You must find a boy your own age. Someone mild and beautiful to be your lover. Someone who will tremble for your touch…someone whose fingers are a poem.
Love’s an illusion. It’s a dream you wake up from with an enormous hangover and net credit debt. I’d rather have cash.
I’d spent the last three years trying to build up some kind of a skin, so I wouldn’t drip with blood everytime I brushed up against something. She was naked, she peeled herself daily.
Paul: Are you gay?
Astrid: Does it matter?
Paul: Doesn't anything matter to you?
Astrid: Survival. I guess.
Paul: That's not much.
Astrid: I haven't gotten any farther than that.
Astrid: Does it matter?
Paul: Doesn't anything matter to you?
Astrid: Survival. I guess.
Paul: That's not much.
Astrid: I haven't gotten any farther than that.
He stared at me all the time. I felt his eyes while I painted. But it didn’t bother me, Paul Trout’s intense, blinkless stare. It wasn’t like the boys in the senior classroom, their stares like a raid, moist, groping, more than a little hostile. This was an artist’s stare, attentive to detail, taking in the truth without preconceptions. It was a stare that didn’t turn away when I stared back, but was startled to find itself returned.
