a story worn smooth

“Goth Damage” by Danielle Willis

I was necrophilically skinny, worshiping Satan, and living on pharmaceutical grade morphine when I met this gorgeous little death rock heroin princess named Christabel in the Market Street Cinema dressing room.  I usually dont like to pick up other strippers but I have a terrible weakness for emaciated things with black, white or blood red hair who still do whiteface and severe black eyeliner in 1992 and who look a lot like me.  Besides, she actually has a Joy Division lunch box.  I asked her to go to Squids with me for coffee where she told me she really liked me because she could tell I was “fully Gothic,” unlike her yuppy call girl lover who wouldn’t let her play her Christian Death tapes and who she was cheating on with this really cute Goth guy who hung out at the Underground and read poetry to her on bended knee. Most of it was really sad, she said.  I gave her a copy of my book and told her I looked really good in drag and that my boy name was Damian.

from Tantrum issue 3, Spring 1993