He was wearing sandals.

I smiled.

My very famous client was plainly trying to feel the earth, to root himself in something other, something yonder, and so when he then slipped off his sandals and laid bare feet upon my Persian, I decided then I would punish him for playing with chaos.

Talking about sex with certain men, idiot men, requires one to speak first of love and so it was I cajoled my idiot famous out of his vainglorious reverie and into the detail. And he came up with pearls. The week preceding I was convinced of the homoerotic in very famous and today he presented me with a tableaux that reminded me, first, of the Mapplethorpe in my kitchen and then of the 19th century Japanese in the hallway. He spoke of penetrating a nameless women in the missionary position while she, head thrown back, fellated his dear friend. He gestured to dismiss this as the orgiastic times of any touring band. And yet, it was two small details that had me almost levitate with delight. The first was the positioning of his friend (surely the drummer) who was standing over them and the second, the clincher, was the bottle of vodka from which, mid coitus, my client would merrily swig. I decided the neck of the bottle was plainly a phallic displacement and kindly enquired after his dear friend, the drummer. He's married. He's married with three children. And on that defensive, but definitive note, I got bored and began to consider the polymorphous perversity of the infant and the regression of celebrity and drifted from there to thoughts of George in his kitchen and from there to a complete understanding of what I would be eating tonight, and the manner in which I would cook it.