who you are.” & he started in with all these compliments. not even about my looks; he said how bummed he’d
been when wrecker on reform broke up, said he’d wanted to have us open for the bishop audition, told me i
was a killer bassist, that i played like i was channeling spirits. “we should jam together sometime,” he said, “i
play bass too when i’m not doing the frontman thing, we could do some kinda two-bass band like mike watt
& kira roessler do with dos.” i swooned a little. then he said prophet / ess was the best fanzine in town & okay.
i swooned a lot. i admit it.
we exchanged phone numbers before parting ways that night. he didn’t try to take me home w/ him or any-
thing like that. maybe that’s why i didn’t see any of this coming, or why it hurts so fucking much. some guys
come across as creeps, but apollo is not one of them. which makes him double-dangerous. a double (mother)
fucker. i’m getting ahead of myself.
we started hanging out alllll the time. we drank tequila & danced to old records in my kitchen while my ging-
ham curtains swayed in the dumpster breeze wafting up from the diner next door; we drank beers on his fire
escape & talked until dawn oozed over the rooftops. we went out together; everyone saw us at all the clubs
& bars & coffeeshops & asked if we were a thing, the perfect scene-dream couple. but we never talked about
being a couple, we hadn’t even kissed yet! we were just.....happy. we were really really fucking happy. even if
it was all an act for him. yeah, he told me i was hot, but in this way where he complimented my style, not just
my body.
it was all: “sandra you are the hottest grrrl in town, you have the best style, i love the blue streak in your hair,
i love your cat’s-eye sunglasses & leopard-spot skirts. you are the coolest bass player poet prophetess zinester,
you are so wild, we can make wild music together, we will do the coolest things together, we will never die.”
& i’d say: “apollo you are a dream-cream-boy, you are the craziest soul-screamer frontbabe, i will write poems
& you will sing them & everyone will know who we are, we will etch our names onto this town & beyond.” i’d
say: “but i am so vulnerable, i am a tender pussycat, my breakup with calliope hurt me, i want to love again,
to love you, but she fucked me up bad.”
& he: “i know, baby, i understand, no one could understand you like i do, you know i’ve been hurt, you know
i know hurt too.”
then more beer, more tequila, vegan burritos, old sad songs, bass guitar strings, poetry.
i kissed him first. after months of soul-talk & dancing, i craved the salt of his pouting lips, & i pounced him
on my couch. he kissed me back. & for another month things were perfect. we didn’t fuck, we just made out.
a lot. i thought finally, FINALLY, a boy who understands how erotic heavy petting can be & doesn’t need to
rush into more, who can enjoy the snake-twine of tongues, wet spit, hands in each other’s hair.
one night after we’d made out for hours he said: “i really wanna taste you.” & i was like, yeah, i’m into that. he
gave me head & it was the best head i’d ever gotten from a guy. i came, hard & long, & then. “can i fuck you
now?” said i didn’t want to, not yet. soon. “no. i’ve been wanting it too long. i’m gonna fuck you now.” (want-
ing it too long? he never said anything until that night.) & i made some half-hearted attempt to fight him off
but i was three margaritas deep & really confused as to was this really happening?; & he’s shorter than i am
but stronger, he easily pinned me down. & then he was fucking raping me. mostly he said nothing, just made
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Cauldron Anthology