Music has always spoken to me. Since I was a kid, there was something about an instumental piece that would start running words through my head, urging me to complete a song.

Even though I was used to the words, I was completely blown away by the way that Savage spoke to me. He was a mysterious guitarist, famous all over the world for his incredible talent. His guitar whispered in my ear 'Darren, sing for me.' So I did.

I put my words to his music, making it whole and complete, entwining my feelings with his. I *felt* his guitar more than I heard it, and it always went straight to my gut. Of course, so did his photos. There were never any good, clear shots of him without some elaborate costume or makeup; his real identity was a close-kept secret in the industry. I tried not to mind, and I plastered my flat's walls with his image.

It was kind of sad, my obsession with him. He only had one album out, not enough to ensure his musical career, no matter how good he was. He didn't do interviews, live shows, photo shoots, or any of those nice things that made a pop star get noticed. I scoured magazines and music stores for something, anything about him I could get.

He seemed like the kind of bloke that would treat his girl well. Girl. Not some poor boy hooker he picked up off the sidewalk. All the same, I dreamed of finding someone like him, someone who would love me as much as I could love him.

So at night I went to a local, seedy little pub where the owner was one of my old customers. There I could get up on the stage and pour out my soul to the lonely music of a solo-guitarist that no one knew anything about. I knew something, though. I knew that his music was his soul, just like my lyrics were mine.

Out on a stage was where I could be a star. I could pretend for three minutes that I didn't make my living as a hooker. I could be the media darling, the pop diva, the rock god, anything the music let me be in front of all those gawking drunks in the Tavern.

//Calm, Daz.// Last check in the mirror. //As if it matters to them.//

"Show time, kid."

//Time to throw my soul out to the dogs.//

So I went up on the stage, dressed in black like always, clothes to match my hair and my mood, and I waited for the familiar strains of 'Universe' to play.

//Deep breath, Daz. Forget they're here.//

This was the song that always seemed like Savage was playing in my soul. The images I got in my head when it played were probably far from what the guitarist had intended to evoke, so much more sensual, but I couldn't ignore the sultry chords striking my heart.

I started to sing.

"Well, I'd like to take you as I find you.
Imagine our clothes are on the floor.
Feel my caress, so soft and gentle,
so delicate you cry for more..."

I scanned the crowd a little during the first verse, wondering if anyone cared, or even noticed, that I was up there.

//They never cared before, so why should they start now?//

Past the glare of the orange light in my eyes, I thought I saw one bloke at the bar watching, but the music caught me and took my attention away.

"You know there is a side of your heart you gotta let me know so you can be free, baby. You wanted it so much, and, now that it's over, you don't know what you want.
Well let me tell ya now,
this time I'm gonna make you mine.
I won't let you go, cos I know this time
I'm gonna make sure I look out for me."

I always loved that part, right after the second chorus. It was like a summary of every relationship I'd been in since high school. I would go and fall in love with some boy, get my heart stomped on, and tell myself that I wouldn't let it happen again. But it inevitably did.

I guess that's why I ended up being a hooker.

You don't have time to fall in love with anybody. They don't even want to look at you when they pay, so your heart doesn't go all soft.

I finished the song, mumbled a 'thank you' into the mic, and left the
spotlight. I stepped into the dressing room and found David, the pub owner,
waiting for me. //Damn. Why does he always have to be here at the exact
wrong time?//

"Nice job, tonight, boy. Pulled in a few more customers than last week."

//Like it matters.// "Yeah, well, you'd know about customers, wouldn't you?"

David's aging face made a ragged attempt at a leer. "So do you, boy. Maybe I should start bein' one of your regulars again."

//Please, God, no. I think I'll die if I have to go down for him again.// "Goodbye, David." I turned to leave, and he grabbed my ass like he owned it. In a way, I suppose he did.

I shook his hand off and left, heading down Wembley Road to the Plaza. I used to work here, legitimate work. I was a clerk at Woody's when it was still a music store, a place where people could go and hang around with friends after school. That was long before it became the haven of pretty-boy prostitutes. Now, my work is substantially less wholesome.

I thought for a minute that I heard someone following me, but I shrugged it away. Getting paranoid isn't good for business. I just continued walking to the Plaza.

Pimps, dealers, junkies, hookers, and clients were all over the place. If you had a vice, you could feed it here. There were women, men, drugs. Anything could be had for the right price. Including me.

I stopped under the red neon sign for Woody's, hit by a slight pang of guilt and nostalgia. Ignoring it like always, I tossed my jacket down next to me and settled in to wait.