Prologue

 

THOR'S thunderous hammer-striking the anvil. Flames, fire and smoke within the pain of a wholesale destruction, vaporizing people's cosmetic dreams. That's what NYC is, ad hoc aborted promises from Mad Monk, maniacal pitchman, promising the American dream. All of it ending in the destruction of the human soul.

Heartbreak pass, broken dreams and nightmare screams, Manhattan, hip, cool, fucked up, a tragic illusion, filled with the false icons of perfection, models, actors, dancers, gym boys, six pack abs, Metro Males, Prom queens, clubs, all moving through its boroughs' as dehumanizing threshing machines.

All the girls are chasing the illusive pitch, hook up with some Harvard momma's boy. You know summer in the Hampton's, sit along the runway, as sick, bulimic girls strut designers bling. The elite are convinced they can't live without the false eye candy and, then squirt out a kid or two, play tennis, while their husband fucks some Perth Amboy bimbo at the bowling alley serving drinks while their Vassar brides live out the oldest truth in the world.

(Whenever you see a beautiful female, there's always some guy tired of fucking her.)

For getting that once a piece of eye candy, no brain work, well, that tragic state forever leads to a dead end of sorrow.

It's a shallow world.

It's a sad world.

It's a bullet in the head of a girl's broken dreams world.

It's my world.

 

Chapter One

 

I AM Kenna Grey, soon to be twenty-two years old, a 5 ft. 6 inch, 118 lb. shoe string set on end Modern Dancer, polar white blonde, water blue eyes, sky high cheekbones. I'm kinda a young looking Ellen Barkin look alike, an imperfect odd ball beauty I have been told over and over again by guys, ad nauseam. I have a small nose, a little bent, with a bump on it, a surf board walloped it. I decided to keep it that way, though my parents offered to fix it.

I liked the new me.

I have this crooked, quirky smile that makes me look like I'm always looking for trouble, though I am not.

I am a So Cal, displaced New Port Beach surfer girl, beach volley ball player, play the flute, when I am blue.

I have a secret, my own, and that is I am a gay girl, still hidden in the coal mine of my denial. Since I can remember, I have always been attracted to girls, their lips, bodies, hair and the essence of their body perfume.

Because it's the fad now, a lot of these empty head dancer girls are flirting around the Bi world. You know, a Katy Perry, "I kissed a girl and I liked it" and I swoon thinking of a girls lips adorned with Cherry Chap Stick.

I had to see, so I let 2 guys in my lying life fuck me. You know five minutes of rutting then the escape to the Lazy Boy, Packers game, a Bud Light and a pizza. I was numb, detested it, and all I ever wanted in life was to be happy in some girl's arms, but I'm too scared to open that door. Though the girls and boys here at dance are physically stunning, they are also vicious, vacuous and I just couldn't stand being at the gun buck of their gossip, if I dared to come out.

What is the solution, I don't know. I am sad, so sad, hoping that fate will send some smart girl my way, soon as well as little bit of courage.

Within the matter of DNA and genetics, I was lucky. My mother is the elegant American ballet dancer, a Prima Ballerina, Giselle Bardot. My father, he is the Dutch multi millionaire, Tetra Cars CEO, a genius, Johann Grey and I of course inherited his brilliant brain.

I try to be humble, you know, my odd look, not feeling pretty, lots a kids think otherwise, talent, brains, they were a fucking lotto pick of my parents DNA; got lucky, can't take credit for genetics. Darwin was right, Evolution is a cruel whore, I know that, for born gay, well was a miracle, one I have denied and am ashamed I have done so.

I attend Juilliard, at the "The Lincoln Center of Performing Arts."

I am a Modern Dance student. I could have gotten a scholar ship, but I talked to my parents, and since they could afford it, we didn't want to take a chance away from some other girl less fortunate than me.

My parents pay my tuition, I am so lucky. I choose to support myself, the best I can and work as a bartender at night at one of the chic bars in Soho. It reminds me that not everyone is as lucky as me.

Dance choose me, I did not choose it.

My blood is satiated with the feeling of my body responding to the raw emotions of music, it liberates me. Why we are born to be what we are and what we will become, well, that must be fate; I know that it was for me.

My mind, connected to my body, my feet are conduits to what I am. It is how I express myself. The physical is exhausting, grinding, and the total exhaustion from what I do somehow collapses my mind from the continual static it always seems to be in. If I could not dance, I could not breathe. It is not like I have a choice for it is ingrained inside of me as blood is infused into any other girl. Dancing is a sexual experience for me and it is the only choice I have to save myself, to allow me to continue to dream, for though I have always sought love, I now know that love shall never find me.

Where is that special girl that will love me?

My 2000 square foot Chelsea loft is simple. My parents own it and allow me to live here. My sweeping bed is low to the floor and has black sheets and a black down comforter on it. The color black, it so matches my current mood, my heart seems to be incased in black.

I have my usual togs on. I am decked out in my fav stovepipe black hip huggers, black work boots, black body shirt and Hoodie, black again, sadness, well more than that. In reality I am crushed in disappointment.

Though a blonde spindle, I am kinda butch, a pure jock, no victim to fashion, but I am still a girl, working hard to be feminine under the hard exterior, yet am a disaster to fashion. I have no sense of it at all.

Now, male dancers at the school may be cosmetically perfect, but they are so egotistical, vacuous, so into themselves. Once or twice I've have been left in my bed emotionally dead with a dead semen count burning in my cunt as they sneak thief out of my life before dawn.

I have a strict no dating men policy in place, ever, ever, ever again.

I don't dis men, don't hate them and have some great men buds.

I know some remarkable young men, but there could be more. My feelings should not be so hyper odd, but they are, for I know I shall always be alone. I have accepted that, regretfully.

I only want what every gay girl wants, and that is to be appreciated, respected and of course to be ripped up by some special girl, that I now know doesn't exist on this tragic and cruel planet.

I have kinda figured it out, and I am pretty sure I am a submissive in the sex world and I want to be controlled, roughed up. I love hard sex and it's the oldest story in the world.

I'm so sick of denial and would love a slap in the face, as well as anal sex from some girl. There is a button in there my dildo has found that makes me crazy, teeth chattering, body undulating in orgasms, many of them, thought my spine cracked one night, MY BAD. Yet, the two guys in my past when I fucked up and hinted that I would find that such a turn on, well, the ICK factor came in.

I was embarrassed and humiliated afterwards, go fucking figure.

Embarrassed to admit it, I watch a lot of girl on girl porn, LOL, and have figured it out. If a girl has the right tool belt, (I am smiling)) she can climax over and over.

Where a guy cum's once, strike fucking three, back to the Lazy Boy, Pizza and Giants game, "Hey babe can ya grab me a Brewski?"

Anyhow, I often work the homeless shelters, food lines and with those poor people that have been given nothing in life. Though I cannot help myself, I know I can help others.

I am slowly wasting away.

I am myopic about my life as WHY bashes my brain late at night with a simple question and that is: "Why am I alone?"

Can't go there, AGAIN, gotta go, I am late for my audition. I don my black gloves, black hip huggers, back pack, skull cap, Ray Bans and grab my bike, skedaddle through my security door, hit the stairs and am gone.

 

Chapter Two

 

IT IS LATE, near mid night, stopped at a cool bar in Chelsea for drinks and some Nine Ball with a couple of my crazy gals from my troupe after my shift.

I threw back many tequila shots, to many, kissed the gals good bye and secretly flirted with a girl, got a NO GO sign, sighed, hopped my bike and peddled home.

Sitting on the ledge of my loft window, I'm nursing another-tequila and smoking a Marlboro and gazing at the undulating neon of the city.

I am wearing my comfy white cotton PJ bottoms and my fav white sleeveless mans undershirt, my fathers. Hesitating looking at my naked toes, there beat to hell, Band-Aids everywhere and I love the pain of it, it turns me on; can you spell the word masochist?

Got Taylor on my music machine, her gifted genius always calms me and I just hope she makes it through the black vortex of Hollywood as I am attempting to do in her sister, Manhattan.

Plugging at a bottle of Tequila, I smoke more. I know I must stop soon. I am hoping I am not one of those self destructive artists, you know Baudelaire, Van Gogh, Sand, etc. Troubled men and women that tried to numb the pain of talent within the white flake of the pipe, or the green dream of Absinth; artists so loved until they were loved no longer.

Another shot of the golden kiss, it is a direct conduit to my brain.

So throw it back girl, I do, plug more, slam that back, am drunk, so fucking what.

I kill my smoke, ashtray next to my feet, stand, weave, feeling my head spinning as I see those tiny dot lights bashing my brain. I feel like going to my dance bar, for I have to work these demons out of me, but am too drunk to even do that.

Grabbing my bottle of tequila I weave to a wall mirror, try to focus my mind. My head is spinning. My short blond hair looks crazy. I look crazy. I am crazy, so.

"Who is that girl, so white, so out of control?"

I whisper as I point at the mirror as if some wraith is staring back at me.

Stumbling, I focus my drunken eyes, grit my teeth, plug from the Tequila, rear back and scream as I hurl the bottle against the wall mirror shattering it.

"YOU CAN'T HAVE ME...YO...YOU FU...FUCKING BITCH."

That's it, I twirl around, my eyes lose focus, I stumble two steps, do a pirouette, collapse on to my bed, moan twice, the ceiling is spinning.

I pass out, down for the count.