bath.
She walks into the bedroom and slips out of her dress, naked in the bathroom she opens the hot spigot and pours a few capfuls of lavender oil into the rising water.
Laying with her legs up and outstretched on the edges of the tub she lights a joint, puffs awhile then looks at her skin thinking,
my skin glistens when it’s wet; it looks absolutely perfect, but if I stay in the tub much longer, it'll get wrinkly, and I'll look old.
As the bath water becomes cold, she stands, grabbing a large white towel, wrapping herself in it. Still feeling cold she thinks,
bathing feels good at first but when the water cools you want out of the tub. It goes from good to bad quickly. I love hot tubs they never cool.
She stands in front of a full-length mirror in the bedroom, letting her towel slip to the floor, looking at herself, and admiring her body.
She has natural round breasts that flop up and down when she runs. Her nipples are large, the size of thimbles.
Her legs are shapely, not muscular. Her feet are rectangular, well arched, and her toes are straight.
She shakes her head from side to side— droplets of water spritz off her long dark hair. She puckers her lips into a heart shape.
She picks her cotton towel off the floor wraps up, walks to Henry’s study, feeling bored, deciding to take the piss out of him saying,
Bebe, is it true you're happiest alone except when you want to fuck me? Darling writers are so precious, precious, they can’t stand people, humanity sucks, right? He answers,
I really haven't felt like talking about it, but I have writer's block,
Lu Lu walks to his desk, bends over, unzips Henry's trousers sucking his cock, wet, wild, nasty, with her lips wrapped around her teeth. He cums in her mouth and she spits it out.
Composed, Henry lights a joint, puts a sheet of paper in his typewriter, and types madly. So much for writer's block. Smiling broadly, he says,
I’m a bleeding supernatural phenom.
You’re schizoid Henry, you need help. Should I call Doctor Heckler?
just leave, I need to be alone,
Fuck off, Henry.
He works on a bit about the Hunter S. Thompson slash Keith Richards conclave.
If there was one man equipped, mentally, physically, and chemically to knock about with the Rolling Stones guitarist it was Gonzo journalist Hunter S. Thompson.
The interview took place in March 1993 at the Ritz Carleton in Aspen but was originally scheduled to take place in MTV’s studio in New York. The plan was scuttled when the good doctor came down with the flu, so the people behind the interview lured Keef out to Colorado.
When Hunter shows at the Ritz Carlton he’s mobbed by a group of ski bunnies holding out soiled napkins and wanting autographs.
He tells them to fuck off.
So much for the sophomoric star-fuckers, Hunter rides the elevator to Richard's suite on the top floor overlooking the Buttermilk Mountains.
With a megaphone in hand, Hunter bangs on the door, Keith opens it, greeting him with something equally weird, a Tasar.
Off to a raucous start, what else would you expect from the genus locos? Hunter, a rock n roll fanatic, listened to rock n roll continually working in his office at the Eagles Nest.
The doctor kicks off the interview into unchartered territory with freakish questions like;
what will J. Edgar Hoover's reincarnation be? Kieth says,
a bloody slug,
Hunter replies,
that’s too good for him, he's a rare breed of unremarkable fart.
Then the conversation slash interview moves to the Beatles and Richards admits,
honestly, back then, there was little difference between the Beatles and ourselves. Without them there would be no Stones, if they hadn’t kicked down the door for us there wouldn’t have been a way through the door. John was the strong one though, I have to take my hat off to him.
where were you on Christmas Eve in 1962? Chuckling raspy voicedf Keith says,
oh haha aha, funny you bring that up mate, it was snowing cocaine at Bryan’s mansion, Cotchford Farm.
Hunter mentions Altamont in 69, at the Altamont Speedway, meth-dosed-hot-to-trot Hells Angels go ballistic on concertgoers who are drunk and on bad acid.
Richards acknowledged the gravity of the fatal event, adding some humor though and saying,
Yeah, one person died at the hands of the Angels who were running security, one baby was born too, the same amount of people left as came.
The not very candid- would you say candid? Interview, I don't know.
It was more than a brief meeting of friends.
They had things in common; both drank, smoked cigarettes, and snorted cocaine.
Thompson ends the interview,
Wooden Creek Tavern is a must-stop for us, for a drink? The Juke Box's bodacious
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