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American Dream Serialization (Early Chapters)
Introduction to Jim Chaffee's Studies in Mathematical Pornography by Maurice Stoker
Introduction to Jim Chaffee's Studies in Mathematical Pornography by Tom Bradley
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: American Dream Title Page by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 1 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 2 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 3 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 4 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 5 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 6 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 7 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 8 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 9 by Jim Chaffee
01-01-2015
Modern Tragedy, or Parodies of Ourselves by Robert Castle
01-11-2014
Totally Enchanté, Dahling by Thor Garcia
01-04-2014
Hastini by Rudy Ravindra
The Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter Volume 5 Translation by W. C. Firebaugh
01-01-2014
Unexpected Pastures by Kim Farleigh
10-01-2013
Nonviolence by Jim Courter
The Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter Volume 4 Translation by W. C. Firebaugh
07-01-2013
The Poet Laureate of Greenville by Al Po
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part VI by Thor Garcia
The Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter Volume 3 Translation by W. C. Firebaugh
04-01-2013
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part V by Thor Garcia
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part IV by Thor Garcia
The Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter Volume 2 Translation by W. C. Firebaugh
01-01-2013
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part I by Thor Garcia
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part II by Thor Garcia
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part III by Thor Garcia
The Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter Volume 1 Translation by W. C. Firebaugh
10-01-2012
DADDY KNOWS WORST: Clown Cowers as Father Flounders! by Thor Garcia
RESURRECTON: Excerpt from Breakfast at Midnight by Louis Armand
Review of The Volcker Virus (Donald Strauss) by Kane X Faucher: Excerpt from the forthcoming Infinite Grey by Kane X Faucher
01-07-2012
Little Red Light by Suvi Mahonen and Luke Waldrip
TEXECUTION: Klown Konfab as Killer Kroaked! by Thor Garcia
Miranda's Poop by Jimmy Grist
Paul Fabulan by Kane X Faucher: Excerpt from the forthcoming Infinite Grey by Kane X Faucher
01-04-2012
Operation Scumbag by Thor Garcia
Take-Out Dick by Holly Day
Patience by Ward Webb
The Moon Hides Behind a Cloud by Barrie Darke
The Golden Limo of Slipback City by Ken Valenti
01-01-2012
Chapter from The Infinite Atrocity by Kane X. Faucher
Support the Troops By Giving Them Posthumous Boners by Tom Bradley
01-10-2011
When Good Pistols Do Bad Things by Kurt Mueller
Corporate Strategies by Bruce Douglas Reeves
The Dead Sea by Kim Farleigh
The Perfect Knot by Ernest Alanki
Girlish by Bob Bartholomew
01-07-2011
The Little Ganges by Joshua Willey
The Invisible World: René Magritte by Nick Bertelson
Honk for Jesus by Mitchell Waldman
01-04-2011
Red's Dead by Eli Richardson
The Memphis Showdown by Gabriel Ricard
Someday Man by John Grochalski
01-01-2011
I Was a Teenage Rent-a-Frankenstein by Tom Bradley
Only Love Can Break Your Heart by Fred Bubbers
10-01-2010
Believe in These Men by Adam Greenfield
The Magnus Effect by Robert Edward Sullivan
Performance Piece by Jim Chaffee
07-01-2010
Injustice for All by D. E. Fredd
The Polysyllogistic Curse by Gary J. Shipley
How It's Done by Anjoli Roy
Ghost Dance by Connor Caddigan
Two in a Van by Pavlo Kravchenko
04-01-2010
Uncreated Creatures by Connor Caddigan
Invisible by Anjoli Roy
One of Us by Sonia Ramos Rossi
Storyteller by Alan McCormick
01-01-2010
Idolatry by Robert Smith
P H I L E M A T O P H I L I A by Traci Chee
They Do! by Al Po
Full TEX Archive
Side Photo for The Big Stupid Review

Sleeping with Movie Stars - Part 1

By Gitanjali Kolanad

Song Thu Bon, My Son, Vietnam

Two boys on a motorcycle rode past the bus stop one way, then the other way, then back again as I waited for the 23A to take me to Kalakshetra. Finally they pulled up at the tea shop, as if to buy cigarettes. But I was the one who made the decisive move: in Madras, circa 1970, I’d already learned, if they were nice guys, then they didn’t have a clue.

I went over and bummed a smoke. It ended up that the boy with the wild Bob Dylan hair stayed there while I rode back to the hostel behind the boy with the long long eyelashes.

I was seventeen. My parents had sent me from Canada all the way back to India to get me away from the corrupting influences of the West. At Kalakshetra, the rules for dress and behaviour were very strict. Not two braids - "it looks like a girl standing baaah" and the teacher demonstrated, standing with her legs apart, like John Wayne - but one chaste legs-together braid. Not bangles on one wrist, but equal numbers of bangles on each wrist, because "you don’t have both eyes on one side of your face, do you?" When I dressed in a sari, with my long wavy hair in a thick plait with jasmine flowers, little gold earrings and bangles on each wrist, I looked like a good South Indian girl. You couldn’t tell that I was ‘spoiled’, the word my grandmother, who knew the truth, used for me, as in, "Who will marry her now that she has been spoiled?"

In the hostel, I shared a room with two other dance students. I had a shelf to put my things, a bed, and a suitcase with clothes pushed under it. There was a corridor with a fretted wall, through which the sea breeze blew, for we were near the sea. Down the hall was the bathroom where I learned to bathe with water poured from a bucket, and the toilets, where I learned to squat, and wash myself instead of using toilet paper.

cat tooth mountain, my son, vn

When, late at night under our mosquito nets, my roommates and I talked of boys and what it might feel like to lie with them, I thought it best to keep my knowledge of those matters to myself.

At Kalakshetra, we were not supposed to even talk to the boys. In the hostel dining room, we sat cross-legged on the floor, girls on one side of the long hall, boys on the opposite side, kept apart as if we were magnets and iron filings. Nevertheless, hot glances were regularly exchanged. My roommate, in love with one of the senior boys, would not eat until he sat down with his stainless steel plate and their eyes met. Sometimes, if he was with his friends, joking and pushing and laughing, he wouldn’t look; my friend would get up and walk away, leaving her food untouched.

And yet, I had sexual encounters, of a kind. The Kama Sutra, in the list of eight kinds of embrace, states that the first four occur between couples who do not know each other. I participated, unwillingly, in some of these. On the one Sunday of the month when I was allowed out of the hostel to go to my guardian’s place, and took the bus, the bus conductor rubbed his forearm across my breast as he passed coins to the person beside me - Spristakam. A fellow passenger pressed his crotch up against my shoulder as I sat in the aisle seat - Udhgristakam. It was rare that the walk from the bus stop to the Kalakshetra gate did not yield at least one glimpse of male genitalia, given the ease of whipping open the lungi, that perfect flasher’s garment; but I could find no Sanskrit name for that.

lady bugs fucking on artichoke plant

The drummer at Kalakshetra, who we addressed as ‘sir’, as we did all the male teachers, was very good-looking - his black hair worn long and slicked back, his lips always red with paan. He was a brilliant drummer, inventive, playful and insouciant, as if he hardly noticed what his hands were doing as the complex patterns of rhythm unfurled from the mridangam. He looked out over the audience, his lip curled to hold the paan, with the sexy self-confindence of a rock star. He whispered to me behind the bouganvillea, "I’ll talk to you later," touching my breasts with only the merest pretence of accident. He didn’t speak English very well. "I will help you," he whispered, but I didn’t know what he meant. "Sir! Don’t do that!" I said, but I wasn’t really angry. "What? What I shouldn’t do?"

I tried to figure out what it felt like to touch my breast, from the man’s side of the bargain; not what the breast felt, but what the forearm felt on contact with the breast, and not a bare breast, mind you, but the breast felt through bra, choli blouse and the numerous folds of the sari draped over it. I could achieve no frisson.

Hindu Carvings, My Son, Vietnam

The boys on the motorcycle came one day to the Kalakshetra office and claimed to be my cousins. I was allowed to walk with them around the grounds, on the sandy paths between the simple thatched huts where the dance and music classes were held, while everyone else was resting in the afternoon heat. Trees spilled papery yellow flowers on the red earth. We shared a cigarette when no one was looking. They told me they were from the Madras College of Architecture. Did I go to discos? "Yes." Did I go to the cinema? "Movies, you mean? Yes." What was my favourite ‘filim’? "2001: A Space Odyssey." That hadn’t been shown in India as yet. We shared our tastes in music, and here we were in perfect agreement: The Cream, Bob Dylan, Jimi Hendrix, The Doors.