He had banana-colored hair and a banana-shaped face and a banana shaped-chest and a banana-shaped dick and the skateboard he rode was also like a banana and the birthmark on the side of his neck was almost a banana but more like a plum. I didn’t like him, and he didn’t like me, but he wanted to know if there was truth to the rumor that we had an orgy house.

It was summer and we had time. I lived with my boyfriend Fabio on the first floor of a rundown Victorian. He drank and worked in a bookstore, in that order. He drummed and smoked handrolled Drum cigarettes. 

“I don’t know why anyone would want to talk to him,” my ex said to me a year before. “He is always stoned, who knows what other drugs he’s on. He’s also bisexual. I saw him with his arm around a man from Africa. He might have aids from Africa!” 

I wasn’t expecting to be with Fabio intimately but I had a dream one night that we ate an enormous pot of curry and made love. So I duplicated the dream, and everything after this made sense.

We had sex, so much sex that people started to show up at the house to be a part of our sex. We spent more hours of a week having sex than working or eating or sleeping. There were noises I’d never made before. We could be motionless, feel a yellow tide of euphoria wash over our bodies. At times we moved outside of our skins and floated in a throbbing ether. Sex was our religion. 

Men and women joined us and some could cut it and some sulked in corners and there was a blonde with nipples as wide as flying saucers and thighs on top of her thighs.

Banana Boy came along after a number of boys. We drank wine with Banana Boy until the night we knew he wanted more. 

It was midnight and he still hadn’t left. The candles were lit in a kitchen coated with bean drippings and spilled wine and my boyfriend got out an album he bought at a garage sale. Two explorers on the cover crossed a desert and every sand dune was part of a naked woman whose body went on to the horizon.

Fabio played the album. It was called Pleasure Signals. It was awful, a jazz-fusion that galloped and had cowbells and sax solos that sagged like tattered lace. 

We lit candles. Fabio got out the dagger. He slit his wrist and made a pile on the kitchen floor of candle wax and his blood and rich red wine and handed the hunting knife to me to do the same.

I wiped the blade and pricked the tip of my finger. I added a single drop to the mound of candle wax and blood. I handed the knife to Banana Boy and he looked at it and paused. 

Fabio chanted “Plea-sure signals, plea-sure signals,” and I joined him.

As we chanted, Banana Boy made the cut.

Then we went to the bed and we fucked until dawn but Fabio was upset because Banana Boy only wanted me and Banana Boy left before the sun got too high in the sky.

We didn’t see him for weeks, but the rumors got back to us. Banana Boy thought we were evil wizards. We had put a spell on him. For weeks he could not go to his classes. He broke down in tears to his girlfriend, and we ended up acting excessively nice to him to get him to calm down. 

I will never forget the afternoon where we went to a bongo drum store with Banana Boy and roamed around aimlessly caressing the dead skins stretched on wood, dead skins, caress, caress, a gentle tap, until Banana Boy decided we were kind of innocent after all, in the light of day in a bongo drum store while a man in a Rasta hat played Bob Marley on a stereo as if there was a first time for everything. 

I regret going to the bongo store to make the boy who felt I was an evil sex wizard feel better. Wizards live without regrets, therefore I am not a wizard.