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