8 July 2014

Stanya Kahn also writes fiction

When Nanette comes over and suggests I put both my hands in both her holes, well duh. Absolutely. What could be more appropriate.

It’s a mystery, a miracle. There’s grease and one and then two, three and four. And then your knuckles just pop right in. It’s nuts. I have no hands. I’ve got a French lady instead. Edward Ladyhands. And the inside of her is so hot and I’m so high, I’m a ball in a socket wired into a natural power source called Nanette. I’m disappearing, I’m pure static electricity, just a mass of subatomic particles. I’m William Hurt in altered states, a throbbing blob in the hallway. I can feel my two hands touching each other across the thin membrane that separates her holes and it’s the people side by side, all of us all together.

Stanya Kahn, Let The Good Times Roll

LA is hot as hell in the summer. Hot as blazes they say, hot as the devil’s a-hole. Dry and vibrating, the air as stinking yellow and brown as the dusty hills. We have AC in the bedroom, but sometimes I can’t sleep at all. I lie awake clicking and ticking and not slowing down. And usually it’s a mistake to watch reality shows before bed. Because then each time I move my leg or roll over, the rest of the team has to decide if that was a good move or should I be voted off. I shift back trying to hold my place in the line-up. I’m doing all the competitions at once: American idol, So You Think You Can Dance, So You Wanna Be a Hilton, Fear Factor/Couples Extreme. I like the show where you try to get fired. One girl took her shoes and socks off in a swanky clothing boutique and sat on the floor chatting on her cell phone, telling her friends how boring and stupid her new job was. The other staff huddled around the cash register whispering about the awful new girl but they still waited til 2:30 to fire her, that’s how dumb they were. The girl won $25,000.

Stanya Kahn, Hell

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