Men are drawn to my ass by
my death-trance blue eyes
and black hair, tiny outfit,
while my father is home with
a girl, moved by the things
I could never think clearly.

Men smudge me onto a bed,
drug me stupid, gossip, and
photograph me till I’m famous
in alleys, like one of those
jerk offs who stare from
the porno I sort of admire.

I’m fifteen. Screwing means
more to the men than to me.
I day dream right through it
while money puts chills on
my arms, from this to that
grip. I was meant to be naked.

Hey, Dad, it’s been like this
for decades. I was always
approached by your type, given
dollars for hours. I took a
deep breath, stripped and they
never forgot how I trembled.

It means tons to me. Aside
from the obvious heaven
when cumming, there’s times
I’m with them that I’m happy
or know what the other guy
feels, which is progress.

Or nights when I’m angry,
if in a man’s arms moving
slowly to the quietest music –
his hands on my arms, in my
hands, in the small of my back
take me back before everything.

— Dennis Cooper
from Tenderness of the Wolves