“You wanna dream about cowboys?” I said, and they yeehawed at Mary while I grabbed handkerchiefs from our room, one red, one blue. When I tied them over their noses, the boys held so still they barely breathed. Then their hands turned hard and they shot up the room, rodeoed ‘til the bedsprings whined under their bucking. Last thing we saw before I switched out the light was the lipless shadow in each of their mouths as they sucked their bandanas in and out, in and out.
I want to be clear from the outset that Mike Tyson is not responsible for my suicide. He’s got enough demons of his own without me adding to his burden. It’s true that for a while there I got pretty obsessed by him and spent my evenings split between masturbating and watching clips of him on YouTube. These two activities were not related.