In his ongoing war to make sure everyone knows he didn’t bang Lindsay Lohan despite appearing on her celebrity sex list, French colonial auteur James Franco has written a “fictional” short story for Vice entitled Bungalow 89 which recalls a “fictional” night not sticking his penis in a “fictional” Lindsay Lohan. And so like any tale of non-sexual intrigue, it starts with an intruder:
There was a Hollywood girl staying at Chateau Marmont. She had gotten a key to my room from the manager. I heard her put the key into my front door and turn it, but I had slid the dead bolt and that thing—I don’t know what you call it; it’s like a chain but made of two bars—that kept the door from opening.
She said, “James, open the door.”
Across the room was a picture of a boy dressed as a sailor with a red sailor cap, and except for his blondish hair (closer to my brother’s color) he looked like me.
She said, “Open the door, you bookworm punk blogger faggot.”
And what happened next is pure Franco. For you see, this girl wanted to have him carnally, but James Franco understands in life there is a greater bond. And that bond is pretentiously reading Salinger to a coked out kleptomaniac he’s lucky didn’t stab him in his sleep and take his wallet like her mother taught her so many years ago in Shanghai:
Once upon a time a guy, a Hollywood guy, read some Salinger to a young woman who hadn’t read him before. Let’s call this girl Lindsay. She was a Hollywood girl, but a damaged one. I knew that she would like Salinger, because most young women do. I read her two of the Nine Stories, “A Perfect Day for Bananafish” and “For Esmé—with Love and Squalor.” “Bananafish” was great because it has a nagging mother on the other end of the phone line, nothing like Lindsay’s real mother, but still, the mother-daughter thing was good for her to hear. And there’s the little girl in the story, Sibyl, and the pale suicide, Seymour, who kisses her foot and talks about bananafish with her, those fantastic phallic fish who stick their heads in holes and gorge themselves—it should be called “A Perfect Day for Dickfish”—and then, bam, he shoots himself.
Then I read “For Esmé,” which is basically the same story as “A Perfect Day for Dickfish.” A man goes to war. He is traumatized. Then he is saved by the innocence of a young girl. The structure of this story is very nice. Yes, stories, stories, stories, stories. S-t-o-r-i-e-s.
And what do we say about all this obsession with innocence? Salinger would be a companion to young women, real young women, for years, and then, one fateful night, he would sleep with them and the friendship would end. After that, after he fucked them, they were no longer the innocent ones running through the rye to be caught before they went over the cliff. They had gone over, and he had been the one to push them.
And so their dance would continue forever. Lindsay, high on drugs and the fame-crusted milieu of depreciated stardom in a Norman Rockwell painting of a gingham-dressed childhood that never was. James, forever searching for the deeper meaning. The deeper Hollywood:
Every night Lindsay looked for me. My Russian friend, Drew, was always around like a wraith. He, like the blond painting, was my doppelgänger, writing scripts about rape and murder. A Hollywood Dostoyevsky, he had gambled his money away. We played a ton of ping-pong. My room was on the second level, the exterior walls hugged by vines. Every night Lindsay looked for me, and I hid. Out the window was Hollywood.
He had become “the immortal sex.” Those are actual words used by James Franco. “The immortal sex.” You couldn’t make this shit up if you bonged 27 of your own farts. Believe me, I tried.
Photos: Terry Richardson’s Diary