His illness is not my illness, and so I did not think it was my story to tell. But the illness is a third party in our relationship. I have been in a relationship with the illness for eleven years. So in this way, perhaps, it is my story too. In the past, my husband has said that he would prefer not to be a subject of my writing. But he has also said that he would never want to censor me. He says, Do what you need to do for art.
He said, just make sure you give me a really big penis. He also asked that I change his name to Ron Jeremy, so that he may have some autonomy—some distance—from this essay. Ron Jeremy felt like family from the first time we met. He was warmer, funnier, more neurotic and verbose than any of them. He had read more books than all of them combined. He called himself a custodian of words. He was menschy. The first thing I ever said to Ron Jeremy was, Shut up this is my game.
The party was called Drinkers with Writing Problems. Ron Jeremy had come with a friend of a friend to meet girls. He met me. Ron Jeremy says that he took one look at me and knew I was the sexually liberated Jewish girl of his dreams.
Twenty minutes after we met, we made out in a photo booth. But before I kissed him, I told him he had to take me on a real date the next day. The following afternoon we went to the Second Avenue Deli. It was still on Second Avenue then, and not yet a bank. Afterward, we sat on a bench with the pigeons pooping around us and kissed. I felt safe with him, also excited.
He had impeccable taste in music and books, and a lot of integrity when it came to bullshit. Also, he was ten years older than me. For a man and woman, this put us at the same maturity level. Ron Jeremy told me that he would be going to Paris for ten days.
