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Stevie sat at the dressing table of his SoHo apartment, applying numerous pieces of glitter to his hair and throwing on a vast assortment of gold teeth. He was wrapping up a telephone conversation with the hottest downtown promoter of rock n’ roll partydom: the legendary Marrz!
“I just wanted to see how your life is going and I miss you,” Marrz said. “And to remind you that my night at Neptune Lounge is tonight. There’s going to be a Most Accessible Orifice contest, and there’s always the sleazy happenings downstairs…!”
What a thrill to be called by Marrz himself! Stevie may as well have received a beautifully hand-painted postcard in the mail that read You Have Arrived…
“Marrz, you know I wouldn’t miss it for anything in the world,” Stevie said. He imagined paparazzi looming over him to snap a picture of every candid sip of his vodka cranberry—and perhaps he’d even wind up with a full-page spread in Fagazine! He imagined snatching up a photo op with Nigel, Neptune Lounge’s infamous underwear-clad go-go boy. Potential caption: “Look at these two cutie pies who came to Marrz’s good-natured sleaze-fest to enjoy the live jizz…”
“Fabu,” Marrz said—the way he delivered the line suggested that on the other end of the line he was swathed in pony-hair peacoats and laminated jeans.
“Fabu is taboo,” countered Stevie, and the line went fabulously dead. Stevie continued primping and watched himself smoke a Capri cigarette in the mirror, ashing into a small conch-shell located between his lint-brush and calamine lotion.
He rose from the dressing table, shearing across the floor of his SoHo loft in a gleaming pair of stiletto heels. Suddenly, he took one last exasperated drag from his cigarette and threw it onto the floor!
From that point on, Stevie was totally over Capri cigarettes.
He peered through the doorway at the teenager slouched across the futon in a pair of gray boxer-briefs, staring at cartoons on television and munching on potato chips. Stevie scowled in disgust at the sight of the potato chips.
“It makes a meal,” the teenager growled.
“Well, I’m going out,” Stevie hissed, hands on hips. He threw back his head—raven locks billowed.
The teenager took a gulp of Popov vodka and craned his head impudently at the silhouette of the beautiful creature. Then, quite suddenly, he shot a jet of alcohol through the hole of his pierced chin and fired it right into Stevie’s eyes!
“You’re not going anywhere,” the teenager screamed. He hocked phlegm against the wall. “Not while I’m alive!”
“My eyes!” trilled Stevie. “You’ve blinded me, you awful piece of trash!”
The teenager smashed the bottle of Popov. Then he threw the television off the fire escape. He gutted the futon with a nasty-looking knife. He grabbed his skateboard, trotting past the crumpled figure of Stevie, running the tail of his Alva skateboard into the svelte abdomen of the lovely creature…
“Stop!” Steve sobbed. “Please don’t leave me…”
The teenager raised the nasty-looking knife. “Then cut yourself for me,” he barked. “Cut yourself so that nobody else will ever find you beautiful…!”
He threw the knife at Stevie’s feet. Then he skated up and down the walls of the SoHo apartment. He did an Ollie, and then performed a perfectly executed one-eighty.
“You sick little bitch,” Stevie gasped. “I’ll never cut my face for you. Go back to the pool of sick at Astor Place where I found you…!”
“I will!” the hoodlum retorted.
The youth threw open the front door and raced into the hallway, taking his Alva along with him.
“No!” Stevie cried. “Give me the knife—I’ll cut this face for my little one!”
But the teenager was already heading down the stairs. Without thinking, Stevie hurled himself at the unruly youth with something that approximated a battle cry—and down they went together in a death embrace, their bodies snagging against every stair, the sound of snapping limbs following them down the landing…
Stevie rolled atop the skater boy and grabbed the straps of his undershirt.
“Now you listen to me,” he screamed. “I am going on the scene tonight!”
“Please, let me come with you,” the boy sobbed. “The music, and the boys, and the lights. So many lights!”
Stevie rose, again with the hands on his hips, and he raised a stiletto heel over the boy’s neck. “When I get home,” he said, “you’d better be in that bed, asleep in your gray boxer-briefs. Or else your future will be skulking around outside Starbucks, waiting for an opportunity to call their clients Yuppies!”
“I got big plans!” the skater cried. “Big plans!”
Now it was Stevie who turned on his heels. He was actually cruel enough to let out a little laugh as he threw open the door and stepped out onto Avenue D. By the time he was near Avenue A, he could not see the street numbers for all the tears. But he knew that wouldn’t last long. After all, one always left their tears at the door when it came to one of Marrz’s good-naturedly sleazy nights! |
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| February 3, 2005 |
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