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I was once in a Goth band in a small city. My role: to read my lusciously dark poetry over the band's tapestry of dark dreams. Naturally, we attracted our share of fans. And naturally, they worshipped me. Usually, their tributes were reserved to fawning at my feet as I teased them from the edge of the stage. Sometimes I was met backstage with tacky offers of drinks, drugs or sexual favors. These were easy to turn down, especially when you looked at who (or what) was offering. Sometimes I got fan mail, some entertaining. For example, I once got a letter in spidery, grandma handwriting asking for pictures of me in fetish gear. The letter was damp. But the worst was a pale, wormish guy who followed us from gig to gig, sat right down front and fixed his eyes unwaveringly on me for the entire show. He never even got up to use the bathroom or order a drink. Finally, as expected, he cornered me backstage one night. He was clearly nervous. His mouth worked silently for awhile as he tried to come up with words, and he gazed stupidly into my eyes for several seconds before he got the nerve to speak. "In this light, you look... human," he said. I could tell from his tone that it was a low insult. And with that he turned on his foot, and left.
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