Arthur Graham’s Reviews > Sensitive Skin: Selected Writing: 2016-2018 > Status Update

On the morning of my Bar Mitzvah—
the Jewish ceremony when a thirteen
year old boy becomes a man—
I jumped out of bed, ran
into the bathroom, and locked
the door. I lowered my pajama bottoms,
so I could examine my penis.
Nothing changed. It still looked
like a boy's penis. Why was God
giving me a tough time? If He truly
loved me wouldn't He shorten my nose
and add an extra inch to my penis?

Death
a stranger
we weren't
allowed
to speak to

Hey Rockets, I said, did you hear that Aer Lingus is going to merge with Continental Airlines. It's going to be called Cunnilingus.
Stop it already, he said: The only funny bone you ever had in your body was last night when I had my dick in your ass.

You cook up, tie up, shoot up. The smell of sex fading and the smell of drugs coming on, and you can taste it from your stomach to the back of your throat—it tastes like pleasure and then bam, sweet dreams are made of this, a circus mind that's running wild, butterflies and zebras, fairy tales, Krazy Kats and bing bong bing Ricochet Rabbit Pepe le Pew chasing Penelope Pussycat chasing Speedy Gonzales. Muchos Locos!

Well a molecule of cocaine is so small and so speedy, that nothing impeded its race to the brain. It was the Muggsy Bogues of drugs—it dribbled around any particles blocking it, and was hitting your pleasure centers in 1/12 millionth of a second, but once it got there, it wasn't sticking around too long.

What an arrogant fool I was. Where most people would have found contentment and security, I saw confinement and danger. I was distrustful of her forbearance and unconditional love, the latter of which felt oppressive, with no blame whatsoever on her part. She could not have been more agreeable and less demanding. She wanted to settle in, not down.

None of us had a habit, maybe just a weekend thing. We all thought we could handle it. Half of us will be dead within the decade.

The lady from Craigslist rang my doorbell and I peeked at her through the peephole. She seemed OK. She didn't look like she would murder me over a $45 inkjet printer—although you never know, appearances can be deceiving. I let her in.

Bad music is as dangerous as global warming, worse than the Taliban.

Wheels turned in his head, rusty wheels. As it turned out, they needed only a drop of oil.