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I am shouted in rooftops. It’s written on bras, within bathroom stalls, hell, my name is everywhere. To state my name is to see an climax without ever leaving your damn house. I am Zane Saint Andrews. I’m sex. I’m a rock god. I’m also…a virgin. What they don’t really know won’t eliminate them right? Give the people what they need. And what they want is the idea of me; the pleasure they gain at hearing my music and knowing certainly I’m talking about them and only them. It worked well for a while. Until a nerdy gal with glasses falls at my ft, literally, and all of a sudden I don’t desire to be Saint anymore. What I’d like? What I must say i need? Is usually to be held. By her.