Lost Boys’ Greatest Hits

 

I.

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Freckles and sunscreen. A little too much sweat. The biggest grin you’d ever seen, he’d practically crawl in your lap. Dimples that could crack even your hardened little heart. It was easy to lean in, nothing tragic here. You’d never seen a happier drunk. Usually drunk. Making a bad decision but getting away with it every time. He got a blowjob at Warped Tour, but you weren’t even mad. You could tell him how stupid his hair looked. Laugh at his boner for horns and checkered pants. But he could always get you to dance.

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II.

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In hindsight, he hurt to look at. So soft, so polite. He needed a gentle hand, but didn’t really want your touch. He was neat and clean, and scolded you for smoking. Always such a gentleman, but his smile only went halfway. One day, he confessed, it was all Sic Transit Gloria to him. He’d drive that stick-shift sedan, and laugh with you every time it lurched. Too pretty by half, and untouchable in a black tee. 

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III.

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What a peacock scene. Literally. Stripes, crimps, and raccoon eyes on parade. The smart boys, angling like pros with snakebites, projected a tantalizing amount of gay charisma. Kisses were for an audience, and dancing was a confusing windmill of limbs and hair. He had pills, which helped. Lying in the backseat, crushing up painkiller dust, he smelled good. Like clean laundry. He was mean too, the right kind of mean. The backseat became a secret you shared, over and over. Half-dead and still dreaming. But then the nosebleeds started and you couldn’t really smell him anymore.

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IV.

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Fear Before on repeat. Shoegaze parties, drifting up to the attic, you got so high you set your bangs on fire. Nights were for dancing and biting and burning his cigarette on your thigh. He would wear your jeans, and sing to you in bed, and need every ounce of your attention, and howl in delight, and let his roommate listen through the bedroom wall. He was a disaster, a burning smoke you forgot to ash. Prince Charming probably, kept relevant by his sincere desire to self-destruct. You spent an entire Saturday night plucking shards of glass from his hands.

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V. 

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You started to notice things. The lyrics were trite and so was the company. Edward Forty-Hands wasn’t so funny, and you wished there was something in the fridge other than PBR. You looked around and realized you’d slept with four of the five people in this room. And then you’d do more math. It felt half-poly, half-incest, half-doom generation. Everyone was fucking everyone no one was pretending they weren’t. You lost your taste for lost boys one morning. It happened that fast. He was beautiful, until the sunlight made him ugly. You watched him struggle, commando, into a pair of jeans he couldn’t zipper.