Skid Roche

I stalk the apartment — back and forth, back and forth like a caged animal, talking to myself, snarling and gnashing my teeth and uttering empty profanities and half-hearted blasphemies, but at least I say them with feeling. I page through meaningless porno mags, searching for the pose which will finally turn my crank. I turn on the television and flip from channel to channel, searching for the faintest hint of frontal nudity — perhaps an episode of Baywatch, a lurid 90210 rerun, maybe an old Silk Stalkings, the old ones with the cute detectives. I feel like going out to rent a porn video but fear I would have a nervous breakdown in a little back room surrounded by grinning bimbos laughing at me from the shelves. Instead, I lay there very quiet hoping my downstairs neighbors will start fucking. I look out the window hoping to see someone changing. I page through a tattered copy of Vanity Fair searching desperately for perfume ads.

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