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Christian Slater

by



I was eleven when “Pump up the Volume” was
released in the theaters. I remember standing in
line at the mall with my cousin Talia, fingers
buttery with popcorn, waiting for the acne-ridden
usher to release the velvet rope keeping us out
while his co-workers picked candy wrappers
off the carpet in front of the screen. Two hours
later we were in love. You were twenty-one,
Christian. Ten years older than me, but
since my dad proposed to my mom when he was
31 and she was 20 I thought I had a chance of
winning your affection if only I could put myself
in the same room, on the same subway car,
at the same Broadway show as you. On the bus
to school each morning I’d stare at the window
and project my own imaginary movie onto the pane:
the two of us living together in a roomy but modest
apartment on the Upper West Side, close enough that
we could each visit our mothers, but far enough
away that they wouldn’t bother to visit us,
our refrigerator filled with bottled water and OJ,
no booze of any kind, not when you were still
carrying the phone number of your AA sponsor
in the back pocket of your jeans. My fantasies
followed me to bed each night, and were still there
when I woke the next day covered in sweat
and surprise at the things we’d done in my dreams,
scenes played in mythic fashion, my naked body
arched across a stone altar, a willing gift to you,
an ecstatic sacrifice to the Gods. You don’t know it,
but it was you who turned me into a woman, not
the twenty-one year old social activist who claimed
my virginity nine years later. It was you who
coaxed the first damp drops from the inside of
my thighs, the first errant hand to the band of
my panties; you and your deviously arched
eyebrows, gravelly voice, and limp hair; all
your rough surfaces making me sizzle,
informing me that there was something roaring
beneath my skin. So if we ever run into each
other, at some boutique in SoHo or restaurant
in TriBeCa, do not be alarmed if I wrap my
fingers around your wrist and draw you to me.
Do not be afraid as I softly rub my thumb
across your hairline and wonder how
it could have receded so far without me
noticing. Do not pull away when I get on
my tip-toes and brush a chaste kiss upon
your lips for it is nothing more than simple,
unrestrained gratitude.

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<a href="/tag/free+verse">free verse</a>, <a href="/tag/fame">fame</a>, <a href="/tag/woman">woman</a>, <a href="/tag/movies">movies</a>, <a href="/tag/idols">idols</a>, <a href="/tag/christian+slater">christian slater</a>, <a href="/tag/puberty">puberty</a>, <a href="/tag/movie+stars">movie stars</a>

About Carla Criscuolo


Carla Criscuolo was born and raised in New York City which means her hometown can kick your hometown's butt. She has been writing poetry ever since she saw MTV's "Spoken Word Unplugged" special back in 1994. Her work has appeared in a few print literary magazines and a ton of online ones, due mainly to the fact that since discovering Twitter she has been unable to pry herself away from the computer.

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