Diary of a Viagra Fiend by Jayson Gallaway

Author:Jayson Gallaway
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Publisher: Atria Books

A Spy in the House of Love

“You still haven’t paid me for that nudist nightmare in Nevada yet!”

“Give us a couple of weeks. You’ll get your money.”

“And that’s when I’ll do another story for you. In the meantime, you can kiss my squirrel.”

“But we need this story for the next issue, the ‘Spring Fever’ issue. Our investors are going to be making their decision about the funding based on what they see. And, they want to see naked girls and stories about sex. With girls. Sex with naked girls.”

“No way. Forget it.”

“But, you don’t even know what the assignment is yet.”

“Are you deaf? It doesn’t matter what the assignment is. My rent is due, you pimp!”

“Listen, Jayson, I’m begging you. Please. We need this.”

“We don’t need shit. I need my money, and you need a kick in the ass with a really pointy shoe.”

“That’s fair. That’s fair. I deserve that. You’re right. You are absolutely right. We’ll just figure something out . . .”

“Your guilt means nothing to me. I have no capacity for guilt. I am without conscience. But that is not your concern. What is of your concern is that I am also very much without any money.”

“Have you ever thought perhaps one might have to do with the other: no guilt, no money?”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Never mind. Too much pot. Listen . . . three hundred dollars. Up front. Cash. Today.”

“No. Forget it. Save your fetid breath. I am not going anywhere until I get paid for that insipid Nevada nightmare. That was supposed to be my summer vacation, you know? I’m not going anywhere anymore for you.”

I hear the click of a lighter and the deep draw of breath as if through a pipe. He then speaks in that weird strained stoner tone without exhaling:

“Not even to a sex club?”

“No, not even to . . . a . . . did you say sex club?”

He exhales hugely.

“Bet your ass. An amazing sex club.”

“Horseshit. Sex clubs are shams. Money-making shams.”

“Not this one. This one is the real deal. At least, that’s what everybody says. Only you can judge. That’s why you have to go.”

“Four hundred dollars. Cash. Today. Right now.”

“Done. Two thousand words.”

“I hate you.”

“Come get your money, go to the club, spend the night, do what you do, and pound out a story by Monday.”

“What the hell does that mean . . . ‘do what you do’? What exactly do I do?”

“Are you saying you don’t know what you’re doing?”

“Eat a bag of fuck, you pathetic hesher.”

“See you soon. Hurry up; one of our advertisers paid for this month’s space with a 10-foot bong, and I want to try it out. I need someone to light it.”

I was screwed yet again. Forced into literary prostitution for survival by Reality and an unscrupulous editorial pimp whose largest piece of office equipment was now a water pipe. Fine. I’ll go to this club. The Antichrist knew I had no choice. It was either sit in my

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