I saw a whore tonight, while driving through Hollywood.

From the back seat of my father's car I heard my dad say "man, there's a young one." His drunk friend nodded, and laid his glass bottle back up against his lips. And at first I didn't understand, I didn't know, what he meant.

And then I saw him, and I could see what my dad saw, under that streetlight at 11:49 pm that night.

He couldn't have been a day older then nineteen. (although to be honest, I hate when people say shit like that. He may not have been a day over nineteen but he sure as hell was:
a fuck over nineteen
a hit over,
an empty night past,
beaten though,
blond beyond,)

What appeared to be only nineteen years.

I saw a young boy-whore tonight, at the corner of Emerson. Twisting his hips in the night air at passing cars. A bent cigarette sitting lifelessly between his fingers.
(He must have been cold, it was cold out tonight).

I drove past a boy whore tonight. Left him there, to patrol his block, and open his legs to strangers for pictures of dead presidents to trade for drugs that would allow him to speak to the ghosts of dead presidents.

And he would live this life. He would keep money in his back pockets by letting strangers into his front pockets.

At the corner if Emerson is a beautiful boy whore. With bright blond hair, that was seen by a twenty year old girl (high on shrooms and gasoline) from the back seat of a car.

.
.:a/n: This is why I stopped taking the goddamn bus:.