by Sean Hanrahan
They wanted you to believe it was the ‘50s
those ‘80s purveyors of Teen Beat, Tiger
Beat, Bop, and other idol mags replete with
pinups of cherubic porn stars in popped up
collars posed against the ubiquitous woodsy
backdrop every mustachioed photographer
knew and loved, or in front of perfectly
manicured lawns with the perquisite white picket
fences and blurry blooms of promise. Action
shots of standing up on rolling bicycles or
straddling unscuffed surfboards, insipid
interviews mentioning their favorite ice cream
flavor was vanilla, always vanilla, or they were
saving intercourse for where it belonged—
the glistening future of marriages, mortgages,
and malcontented kids. These paragons of bygone
virtue always grew up to be queers, drug addicts,
and other things McCarthy wouldn’t like,
but as a rapt child lying prostrate in my upper
bunk bed with my feet crossed behind me,
I savored each PR morsel as if it were manna
fallen from the suburban summer sky. I hungered
to pull out my transistor radio and swoon to some Elvis
or rockabilly hits, while imagining each celebrity
in turn would swoop down from Mt. Olympus just to court
me at next Saturday’s sock hop right after I sewed the poodle
on my skirt, padded my bra, and promised my mother
I wouldn’t allow any heavy petting in the front seat
of his overpriced, fresh-off-the-lot Cadillac.
Those fuckers had me hook, line, and picture.
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