That shit turn you on at all?

Not really.

Nah, I don’t really like it Don’t like to see it moving like a torpedo lake pale over a stage
The pulsing that wants to pound a boy like you through a hole in a stocking or floor
You can stare at everything but her thighs. You probably thought I was looking at you.
Grinding sounds drowning the clicking as I tapped my rings on the table
Was I ever uncomfortable at being offered a Coke of all things! Leave me alone with my
Vicarious halfhearted hard-on.

I always wanted shoes like hers.
This one, in white, didn’t do a thing for me, but this one—the one with the silver chains—
she moved with reptilian grace
She was gorgeous, she could have eaten me for breakfast
But her eyes didn’t look and her mouth didn’t move; her lips remained parted
Like she was searching for a breath

I wanted a calendar with a different photograph of Elvira for every month when I was 8
I thought she was beautiful, I didn’t understand what my mother thought was so awful about it.
She was, after all, the Mistress of the Dark. I would never be that tall.
I wanted to be on television in her clothes, I wanted her job.

The application said something like, Northwest Modeling Agency
The man with the tan and the blonde asked me if I was eighteen
I said yes and his head tipped back.
A thousand dollars a week! What if I really needed this job?
And if the one with the chains, the reptilian grace, was as old as me?