I'd watched him for years, and no, biting my lip didn't always come easy. What was even harder? Letting it loose. The lust, the sweat, the tension... Yes, I loved it, but underneath all the pining for his body, it drove me insane that he didn't see the me that wanted to shake him and scream, "WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU SO IGNORANT!?" Holding his hand was something simple and sweet, onstage or off, and I knew I didn't need permission either way. Kissing was scandalous at times, at others loving and innocent. Sex? The answer for him was almost always a definite hunger,unless something was wrong... But all of it meant nothing. Anything past a kiss was just two horny men, one with a deep, ravenous secret that would easily get him skinned alive in some of the conservative white-collar towns we visited in our escapades to salvage what was left in the wreckage of fucked up young souls, but then again, the ones always attempting to drive us away were just lunatics who wanted us dead on a slab anyway, praying and babbling about blind faith to an invisible magic-man who lived so high in the sky that no one could see him, so intertwined in their compensation and fairy-tail ending that they couldn't hear a fucking word anyone else said... Drinking blood, eating flesh... Aww, fuck... I'd drink his blood any day... Kill to eat that body... Eat those delicious, luscious lips... Devour them... Deflower him in ways that anyone else he's ever banged would look like a good girl in Catholic school... I fight to shake myself out of that dreamy fantasy with a shiver, and meet Manson's irritated gaze with a caricature of clueless frustration, no pun intended. "What?"
He taps the heel of his boot impatiently, click, click, click, and raises the skin of his brow with annoyance. "So I'm assuming you've heard absolutely nothing I've said for the past five minutes, huh? Ain't that right, asshole? Fucking asshole, Twiggs! What the fuck's up with you, man? You knew I was already in a shitass mood, so you decide you ignore me, like you don't know me enough by now to know how much it gets on my last fucking nerve to be ignored? How long have you known me? Huh?"
I swallow hard, causing a pain in my throat, and give thanks to the "imaginary force" for nudging me to put the pillow on my lap earlier that is now hiding the happy little monkey standing proudly between my legs, not that it really matters around here. We all know we're filthy inside, no matter how many times I clean this bus or make the beds after a rough night. Sometimes that overused "Home is where the heart is" saying hits the nail right on the head.
I try my best to feign an angry, disgusted grimace and look overly irritable myself, and muster my unsurprisingly unimpressive reply. "Fuck you, okay?" Anytime, anywhere... "Now what?" He throws a dress at me, my signature pink babydoll dress, and tells me I need to get dressed. What's he thinking? I haven't worn this thing in ages... I guess I can make it work, though. I've never stopped liking it. I've just gotten tired of expecting him to think it makes me look like a sex kitten, and then see what's underneath the fabric, underneath the skin, underneath everything we cover ourselves in... The second part was never fulfilled, and I'm not entirely doubtless about the first. He leaves the room with an explanation too far out of my earshot to catch and raises his volume, warning me crudely what he'll do if I'm not ready when he gets back. I scoot on my butt in baby steps until the silk of the sheets gives way and slides against my slumping frame, pushing me onto the floor, and then I get on my knees and rummage through the miscellaneous items shoved and scattered beneath my bed, not all of them by me. I search and scavenge until I rescue some fishnets and torn hoes from beneath a small pile of broken cd cases, no doubt hidden there by one of the others who didn't want to 'fess up. Douchebags. I tug off my boxers and for a moment, I'm bare naked, and can't help meeting the gaze in the mirror along my way to change undergarments. Jeordie... I sigh. I'm reasonable. Not entirely a loser. Just still not quite good enough... I breathe in deep, inhale all I can until my lungs fill up and my body won't accept anymore oxygen, and for a split second, I'm almost breathing him in, sucking him into the farthest chasms of my mind, tasting his lips pressed against mine, battling tooth and nail with my tongue against starvation. We'll never need to be alone again, never starve, never lose sight or sound or taste or... or...
"Twiggs..."
Oh shit...
"I told you to be ready," he scolds, and walks off, leaving me there in that empty, human less room, with nothing but the quiet click of the knob going back into place and my member hanging out underneath the cup of my hands. Part of me wants to fall apart and sob like a teenage girl on her period. The other part laughs. I've already fallen apart, and the skins that I've shed, the layers I've unraveled, only reveal the skinny, crippled core of an idol of a generation frayed and decaying, dying and searching for something in me that isn't just another aspect of them. I pinch some of the fleshy, pink fat of my lip until blood dribbles down, press my eyelids tight into crinkled rebellion against the burning liquid filling my tear-ducts, and begin getting dressed and cleaned up. I erase the mess he saw, and paint over the impuissance. After all, for a night out with Manson, you have to be fierce to survive, and wild to indulge.
