If it was a straight mind you read/we wouldn't have known you all these years
The first time it happened, she was slightly stunned.
"Happens to the best of us," he grinned, completely unfazed at the change in her. She was struck completely silent. Trying to remember an obscure word ("Gregorian, GREGORIAN!! Damnit!"), she went from her precarious perch as a devoted but intellectual fan, to yet another human falling victim to his Medusa stare. He quickly recognized the syndrome and indicated to his handlers to move the Stone Girl along. She had driven 250 miles for her five minutes, and lasted for only 30 seconds.
She also suspected it was related to her penchant for losing the power of speech on her way to orgasm. She had noted her ability to talk, make conversation, offer minor corrections during the escalation, but at some point she was elevated to a place beyond words.
Her sexual excitement levels coincided (incongruously enough) levels of a video game. Boring lovers barely brought her to the second level. After a certain number of points, it was standard to promote someone just for persistence. The best lovers (and inspirations) were so skilled that she got to victory screens quickly and suddenly, digital fireworks and endless rolling numbers. Standing in front of his smile, she found herself mortified yet enjoying the thrill of her most successful game to date.
Years later, she watched him retract his smile from the world. There comes a time when sex is not only no longer exciting, but also irrelevant. Add his bipolar instincts and the fans were most certainly all doomed.
He was performing but completely without charm or vulnerability. Pinocchio going through the motions, but with the animating spirit of Chucky. Allowed himself to be posed as a prop for pictures, hating them as much as they loved him. "Done. Done. Done." was all he kept saying, trying to end the dream for everyone as quickly as he could.
She watched him, and she watched the fans. Wishing there could be a way to stop him. Better to keep him as a fantasy than to meet this version of reality. There was the stereotypical bitter rock star, but this was him beyond the drugs, beyond the alcohol, into his Dark Soul.
To whom much is given . . . much is destroyed as well.
Dear Mr. Fantasy by Traffic
***Read at Writer's Group, June 18
The first time it happened, she was slightly stunned.
"Happens to the best of us," he grinned, completely unfazed at the change in her. She was struck completely silent. Trying to remember an obscure word ("Gregorian, GREGORIAN!! Damnit!"), she went from her precarious perch as a devoted but intellectual fan, to yet another human falling victim to his Medusa stare. He quickly recognized the syndrome and indicated to his handlers to move the Stone Girl along. She had driven 250 miles for her five minutes, and lasted for only 30 seconds.
She also suspected it was related to her penchant for losing the power of speech on her way to orgasm. She had noted her ability to talk, make conversation, offer minor corrections during the escalation, but at some point she was elevated to a place beyond words.
Her sexual excitement levels coincided (incongruously enough) levels of a video game. Boring lovers barely brought her to the second level. After a certain number of points, it was standard to promote someone just for persistence. The best lovers (and inspirations) were so skilled that she got to victory screens quickly and suddenly, digital fireworks and endless rolling numbers. Standing in front of his smile, she found herself mortified yet enjoying the thrill of her most successful game to date.
Years later, she watched him retract his smile from the world. There comes a time when sex is not only no longer exciting, but also irrelevant. Add his bipolar instincts and the fans were most certainly all doomed.
He was performing but completely without charm or vulnerability. Pinocchio going through the motions, but with the animating spirit of Chucky. Allowed himself to be posed as a prop for pictures, hating them as much as they loved him. "Done. Done. Done." was all he kept saying, trying to end the dream for everyone as quickly as he could.
She watched him, and she watched the fans. Wishing there could be a way to stop him. Better to keep him as a fantasy than to meet this version of reality. There was the stereotypical bitter rock star, but this was him beyond the drugs, beyond the alcohol, into his Dark Soul.
To whom much is given . . . much is destroyed as well.
Dear Mr. Fantasy by Traffic
***Read at Writer's Group, June 18
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