“The lunar eclipse is this Saturday, Eddie, and my friend is having a naked party,” she said on the phone. Tara’s father was a famous musician from England, which made Tara a socialite. Once, her British rock star father and I sniffed cocaine off a skull key in the bathroom of Dublin’s. Everyone knew about it, and my popularity skyrocketed as a result.
“Is Manson going to be at this one?” I hoped the answer would be yes. At the last party I had gone to with Tara, a Tuesday night thing, the goth musician Marilyn Manson had left an impression on me. It was in regards to a joke he had made about men and women who stare at their own fecal matter. According to Marilyn Manson, doing so was a characteristic of homosexuality. I had this nagging feeling in the back of my head, secretly wondering if the reason I got bored while having sex with Rachel had something to do with the fact that once or twice I had stared at my own poop.
“No clue if Marilyn is going to be there, Eddie,” said Tara in that drowsy affectation of hers. She was on first name basis with hordes of celebrities. And she was asexual. “But you still want to have an orgy, right?”