Free Dead Stars by Bruce Wagner

no no no! what was unmentionably mentionably awesome about Hermione’s
honeyshot!
was that once in a blue moon, an unsuspecting,
very
fortunate papsmearazzo captures the
honeyshot!
holy Grail: that epiphany of smushed candlewick, the sanitary napkin—a
rara avis
indeed!
Early bird caught the worm—
tail of the kite—by my
word
, Lord Middleton almost had aattack when he saw it, for never in his wildest dreams—his Hermione!
    Misty-eyed, he related this exuberantly memorable anecdote to young Jerzy—he’d waited
so long
for that moment—Emma’s moment—and how much it meant to him that he’d been there to see it first, before it entered eternal history, “and
that
, my new friend, they can never take away. We will always be connected in a way she will never know, & I shall love & cherish it, & carry it to my grave.” He went on to speak of that difficult moment before posting, when he knew she’d no longer be his: in the bedroom, Harry’s features illumined by dandelion (milky latex) pussywillow (furry catkins), alone with the image, before Send would rob him of the sacral intimacy of fumbling promnight ecstasy, before he shared her with the world—
if you love them let them go—
to Send was, afterall, his bold and righteous duty—but still—for a few shining hours she was his. He, Harry, his Highness of lowness, he, Harry, high priest of yeast, sat in bed woefully staring at the rectangular cloud of the Mac that lapdanced him in those tenebrous hours, he, Harry, could practically
taste
the bloodwort copperiness of Emma’s new moon menses—for it
was
a new moon: a tender, slender crescent—and oh! that infernal cotton string! His God and his Devil had given him that. He was deserving, & forever grateful.
    He was certain he’d live to be very old. The single ladies gave him
life
, each and every one of them, but he had always loved Emma the most, nothing untoward, nothing that was a problem, he took his sons to see all the Potter movies, and the 1st time he saw her he was struck by her beauty, he
saw
what she would look like as a single lady & full-blown adult womanyet he
never
objectified her, promised himself he never would, not until her 18th, in thought nor in action, instead he would wait for her on the sidewalks (Harry sang:
If it takes forever I will wait for you, for a thousand summers I will wait for you
), not with the SmArmy but with the
fans
—her fairytale crocodile prince at river’s bottom, patiently biding his time . . . . . . . . . before devouring & disseminating that toothsome, magian
honeyshot!—
a Julian Assange of cunt, acting on behalf of the millions of boys, men, & boys-to-men who adored her, grew
up
with her, and would forever keep her in their hearts.
    . . .
    He was a late-starter, Jerzy was, he’d frittered away so many years in the shadow of his mother.
    Jacquie Crelle-Vomes was famous, one of the phonies of her gen who achieved notoriety for taking snaps of pre-stacked progeny. Pre-Jerry’s Deli Jerzy hated that she’d taken nudies of his little sis, saw straight thru all her bullshit. He knew that his mother’s one-time obsession was to have a show at MoMA—she thought her daughter’s underage body could catapault her over the museum’s walls
—
that’s when he started calling her MoMA instead of Momma, which irritated her to no end. O how he loved to tweak her shit. Still, MoMA went further than her firstborn thought she would. Had to hand it to her, the woman was a real hustler. She really knew how to work the wealthy adolescephiles, & acquired (marginal) fame in the process. She was famous enough to have a Wikipedia page anyway (not even Harry around the Mersey had one) even if it was stubby, with a giant
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. It didn’t even have her picture.
    MoMA used to have him assist on some of