Really? We were in the same place at the same time, that’s all. There were other people around. I must have been younger because I felt like I used to, not like I do now—I was more malleable, insecure, attractive. I had not yet found my big sword. He didn’t have an accent. All of a sudden he pulled me up against him and kissed me like he cared, and then whispered in my ear, “I’ve grown to love you very fast.”
BLECH! (Hang on, I have to take a cheese grater to my tongue—scrap, scrap, scrap, ow!)—and spray the area with insecticide. How do you get this damn button to work? Oh, there. Sphish-sphish-sphiiiiish.) I won’t describe his body because it’s not fair. It really wasn’t Arnold. I’m sure his body is nothing like a soft mattress with one yucky lump.
Anyway, when I interviewed Arnold in the nineties, he said he liked my boots. And it’s true: they were really nice, expensive, brown suede ropers from Bergdorf Goodman. The thing was, though, that I’d read a bunch of interviews other writers had done with him before I went to see him, and in them, he complimented the writer on something about their appearance. So it was his PR move; or maybe it was his chick move, I don’t know. His facade, in any case, was seamless—it was meant to be charming, but instead, at least for me, was gruesome. (It didn’t help that he was orange.) I just don’t find inauthenticity attractive.
I’ve grown to love you very fast. Poor Arnold. Poor Deitch.