From: SubSonic@ptd.net (SubSonic)
Subject: 48 Hours
   
Scene I

   It's early Friday evening. I decide to pop into Stiletto to see if any of my favorite 
dancers are there. I have a previous engagement and am not planning on staying; 
all I want to do is notify a few dancers about the upcoming mini-ASSC gathering 
planned for Friday, October 4th. I figure they might enjoy meeting some ASSC-ers.

   Much to my surprise, none of my favorites is there. There are quite a few new 
faces and bodies, however. I take a seat at one of the three stages. There is a bit of 
a commotion at another stage. Everyone looks over. A dancer I've never seen 
before is bending over, with a lit cigarette stuck up her vulva. She takes a few 
"puffs." A few customers are laughing; the DJ is making a big fuss, trying to stir up 
enthusiasm. I am not moved. This is one of those tacky strip club acts -- like ass-
slapping or ankles-behind-the ears gyno displays -- that I find both puzzling and
vaguely repellent (though this particular performance does give me some novel 
ideas for a nifty anti-smoking ad campaign). It's neither sexy nor demonstrative of 
any particular talent. Am I supposed to be aroused by this? Impressed? Blow some 
smoke rings, honey, and maybe I'll be impressed. Even then, I doubt it.

   I return my attention to the dancer in front of me. Like everyone else in the club, 
she has been watching the freak show. She re-engages my gaze, an uneasy smile 
on her face. I hand her a tip and say, "This is the no smoking section, right?" She 
cracks up laughing, falls off of her five-inch heels and turns an ankle.

Scene II

   It's Saturday afternoon. I am hanging with EYE. It is our first meeting, my first 
meeting with *any* ASSC-er, for that matter. We get together in Soho for a late 
lunch and it's as if we've known each other for years. He brings me up to date on 
the posts I've missed due to my ISP's news sieve -- I mean, news server. We toast 
ALS's quest for Edie, bemoan the current state of the newsgroup, and wax 
rhapsodic about past SC adventures. Other topics of discussion: the 80's New York 
art scene; dealing with obsessed, manipulative exes; the ethnic and religious
demographics of ASSC. The conversation is a pleasant mix of the highbrow and the 
lowdown.

   We go see "Basquiat" at the Angelika and are surprised to find that Schnabel can 
sort of direct. Better than he paints, anyway. After the movie, we sit in the Angelika's 
lobby and shoot the breeze some more. It occurs to me that these days I am more 
into talking about ASSCing, or writing about ASSCing, or even talking about writing 
about ASSCing, than I am into actually ASSCing. EYE gamely feigns interest in my 
pretentious epistemological ramblings, then goes home and solemnly informs the
newsgroup that he wants only to bury his face in a ripe pussy.

   As we're getting ready to leave the Angelika, I run into a friend who I haven't seen 
for several years. He is a psychiatrist. We have known each other since childhood. 
He is with a woman who is not his wife, although there doesn't seem to be anything 
nefarious about this. I find this chance meeting vaguely unnerving for some reason.

Scene III

   It's Saturday evening. EYE and I say good-bye. It's starting to rain. I catch the 
subway up to the Upper West Side, where my car is parked. It's a four block walk to 
my car. Soon I am soaked. 

   I drive back out to Rockland County. It's time to make a quick pit stop at Stiletto 
and take another stab at notifying my fave girls of the upcoming ASSC gathering. 
Again, none of them are there. What the hell is going on? Still, it's early; they'll 
probably come in later. Trouble is, I don't really feel like hanging out.

   It's quiet tonight. Only two of the three stages are in use. There is an unfamiliar girl 
sitting alone next to the unused stage. She looks quite attractive from a distance -- 
nice cheekbones. I can't tell if she's a dancer, a friend of dancer, or a prospective 
dancer checking the place out. I can't see what she's wearing, because most of 
her body is hidden behind the stage. She's not asking any of the customers for laps, 
so it doesn't appear as if she's actually working.

   After about 15 minutes I plop myself down next to her and ask what's up. Now 
that I can see below her waist, I can see that she is indeed on duty. Short skirt, long 
legs. And she has these exquisite cheekbones. She's really quite exotic. We exchange
greetings. Turns out it is her first day at the club, and she wants to know some of the
ins and outs. She is shy but quite friendly and pleasant. I find out she is from Hungary.
Nice accent.

   And did I mention she had lovely cheekbones?

   We immediately launch into a deep discussion of post-Soviet Empire Eastern 
European geopolitical trends. I ostentatiously show off my penetrating knowledge
of current affairs by informing her of the recent death of Nico Ceausescu, the son 
of the former Romanian strongman/wacko. She was not aware of this event; score 
one for SubSonic. We agree that we will shed no tears for this scumbag. We then 
discuss the relative merits of capitalism and communism, compare notes on 
Budapest (I've never been there, so my contribution to this part of the discussion 
consists of furrowing my brow and nodding thoughtfully while she speaks) and 
agree that the Czech Republic is singularly blessed in having a former playwright as 
president. We discuss Havel's writings. I am really having a very intellectual day.

  Another dancer sits down and joins us. I am now seated between the two women. 
Dancer 1 informs me that our new companion is from Brussels. Aha! I *have* been 
to Brussels. I inform Dancer 2 of this and she is appropriately impressed. She and I 
discuss French cuisine. This is really getting quite cozy. Dancer 2 and Dancer 1 then 
have a brief conversational exchange -- in Hungarian. I express surprise to Dancer 1 
that Dancer 2 knows how to speak Hungarian. Dancer 1 tells me that although 
Dancer 2 was born in Brussels and occasionally still visits Belgium, she in fact grew
up in Hungary. The two girls then have a 45-second conversation in Hungarian, 
talking over and around me and occasionally gesturing at me. I listen carefully, 
straining to learn the Hungarian term for "pathetic loser."

   Finally it is time for Dancer 1 to take the stage. I chat with Dancer 2 a bit longer, 
then excuse myself, saying I really should tip Dancer 1. She nods approvingly. I 
make my way to the edge of the stage on which Dancer 1 is performing. As I take a 
seat I am suddenly aware that I emphatically do not want to be here. For some 
reason I have temporarily lost all interest in ASSCing. For some reason it now seems 
almost unspeakably vulgar to stare at the nude body of my new acquaintance. 
Dancer 1 has her back to me (the stage is square) but sees me over her shoulder 
and smiles. She is already naked. A moment or two later she has rotated to my seat 
and proceeds to flash me some gash. Her eyes are now distant; our previous 
familiarity has evaporated and she has reduced me to just another generic
customer and herself to an assemblage of body parts. Was this what each of us was 
all along?

   She proceeds to show me these parts in succession: tits, ass, pussy. My stomach 
lurches. I can hardly look at her. She seems to sense my discomfort; a concerned 
look flashes over her eyes. I manage with great effort to force a smile and seem 
interested. I tip her generously, manage to maintain my equanimity. Shortly 
thereafter, I bid her good-bye and leave the club. She seems genuinely sorry to see 
me go. None of my favorite dancers has shown, but I was only in there for about 
half an hour. It is still early.

   I am staying with a friend in Rockland County. I return to her apartment and 
ponder what has just happened. I am having an ASSCrisis. There are times when 
ASSCing seems like a pilgrimage of the highest order -- a noble quest for sensation, 
mystique and melodrama. "This wild darkness," as Harold Brodkey once wrote. Of 
course he was referring to his imminent death from AIDS. Still, it sounds kinda cool. 
Right now, though, going to clubs seems puerile at best, distasteful at worst.

   At this point I decide I am in full self-indulgent gasbag mode and am not thinking 
clearly.

   I pick up a copy of the day's New York Times. On the cover is a picture of the 
dead bodies of Najibullah, the former strongman/wacko of Afghanistan, and his 
brother. They are strung up, hanging by their necks, bloated and bloody. A few 
Afghani revolutionaries are standing around the corpses, expressionless.

   I go to sleep.

Scene IV

   It is early Sunday morning, about 4 AM.

   I am on vacation. In Kabul, Afghanistan, of all places. Of course this makes no 
sense. This is dream logic. In dream logic, the bizarre is mundane. You hang out in 
apparently familiar places which, you realize upon awakening, are in fact totally 
alien. Your friends behave strangely. You find yourself in bed with women you never 
think about while awake. People chase you all the time. You lose your clothing with 
alarming frequency. Dogs ride bicycles. The sky shimmers.

   You take vacations in Kabul.

   I am in the lobby of an obviously expensive, classical Persian hotel. I am with a 
woman. We are together -- "involved." I have thought about this woman a lot since 
this dream. I still don't know who she is. She is not my present partner in real life, nor 
is she an obvious stand-in for any of my previous partners. She isn't my favorite 
dancer, either. 

   She ducks into the hotel pharmacy to buy something. While waiting for her, I pass 
the time at the magazine rack. I pick up some sleazy stroke mag and casually leaf 
through it. Sullen-looking women in various states of undress stare back at me from 
the pages. These are not the Debbies and Veronicas you find in Playboy or 
Penthouse, with their bright smiles and college sweaters (discarded, for sure, but still 
draped conspicuously on a nearby chair or dresser, or car, or whatever) and their 
"favorite TV shows," "last book read" and "major turn-ons" catalogued conveniently 
for your inquisitive mind. These are not the girls next door. No, these women have 
names like "Tiger" and "CJ" and (amazingly) "Bertha." These are the girls next door to 
Charles Manson. They are not pretty. They do not look happy. They do not even  
pretend to be interested in you. You wonder how anyone could possibly get 
aroused by looking at them.

   In the back of the magazine are the classified ads. They are printed on a different 
type of paper -- a beige, cheap pulpy stock. Here is where the swingers advertise 
their wares and seek like-minded soul mates. Incredibly, there are pictures here, 
too. "I need to be spanked!" implores a young thin woman who looks strung out on 
drugs (and almost certainly is). Naked, hairy-chested men with cigars in their 
mouths and their dicks in their hands are also looking for love in these pages. Their 
pictures are right there.

   The degradation seems endless, yet I read on. I am above it all. I am safe. My 
girlfriend is at the cash register, buying her lipstick or whatever, and I will rejoin her 
and we will happily continue our vacation. I am about to return the magazine to 
the rack when another picture in the classifieds catches my eye. The text that 
accompanies it is normal enough, but the picture confuses me. I can't figure out 
what it is. Is it a close-up of some human body part that I can't quite make out? Is it 
some sort of mistake? Then I realize it isn't a human being at all -- it's a cow carcass, 
a rotting, decaying carcass with guts spilling out. I am horrified, and the horror 
becomes greater when I realize that the guts, the entrails of this cow, are suddenly, 
inexplicably, in my mouth, and I am gasping and spitting, and suddenly I am 
awake, upright and sweating in the bed, and Susan is asking me what's the matter...
 
Scene V

   It is Sunday evening. It has been a beautiful day, sunny and warm . My horrible 
dream of the night before is but a distant memory. I decide that it is a bad idea to 
eat too many Keebler chocolate chip cookies before bedtime.

   I am back home and logging on again after four days offline. I sort my email and 
check out my newsgroups, including ASSC. There's an incredible post by RJ about 
his "tallow tour." I am briefly reminded of my dream, but the bad feeling doesn't last. 
I curl up with the latest New Yorker and nod off. I sleep like a baby.

SubSonic