Every narrator is an unreliable narrator. No. Scratch that. A narrator can be reliable, but should not be identified with the author. The author is unreliable. Trust me.
Melville had his Ishmael. Ishmael had his Captain Ahab and Ahab had his Moby Dick. I have H.H. H.H. has the monomaniacal Lo and Lo has her dick. Yes, I just compared this to the greatest novel of the American canon.
Nick Carraway had his Gatsby and Gatsby had his Daisy. I have my Lo and Lo has her ladies.
Never since Melville discoursed on white has there been a passage in the English language that expounds in such poetically puissant tones the multivalent meanings of a color until Fitzgerald’s passage on Gatsby’s green light.
Nabokov had his Humbert Humbert. Humbert Humbert had his Lolita and Lolita had her Humbert Humbert. I have my H.H. and H.H. has his Lo and Lo has herself.
What Lo is to Lo has been hinted; what, at times, Lo is to me has as remained yet unsaid.
All the horror and evil of the White Whale was conveyed in its whiteness. All the goodness, promise, and fertility of Daisy beamed across the sound from the green beacon upon which Gatsby doted night after night.
All the pent-up heat, heartbeat, and seductive sweets of Lo are expressed in one color as well: red. The red of her lips parted with a red tongue tip touching the white of her teeth tell the tale of love and lust, longing and life lived fully. A lush life filled with libidinous conquests. The red of her areolae upon her perky breasts, pinched and almost panting for attention and pleasure, pulled and protruding like little buoys beckoning to the passing sailors as they lift and heave upon the bosom of the undulating sea. The glossy red of her pained fingernails pulling at her red nipples, licked by her red tongue, lightly separating her red labia. Her pink pussy lips parted and revealing the lush red lining of her luscious labia minora. The fire engine red of her pedicured toes curling with tense expectation of love’s consummation. Lying there on the sheen of her red satin sheets, in her sheer red silk negligée, swaddled in the sea of red blankets, she brings herself to a shrieking climax. Like a siren singing from the darkness, her voice reverberates with pleasure up and down the octaves as her convulsing body rhythmically dances to the command of her virtuosic finger on her clit.
Red, the symbol of the forbidden district. Red, the enticing sign of danger and vitality. Red, the fruit’s color of poison and fertility. Red, the color of flame. Red, the color of caution and calling. Red is the apple tossed to Paris. Red is the sea — wet and parted to receive the host. Red is the sky in the night and morn. Red is the blood when the finger is pricked by the red rose’s thorn. Red is my Lo’s mind filled with diabolical thoughts. Red is the devil whose brimming brow spouts thorns. Red is life when it is born. Red is the cheek when it is warm. Red is my heart when for Lo it longs. Red are all things forbidden — from knowledge’s treats to vulgar porn. Red is the color of this song.
[Excerpt from the story, “H.H., You Slut!” in the book Match, Cinder & Spark, Volume II: MORE!]