“You know you’ve had it when the only looks you get are from other middle-aged women,” thought Constance bitterly. What is it with this constant craving for instant intimacy, that just because you are a certain age you are automatically lumped in with them, for god’s sake. Just because she was born before the moon walk didn’t mean she had an instant bond with every old broad in elastic waist pants and a bad perm. She wasn’t like that, she didn’t look old, would never grow old gracefully. If she wanted to look at an old broad she would look in the goddamned mirror.

“Can’t make eye contact these days anymore,” thought Constance. These young girls just gave her a vicious stare, all she had done was look at the girl’s tattoos. Really in her day the only people that got tattoos where convicts and prostitutes and sailors. Now they were a fashion statement.


Legs astride in worn down boots

she stands at the bar

buttocks sag in acid wash denim

Hair stiff with peroxide and gel

Gravity drags at eyelids and jowls.

Double D’s bulge out of her T-shirt with its flaking Disco Sucks decal

Her bleary gaze lands on me

speaks of too many stained sweaty sheets

musty hotel rooms overflowing ashtrays empty 40’s roach clips

glitter greasepaint uppers downers chasers

manhandled bruised knocked about knocked up

but she still packs a wallop to knock me on my ass,

“‘cus if I wanted to look at another old broad,” she snarls,

“I would look in the goddamned mirror. “

One thought on “groupie

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