"[Gaga Stigmata has] very modern, edgy photography to free flowing, urban narratives without censure to analytical essays, et cetera—like Gaga, imagination without ... limits. And the beauty is that anyone can submit work to the site, so artists and writers from all over the [world] have joined this experiment." -The Declaration.org

"Since March 2010, [Gaga Stigmata] has churned out the most intense ongoing critical conversation on [Lady Gaga]."
-Yale's The American Scholar

Thursday, September 23, 2010

The Mall

By Jon Leon



I'm at the mall with Sasha. He's wearing new Marithe + Francois Girbaud jeans held in place with a braided leather belt. The slack tip of his belt is looped twice at the waist and hangs toward his crotch. He's sort of sagging wearing a t-shirt that says Just Do Me above an upside down red swoosh. I'm talking to some babes from out of town in front of a large cardboard display of Lady Gaga and this one girl is like uh hot and kind of slutty enough. She's 16. I'm like Do you want a Fanta, and we go to the food court where I try to finger her a little bit under the table next to Doc Wok's. We go to the multiplex and see a movie starring Megan Fox and I text Sasha "2nd base," kind of high. I lick my lips coming out of the theater into dusk and drop her off at her aunt's duplex. Go home to the exurbs, time out, and tweet forever or never.


I realize I have no people skills when 3 people walk by and I stare at my Nano. They're my family. A song from another era comes on. It's the same song I heard at the mall. The people go inside and rummage through the dishwasher while I listen to tinny beats and vocoder. I think about saying Hi, how was the movie, Did you go to Macaroni Grill? But I go in my room instead. The sixth room on the left upstairs with a Wii and The Fame Monster poster. I look at myself in the mirror that faces the window and see ten dozen other houses just like this one. Then I lie down on my bed and watch Heathers.


I try to lighten up with a joint and a hydrocodone. My legs buckle and I fall off the stool into a line of elves at the mall. It's Christmas. My wife is in Sephora and I'm so zonked right now I can't tell how old these girls are who work at H&M. I think we're in the valley and it feels like 200 degrees when I emerge into a parking lot the size of Yellowstone with a tanned fox I coaxed out of Sbarro. We sit in the van listening to "Alejandro." She hits crank off my dash and starts to spasm. I'm scared 'cause I see my wife coming out of Nordstrom with a red balloon that says Happy Anniversary, and I'm so high I don't realize this girl is like 16 until I see her ID as she's splitting a line with it.


I spend most of my time partying. I don't even feel into the mix until I'm at a party. The mall is closed so I end up at this house party drinking Budweiser from a can and mouthing off about cars. Then I see 2 girls I want to take back to my place. Do you want to go back to my place I slur. They say Sure, and we go back to my place and do stuff to each other. They're both wearing oversized sweaters with plunging v-necks, gray wife-beaters underneath the v-necks, no bra, and tanned hot tits. "Beautiful, Dirty, Rich" is blasting from a Bang & Olufsen tacked to the wall. We're in a waterbed. I cum all over their tanned hot tits. I get up and stand in front of a mirror in tiger-striped briefs and a fat elephant chain, smoking a Montecristo and thinking about the good times.

Author Bio: Jon Leon is a Los Angeles-based writer. He is the author of The Hot Tub (Mal-O-Mar Editions, 2009), Hit Wave (Kitchen Press, 2008), Alexandra (Cosa Nostra Editions, 2008), and The Artists Editions: 2006-2010. His poetry and criticism have appeared widely in periodicals such as Fence, The New Review of Literature, Soft Targets, East of Borneo, and Art in America. He currently runs the boutique publishing house Wrath of Dynasty.

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