Black Wave Read Online Free PDF Page B

hooked toher belt loop with a swag of silver chain. The nights Ziggy packed, yet another layer of leather and metal would be rigged across her hips, a heavy dildo curled in her underwear. The overall affect of these accessories was not unlike a woman dancing the hula in a skirt of shells and coconuts, or belly dancers draping their bellies in chain mail. The swinging, glinting hardware propelled Ziggy forward from her core, and, though your eyes were drawn to the spectacle, the flash obscured the femininity—like dazzle camouflage. A lot of butches wore this look, but Ziggy did it best.
    Gay Men Fuck Younger Boys All The Time, Michelle said fiercely.
    Okay, NAMBLA, Ziggy snorted. Okay, NAMBLA Kay Letourneau.
    Not Like That, Michelle said. Just—You Know What I Mean. Older Fags And Younger Fags, Like Legally Young. Daddies. Zeus And Ganymede.
    Ganymede was a child, Ziggy schooled her.
    Yeah, You Were There, Michelle retorted, On Mount Olympus. You Were Working The Door. You Carded Ganymede. Michelle’s joke reminded her of a true story in which Ziggy picked up a girl with hair so short there was almost nothing for her Hello Kitty barrettes to clamp onto and who wore a pink dog collar around her neck. The girl left her ID on Ziggy’s bedroom floor by accident. She hadn’t been old enough to get into the bar where Ziggy’d seduced her.
    That’s not the same thing, Ziggy defended. That girl lied to me. Just by being in the bar she was pretending to be at least twenty-one. That was not my fault.
    So, Michelle said, If That Poet Lied To Me About Her Age It Would Be Okay?
    It’s too late, Ziggy said scornfully, swigging the OldeEnglish. You met her at the Teen Poetry Slam. It is too late for you, NAMBLA Kay Letourneau. Ziggy’s hips swiveled as she skipped along. She sashayed down the block, nearly running into a shriveled old crackhead woman who had emerged from the mouth of an SRO hotel. At least Michelle thought she was old. She might have been thirty, but crack is such an evil potion it turns maidens to hags in a season.
    You know what to do!!!! the woman croaked in a prophetic timbre. Her lips were split with dehydration and cancer. Do it! Do! It! Do it now! Do it now! Michelle and Ziggy looked at one another, alarmed. Lifelong city dwellers, both were accustomed to the spooky public outbursts of addicts and crazy people, but Ziggy tended to treat them as oracles dispensing coded messages.
    Do what?! Ziggy asked, suddenly desperate. Do what?! Oh god! I feel like that woman just looked into my soul! Ziggy’s eyes got the focused-unfocused look that only a drunk Pisces with eyes that color green could achieve. She retraced her steps and pulled a palmful of coins from the tight front pocket of her leather pants. She placed them in the woman’s chickeny hand.
    You know, she told Ziggy. A bright piece of her fabric wound around her head and her eyes stared out from the cave of her face. You know!
    I do, Ziggy replied solemnly.
    Michelle thought Ziggy was probably crazy herself, but there was a chance she wasn’t and that the street people of her neighborhood were, in fact, prophets, apocalyptically wise, witches damaged from being born into a time with no respect for magic. Michelle preferred this story over the alternative of everyone having chemical imbalances and genetic predispositions toward alcoholism. She supportedZiggy and helped her puzzle out the cryptic warning of the street oracle.
    Is There Anything You Think You Should Do Right Now? Michelle asked.
    Ziggy thought.
    Write a novel? she mused. Ziggy stuck to poetry, but it was hard to make money as a poet and Ziggy really liked money. Another option was moving to Los Angeles to direct films but that seemed like such an intense thing to do. Apply for a grant? She dug deep. I was thinking about doing yoga, she said. Recently Ziggy had briefly dated a bicurious yoga instructor who kicked everyone’s ass at pool. Prana , the