I bought my first bike from him. And then, I stayed 4 a week. He sold a lot of bikes, none of them legally. My new hog looked exactly like a hog I had looked at across town. I know what’s for sale and my ass was one of those things. I was not eligible for anything more exotic than a driving license. Eligibility is where you find it. I didn’t like the hog. It didn’t go where I wanted to go. I need a trail bike. I need it to be fast and razor-charged wind flying sticks against my naked tits on nights so bibleblack, riding in the rain was a motherfucking rush. The trees are reaching out like cracking whips, oh, daddy. People scream at me to write another kind of story, and what they do not understand is that the stories write themselves. My world is always imperfect, and it lives and breathes inside my head, and there is much evidence to suggest that what I see inside my brain, and outside my head, where the reptiles live, is a camera set on shooting a shitload of optics like piss against a tree. People hate my guts everywhere. That is how it is. In high school, I wore eyeshadow, and I was advised I would be killed by multiple principals, and if a gang didn’t get me, they would. nI tended bar in a bar.

One night, the principal wandered in the bar, pounded his big snowy gloves together, the glitterblue falling like crystals. He stood there staring me. The whole age thing, and I did not understand it then, and I do not understand it now, it’s just not about sex to me, never has been, I can write it, but why. What runs my juice are the shadows. Even after speaking in public, I retreat into that labyrinthine rabbit hole. We would not agree on what nurturing is. Back off. Sometimes, there’s a call for a lid to learn something on his own, and if that kid is all wrapped like a kid in those bracemachines they used to use, in 1963 when I worked at a camp for disabled kids. The camp became a new school.

I have huge issues with special education.

But it’s still the foster-group-home-detention-thing that breeds rape as a weapon of war it is a class war and a racial war and an economic war and our war, and when you throw kids into the rat cage, with impunity, with, with great distances squeezed down to a finger in his ass. That kind of rape and you didn’t want it.

Humiliation dies hard. Sometimes, it’s an organism that is raping you all over again.

I can no longer swim. I want to move those muscles. I demand to do it, but my body totally freezes up and I sink. Sex os not on the agenda. With anyone. It doesn’t drive me. It’s the camaraderie, it’s the knowing quite another darkness tread carefully. You were never here. Will end the memories. There is no end to those witches be quits, witch, before you.

 Rape will fuck you up for a long, long time. It’s never Christmas. Never.

I started bending at thirteen. By fourteen, I had osteoporosis, could not stand upright, but it made me mean on the trail bike. I needed to be mean.

I understood somewhat vividly that control was whatever control was, and the bike was whatever it was. I was hit once. I recovered and got got right back up on a trail bike and boxed out of there.

Pancakes at Denny’s and coffee or coke or both it was always both. Cocaine strengthens one’s ability to drive a vehicle, any vehicle.

I carried knive

In my boot.

I was not bullied by other kids. They saw me in a sexual context. I saw them as ordinary.

Which is what rape was. There is the horror to it. It’s the ordinary assault we do not really care about, and I will tell you why.

We devered it.

Right.

We deserved it.

Look at how we dress. So intent on our phones.

The kid on the phone on the street is doing survival sex. Yes, it is still done, prostitution has been around a long fucking time like anthropology Mount Rushesmores and the thing about faces made from rock where is it that you cannot see every rock, every outcropping, every face, and all of them glow like fireflies.

What is wrong with you. I cannot fit into your boxes. I travel too fast and too light. Like up in smoke tonight, and this best fuck in your life is riding a trial bike through the shredding darkness rain like bullets against your tits is like Denny’s with a cup of coffee and pour all that sugarflow into the coffee and shut the fuck up.

Every single sign said: Do Not Fuck With Me.

They didn’t. It was the knives. I’d drive crackerjack front and center of the school building and splattered in mud. Do me.

All black. All black. The knives were in my boot. The boytoys stood around that bike and drooled. Fuck’em.

I went where I wanted. I would ride three thousand miles to attend a concert out in the raving desert we did not know it was a rave people had long hair and they were naked in ponds.

I was right there with them. Bending down to a swim of LSD adamanten skeletons the gindstone of up my ass of ghosts while Jimmy blared reverberation and smelt our brains with an infusion of infinity.

Most of it soft and purple and funny really, really funny like sliding down the throat of god.

There is no god. I claim poetic license. Poetic license is protected speech.

Until they take it from you. That, too.

I lived around sex workers, drug dealers, growers, muscle, junkies, tons of fucking herb tea, and then, there was the bile. This is where I discovered I could live out of one and sex work would just pay for the entire nine yards and time was a wastin’. These people, many of whom I love, were as crooked as a barrel of fishhooks.

Prostitutes. No one said sex worker. I honestly do not know how one combines sex work with an equilavent work with disabled kids. We are all on our way toward becoming schools all of us are schools of dada where we belong in the shadows until you stick your head out even a little bit. OMFG, time melts.

I could live on almost nothing. I got eighty miles to the gallon. Gas was not yet up to a buck. Driving at night naked and high as a hot balloon. With no hands.

No ignominious falling. Softer than that. You wheel around with your shrived dick while the fog plays predator if silent silence is also ordinary, a sustenance of fluidity the kind that that drags its slow self around like a bag of snakes.

I live in the South, and round and round. Bent and way particular.

Check the tent zipper at night, and when you hear a bear out there in the bushes, you are just too tired to breathe and you really do not care.

I am bent, I am still bent, bent into what appears to be the usual compliant congregation of the many selves all praying to the rhythm of the east, and to a sun of uncertainty, electrons can appear suddenly with their exact mate of the electron a zillion miles away, both electrons orbiting a wave of upgrade bursting like a pulsar far away even as it rides body to body in the camp house, celibacy was scary enough, but touch me is a shrew of sullenness, it’s what people do, but if you think there is a game plan, there is.

The money working with school districts and kids grim enough. Sex work was a matter of scheduling.

Always sit and face the door. It’s not if, it’s when.

No cars. No public. Five star hotels, or In.

Today, it’s the Internet. The ChopShop is pretty serious rough trade. Rough Trade is very careful as she goes. I drew up contracts in writing. It stays in Vegas but not quite. Working the Internet is sex work, I don’t know if mentoring rentboys is sex work, but it probably is, I really don’t care, as a mentor you simply have to live your life — for me that means, I carry a camera — and they see this, they begin to understand that the camera is a knife and can be surgically thin as a laser beam all cranked up to sever anything in its way. So we travel like a game of chess, and plot a lot. Tricks and my eyeballs to the big blue sky. It was about survival. It has always been about survival. Sometimes, you need a really big bike.