Winter 2001. The motel room was freezing. He said he’s a banker and lived in the suburbs. I said okay. He asked what I’m into. I don’t know. C’mon, he begged, I know all about you. No you don’t, I replied. Finally, after harassing me I admitted my fantasy. It can’t ever happen in real life, so it doesn’t matter. I tried explaining the video game boys to him. Who cares, it was all kid shit to him anyways. He was preocccupied loosening his tie when I tell him about Cloud, a beautiful blond boy, and Link, a beautiful blond elf, fucking and climaxing together as the Twin Towers disintegrate. The man touched me. I elaborate: Cloud and Link are giant, World Trade Center-sized themselves, and the planes are pests to a flame. The voyeur in me likes the atrocity and destruction. They suck and fuck. Cloud and Link can’t be anywhere else because 9/11 can’t happen without them. This is the logic. Since then, I’ve been collecting newspapers with good pictures to imagine every position from all angles. This really happened, I told the banker, because I remembered precisely like that.