idk about butts

Something like this

I am topless in a dirty, lower east side club bathroom. The nineteen year old porn star behind me has her fingers tucked into the front of my jeans and we are making out. A few feet away, our friend, a nightlife photographer is lowered in a crouch and aiming his expensive camera up at my tits. I am touching her and waiting for him to touch me. When he does it’s brief and more for my own satisfaction than his.

*

I am standing in a Virgin Megastore with my mother, who, along with my step father and sister, are visiting me at NYU. I rifle through a box of CD’s on sale and half-listen to my mother talk. There comes a pause, as if she’s waiting for me to reply.
I look up from a pop compilation album.
Her lips are pursed, eyebrow arched. “I said, your dad saw the pictures of you and that girl.”
“Huh,” is all I say.
“Are you a lesbian?”
I almost laugh. “No.”
“Then why were you touching her like that?”
“For fun.”
She sighs. “We were afraid something like this would happen.”
I wonder what she means by ‘something like this’ but decide against asking. My father never says anything to me about the photos.

*

I am naked in the porn star’s bed with her and a passed out twink. We are watching informercials and she is feeding me shrooms. They taste like almonds. I am complaining about my social climbing friends. Explaining that what I like about her scene is not that it’s exclusive, but that it’s hidden. I don’t want to go up, I want to stay below, explore gutters with beautiful, thin-bodied refuge like her.
“It used to be hidden,” she says, lifting her leg and arching a foot towards the ceiling. “And then people like you came.”
I watch at the sham-wow guy on TV. “People like me.”
“You found out about us from a magazine,” she says. “A magazine in a Barnes and Noble in some bum fuck town. Like nowhere.”
“Yeah.”
My skin feels wet and cold. I leave the bed and cross to the bathroom. The floor is tiny, blue iridescent tiles. I lie, spine to glass mosaic, and stare up at the single light.
She comes in and feeds me another mushroom. “Do you know what a harbinger is?”
I nod.
“People are talking about leaving, getting out of here. They think the scene is moving on.”
“Or dying.”
“I think it’s dying.”