Another Puppy

I’m a Burning Star
I’m a Trailing Star
I’m a Burnt Out Star.
I’m a star without Light.
I’m a Hollywood Star.
… Not.



Pete was my second daddy. A Boeing executive who quit the scene after his wife off-ed herself. He’s 6’3” with curly grey hair, smokes cigars and wears a loincloth and a leather saber filled with Eberhard and Faber 6325 ebony pencils that he sharpens with a hunting knife. Not a bad body for an old dude. He does chin ups from tree branches in Golden Gate Park. He teaches me how to throw a perfect bullet football. I throw like a quarterback. We play till my arm falls off, then sit on a blanket with yet another puppy, guzzling apple wine from a brown paper bag. We sketch people as they pass by. He’s 45 and I’m 19 so he has lots of stories to tell. I become his lover because I don’t want to end up like Adrienne. He tells me he’s writing ‘The Great American Novel’.
We make plans to move to L.A. and write screenplays together.

We settle in a little studio apartment on Hollywood and Vine.
This place is a trip. Even this jaded Boston girl got an eye full. San Francisco was filled with quirky crazy kids like me but Hollywood and Vine is one strange bird. They parade down the street wearing shackles, handcuffs and feather boas. They stare at me with vacant eyes. Prostitutes on every corner. I can’t tell men from women. Fights explode like Molotov cocktails. The store windows are filled with body parts. Trash everywhere.
I find a job doing ad layouts for a pornographic film company. I double as the receptionist. I get hit on by all kinds of sleazebags.
I work with a guy named Steve whose sole purpose is to get busted for the big boss in Beverly Hills. He lives next to Jack Lemmon. Parties with the old Hollywood elite.
Steve wears cowboy boots and could care less if his name is toast. He had a baby that died of S.I.DS and it made him a cynic, I’m guessing. We become great friends. He wants to be my lover, but there’s no way I’m gonna sleep with this guy.
“What are you doin’ with that old man?” he asks.
“He’s writing the ‘Great American Novel’.” I say.
"Yeah, right." says he.

But he puts a crack in my armor.
After all, Pete’s sittin’ home all day doin’ some kind of Massai Warrior hoop dance in his loincloth, while I’m workin’ in this dark room with cum in every corner, hangin’ from the ceiling for all I know.

“Split baby, get out of here while you can,” Steve says.

Split I Did.