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 preoccupied 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 The Vision 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 to me, I told the banker, because I remembered.