Pool_1

skimpy halter top, "What do you think I should have?" The body language was unmistakable, not what, but who. As Marcus, still mentally rehashing how he ought to have handled Beverly, responded. What should you have? A spanking, a chaperone, a thick flannel shirt buttoned all the way up to your neck, were the mental options, but, "A tub of chocolate ice cream," was what she was offered. Sale! One out of four. As Marcus stowed his money, she toyed, "Am I pretty?" fingering chocolate from the tub to her lips. "Yes you are. You will make some man a nice putan some day," to which she smiled, "I know what that means. I also know where the boys are practicing..." This was the prime market. Girls with new body awareness in pursuit of boys and boys with zero awareness of anything, born to be manipulated, substituting icons for their own confused roles, practicing, rock bands. It was a mish mosh of acting out in awkward imitation, artless, derivative sound, conceived of need to seduce girls, girls whose nipples seemed to suddenly command adolescent male attention, that, rather than musical expression through natural artistic faculty. What they lacked in talent, they made up in decibels. Each member of 'the band' became a human sound Xerox machine, "It took all night, but I got that lick down." The guitarist was the alpha male. The bass player had the longest stick. Sax was cool. Nobody could ever get a drummer to follow the flow of the charade. At this age they hadn't learned that drummers do not follow. Real drummers carve holes in the time continuum that suck others in behind them. This was not the pulse of life. It was a clumsy dance of adolescent wishful wanting. How do you penetrate the fastness of females in suburbia? Shit, where are dragons when you need them? A Fender bass will