The curtains close and the lights go up
We wait for the next performance to get ready.
Soon the think red drapes are parted,
and my heart jumps,
because there he is.
The show begins, screaming into the mike,
Are you ready to rock?
I am.
They kill the songs, but after awhile I stop paying attention
to the songs and start watching them.
I watch as he throws his hair back, long and thick and curly,
singing at the top of his voice, with the edge and rough raw that even
a shot of T won't get me.
I shift from him to his friend, his friend that is everything I want.
He belts out Hound Dog, he rips into his guitar and shreds the songs
a p a r t .
His slender arms, with the bulge of muscle shining shining sweat.
Furrowed brow and nimble fingers that I want all over me.
Turn back to the first boy, watch his hips
circle behind his guitar, his groin pressing against the smooth wood.
Behind his zipper a throbbing energy that he teases with,
smirking into the audience, with more grace and sensuality
than I when I practice in my room behind a locked door.
The tears come at the end, and I blink them back,
always blinking them back.
a l w a y s.
Can't decide if I like you or if I like your body,
if I want you or your body.
Is it bad that I want to strut onstage with my bass guitar laying flat against my chest, to shred a song with my vocal chords bleeding bloody raw?
And at the same time, I long for a smooth body,
a flat stomach and long, luscious hair, tumbling down my back.
Gentle breasts beneath silky cups, curving me into a petite doll.
I watch the boys and my heart aches, for him, and for his body.
I don't know what transexual means but it might be me.