where were you when you heard david bowie died? me, i was balls deep in a lady, balls deep i say, and i know if bowie heard that he would laugh and appreciate it, i just know it. bowie was a cool guy but a little weird, yeah, so i’d just be like, “hey bowie, i was balls deep in a lady when you died!” and he would laugh and laugh. it would be great. he might not understand what “balls deep” meant at first, maybe he’d cock his head a bit to the side and say, “what do you mean?” and i’d have to explain it in more detail. “i was having sex with a beautiful woman,” i’d say, and he’d nod and take a drag of his cigarette, looking me up and down. “i know,” he’d say with a wry smile. “i was being willfully obtuse.” and then, a flicker in his eyes and i’d feel a strange feeling in my gut, like … am i attracted to this guy? no, of course not, i’m a healthy heterosexual male, and yet … he glides over to me like a lithe vampire, perches next to me, his face close to mine. “how did it feel?” he asks, with his iconic vocal cadence. he smells like scotch and cigarettes, his eyes are slightly milky, he’s older, but still piercing and gorgeous. he’s got that long slicked back blonde hair like the “let’s dance” era, the 80s, the riches, the overabundance, and he is so cool, just so … thoughtlessly cool, a man so confident about himself that you can’t help but fall in love with him, because you’ll never be like that, you’ll always worry about bills and your love life and sex and–then i say, “it felt good.” “how good?” “really good.” and he’s close now, his thin pink lips hovering just beside my left ear, his hot breath tickling the hairs on the side of my face. “was it better than the best fuck you’ve ever had?” he asks, and i nod, and he whispers, “good.” “there’s nothing more liberating than a good fuck with a beautiful woman,” he says, and that’s it. he stands up and walks out, leaving a scotch class with a sip left on the end table.