you are 16 they are nice some guy dared you you love them courtney did it it’s hot out it’s a nude beach it’s a sauna guys can do it attention you’re a slut you’re madonna this is foreplay you don’t care bras are boring you’re a virgin he wants it he can’t look at you
"Sex without fear and pain is like food without taste" - The Marquis de Sade
I met you at a coke party. I was fucking our host, a bearded metal singer who made a lot of noise but didn’t say anything. Yeah, that was me sitting across from you. White blonde jerkbait. I didn’t know how to dress then, only how to dress slutty.
I didn’t notice you because of all the noise. But then it was the reason I noticed you. You were the kind of guy who didn’t say much. But when you did, it reminded me that some people actually say things worth hearing. You wore a ring in your bottom lip like an afterthought. And you had the blackest eyes I’ve ever seen.
I made my best attempt to get your attention. “I have all these mushrooms in my purse and I don’t know what to do with them.” This was true. Ziploc baggies full. I’d decided to supplement my summer income by selling drugs, something I knew nothing about. Except I’d had a handful of boyfriends who were dealers.
You were cutting lines. Your eyes met mine then returned to the task like I had said nothing. You had this funny way with your face. How it didn’t reveal anything. How it stayed the same. Mouth zipped straight, jaw set tight.
I zoomed in on you. One hand on the table between us, leaned in as far as I could get… “Can you help me.” Not a question.
I think you shrugged. Then tore a strip off your cigarette pack and scribbled your number. I tucked the scrap into my wallet like a prize. And went to bed with the singer.
Who knows what happened with the mushrooms. We never got to that part. I was probably too chickenshit to call you. Isn’t that always how it is with people you meet at parties? I could fill a book with numbers I’ve earned and discarded. I could call it “Drunk Dialing”. It would sell a million copies and smash your heart to a blushing bloody pulp.
I didn’t need to dial you because I found you at a bar known for a sneaky washroom that was good for making out in. Or maybe only I knew it for that. The bar was hot and blue and loud. I was gone, with technicolour lights in my hair and the dimmer switch for my eyes turned way down. But I still gushed at you, made words at you. Your face was different that night. Softer, warmer. Probably because you were drunk too.
We left together. You drove me to your place. Windows down. Street lights a burned out blur. I almost died when you cranked Knowledge, and I swear we listened to that whole filthy Op Ivy album. We talked punk music really fast and manic. Bad Brains, Black Flag, Brody Dalle. I confessed that my religion was Courtney Love and you said that Violet was one of the best songs ever written.
Can I end it now? Because it’s game over for me, baby, and you’ve won.
Music is foreplay. If you play Lou or Iggy or The Clash for me, I’ll be wet long before you steal third base. That’s probably why I met so many guys who wanted to hit me with their bass guitars. Not you though.
I remember your bed like it went on forever. The way your shirt came off, your mouth on me, arms around me like I was going somewhere. That part was black and white. We didn’t fuck that night. Just slept and slept like that was the point.
"And when I woke up, I wanted to swim right back to you."
I never sold kisses for the milk fund. i was never white blonde hot.
or silky pinkcheeked fawn girl.
i am DREAM GIRL. a snob. i smell like madonna:
truth or dare.
i’m not that hot. but enough to melt your deep freeze.
maybe don’t swim. take the bullet train.