Once again, I must backtrack.
I recently watched the documentary "An Open Secret" which chronicles the grooming of young actors by rich and powerful Hollywood pedophiles. It was the perfect cap for a week which featured the downfall of mouthbreathing neckbeard Devin Faraci, and the hypocritical arrogance of James Woods in the face of Amber Tamblyn's accusations. I've been watching this shit go on for years. And I've heard more than one female friend say: "I'm just so fucking sick of being quiet about it."
It reminded me of being seventeen, and wandering up and down the Boulevard with Alicia, looking for boys and parties and approval. And one day, running across two men who were friendly and stopped to talk. One of them looked like Bruce Dickinson of Iron Maiden. The other was just a fat, balding older guy. Not Bruce smiled and drew us in with his pretty hair and good looks. Fat Guy just sat and watched us talk for a while, not saying anything. Until he suddenly said to me: "Stand up straight for a second."
I'd been standing with my head cocked to one side, my weight on one foot. So I stood up straight and looked directly at Fat Guy, who was nodding solemnly as he took inventory. "You've got a good look." he said. "You could make a lot of money. I run a club in San Francisco. You could dance there and make a lot of money."
"I'm only seventeen." I said, starting to feel sick to my stomach.
"That doesn't matter." he said. "I got lots of girls your age and younger working for me. Here's my card. You should call me, I could get you set up real quick."
"Uh, okay." I took the card. I was eager to be away from them. He had not made the same offer to Alicia, just me. I think she was a little pissed off and jealous. I was not at all flattered. I wasn't stupid. I knew what he wanted me to do. I said I had to pee and we walked away from them. The second I hit the McDonald's restroom, I ripped the card into as many pieces as possible and flushed it down the toilet.
We walked home, and spotted the two creeps on the way, across the street, still wandering about, looking for meat. But now it was Fat Guy who waved and smiled and winked and whistled, looking me up and down like I was a real wet dream, practically salivating. And I felt exactly as I had the day just ten years prior, when the oily janitor had tried to hold my hand in the lunchline: sick, ashamed and violated.