There was this photographer who liked boys on the young side. One time I was telling her about just how smitten I was with Joan Jett. "Dope City has lots of fantastic punk rock skirt," I told her. "But every time I get up the beer courage to investigate the morals of one it turns out they are a fucking lesbian," I pouted. "Why can't they be more like Joan Jett? She always has lots of boys hanging off her leathers."
"I hate to tell you this Beer," my photographer friend told me as she reached into her refrigerator for the last couple Extra Old Stocks, "but Joanie is a lesbian too. She uses good looking boys to get what she really wants."
I must have looked like a puppy ran over by an 18 wheeler when she told me this because she climbed up on one of her broken chairs to find me a hidden half bottle of V.O. at the back of the cupboard over her sticker and paint splattered fridge to kill my mounting pain.
"Fact is Beer, most of the girls in the punk rock crowd are lesbians. A couple of the Dishrags like boys but you better get in that line quick because they probably won't stay that way for very fucking long." She drank her beer and smiled. I pulled out my silver cigarette box and lit up some Thai pot, blowing the sweet smoke into the stale beer atmosphere.
We finished the rye and I caught the series of buses that would take me back to the sweltering stale beer atmosphere of my punk rock apartment. I tried to think of Anne Murray instead of Joan Jett but pretty soon my mind had them 69ing like the girls like to do in the Swedish magazines I kept in my bedside table.
I looked at the pretty girls on the bus and pretty soon they paired off too. Everyone was lesbian but me. When I got off the bus I had to vomit. Not because of the lesbians, I do not care what people do with their hoochies, but because I do not always hold my liquor real good. The people on the near side of the bus were looking at me aghast when I lifted my swirling head.
I gave them the finger. Joan Jett would have liked that.