I.

Dylan once stole my girlfriend. There’s a name for people that do that: Assholes. She was my girlfriend because we’d had sex in the shower and I’d memorized her phone number. She was short and round, but cute in her pudgy face. Susan. Just about the time I’d gotten her number down,  I walked into Dylan’s room, his door was never locked, and there they were: post-coital, naked and asleep above the sheets. Their tangled legs a stark confession. It was past two am, but I had no trouble finding guys on the floor—most were drunk and/or stoned, playing Playstation and listening to Pink Floyd—and they were more than accommodating when I asked them to urinate in the bucket I’d appropriated from the maintenance closet. With bucket full, warm and sloshing back and forth as I lumbered down the linoleum hall, I snuck back into Dylan’s room.

He didn’t seem all that surprised. He just sat up slowly and smelled his hand. Susan, however, took off screaming down the bright hall towards the stairwell like her ass was aflame. Her hair pasted to her head and shoulders. Her breasts a-flapping. Her feet a-slapping.

II.

Dylan’s a giant. Nude in a green pasture. The surrounding sycamores are dwarfed by the size of his fingers. A thick Churchill cigar, alight and a-burning, where his penis should be. The cigar puffs when he inhales, filling the sky with yellow, tar-ridden clouds. Spinning at the base of the cigar, among bushy curls, is a carousel. The carousel doesn’t spin with horses but with women. Frozen mid-leap. Naked and glazed with enamel. Revolving and revolving while accordion music plays. Susan’s face is on one of the women and many of my ex-girlfriends turn round the base of Dylan’s penis-cigar carousel. All frozen with mouths agape and eyes rolled in orgasmic rush. I awake in the middle of a mute dream-scream, where I yell but no sound comes, after one of the faces belongs to my mom.