I still think about him. You know, my ex-boyfriend, four-star General Norman Paul Schwarzkopf.
It’s hard. I was a civilian, he was a general, leading our troops to victory in the Gulf War. To you, to the public, he was sober, fearless, dedicated, loyal. He delivered those great lines like, “We are going to kick their butts,” and “Anytime, Hussein Baby.”
To me, Norm was love. Huh, he was like the embodiment of love. I have never been as close to someone in my life as I was with him, I swear to God. A lot of people name the name and play the game, mind games, oh I’ll call you phone tag, The Dating Game, The Newlywed Game, the Pajama Game, Match Game … but few people really know what love is, you know? Because Norman was more than a lover, we were like best friends.
We sort of broke up, you know? We just realized that there were a lot of issues that we both had a lot of problems with and had to deal with.
But for a while there, it was pret-ty go-od!
Picture the scene: 1991, we are deep in the Gulf War.
But it’s also the Super Bowl, and the audience, formerly divided and obsessed with their own greedy small selfish concerns, erupts in applause, banded together in patriotism, while Whitney Houston belts out the national anthem. She just sings in her queasily sweet way, in her white hairband and strange wrinkled silk windbreaker warmup outfit and Lady Etonic sneakers. She’s always wearing warmups. Why does she always wear warmups? You’d think if you were Whitney Houston you’d wear something tighter or something.
Oh and we’re killing people in the Middle East.
It’s not huge, but it’s got a lot of girth and has a perfect banana upturn.
But now it’s Super Bowl halftime and they roll out a big gooshy centerpiece float of the American Flag and cute little Seth Williams climbs onto it, in his cute little football outfit, holding a cute little helmet, his blond hair shellacked into its own helmet shape on his head, and he sings his pigeon-breasted heart out: “Did anyone tell you you’re my hero … you are the wind beneath my wings,” and he’s joined by generous, hardworking King of Pop Michael Jackson, who brings with him hundreds of children dressed in various costumes representing the children of the world. And they join little Seth in the song’s final verses, and the audience once again erupts in applause!
The Gulf War: a Time of Heroism, a Time of Pain, and a Time of Love.
I met Norman through a mutual friend of ours, Defense Secretary James Baker, just by chance. They came in to this art gallery I was working in to look at some paintings, and immediately we felt the fire of lust—that simple.
Okay, I know you’re wondering. It’s cut, of course. It’s not huge, but it’s got a lot of girth and has a perfect banana upturn. But it doesn’t taper off.
God his body is so sexy. Harvey Keitel, Robert Mitchum, Joe Piscopo, John Updike, Jack Palance, Michael Landon, Ron Reagan, Danny Glover, Karl Lagerfeld, Ricardo Montalban, Johnny Weissmuller—thick men, smug men, bigoted fucks with crickety barrel frames, muscles packed on their big beef bouillon bulletproof vest bodies.
Nine and a half months we spent together, the nine and a half months of the Gulf War, so long and wartorn, all of America coming together, riveting and rationing and looking for the union label to save this great country. And I spent those nine and a half months as Norman’s lover, right at his heroic side.
On our first date he took me to his apartment. I sat there very demurely and he opened his closet. He had an entire closet full of those exact tan soupy moonscape desert camouflage leisure suits lined up one after another.
On our second date, he took me to his houseboat and put on this wonderfully sad, sultry music. He told me abruptly to take off my shirt, and then he blindfolded me. I was frightened yet aroused. Clink clink clink, what’s that sound? He was clinking the ice in an old highball glass of whiskey he was drinking. He made me lay down on a table and took an ice cube from the glass and traced it down my body. Oooooh! It was so cold!
On our third date, he took me to Coney Island. We went laughing and skipping down the boardwalk. I had a hat on. He tricked me and put me on the Ferris wheel by myself, and made the operator leave me stuck at the top for an hour. Oh Norman how dare you! I am so angry at you Norman Paul Schwarzkopf!
Tee hee hee! Norman buys me balloons, and we go running across the boardwalk. He wears his long black overcoat.
Ha ha ha! Norman dresses me up in a baggy suit and moustache and we go to an ethnic Italian restaurant, and he grabs my penee under the table!
Ho ho ho! Norman and I go to a market of fruits and vegetables, and he seductively picks out various fruits and holds them!
Hu hu hu! Norman fucks me in a dark alleyway, the rain pouring over us, his big saggy square ass jiggling with every thrust!
I’m at work in the art gallery and I am looking at various slides of various art works we’re thinking of selling in the art gallery, and I can’t get Norman out of my mind so I start masturbating and they begin to flip very very fast and it gets really out of hand!
One time he blindfolds me and takes me into the kitchen and just feeds me different foods … Cherry pie filling … a Vlasic pickle … key lime pie … Oh, a jalapeño pepper! Norman! It’s so spicy!
Norman and I had great sex together. He gave me something that I called “The Sensation.”
Then, suddenly, in the middle of all this, we like won the Gulf War! Norman called me up. I was so excited, oh Norman we won the Gulf War! All right! We did it we won! U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!
He’s totally different. He’s become such a Chelsea Queen.
He told me he needed to see me, so I quickly put on my Brooks Brothers shirt and khaki pants and blue sports coat and blue and orange tie and English Leather. Air Force One sent a helicopter to pick me up and we zoomed over the landscape. “Norman is so psyched to see you!” Jack the Air Force One pilot said. We land in his front yard, and I walk up to the door, he answers it, swinging it open with his big hairy forearms and juicy lovehandles like I remember it.
But something was different. We went for a walk and ended up at a nearby gazebo.
Norman, you’re far away—where are you?
The war is over, he said to me, and it’s time we went our separate ways.
So. Norman and I broke up. Sometimes I see him … at the Roxy or the Big Cup, but he’s totally different. He’s become such a Chelsea Queen. He shaved his chest and wears white tank tops and rolls around on Rollerblades with all his titty tan Chelsea Queen friends.
It’s just, it’s not like…. You know, sometimes I just want to call him up and like tell him he’s a big asshole for doing that to me. I just want to say like, Norman, you don’t treat people that way … there’s like a code that humans exhibit to other humans and that’s what makes us human and you have no idea what the fuck it’s even like to be human, Norman. You are so self-obsessed I don’t even think you know there are other people around besides yourself. All you do is talk about yourself. I don’t think you ever asked me one thing about myself the entire time we were going out. And if you did, it would totally come back to you. Fucker. Can you even discern that there are other objects in the world besides yourself? I don’t think so. You know, I really hope you get your act together, Norman—because the way you are now is just scary.