Porcelain

“I’m glad we didn’t have sex, Moby,” she said quietly in the dark.

“Me too, Janet. Good night.”

I stood there, staggering and dancing in my own semen, surrounded by hundreds of incarnations of Stevie Nicks. I tried not to bump into them, but I couldn’t help myself. I needed this, being surrounded and supported by all these beautiful Stevies. I closed my eyes and danced, feeling the bodies around me, hearing another Fleetwood Mac song playing while the transsexual Stevies sang along.

The dance scene had always been about the new, and I was no longer new.

“I went out last night to get gasoline,” Andy said. “I was going to burn you guys to death in your sleep.” I looked at Lee; he looked at me. Both of us said silent prayers to the god of locked doors. “But I got back here and your doors were locked, so I sat down on the futon and fell asleep.”

There’s a word missing from the English language. Maybe it exists in other languages. It describes the unspeakable, incomprehensible panic that comes from standing onstage to play your second-ever solo show in front of thousands of hostile fans who’ve just found out the headliner canceled and then hitting “start” on your sequencer with absolutely no result.