There is a piece of "reported fiction" in this month's Esquire on the last days of Heath Ledger. The magazine doesn't tell you what's based on fact and what's based on the writer's media-fueled assumptions and celebrity-industrial-complex-educated guesses about how it went down, but it sort of invites you to guess. Fun game! So: in the story, Jack Nicholson belches like a pirate and tells him to forget about his art, "kid," and Mary-Kate Olsen is a creature of quiet and hidden strength who says deep things about how all her great longings and defense mechanisms stem from the fact that she was born "half of something," and sex with Michelle was "like we melted into each other's skin, like she was pouring her body inside of mine and I would hold her inside of me, so that when we wanted to make love all I had to do was wiggle my waist," and he wore that ski mask to the Beatrice Inn simply because "that's the kind of shit you can get away with when you're a celebrity. You can go out there in a fucking ski mask and you can still get laid." Um, sounds plausible!
He takes a girl home from Beatrice Inn, only to get pissed off the girl is too caught up in the moment's future value as an anecdote to be there, in the present, enjoying it with him.
I think about the show she is putting on, and I get so worked up that when we finally get to bed, I can't get it up.
That's okay, she coos in my ear. That's okay. We have our whole future for that. Just hold me.
This girl in my bed, her body is dynamite, a buttermilk ass that would win an award and a back that arches sweetly against my waist and a torso like a rocking horse. It is a body meant to be fucked, but she doesn't even care that I can't, and wouldn't at this point even if I could. She is not in bed with my soul, she is not even in bed with my body.
She's in bed with my ski mask.
The Last Days Of Heath Ledger [Esquire]