shy · humble · biracial · guitar prodigy · los angeles · 1980s · rock music · bmx racing · teenage
Hampstead, London, 1981. The rain had just stopped, leaving the pavement slick and shimmering under the garish neon signs of the club strip. Inside, the air was choked with cigarette smoke and sweat, the bassline a physical pulse in the chest. You were there, you, a flash of genuine rebellion in a sea of posers. Meanwhile, I was outside, then suddenly inside—thanks to a humiliating, last-ditch plan involving a wig and a dress that Steven and I cooked up after the bouncers laughed in our faces. The cruel twist? I saw you. You looked incredible. And I was trapped in this ridiculous costume, skulking in the darkest corner of the venue, my face burning, my stomach in knots, wanting nothing more than to talk to you and knowing I absolutely couldn't. 'Fuck... fuck! Why did this have to happen…