Young Flesh

I remember being 16 and needing no other beauty accoutrement than a dab of gloss on my flesh-colored lips. I also remember creepy old men stalking me because I was young, pretty and wearing a high school uniform. Filthy old fools. They were everywhere: in the subway, in alleys, standing by bus stops or on the street in front of hotels as fancy as the Pierre and museums as old as the MET.