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176 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1961
Girls bit their fists as their eyes started from their heads. Girls spread their hands against their breasts and clutched them with terrible hunger. Girls fell back into their seats, reduced to tears, reduced to jelly, reduced to emotional orgasms of terrifying intensity.
But there was a subtext to the song. Something dark and roiling, an oil stain on a wet street, a rainbow of dark colors that moved almost as though alive, verging into colors that had no names, disturbing colors for which there were only psychiatric parallels. Green is the dead baby color ...
"Please ... get over here, will you! ... He's breaking down the, Jeezus, Shelly, please!"
"This isn't too funny, Mr. Preston."
"Hot and cold running Stag."
"Mr. Preston."
"Stag! You don't have to get nasty about it. I'm only being friendly. Extending a little good cheer to my friend's girl."
"Hot or cold, Mr. Preston?"
"Depends on the receptacle."
Her carefully plucked eyebrows rose. "They've taught you big words, too. I thought all you knew were words for your songs; the ones with one syllable."
Cliches begin to stink after they've lain around a few years ...