Red light

8. Pathway of acid (Izuna)

It was turning out pretty good.

The seashell.

One of my favourite things to do when drawing was taking something really simple, like a seashell, and add details and lines to make it more interesting. As I drew with the thought of my works becoming tattoos, I focussed on thick lines and a mixture of big details that would last forever and tiny details that might disappear with time without making the piece look worse for it. This particular shell was turning out amazing. I painted it with black outlines and coloured it purple and sea green and turquoise. I could hear the sound of the ocean in my ears, singing to me, almost singing my name; yes, I could actually hear the ocean call me, the voice of a siren, no a man, definitely a man...

"Izuna... Izuna."

Someone nudged me.

I jerked, looking up. It was like waking up from a long, hyper-realistic dream, one of those dreams you knew were in colour because you remembered the colours so vividly.

I was in the lecture theatre, and everyone had turned to stare at me. It was the professor who had called my name, and the kind person next to me who had nudged me to make me aware.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't listening", I mumbled, sinking deep into my seat.

"I wasn't asking you a question", the professor said matter-of-factly. "I was asking you to please draw less vigorously since it's disturbing the lecture. Or preferably not at all."

I felt like I would die of shame. I didn't draw for the rest of the lecture, but I was so ashamed I couldn't focus, either.

Truth was, I usually used drawing as a way of focussing better during lectures. But this time, I had used it to distract my mind from what it truly wanted to do.

My mind wanted to relive filming over and over.

I couldn't tell why I had reacted the way I had. I was ashamed, highly ashamed because I was supposed to be a professional. Had I truly entered this industry thinking I would only do vanilla sex? And what I had done hadn't even been that bad. I believed that under different circumstances, I would have enjoyed it.

But that was the thing, wasn't it? It hadn't been different circumstances. It had been in a hotel room with strangers. Not complete strangers, but what else did I know about them other than their names, truly? Will had just told Tobirama what he wanted him to do and, as the professional he was, he'd just done it. He'd just done his job, and I was not at all angry with him.

So why had I been so uncomfortable?

I had always been a vanilla man. Wild and loud and willing in bed, yes, but the most exotic thing I had tried was being fucked standing up in the shower with my face pressed against the glass shower door. I had never even considered the fact that I might not only lack interest in something kinkier, but was actually frightened of it. And it was all made worse by the fact that I had no way of protecting myself. No codeword, no loving partner. Not even the ability to say no, since I was bound to film by contract, and that contract said nothing about what I was unwilling to do. They could, of course, not force me; since the payment I had gained after the success from our last film, I could pay the cost of a breached contract. But I hadn't wanted to. Of course I hadn't. I had wanted to remain professional in front of the director.

And in front of him.

"Izuna..."

He had said my name before I left. I had been mortified that I had had to throw up, all of the professionalism I'd felt gone out through the window. I'd blamed myself terribly. Izuna, you jerk! You kept up so well. You did SO well, and then you go throw up?! What the fuck?!