by Marc Shapiro
I saw the young girl in the crowd. And I could see that she wanted something.
I could tell she was not the usual thing. She was not literary gash who would tumble for any guy with a chapbook. She was dressed down in black. So she wasn’t bored high society looking for cheap thrills on the wild side.
There was something behind those strong slited eyes. Determination. Defiance. And a whole lot of angry. She would go down but I could tell that she would not go down easy.
After the set a deal was struck over cheap wine and a tongue kiss. She would give it up. And so would I. I took her home that night. Class was in session.
Sex was the way I liked it. Selfish, unforgiving and, for her, often unrewarding. It was all part of the master plan. It wasn’t long before her optimism turned from pastels to cynical blacks. Her soft spirit became hard and crass…The color of a bad night swigging cheap Jack.
I could tell she was turning. I could see that she was becoming me. There were those nights when she would erupt, explode and strike out. Wiping the blood from my lips, I would shove a pencil and paper in her face and scream at her to get the bile down. On the page. Where it counted.
Finally, when I could turn her no further, I kicked her out. With a look that said she was ready, she turned on me and, looking much like me, told me to fuck off and die.
I smiled. The operation was a success. The patient lived.
Sometime later I was in a club where she was now the young firebrand on the stage. She was flipping off the world with electric vision and apocalyptic images. Her words were forged in the fires of hell.
Suddenly her eyes went wide. She had spotted a young boy in the crowd. A young boy who wanted something.
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Marc Shapiro actually makes a living doing this. Don’t tell the authorities.