She is obsessed just as her generation is, not with love or
passion, while I still live like a naïve child,
Full of that John Wayne manhood that seeks to protect rather
than dominate, desperate to preserve the mystique of virginity, seeking
innocence where there is none.
I’m haunted by the off-off Broadway play I went to see where
ordinary moms start a garage band and revert to the rock & roll stereotypes,
the one song sticking in my mind a week later when they sang, “You can’t fuck
them all.”
And this rang all too true from those days long ago when I worked
as roadie for a local band fronted by a woman and get the feeling from my talk
with this woman in the office she has the same ferocious appetite, and how she
finds some men cool to hang out with, men she finds extremely attractive.
She talks about having worked in a bar in Manhattan where
management fully expected her to put out for special clientele, and how she got
locked in an office with one, somehow making her escape, never to go back there
again.
Who is she? Where is she going? What she wants from me?
I’m not even sure how much of this hunger she professes is
real, or more terrifying, it may be more intense than even she lets on.
At the same time, there is something frail about her, and
behind her mask of indifference, deeper secrets stir.
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