Lining the tub were many bottles of soap, some with masculine labeling that smelled like expensive men, others in pink and purple bottles with pictures of lilacs and roses that smelled like Madison Avenue. I soaped up one leg with the man stuff and one leg with the woman stuff, thinking seriously about my bisexuality, and then more seriously about the book Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides, and then the most seriously about the episode of House where the supermodel teen who is being raped by her daddy manager has Androgen Insensitivity Syndrome and Dr. House is a huge dick about it at the end, as always, because some things do stay the same, like narrative structure on a successful television series. Then I think about the other Eugenides book I read in college called The Married Man, so I pick the fancy man smelling soap to wash my hair with because that’s what a gay American expat in Paris would do. But then I think about Paris, which makes me think about James Baldwin, which makes me think about Giovanni, poor Giovanni and his room, and then I’m back thinking about the military history of black Americans.
I get out to dry myself off and then I turn on the TV and put on some shit like Gilmore Girls. Let those tall broads be the ones to think and talk too fast for once.