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by MALE AMATEUR 7 months ago in taboo · updated 3 months ago
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The Art of Loving

Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash

“I was born here," Pierce says. "I love my country. I am better than you. You’re nothing.”

“You’re right. I'm just a mere earthling. Sorry. If you would allow me to exercise my right to free speech . . .”

“Is that still allowed?”

“Thank you. A ghost is menacing the world," Marcus begins, "the ghost of homosexuality. Many leaders have, wittingly or unwittingly, supported laws and behaviors that have marginalized and persecuted homosexuality—sometimes violently, sometimes not—as part of a societal scapegoating of one or more instances of immorality (objective or subjective)." Marcus continues, “Name the political enemy that has never been criticized for being immoral, depraved, lazy, crazy, or greedy. Likewise, the political enemy that has been campaigned against in such a fashion retorts with similar accusations pertaining to their critic’s immorality, selfishness, eccentricity, weakness or temerity.

“Here is a list of six potential conclusions, effects, and by-products of hyperpartisan moral warfare:

1. Evil, greed, immorality, and sin are tacitly and explicitly recognized as realities of human life.

2. Universal moral norms and prejudices exist with or without religion.

3. The simplistic extremes of a moral or social issue may at times become more attractive to people, although not necessarily all or most of the time.

4. One or more popular, unified perspectives on moral and political or economic issues may become a dominant moral paradigm in a nation or the entire world.

5. Collectivist political groups may become more obsessed with what they are opposed to than what they actually stand for.

6. The most extreme results of such a moral and political conflict are revolutions, civil wars, and dictatorships.”

Marcus continues, “So how can we wake up? Is Simulation Theory an attempt to wake people up or brainwash them? How can a theory that claims to be rooted in intellectual speculation have a bad effect on us? Maybe it is the truth; maybe it’s not. Or perhaps excessive information and automatization in a brief span of time (relative to the totality of human evolution and history)—maybe that’s what’s driving all of us insane—”

Pierce shouts, “Wow, that sounds like you plagiarized the Socialist Constitution. Or maybe the Miscreant Manifesto.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You’re a traitor, a scoundrel, a shyster. Maybe you could’ve done something good for society! You obviously became a tool.”

“People want the Simulation to end. They’re tired of suffering.”

“Shut the fuck up, man! You definitely work for those fascist extraterrestrials. Who want to be gods,” Pierce adds abruptly.

“I’m the only one who can—”

“Go back home and stay put!”

“I’m guilty of nothing but evil in this world," Marcus says.

“Wow, it took a while, but you eventually said something I agree with!” He laughs and then asks, “What would you say if I were to clone Woodrow Wilson?”

“I’d say it’s already happened.” Marcus begins to run through the eerie corridors like a dog who prefers the exhilirating freedom of the outside world to the humiliating and claustrophobic doghouse provided free of charge by an abusive owner. He walks through the deserted mall, oblivious to his heart’s metamorphosis. A mauve-green nimbus encircles the full moon, which can be seen through the transparent crystal pyramid that encloses the mall. Millions of dim stars are covered with ephemeral blinding cloaks of gaudy urban lights: enemies of the heavenly. The flock of students are sauntering through the mall after the test. When Marcus sees them, he is painfully reminded of his embarrassing behavior. He wants to apologize, but before he is able to steel himself in order to apologize to us, a voice from the crowd shouts, “Be afraid!”

Marcus says nothing. With his shoulders hunched and eyes lowered, Marcus turns away from them and walks towards the elevator. Sadie eyes him with a pitying expression. She is overcome by an inexplicable desire to talk to him—this stranger who seems so unusual and different. She finds it hard to resist the desire to confront Marcus, and by doing so, to resolve her doubts and justify her perspective. She is adored by the other students, she is the girlfriend of the famous social theorist Pierce Lazarus, she’s popular—why should she risk losing all of that because of a complete stranger?

The students are jeering at him and calling him names. Pacing like a caged animal, Marcus continues to wait for the elevator and distracts himself with his thoughts. He even quietly talks to himself at times. Sadie continues walking with the others outside the mall, yet at some point lies and says that she forgot something in the classroom and that she will return home by herself.

She traces her steps, like stale breadcrumbs, back to the elevator. Marcus is still there, waiting.

“You’re still here?”

“I guess it doesn’t work at night,” he says.

“I guess not . . . Do you want to know a secret?”

“What is it?”

“I have a key that works for everything in this mall.”

“Really? Who gave it to you?” Marcus asks.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you . . . A homeless woman gave it to me. She said that she used to work for a secret organization that made predictions and plans regarding which nations will build atomic bombs in the future. I guess she lost her mind. The pretty tramp approached me on the street one morning and said, ‘I want to ask you a question.’ I wasn’t sure what to say; her eyes were scary. She must have been consumed by a thirst I couldn’t understand. Her question was, ‘Do you think Canada will ever have its own nuclear weapons?’ I was kind of taken aback, and I just blurted out, ‘I hope not’; although, come to think of it, it might not be such a bad idea after all. She said, ‘Yes, Canada will have its own nuclear weapons when it becomes an even richer nation than it already is.’ She said that all of this would happen ‘before the year 2033.’ She also asked me for change, and I gave her a five-dollar bill. And then she kept harassing and following me, pleading, ‘Could you please look in your purse to see if you have any more change or cash?’ I thought to myself, ‘What a bizarre, bug-eyed bum. I’m barely scraping by on my minimum wage job and she wants more money to finance her addiction.’ And that’s when she told me about this key she had, and that all I had to do was give her a little bit more cash and it would be mine to keep. So I gave her a ten-dollar bill and the rest is history . . .”

“So you never knew about this place before she gave you the key,” Marcus observes.

“No, I was a loser. I refused to watch the movie Zero Dark Thirty because I thought it was an American propaganda movie, and now it’s one of my favorite movies. I used to believe that we live in a really weird time; and I felt so good about myself when I told people that I never voted for those ‘racist, evil conservatives.’ When they were in power, I didn’t believe in democracy and I didn’t believe that my government represented me. I would get really angry whenever I thought about it. I felt we needed a revolution, but I never really did anything.”

“So I guess you were kind of like me in a way."

“Yeah, I guess," Sadie says. "Unlike you, I was born here; yet I was more like a stereotypical Eastern European immigrant than a proud patriot. I don’t know what would have happened to me if that homeless lady didn’t sell me that key which ultimately led me to Pierce Lazarus . . . Oh, speak of the devil, my boyfriend’s here.”

Pierce walks toward the elevator. “I’m back. What are you doing talking to Mark-Ass?”

“His name is Marcus,” Sadie replies. “I just wanted to find out if he could explain his behavior in class today.”

“Are you nuts? We’re on the brink of nuclear war with both Pussea and Penia, while you’re here chatting it up with this lunatic dissident.” Pierce turns and glares at Marcus. “Let me tell you something, you’re transparent to me, you neurotic f****t. Look, I don’t care about whatever problems you might have: paranoid schizophrenia, self-loathing, childhood abuse, mental illness . . . It's not my problem.”

Marcus, who is paralyzed by fear and shame, tries to look up at Pierce and Sadie.


“Yeah . . . yes, I do,” Marcus awkwardly stammers.

“Good.” Pierce smiles and turns to Sadie. “So what are we doing standing around here?”

“Marcus wants to take the elevator.”

“And you have to help him because—?”

“Because I think he could use a trip in the elevator, don’t you? Something to mellow him out.”

Pierce laughs. Sadie presses a code which opens up a special lock that she inserts the key into. The elevator door opens. Pierce is the first one in the elevator, followed by Sadie, and then Marcus.

Pierce puts his arms around Sadie and kisses her. “Why do we keep doing this? We just keep repeating the same story,” Pierce says. “I’m getting off at the twenty-second floor this time.”

Sadie places her right hand on the crotch of Pierce’s denim blue jeans.

Slightly confused and bewildered, Marcus observes them.

“You know, the proletariat built the Pyramids,” Pierce says, “but they didn’t have it that bad.”

Sadie starts to unbutton Pierce's shirt.

“The working class were given breaks, you know,” Pierce continues. “Sure, they were whipped from time to time—maybe they were into that kind of thing.” He takes off Sadie’s shirt and unclasps her bra.

“Is that your philosophy?” she asks.

“I’ll show you what my philosophy is,” Pierce says as he brings his lips to Sadie’s naked right breast. He sucks on her nipple and caresses her. He worships her body with his tongue. They’re both completely naked now.

Marcus, who’s presumably never been in a situation like this, has no idea what to do; and in an effort to defuse his anxiety he randomly presses a button in the elevator, and the elevator starts to go up. At first, Sadie and Pierce fail to notice that the elevator is moving, caught up as they are in their blissful love-making; yet once they realize what’s happening, they immediately turn their attention to Marcus.

Pierce uses his saliva to lubricate Sadie's vagina with his finger, and says, “Marcus, come and join us. What are you waiting for?”

Marcus hesitates for a couple of moments. “What should I do?”

“Just take your clothes off and start jerking off until you get a boner.”

Sadie’s on top of Pierce and his hard dick is blissfully sheltered inside her. “I want to feel both of you inside my pussy,” she says as she points to a bottle of lube on the floor.

With the help of some lube, Marcus gently slides his fully erect dick into her welcoming vagina. Marcus has never experienced sex with a woman, and this is his first time as a participant in a vaginal, double-entry ménage à trois (i.e. double vaginal penetration). Their two penises touch and grind against each other inside her slippery inner sanctum.

Their three bodies are merged in a union of ecstatic bliss, each movement giving rise to a tidal wave of seemingly infinite pleasure. Sadie moans and roars triumphantly. “Oh, this feels so much better than the last time!!”

Marcus is trying to breathe slower and not get too excited; he doesn’t want to shoot his load too soon.

The elevator continues its relentless upward trajectory as it climbs through the many floors of the multi-story building: the twentieth floor . . . . the twenty-fifth . . . . the thirtieth . . . . thirty-third . . . . ninety-sixth . . . . And suddenly all three of them are overcome by a collective, earth-shattering orgasm, with Marcus and Pierce moaning and coming at exactly the same time, and Sadie, overwhelmed by her own life-affirming orgasm, letting out a loud moan of carnal pleasure and joy.

Marcus is the first to speak postcoitally: “The most beautiful people in the world are Polish.”

“South Asians are the most beautiful,” Sadie says.

“The hottest humans on the planet are center-left,” Pierce yells.

The elevator doors open. Agrafiena Lenina shouts, “You there, don’t you dare say another word!” She walks inside the elevator. They stand up, utterly naked and afraid. “I’m not a communist!” Agrafiena exclaims. They quickly get dressed as she attempts to lecture them: “Many men are lower than animals. Hitler, Stalin, Lenin were not just subhuman; they were subanimal. You are all spitting on my temple—Mother Earth—with your fornication, your orgies.”

“Why are you here?” Pierce brazenly questions her.

“Don’t worry. I've already paid for my training in becoming a spiritual warrior.”

As Agrafiena walks away, Marcus blows her a kiss and yells, “Live, my love! You’re a warrior on welfare.”

Now, Reader, if you were there to see what was going on in that elevator, you would witness a strange phenomenon that has never been recorded in our history. Their lives are playing at hyperspeed like a movie being fast-forwarded seamlessly. Sadie gets a positive result on a pregnancy test, and believing that she's probably pregnant with Pierce’s baby, she spends more time kissing Pierce and having sex with Pierce, with vaginal double-dicking threesomes becoming a thing of the past. After Sadie's abdomen fails to expand, a female African clawed frog hops into the elevator from the open drain; and Pierce collects Sadie's urine in a syringe which he injects into the unfortunate frog's back; and since the frog never lays even a single egg, the barren prosaic truth is finally revealed, while Marcus spends more time by himself, completely ignored by the miserable Sadie and Pierce. At some point, she is upset and wants Marcus out of the elevator, yet not before Pierce takes pity on him and engages in a final, climactic act of cockrubbing, with Marcus's penis perfectly aligned against Pierce’s—their beautiful phalli like two obelisks pressed tightly together in a masculine and spiritual merging of twin spirits. She watches and touches herself. Once the elevator reaches the two hundredth floor, Marcus and Pierce moan loudly and shoot their loads simultaneously. Marcus picks up his clothes and leaves the elevator, while Sadie and Pierce remain in it completely naked after their own individual orgasms.

The elevator door closes and Marcus starts crying while putting his clothes back on. “No one ever truly loved me,” Marcus tells himself. His tears are as salty and delicious as the semen bathing his hairy belly. “I’m a loser, a nobody, a barbarian, a despot. I’m disgusting, a demonic psychopathic piece of crap, a sterile talentless error of nature that should never have been born or conceived. I wanted Pierce to love me . . . That was selfish of me . . . Nobody can love me the way I am.”

Marcus walks through the candle-lit corridors of the two hundredth floor until he finds the stairwell door, which requires all of his strength to push open. He climbs ten flights of stairs to the two hundred tenth floor. When he opens the door to the two hundred tenth floor, he finds himself standing inside an ornate marble balcony with a fig tree and climbs onto the ledge and stares down into the abyss to the lowest level of Pyramid Beta. He sees Sadie and Pierce making out on the floor. Something seems to change in Marcus’s eyes and the expression of his face—it’s like he’s become a completely different person. He yells, “I’m going to jump!”

Sadie and Pierce stop and look up. No shock seems to register on their faces, and they resume making out. “I’m not lying; I will do it! Death before dishonor!”

Unbeknownst to him, two Aboriginal women are walking toward him as he stands on the balcony ledge and shouts like a madman. The two Aboriginal women are dressed in traditional yet distinctive dance regalia: eagle feather headdresses, ruby red and azure dresses and blankets woven from cedar and grass, coyote brown buffalo-leather leggings, and deerskin moccasins.

“Slender man, do you really want to die?” the woman dressed in the ruby red dress and regalia addresses Marcus.

“I don’t know. I just want to be free from all of the pain.”

“So many of our people have been murdered,” says the woman wearing azure. “We were murdered by genocidal bullies. We reside in the spirit world during this transitional time between incarnations. The spirit world—perhaps you call it heaven—that’s where all the supernatural beings and our ancestors also reside. Even in the spirit world, we haven’t given up on the quest for truth and salvation. All of our languages and dead are in the spirit world, and some have survived on the physical plane. Anyone can make a difference in this world; please choose wisely.”

“How can I choose when I don’t know who I am?”

“The ego is an illusion, a distraction; it’s only the beginning of the road.”

“I fear that my ego has more power than my true self, which is hidden, buried, and dying. I don’t feel like I have an ethnic or national identity. Maybe I don’t have any identity. I don’t know where I belong.”

“You belong everywhere and nowhere. What if it's not true that you don’t belong in this world. You can still make a positive difference here if you free yourself from toxic illusions first . . . I was killed by a couple a billion times worse than Pierce and Sadie.”

Almost as if she heard her name mentioned, from the bottom floor Sadie shouts, “Jump! What are you waiting for?”

“I loathe them,” he yaps.

“Me too. You see, the guy, he was a crypto-fascist like Pierce, just much more evil and violent. He told me, ‘You Natives didn’t have it that bad; you just want money from the government,’ and then he raped me. His girlfriend feared that she might have a small fraction of Aboriginal blood running through her veins, yet that’s not the real reason she was so insane and sadistic. She killed me; she slit my throat . . . You should agonize less over how other people see you, even if they’re wrong.”

The woman wearing ruby red says, “I lost myself in the dangerous world of prostitution and drugs. Do you think that the soulless void of technology, pornography, consumerism, and promiscuity is much better? I looked for a sense of validation and recognition in all of the wrong places. I was beautiful and I felt ugly. I was abused in my childhood and then retraumatized by cold and bloodless men who take out their own traumas on the vulnerable, the marginalized and disenfranchised. We were the first ones here; for thousands of years before they arrived on their ships, we were here. Yet to so many of them we’re invisible, faceless objects, non-entities who are conveniently disposable. I was murdered by the millionaire pig man, Robert Pickton. The harsh truth is that he attained fame by becoming a serial killer while I never achieved my dream of becoming a famous singer and lyricist. Money occasionally breeds nothing but boredom and dissatisfaction, especially when one is burdened by trauma. In that case, the seductive illusions of fame or riches can ultimately lead to self-destruction or murder. He can’t enjoy his riches anymore now that he’s in jail; yet was he ever truly able to enjoy them if he resorted to killing people? Don’t think that it’s always better if you’re rich and famous, that you’ll find true love and happiness out there—in other people and cash; materialism may solve some problems, yet spiritual and psychological problems can’t be solved by just popularity or wealth. Amongst the people of every race and ethnicity, at times, there are people who lie, who steal, who manipulate, who retaliate, who bully, who discriminate, who judge, who destroy, and who deny the sufferings and beliefs of others. This is how the world has been and continues to be. The only way to the light is through the dark. When the dark age is over, the new age of enlightenment and human kindness will dawn.”

The woman dressed in azure is skeptical regarding this utopian faith. “No offense, Susan, but I’ll believe it when I see it. Even after my death, I saw a Halloween costume with an anti-Aboriginal, racist slur on the label. Bigots still use this racial slur to insult our people. They ignorantly assume we’re all lazy, crazy drunks and addicts, that we have no higher calling or purpose. And what about all the rapes and murders that are still happening? All the female and male Aboriginal victims of racist predators. Prejudice and racism are thriving nowadays—prejudice and racism directed against many groups of people; and our people are persecuted and scapegoated even more than the mainstream is willing to acknowledge. A lot of people suffer, many feel frustrated or alienated, be they indigenous or immigrant, brown or white. Yet our Aboriginal people represent less than one percent of the population, and it really shows.”

"I'm sorry to hear about all of this. I don't know how to help. I want to be strong. Less sinful.”

“We believe that you’re an unstable guy looking for his bliss. It’s just that you have a lot of bad luck while also making a lot of poor choices and thinking toxic thoughts. You will choose to live and must pursue the Greater Good and not the Evil.”

“I’d like to choose good, yet I fear I’m too sinful and self-centered.”

“You’ll wake up from your confused and troubled slumber soon. Whatever you do, don’t allow your mistakes to eclipse your potential for good.”

Marcus steps off the ledge and turns around to look at the Aboriginal women. For whatever reason, he is unable to see them, and instead finds himself enthralled by a sinfully sexy and gorgeous, young, svelte woman dressed up in a revealing and demeaning Halloween costume. She takes him by the hand and walks him to the elevator. She presses the Ground floor button; it takes eleven seconds for the elevator doors to close.

“Do you think he’s a lost cause?” asks the woman dressed in azure.

Susan takes a moment to reply: “I hope not, but I really don’t know.”

The siren guiding him by the hand is exceedingly beautiful, way more beautiful than Sadie. Sadie and other students are upset that Marcus didn’t kill himself. When Pierce sees this infinitely appealing woman leading Marcus by the hand, he’s awed by her beauty and says something that causes Sadie to slap him. The alluring sorceress, Agrafiena, curses all men in a chaste manner, and no erotic thoughts plague Marcus.

Walking in front of Marcus and holding his left hand in her right, she guides him to another elevator. The buttons in this elevator include “G” for Ground floor, yet there are a lot of other buttons including ‘E’ for Ego, ‘U’ for Unconscious, ‘B’ for Basement, ‘I’ for Id, and the integers 0, -1, -2, -3 . . . . She presses the button ‘I’ and the elevator slowly descends. Marcus and Lenina are both completely silent, and after a few minutes the elevator doors open. The woman walks toward a dark blue hallway on the right.

When Marcus steps out of the elevator, he hears someone say, “There’s so much foreign money keeping this city afloat.” He walks into a room nearby and sees a dark-haired, middle-aged lady talking on the phone. Myra motions to him to sit down on the sofa and quickly wraps up her conversation. “ . . . Good night, Gore.” She puts down the phone.

“Hi. I thought you’d never get here. My name is Myra.” She shakes his right hand.

“I’m Marcus.” He places both of his hands back in his pockets as he looks around the sparsely furnished room with a feeling of anxiety weighing heavily on him. “I don’t even know where here is,” Marcus admits as he takes out a napkin from his pocket, fearing he might burst into tears again.

“No worries,” Myra snickers and smiles. "Don’t worry, my friend. They also cast you out, eh? I’m sure we’re birds of a feather.”

“I’m not sure about that.”

“I am: we’re both fighters and warriors at heart. Please sit down on the couch. I know you tried to kill yourself. Tell me why you attempted suicide.”

“That was not even a tangible attempt; and I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Are you sure?”

“I just cautiously stood on a ledge—that’s all! When I was younger, I even stood up on the brick ledge of the twenty-fourth floor balcony of an apartment I lived in with my Mom.”

“So you just wanted to see if you could conquer your fear.”

“I’m acrophobic. It’s strange that in those moments, I felt like I wasn’t afraid . . .”

“So can you tell me why you’re resorting to extremes again?”

“No, I don’t know.” He frowns and looks down at the beige-carpeted floor.

“You do know, but you’re letting your fear stop you from telling me. Let me tell you a bit about my queer life. You might not believe it, but I’m transgendered. I underwent gender reassignment surgery a few years ago. Before surgery, but after the initial phase in which I questioned my sex, I crossdressed. I could barely find a job, especially while I still possessed my testicles and penis.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Marcus says.

“It’s the truth and truth is sometimes stranger than fiction,” she shouts. "Prior to that I’d a wife—a simple life as a white cisgender male. Until she cheated on me with some physically abusive douchebag. Can you guess why my wife cheated on me?”

“No, I don’t know,” Marcus replies.

“Because she needed to be penetrated by a seven inch cock instead of a six inch dick; that’s why my wife cheated on me. The length and stamina and fullness of a man’s erection determines a lot . . . What did I just say?”

He sits up and shrugs. “I’m not sure,” he says softly and stares at the floor. “She didn’t look like a monster?”

“Marcus, you don’t have to look like a monster to be consumed by a ravenous beast ready to betray anything and anyone.”

“That makes sense. What do you think about the destructive and oppressive cages of genderism, anal ‘sex’, and heterosexualization?”

“What do I think? I think that two of the worst things a person can internalize are criticism and prejudice.”

“I agree in part,” he whispers. “Do you know what one of my phobias is?”

“Tell me,” Myra shouts.

“I don’t know if I’m more afraid of anal ‘sex’ or hell. Or am I more afraid of light and Heaven? I fear I’ll loathe myself, or that I’ll lose my mind. My Mom said that if I try bottoming, I would probably end up in the loony bin. I’m pretty sure I never want to try anal. I hate anal because it’s disrespectful and dangerous.”

“Why don’t you want to do anal," Myra inquires, "especially since you seem like such a stereotypical, sex-obsessed, limp-wristed, cisgender male queer? . . . I’m sorry if I’ve offended you. Sometimes I forget I’m now such a talented, born-again woman who used to be trapped in a man’s body. When I was still a cisgender male, not long after my wife divorced me, I had a boyfriend who’d fuck me in the ass about once a month, and I hardly ever enjoyed it. I don’t know if it was because he wasn’t that great of a lover or because anal just isn’t all that pleasurable for most people . . .”

“Maybe some people enjoy it sometimes," Marcus acknowledges. "But, understand, sometimes I'm afraid a bad experience might make me crazier than I already am. And there are many alternatives to anal: frottage or genital-genital rubbing, mutual masturbation, oral, and all kinds of sex positions that involve penile-penile sex and men rubbing against each other’s bodies. Lubricant can still help; and with those alternatives I mentioned, you don’t have to worry about anal fissures or even STD’s (like HIV or Hepatitis C) so much.”

“Unfortunately, I never tried frot when I still had my penis. Oh well.”

“Maybe you should take a look at some frot porn," Marcus suggests. "Analism is just one more capitalist, bullying tactic."

“You're talking about the rampant Ayn Rand neoliberalism? Anyway, I can’t tell if you’re more conflicted about frot or anal or both. This obsession with anal—you’re clearly troubled by it. You unconsciously seek to answer the question, ‘Why is a dog a dog?’ Are you a hopeless idealist searching for answers that could help people?”

Marcus grunts obscenely and howls.

“I do understand," Myra says. "I’ve been bullied by ‘liberal-in-name-only’ fascists, hypocrites, and socialists more times than I can count. They wanted to detract attention from their prejudices, ignorance, and privilege by making me out to be some sort of spiteful Frankenstein. Yet, at the end of the day, it was these same kind of pseudoliberal, chauvinistic hypocrites who helped finance a lot of my post-operative reconstructive surgery, including facial reconstruction to make me look more feminine. I received plenty of donations, while an Indigenous trans woman who tried to do the same got nowhere. The truth is that, especially for gay and trans people, we still live in a racist world. Of course, that doesn’t mean that white people always have it much better, especially if they’re immigrants with troubled family backgrounds or feel very alienated somehow. The truth is that there are plenty of people of color who are happier than white people. Now, let’s party!” Myra turns the stereo on and PJ Harvey’s record Rid of Me starts playing. “I found you someone. Is it time to have sex?”


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