Read Online What We Do Is Secret by Thorn Kief Hillsbery - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Thorn Kief Hillsbery
Tags: Fiction
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pulls the waistband away from my skin.
And fuck, do I shiver, and fuck, does he sing to me, and fuck, do his fingers, and fuck, which song, “The Slave.”
It starts in your head and moves to your hands
Your body starts shakin’ cuz you’re in demand.
“We could take that van to Idaho,” Blitzer says. “We could live in that fuckin van in Idaho.”
13
Moving right along like a song to you’ll never guess which theater, Judy’s handprints, Judy’s footprints, Marilyn’s, Joan’s, Bette’s, Jayne’s, plus some hoof-prints for anatomic relief, not Mr. Ed’s though, Trigger’s, this rad horse that ended up stuffed in some cowboy star’s living room, according to David.
Who’s a big animal lover, it turns out. Which is cool because I am too. And for some reason when Squid and Siouxsie and Blitzer and Tim head over to the Movieland Wax Museum to check on admission prices while I kick it with him on Hollywood Boulevard it makes it easier to ask what the fuckety-fuck is up with all the glamour girls, I thought they liked guys.
His laugh has some bass in it, it’s not all girlie like the way he talks.
“It’s not sexual. Glamour’s different.”
“What is it, then?”
“It’s style. A certain kind of style. Romantic. Expensive romantic. Furs and Champagne. Jewels. Silk stockings.”
“I’m against all that shit.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m a punk rocker.”
“That’s a style, too.”
“No, it’s not. It’s a way of life. And we live it. We
can
live it. You’re not all decked out in furs and silk, are you?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Are you ever?”
“Well . . .”
The way he draws it out cracks me up, I can’t help liking the dude, and besides I haven’t been on Hollywood Boulevard at night for a while, and I forgot how cool the vibe can be, all the mingling milling people and if-you-don’t-drink-don’t-drive traffic and the commotion on the corners with the bellowing preachers and jiving pimps and deep-voiced she-male whores trying to drown out one another and the sirens in the background, always sirens somewhere, sirens and alarms and bullhorns from helicopters, it reminds me of the Masque days.
“So you dress up as a woman?”
“Now and then.”
“And you go out and—”
“Pass?”
“What’s pass?”
“Having people think you
are
a woman.”
“No way! You do that?”
“Not really.”
“So they know. That you’re a man.”
“Unless they’re, well—”
“Blind?”
He gets a chorus line’s worth of kicks out of that one, and puts his arm around my shoulders.
“Or really, really drunk.”
While I’m laughing I kind of hug him back, with one arm I mean, not full-body or anything, and he’s actually pretty hard and muscled to the touch, not feminine at all. He’s wearing some rank perfume though.
“But what’s the point, then?”
“How to explain it, why am I a queen? I grew up in a horrible place, a mill town, nothing was beautiful there, nothing was graceful, and everyone hated me because I was different, and, well, the more different the better. You know?”
I just nod. I guess I do know. I mean, why am I a punk? Because I wasn’t anything before, except different. And now it’s like I’m different, but with a vengeance.
Yeah.
And then I met Darby, and I was more than just different. I was somebody. To other people. One of Darby’s boys. I had like an identity. Only now he’s gone, so it’s gone too.
“What about Tim? When did you meet him?”
“When I was eighteen. He was twenty.”
“And he helped you? Be even more different?”
“He wouldn’t have me any other way.”
“That’s cool, then.”
“No, it’s hot.”
“What do you mean?”
“The same thing you mean. But we call it the opposite.”
And I’m all, Not really, the opposite’s warm, and then he says it’s my turn, who’s helped me be more different, and I tell him how Darby taught me to question everything, to refuse to accept anything, to
And fuck, do I shiver, and fuck, does he sing to me, and fuck, do his fingers, and fuck, which song, “The Slave.”
It starts in your head and moves to your hands
Your body starts shakin’ cuz you’re in demand.
“We could take that van to Idaho,” Blitzer says. “We could live in that fuckin van in Idaho.”
13
Moving right along like a song to you’ll never guess which theater, Judy’s handprints, Judy’s footprints, Marilyn’s, Joan’s, Bette’s, Jayne’s, plus some hoof-prints for anatomic relief, not Mr. Ed’s though, Trigger’s, this rad horse that ended up stuffed in some cowboy star’s living room, according to David.
Who’s a big animal lover, it turns out. Which is cool because I am too. And for some reason when Squid and Siouxsie and Blitzer and Tim head over to the Movieland Wax Museum to check on admission prices while I kick it with him on Hollywood Boulevard it makes it easier to ask what the fuckety-fuck is up with all the glamour girls, I thought they liked guys.
His laugh has some bass in it, it’s not all girlie like the way he talks.
“It’s not sexual. Glamour’s different.”
“What is it, then?”
“It’s style. A certain kind of style. Romantic. Expensive romantic. Furs and Champagne. Jewels. Silk stockings.”
“I’m against all that shit.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m a punk rocker.”
“That’s a style, too.”
“No, it’s not. It’s a way of life. And we live it. We
can
live it. You’re not all decked out in furs and silk, are you?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Are you ever?”
“Well . . .”
The way he draws it out cracks me up, I can’t help liking the dude, and besides I haven’t been on Hollywood Boulevard at night for a while, and I forgot how cool the vibe can be, all the mingling milling people and if-you-don’t-drink-don’t-drive traffic and the commotion on the corners with the bellowing preachers and jiving pimps and deep-voiced she-male whores trying to drown out one another and the sirens in the background, always sirens somewhere, sirens and alarms and bullhorns from helicopters, it reminds me of the Masque days.
“So you dress up as a woman?”
“Now and then.”
“And you go out and—”
“Pass?”
“What’s pass?”
“Having people think you
are
a woman.”
“No way! You do that?”
“Not really.”
“So they know. That you’re a man.”
“Unless they’re, well—”
“Blind?”
He gets a chorus line’s worth of kicks out of that one, and puts his arm around my shoulders.
“Or really, really drunk.”
While I’m laughing I kind of hug him back, with one arm I mean, not full-body or anything, and he’s actually pretty hard and muscled to the touch, not feminine at all. He’s wearing some rank perfume though.
“But what’s the point, then?”
“How to explain it, why am I a queen? I grew up in a horrible place, a mill town, nothing was beautiful there, nothing was graceful, and everyone hated me because I was different, and, well, the more different the better. You know?”
I just nod. I guess I do know. I mean, why am I a punk? Because I wasn’t anything before, except different. And now it’s like I’m different, but with a vengeance.
Yeah.
And then I met Darby, and I was more than just different. I was somebody. To other people. One of Darby’s boys. I had like an identity. Only now he’s gone, so it’s gone too.
“What about Tim? When did you meet him?”
“When I was eighteen. He was twenty.”
“And he helped you? Be even more different?”
“He wouldn’t have me any other way.”
“That’s cool, then.”
“No, it’s hot.”
“What do you mean?”
“The same thing you mean. But we call it the opposite.”
And I’m all, Not really, the opposite’s warm, and then he says it’s my turn, who’s helped me be more different, and I tell him how Darby taught me to question everything, to refuse to accept anything, to
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