2.	suffragette city middle school
	I. Emily stopped me in the hall in eighth grade and offered me a blowjob.  I declined because I was terrified.  I was not terrified because she had shaved her head and so looked like David Bowie, but because I'd never wanted to be Mick Jagger in some Jamaican "Dancing in the Streets" tryst. II. The first song I ever really tried to play--other than "Stairway to Heaven" in the wrong octave-- was the intro to "Ziggy Stardust," but just those first two G major chords. The ferocious omnipotence of that "Crash, Crash" and the restrained pause after introduced me to God. III. By the time Emily's hair grew back out, I'd learned to tune the guitar, I'd sacrificed Bowie for more practical pop designed for cuter girls.  I'd perfected the shaggy hair and growling just-out-of-bed vocals.  I'd learned to broadcast my loneliness in wide upturned stares and brooding emanations. IV. Emily hung around and told me incredible details of what she'd do to me.  I went home and tried not to think about it at night, instead exorcizing the thought into the wad of cloth beside the bed.
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