CHAPTER TWO: BAKING POWDER

The past three years of my life were such a blur, the bulk of my free time was spent trying to process them. It was like being on one of those amusement park rides where you dangle from a chain swing and get whipped around at top speed. Every time I tried to focus on one thing in particular, I’d just get dizzier and more nauseous.

In a span of thirty-six months, I went from sharing a dorm-sized apartment with a douchey roommate, wondering if I should continue wasting my life writing or get a “real job,” to having a novel published, to having that novel become a successful film, to living in a fucking brownstone.

I went from staring at the ceiling in a cold, empty bed, listening to that same roommate fuck one woman after another, to having so much sex (with Jade in particular) that we once had to take a two-day break because our genitals were sore.

I went from seeing the thinly veiled look of disappointment on my parents’ faces anytime their adult son would ask them for help with the rent because his shitty writing gigs didn’t pay enough that month, to bringing them along to a Hollywood premiere of a film based on his writing.

I went from living life as an invisible man, to having my name on bookshelves all across the globe, and in credits for a film that grossed over a hundred million dollars.

None of it made sense. There was no natural progression or order of things. No time for me to appreciate each new personal and professional milestone. It was a veritable big bang - nothing at all, and then boom - an entire fucking universe. Because of the speed at which everything happened, my brain struggled to keep up with reality.

In my mind, I still felt every bit like the personal and professional disappointment I was back then. Every so often, I’d feel the sting of my roommate Adam, a bartender ten years my junior, giving me both financial and relationship advice in earnest. His advice was mostly regurgitated talking points from the pickup-artist-turned-crypto-bro community, which only served to make me feel even more embarrassed - but the facts were what they were: He was living a much more interesting and fulfilling life than I was. Until he wasn’t. Until Sanguinary Lust came along and changed the trajectory of my life.

Art and success are an odd pairing. You shouldn’t make art with the explicit goal of being financially and/or critically successful, but the possibility that it can become financially and/or critically successful can’t be ignored. It’s the elephant in the room. Be yourself and create what you want - just remember there’s a potential pot of gold at the end of it if things break your way. No pressure.

Art is culture, and culture moves us forward. There are literary works, films, songs, paintings, and sculptures that have undoubtedly advanced our species. The ability to create art is one of the most uniquely human traits we possess. All animals want to eat, sleep, and fuck - we’re no different from apes in that regard - but an ape isn’t going to pen Don Quixote.

Art, in its purest form, is an expression of thoughts and feelings that capture the human condition and at its best, can bring us together and build deeper connections.

It can also get you a ton of money and pussy, as it turns out; but there’s no way to determine whether or not it will.

Sometimes an artist creates under torturous circumstances, throwing themselves fully into their work, obsessing over every finite detail, every word, and every brushstroke, until their mania nearly breaks them - only for their completed work to go unrecognized or under-appreciated. There’s artists who create half-assed, uninspired “work,” that enters the zeitgeist with a bang. There’s no telling what will or won’t make it; it all comes down to luck. Right place, right time. What is or isn’t considered a “classic” isn’t decided by the creator, but by the creator’s audience - and that fucking sucks.

Truth be told, I don’t even consider Sanguinary Lust to be the best thing I’ve ever written. I had previously self-published a handful of novellas that I’d consider to be much stronger just on pure artistic merit alone, but what can I say? They didn’t blow. Sanguinary Lust did, and so, that was my baby. It was the first work of mine to get recognized and make money, it saved me from a continued life of failure and monotony, so I will defend it and protect it with everything I have.

It received a three point eight out of five on WeRateBooks, the most respected book review site on the internet, which, given how tough the critics are, is pretty much a four out of five, which essentially makes it a near-classic. I’m proud of that score, but I know if more critics appreciated and understood the nuance of it, the reception would’ve been even better.

The plot itself was fairly straightforward: A beautiful young woman named Ava gets possessed by an evil spirit, which compels her to weaponize her sexuality in order to destroy men. Men would compete with each other for her attention, fighting to the literal death just to impress her and satiate her bloodlust (hence the title). The men who won such fights would be granted a night with Ava, who would then just kill them during sex.

It was a commentary on our culture, and how fragile, insecure men gravitate towards violence when it comes to showcasing their supposed “masculinity,” and how women are sexualized in our society, but because of that, have an incredible amount of power and influence in that space. A not so insignificant amount of men live to impress women, and risk it all (their careers, their relationships, sometimes their actual lives) just for the chance to have sex with a new woman.

Kathy Schermerhorn understood that.

In her review of my book for the New York Times, she wrote:

“Cardoza seems to have an intimate, nuanced understanding of societal norms and gender dynamics, and has a lot to say about both, but especially the latter. Read through this lens, it’s not hyperbole to suggest Sanguinary Lust is in many ways, a scathing rebuke of the patriarchy, and a feminist rallying cry disguised as an erotic horror.”

A scathing rebuke of the patriarchy. A feminist rallying cry. Kathy Schermerhorn got it.

Unfortunately, Lucas Atwood didn’t. And more unfortunately, he was the director of my novel’s film adaptation, Ava Kills.

When it comes to Ava Kills, three things are true:

One - I fucking hated it; two - other people didn’t; and three - it made a fuck ton of money.

Critically though, it didn’t do very well - only managing a 62% on WeRateFilms, the most respected film review site on the internet.

I was morbidly delighted that the reviews for that butcher’s film were subpar, while also delighted that it had its little moment in the zeitgeist despite the middling reviews, providing me with a check that had more zeros on it than I ever thought I’d see on a financial statement addressed to me.

The whole thing was a mind fuck. I was watching someone mutilate my child in real time while paying me handsomely for it. I felt dirty. I watched this guy remove all nuance and subtext from my book and essentially make the very thing I so viciously mocked in my actual novel. I watched as critics bashed it for being excessively pornographic and gory, even by horror standards, while watching my book get a financial bump after the success of the film, while also watching the film develop a B-movie cult-like status among horror fans.

For every one critic who understood the book, were thousands of horror fans who liked the film either ironically, or for all the wrong reasons. Yes, it lined my pockets, but it also bothered me. My inner pragmatist appreciated how it changed my life for the better. The artist in me felt like a fucking sellout.

It gave me additional motivation for my next book. I wanted to write something so nuanced and smart, the toughest of critics would have no choice but to appreciate it, yet at the same time, create something so blatantly obvious, there was no way to misconstrue its message or destroy the very essence of its story should it become another adaptation. In other words, I wanted to create something diametrically opposed to itself. I wanted the literary street cred from academic circles, and the cultural recognition from audiences who watch fifty comic book films a year without fatigue.

My unsurprisingly hyper-capitalist publisher wanted to, you guessed it - capitalize on the success of my book and the film. I signed a new, three-book deal with them, and I was supposed to send them a sample in a few weeks. It was a weird space to be in.

On one hand, I was a new author, and it’s rare for new anybodies to have any kind of pull in their respective industries; but it was a modest publishing house, and I was one of their biggest cash cows, so I was granted a little more breathing room than is the norm. That said, deals are deals and business is business. They wanted what we agreed to, and I had to deliver.

In addition to the pressure from both my publisher and myself to drop my next project soon, there were racial dynamics at play that suddenly thrust me into conversations I didn’t feel comfortable being a part of.

I wasn’t just getting recognized for being a new fiction writer, I was getting recognized for being a new Hispanic fiction writer. The Puerto Rican diaspora and Hispanic community at large celebrated my arrival, and considered me a necessary voice in their struggle for a more inclusive creative world. A world still very much dominated by the wealthy and well-connected white elites. You know, like literally every other aspect of life.

The only problem was, as Jade had so eloquently put it - I was a fucking anomaly. I looked the part, sure. My name sounded the part, yes; but I wasn’t who these people thought I was. At the same time, racists don’t have the capacity for nuance. It’s part of what makes them racist. So I knew my name and face alone would open me to discrimination from certain segments of the population, and because of that, I of course felt the need to represent and stand with my fellow marginalized people, but at the same time, couldn’t relate to them on any cultural level.

I knew they wanted me to speak about issues that directly impacted the Hispanic community specifically, as well as create art that celebrated Hispanic culture, since there were so few of us being recognized - but I’d be faking it if I did that. That wasn’t who I was. I was just some dude who wrote a book - nothing more, nothing less.

Yet I was in a constant struggle between writing whatever I felt like writing, and writing something with the understanding that I wasn’t just representing myself. I had a whole community behind me, hoping I’d carry the torch in their name and do them and their respective culture justice.

I got a text from Jade telling me she was on her way to my place, and I realized it was 11pm and I had lost the last eight hours or so laying on the couch in my office processing all these different thoughts. The blank page on my laptop screen was still blank, and I was no closer to coming up with a solid idea for my next book.

I sat outside on my stoop, taking in the cooler, but no less humid New York City summer air, as well as the fairly new neighborhood I had moved into.

No one else on my block looked like me. That was by design. I wasn’t supposed to make it, but I did. In that regard, I did feel connected to my people.

It wasn’t long before I saw Jade walking up the block, pizza box in hand, with the same confident pep in her step she always had. A sense of calm washed over me once she got close enough for me to see her face. The coolest, most beautiful woman I had ever met in my fucking life was my girlfriend. Not my coworker. Not my platonic friend. The woman I was soon gonna be living with. The woman who made me feel alive. The woman who sat on my face more times than I could count. In an instant, all my stress was gone.

“You look like you had a day,” she announced, as she made her way up the stairs, shaking the pizza box.

“Burgers for lunch, pizza for dinner. We’re doing great,” she continued.

We made our way back inside and ate the pizza on the island in the kitchen.

I recognized the name of the restaurant immediately. It was a pizza place a few blocks from her job, and the site of the first date we ever went on.

“Nice.”

“What?”

“Mimi’s. That was our first date. I thought you got it like, to celebrate you moving in…”

“Oh! My god. Okay, don’t hate me, but…no. I was just really in the mood for pizza. This dude came in today and wanted a little pizza tat on his calf, and then the rest of the day all I thought about was pizza.”

“Ohh, haha. All good. Never mind then.”

She gave me an exaggerated frown.

“Now I feel bad.”

“Don’t! I was overthinking it. Either way it’s good fucking pizza, so good call.”

“I can’t believe you still remember that though. You’re right. This was the first place we went to...”

“Remember? Ha. I remember the conversation we had, too. It wasn’t that long ago…”

“Okay, are you trying to make me feel worse? Because, good job if so.”

“Jade, I can’t help it if I’m a romantic at heart and way more sentimental than you’ll ever be. It’s just who I am.”

She playfully rolled her eyes and flipped me off.

“So enlighten me then, Mr. Romance. What did we talk about that day?”

“I had mentioned that I actually prefer deep dish to thin crust and you said I wasn’t a ‘real New Yorker’ and that you were more of a New Yorker than I was.”

“Ha! That’s true! I remember now. Yeah, I did say that…”

“Fake Hispanic, fake artist, fake New Yorker…”

“But a real asshole!”

I took some of the cheese off my pizza and threw it at her. It landed on her nose and stayed there.

“Dick!,” she laughed, ready to pull it off and throw it right back at me, but choosing instead to eat it.

“Mmm. More cheese for me then,” she continued, before pulling off a piece of crust and launching it at me, striking me in the forehead.

“Ah! Hey! My thing was soft!”

She giggled uncontrollably.

“Do you surrender?,” she replied in a pretend serious tone. Eyebrows furrowed.

“I do. Only because I don’t wanna waste my cheese ammo.”

“I accept your terms. Wave your little white flag to make it official.”

I picked up my greasy napkin and did as I was told.

“Very well. We call a truce.”

She leaned over the counter and we shared a quick kiss over the pizza box.

I was thirty-five years old and I just had my first playful food fight with my girlfriend. I felt both emotionally stunted that it had taken that long, and simultaneously euphoric that it had happened at all. There were a lot of relationship milestones I had never reached until she came along. I never told her what any of those milestones were, because I didn’t want her to pity me. She couldn’t torture that information out of me. I would take them to my grave. I kept the celebration of those little firsts to myself, knowing all the while that they meant nothing to her; just like remembering the specifics of our first date.

“So…,” she began, wiping her face with a napkin and revealing a devilish grin underneath it.

“I think I know a good way to celebrate my move…”

“Oh boy. I’ve seen this movie before…”

“Hehe. Well, now you’re gonna star in it…”

She grabbed my hand and lead me out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

“How about a shower?”

“Again, huh?”

“Yeah, but I don’t think you’ll be booing this one,” she replied, referring to the one I teased her about taking earlier.

We undressed each other and made our way into the shower, where my hands squeezed and jiggled her ass immediately.

“Oh my god, the water’s not even on yet!,” she joked, breaking the sexual tension.

“That’s a compliment!”

“Boy oh boy, what are we gonna do with you?”

“Hopefully suffocate me with that thing.”

“Haha. I swear. If I put googly eyes on my ass, you’d probably rather talk to that instead of my face.”

“As long as the eyes were different colors.”

She slapped my arm playfully.

“Hahaha okay, touché, Sweet Boy. That was good. Now, can we get serious? I wanted this to be sexy...”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Sexy shower. Right.”

She turned the water on and we embraced. I ran my hand slowly down her body until I got to her pussy, then began rubbing it slowly.

“Oh my god…you’re so wet,” I said in a feigned seductive voice, killing the mood once again.

Another slap on my arm.

“Sorry! Last one. I promise.”

I continued to explore her body slowly with my hands, running soap all over her and creating suds.

She put a finger under my chin and lifted my head up to look at her. I always found our height difference sexy, and I can now tell you with full confidence that there’s nothing hotter than having a woman look down on you with eyes so lustful that they’re borderline threatening. The look she shot me in that moment was a nonverbal confirmation that the time for talking and making jokes was over.

It was yet another first in my relationship career, and yet another thing I wouldn’t be telling her was a first.

While we didn’t have sex (because shower sex is overrated and logistically unsexy, or so I’ve heard), it was a deeply intimate moment, and only deepened the attraction I had for this woman. I would give away everything else I had gained over the last few years if it meant being with her forever. Nothing else mattered.

The intimacy continued after the shower as we laid in bed and cuddled in between soft-spoken little talks.

She lifted my arm gently to admire the scorpion tattoo on my forearm that she had done the day we met.

“Still looks fresh.”

“It does. You’ve got skills.”

“I remember that day.”

“Really?”

“I remember we talked about our signs. And I mentioned that scorpios were a good match for tauruses.”

“Heh. Yeah. Guess you were right.”

I of course remembered that conversation too, but I also remembered something else about that day.

It was the first time I flexed my celebrity status.

Being an unknown author doesn’t exactly net you the kind of groupies and sexual opportunities that being a lead actor or rockstar does. If you want people to know who you are, you have to casually mention it yourself, in the least douchiest way possible. It’s a hard needle to thread, but when your sex life is virtually nonexistent, you have to use whatever tools you have at your disposal.

For all the hate I had and still have for Ava Kills, it was my in with Jade.

“So, what do you do?,” she asked, as she needled my skin.

“I’m a writer. Actually, have you ever seen Ava Kills?”

“Oh my God, you wrote that?!”

“No. But they adapted my book for the film.”

“Wow! That’s so cool! So you’re a horror fan then?”

“Of course. It’s my favorite genre.”

“Dude, same. Ava Kills. Yeah, I really liked that one. I don’t know how close it is to your book, but—

“It’s not close, haha. I actually hate the movie, but, yeah. That’s another story I guess.”

“Aww, I’m sorry. Still though, that’s amazing that your book got turned into a movie.“

“Thanks. Yeah, it’s pretty surreal.”

That conversation lead to us talking about our favorite horror films, which gave me the confidence to ask her out to see an actual horror movie, and the rest is history.

Fast forward a few months, she’s moving in with me and we’re cuddling in bed after a sexy shower. It was far beyond my comprehension, bordering on absurdity.

My phone buzzed just as we were about to doze off. It was a text from my friend Alexis.

“Hey! Short notice, and I know it’s late over there, but would you be down with coming to Madison Grant’s birthday party in the Hamptons this weekend? I haven’t seen you in a while and you could also connect with some people!”

Madison Grant was a supermodel, and as far as who she was and the circles she ran in, her and I might as well have been different species on different planets in different universes.

A guy like me wasn’t supposed to live where I lived. A guy like me wasn’t supposed to have the girlfriend I did. Why not throw myself into another space I didn’t belong in?

“Absolutely! I’m down!,” I replied, before putting the phone on the nightstand and turning to Jade.

“Hamptons party this weekend. Wear your finest black t-shirt.”

“Fuck you,” she yawned, too tired to reply with a zinger, and turned her back to me.

I laid back with my hands behind my head and finally, just for a moment, ignored all the flashing red lights I was approaching in my life, and appreciated where I was and how far I had come.

I didn’t know how bad things would get, but it didn’t matter. In that moment, I was the man.