'Can I bring some wine while you guys choose what to eat?' The waiter, whose resemblance with Tony Montana is so uncanny it almost freaks me out, addresses Sean and I, sitting down around our table of choice. Our table of choice being the one in the far end of the dining room, very discreet and very suitable for two elusive people like us. We still haven't taken a look at the menu, we've just been wasting time looking at eachother, laughing, smirking and flirting. I've been playing a bit with the rings on his fingers, giggling like an idiot and reviving all of what we've been all up to, before we hopped on his Kawasaki and he took me out to dine at the Italian restaurant, like promised.
We flirted a lot in the Marriott hotel lobby, while I was out there talking to my girly pals and he was having a drink and pretending to fuck Cuntrell from behind. Courageous, but deliriously funny. We finally caught up when he got the keys to his room, and that was pretty much the moment we disappeared from everyone's sight for the rest of the night. We took the elevator, and we kissed like horny fucks for eight floors worth. The businessman in a suit and tie who bumped into us while the elevator doors opened at our floor, rolled his eyes in disgust and disappointment at the scene of me pinned against the floating wall with my legs wrapped around my beau's lap. But we didn't care. Rule number one of Sean and Cherry: never care.
We kept making out for all of the corridor, my legs still wrapped around his lap and our tongues doing the horny waltz thing. Horny, damn yes, but when we got inside his room, we were oddly tranquil. We relaxed a bit, we laughed a lot about our own horniness, we shared a beer... and at some point, we just rolled our eyelids down and took a nap, all cuddled up, for something like ten minutes. We woke up, kissed, played a bit, until he stood up and went to take a shower. I waited for him while smoking a few cigarettes and giving my cockatiel all the cuddles. He came back to me, towel wrapped around his hips and dripping water from his hair, with the attitude of someone who doesn't even remotely know how good looking he is. I welcomed the sight of him with a cheeky smirk, he crawled to me, and we began our usual, super extended foreplaying routine all over again.
We didn't fuck, we just rubbed an awful lot n' finished the game that we'd started in the tour bus, and I gave him some real damn loving head. I gave him head, head he never really asked for, he became literal putty in my hands, and he used his own hands to get me off while I was at it. I came, he came and made a fucking mess of me and of the bedsheets, because he's a lil bit clumsy. We kissed, we snuggled a bit, and he fell asleep on top of me. I rubbed his hair for a little while, until I slipped off from underneath his sleepy self, and I went to take a shower. When I walked back to the bedroom with a towel around my bust, he was still sleeping soundly. I kissed his lips, he opened his eyes for a split second and uttered a 'two more minutes', before he rolled his eyelids down again. Babe kept napping, and I went to get changed into something decent for a first date night out. I slipped into a long, sleeveless red dress, smeared some matching red lipstick on my lips, refreshed my cologne and put on a pair of big hoops.
Way more than two minutes after, he wasn't up just yet. So I decided to raid through his suitcase and look for some clothes to arrange his fit for the night. I picked, of course, the less ugly things I could find in there : the only pair of long pants he brought along, denim, patchworked and very ugly, but never as ugly as the checkered shorts he was wearing the night I met him. I picked one of the ten, identical, all white T-shirts he stuffed in his suitcase. And finally, a not very ugly, but quite odd, red and black paisley print shirt. I'm such a romantic, that I think that our outfits gotta match, when we go out. And surprisingly, when I finally managed to wake him up from his much deserved nap, he slipped into the clothes I'd chosen for him and he seemed quite chuffed with the final outcome.
It took him a bit to get all dressed up, though, he was far too distracted by the sight of me. He couldn't take his eyes off me, he couldn't stop calling me beautiful like its my first given name, he couldn't stop kissing my neck and squeezing my ass... and Jesus, we were this close to screwing. But in the end we didn't, because we had a mutual agreement to go hit the Italian restaurant, and we were running late on all of our nonexistent schedules. Which means, we were fucking starving, and the hunger for food was far stronger than the hunger for sex.
Now he's sitting in front of me, and the more I look at him, the more I can't quite believe that he's here with me. I can't believe that we've been side to side for the last twenty four hours straight, and we still haven't gotten sick of eachother. On the contrary, we're still drawn to eachother like we're magnets. My hands are in his, and I'm still playing a bit with the rings on his fingers. He's doing his virtual best not to laugh in the face of the waiter who looks a bit too much like Tony Montana, and I know he's thinking about that dude's uncanny resemblance with the fictional mafia boss because he's always a man after my heart.
He's a menace, always a menace, perhaps a bit off with people, but he's a real treasure to me. He's giving me the smiley side eye, twiddling his thumbs against mine, and not letting go of my hands just yet. Not even now that the waiter is right next to our table, ready to pick up our order, and find out if we want some wine before the main dishes... I mean, the main dish. We came here for fellatio, and it's pretty blatant 'cause we both haven't even taken a look at the menu. We know what we want, we don't settle for anything less, and I love this about us.
'Red. Two bottles, brother'. Sean answers, and just in case the Tony Montana lookalike waiter hasn't caught his message loud and clear, he gives him the two fingers up gesture to remove all ambiguity. Two bottles. Red. The guy nods, Sean gives him a thumbs up and puts his wallet on the table. When he's like this, stingy with the words, stone dead serious and acting big money, he indeed gives off big, big Tony Montana energy. Bigger Tony Montana energy than the waiter. I thought I was going out with the drummer of a rock band, tough as nails and soft inside, on occasion... not with a member of the mafia. But then I remember it's Sean I'm going out with, I remember that Sean has a different personality for every setting he gets himself into, and I'm surprised no more.
'How many digits are on your bank account?' I joke, taking a look at his wallet on the table, right next to his tall wine glass. There's a big stash of money stacked in there, and I can see at least two credit cards and his driving license. He could be broke as hell, and I'd still go out with him, but he's always got a bunch of money on himself ... and I somehow find the fact that he's self assured and real alpha about it downright hot. Big dick and big wallet, a literal dream. Big heart too, 'cause I know he's gonna pay for all of this, and red wine and Italian food are never cheap. And he's gonna chokeslam me, if I by chance happen to even say I want to take care of the bill.
'Enough to do this every night ...and still have a few digits left. Let me live'. He answers, gripping my hands firmer into his own two ones, and giving the waiter guy a half smile when he comes back to us with two bottles of red wine. His smile grows just a little bit wider, when the waiter opens the first bottle, utters a 'the lady first, hope you don't mind it', and pours me some wine. And only when he's done filling my glass, he fills Sean's and leaves us alone. We click our glasses together, we smile and all the good things, he brings his glass to his lips and drinks some wine, but I don't just yet. I'm too busy looking at him like I'm almost mad at him, to do pretty much anything else.
'I don't want you to do this every night'. I comment, a deep sigh to accompany my words, as he looks at me with brows furrowed ... like he's questioning what the hell I'm being all about. I love him, I love how he can be a quirky gentleman from time to time. I love how he's one of these ol' fashioned men that I didn't even know still existed, I love how generous and thoughtful he is. He is a class act, full of all the non toxic male pride, and I know it. But I'm so done with picking up a near damn fight whenever he pays for my stuff. I'm so done with acting like I ain't bothered, whenever he puts me back in my place, wallet in hand, and never lets me spend a single buck of my own. I don't particularly vibe with this. I know he's just trying to be nice with me, but offered drinks and food ain't what I want from him.
I want him to be my boyfriend, not my caregiver. I want to be able to reciprocate his kindness, from time to time, not just have him blow his wad on me 'cause of this dumb society dynamic that says that a man gotta pay for everything, when he brings a lady along. He's smart, very smart, so ... why can't he just let me live ?
'I want to do this every night... and do a few other things too, while I'm at it'. He answers, as candid as it comes, clicking his glass with mine. And if I finally drink some wine, instead of picking up a fight on how he's so set in his ways that he pisses me off, it's because I like the concept that we'll be going out together every night, for an undisclosed amount of time. Not only he'll always take care of everything, blow some money on me and be real happy sharing his wealth, much to my disappointment... but he will also do a few more things. Like kissing me, taking me on rides, getting high and/or drunk with me, judging people and annoying them with my help and lack of benevolence, cracking jokes with me, talking to me about all topics known to humankind, and hopefully... fucking me. While he's at it. Which is never a bad thing, if you ask me. Sex ain't my main prerogative with him, but if it keeps happening, in all different forms and to all different extents, and if it's always so damn good ... it's because we really do dig eachother. The attraction is mutual, and when we're together, we can't go long keeping our hands off eachother.
I have never felt this way for anyone, before. I've felt this way for cocaine, a few times, but it ain't quite the same feeling. Cocaine comes with brutal lows, Sean doesn't. Being around him is like an everlasting state of euphoric high. I have never had a dull moment with him... not even when we sleep. Because when we wake up, more like when I wake up, he's already up, and out there doing the silly idiot to make me laugh. And don't call me a sillier idiot than him, call me a romantic if you want to, but man ... I can totally see myself with him. The only guy in the world who makes me feel like I can be my own, quirky self around him, and he'd still like me. The only guy in the world who takes me seriously without taking me too seriously. I have no idea where we're going, in terms of trying to build something. I don't know what his intentions with me are, I don't know if he sees me as potential girlfriend material by any means ... but I can't help but feel like we're perfect for eachother. The more we're around, the more I realise it. The more my friends and his friends simp for us together, the more I realise that shit ain't just in my mind. Everyone can see it. We should try and see if we can go the length, shouldn't we ?
At the end of the day, I'll end up being the one crying her heart out, if things between us will take a bad turn. He will be out there, moving on in his usual unproblematic fashion, talking highly of me like he's done with his ex, the only time she surfaced into one of our exchanges. And last but not least... he'll soon be setting his target on someone far more alluring than me. Because he can, more like ... it's just a matter of days before he will. Let's be reasonable. What we have is beautiful, fun, drama free, electrifying, but there's no way it's going to last. He plays in a rock band, he's charming, good looking, kind and overall a good guy. He can have any girlie he wants, at any given time, and he doesn't even have to mack to get one in the sack. No pun intended, this time, I'm afraid to say I'm too butthurt to crack jokes at the moment.
I know I ain't cut for relationships, I can't stay in the same place for a long time, unless it's the only place where I wanna be. I know that love ain't for me in this life. I know that I should stop mingling with rocker dudes, because the paranoias that come with their status always override the thrill of being together. But now it's too late ... I love him, or at least that's what I think, 'cause I can't look at him without my heart bumping fast into my chest. Now I'm looking at him, looking back at me with a mock dead red fish kinda expression on his face, and I can't believe I'm letting my usual paranoias spoil the thrill of being with someone who would do everything to make me laugh. To see me smile. To make me fall even more in love with him. I'm an idiot. While he's as good as it comes. Goofy. And sweet. Because he's doing all of this out of his own initiative, I don't remember having ever asked him to be nice to me.
'Jesus Christ'. He breaks the odd silence, and I look over to him to see that he's staring at me big time, almost like it's the first time he's ever seeing me from a close. Such a good actor, isn't he? He is. But why do I keep getting the vibe that he ain't acting, this time? Why do I indeed get the vibe that he's tryna do the cryptic with me? What's with this impromptu 'Jesus Christ', while he's holding my hand, and he's pouring us some wine? All of this, while he's still looking at me like he's seen a hologram of Holy Mary the mother of the actual Jesus Christ?
Help. He looks so serious, that I am hundred percent sure he's gonna tell me he's pregnant... and give me a very detailed, scientific explanation of how someone with a peepee between their legs can carry a fertilised egg in their uterus. Total Sean stuff.
'What?' I ask, and hilarity overrides every each and one of my other feelings. when he fills his own glass so far, that he pours an awful amount of red wine on the table. Sean is naturally clumsy, pretty often greened out, and always a full fledged idiot. But now, he's putting up this little silly show because he wants to confuse me... and have me bent in half laughing when I finally realise what he's being all about. It's hard to tell what he's being all about, while he keeps looking at me with eyes buzzed open, and mouth agape. His little sarcastic brown eyes are scanning me like they're a laser beam, from head to midriff, cause that's how far his gaze can go, while we're sitting in front of one another. Particular emphasis on my breasts, for some reason I don't know nor will take the bother to ask.
'Nothing. Just... wow. What a babe'. He speaks, stone cold serious, and I flush like an idiot as his ...compliment. Never in my life, prior to now, I had received such a deadpan compliment. Sean is stingy with the compliments, I know it, and that's the reason why I cherish and flush everytime he addresses one my way. What drives me insane about him, though, is the way he never conveys his praises in obvious ways, he keeps 'em cryptic, and he never comes across as someone who drools by the sides of his mouth for me. I'm all blushed up, the red on my cheeks has nothing to do with the glass of wine I've just drank, and he's still holding my hand and smiling like the secret cutie that he is. I guess it's official, even though we haven't been transparent about it ... we're dating, we are both deep into one another, and it feels mighty fine.
'You are a babe'. I talk back to him, and the smile on his lips grows wider at my subtle praise. I've been riding his same vibe here, very rarely complimenting him over his good looks. Sometimes I'd like to scream how handsome he is from the top of my lungs, but y'know what ... I've done it once, yesterday, and he laughed in my face. Soundly. Then he turned his head, in a very Sean prankster way to see if I was talking to him, or another man, and raised an eyebrow in disbelief when he reckoned he was the only peepee owner in sight. And to make shit even funnier, this happened in our hotel room, while we were buck naked, and obviously the only two people around. I am sure he knows he's good looking, he is full of rizz and confidence, for a few reasons, but he doesn't seem to be interested in the praises. I could tell him that he's the most handsome fucker I've ever seen, and I wouldn't get a reaction except hilarity, from his side. But when I tell him that he's quick witted, shrewd, funny, intelligent... well, he seems to appreciate it a lot. A man after my heart. Call me smart, don't call me pretty, and you'll make me happy. The only condition is that you really need to think it.
'Are you ready to order, guys?' The waiter guy chimes in, pen and bloc notes in hand, but I'm in no condition to pay attention to him. Sorry, I'm too busy giving the lovesick puppy eye look to my handsome beau. I'm too busy having an internal monologue on how damn good do warm colours match his fair skin, his dark eyes and just as dark strands. And man, don't ask me why, probably because we're still holding hands ... but at some point into my inner monologue in which I don't do anything but sing his praises, I can't help but think that he's got some nice hands. Very nice, and bonus point, he washes 'em after hitting the loo. Man has very nice hands and a very good touch.
I'm a lucky girl... and I know it. I sometimes just need to repeat this to myself like a mantra, because shit feels a bit unreal at the moment. We're officially dating now, damn if we are, but everything still feels unreal.
I only remember that the waiter is here and ready to pick up our order, when Sean does his signature, cryptic little smile and shrug thing. He does this whenever he wants me to take a look at something... a bike, a hunk, a line of coke, food, drums, Cuntrell... but now, it's the waiter. The Tony Montana 1:1 clone with a bloc notes in hand, ready and willing to scribble down our order. And being the lady, it seems as though as I have to be the first one to order. Too much gallantry, so much of it and so free of charge that I might as well get used to it.
'Yes ! I'll take fellatio, thank you!' I answer, of course ordering the mysterious, exotic dish that Sean got me curious about. I am sure he wants fellatio too, he seemed pretty firm when he said he fucking needed fellatio, while we were on the tour bus. But if I don't order for him too ... well, it's because Sean changes moods and ideas like I change my panties. And in his presence, I change them pretty often. Enough said?
'Two fellatios, man. Make it extra spicy, that's how we like it'. He speaks, and I chuckle like an idiot when he orders my same thing: the mysterious exotic dish with the funny name, that's pretty much the same thing as falafel, only in the shape of cannelloni. Extra spicy, because he doesn't know where I'm from, besides far far away from here, and where a lot of spices are involved in the cooking procedures. Guy bloody knows that I like my food all spiced up. And not just my food. I need spice in everything I do, and he's just like me, only a little bit less hearty. A man after my heart.
'Yes, who doesn't like it extra spicy. Now can you order for real?' The waiter guy speaks, and I raise an eyebrow in disappointment when I can't see him scribbling down our order just yet. He looks quite confused, and I don't know why's that. We've been pretty clear, we want two fellatios, extra spicy, it shouldn't be that hard to understand. I almost sounded like a native while asking for my fellatio. Sean told him what we want in a pretty neat, slow west coast accent, intelligible even to a foreigner like me. He didn't do the two fingers up kinda gesture this time, but I promise that the order we've just tried to place ain't a hard one to understand.
'Due fellatio, grazie mille !' I order again, this time in Italian, because y'know... maybe this Tony Montana lookalike dude has just arrived from Italy, and he's still a bit confused when it comes to speaking English. Maybe he doesn't know English, besides the ten, eleven, maybe twelve phrases and words he needs in order to survive a day long shift at the Italian restaurant. And he's lucky today... I am patient, unlike my loverboy, and I can speak a little bit of Italian. I hope this is going to warrant us a little bit of discount at the checkout, because man... I've seen the prices on the menu, and knowing that Sean's gonna pay for all this shit without hesitation low-key makes me feel guilty.
But now, why exactly is the waiter guy looking at Sean and I like he's thinking we're crazy, and Sean's shrugging like he's half apologetic, half amused? Am I really that bad at speaking Italian?
'Italiana ?' The Tony Montana lookalike waiter asks me, and I firmly shake my head no at his wrong guess about where I hail from. Hot topic, everyone keeps asking me where I'm from, except Sean, but noone really knows the truth. I'm definitely not from Italy, although everyone keeps guessing I'm part Italian, part something else. Probably because I use the same air diffuser as Chrissie, who is Italian, and they think I am too.
'No, but my best friend is! Can we have our fellatio now, per favore? We are starving'. I explain, pretty proud of the fact that I've learned a few sentences in Italian from my one of two best friends. Chrissie. Who is the same girl that probably fucked my non boyfriend boyfriend in Italian, at some point... because he's a non creep creep, and he likes 'em chicks under his arm exotic looking. And sounding. He's lucky... because if he keeps fucking me like he did last night and this morning, and if he keeps getting me off like he did in the tour bus and in the hotel room not so long ago, I'll have a hard time speaking English and trying not to revert to my native language, somewhere mid deed.
An inner monologue about sexy time with the guy who's holding my hand, looking at me with a cute as hell smile on his lips, and the waiter still hasn't scribbled down our order. And I'm starting to lose my patience here... so I use my other hand, the one that ain't holding Sean's, to grab my glass of wine and take a deep sip off it. I'm a step closer to jumping my man's bones because red wine makes me horny like nothing else in the world, but we still ain't getting any fellatio at this table. At this rate, I think I'll soon ask to speak to the manager, because I swear to god, the waiter isn't doing his one job, and he's seemingly almost laughing in my face.
'They must not serve it here, baby. How weird... an Italian restaurant that doesn't serve fellatio'. Sean speaks, and I slightly frown when I find out that, in all of the Italian restaurants in Salt Lake City, he's brought me to the only one that doesn't serve the exotic dish that I was so looking forward to trying. He sees that I'm all frowned up, and being the secret cutie, secret gentleman that he is... he kisses the back of my hand and addresses a little smile my way.
Apology accepted, my good hearted, devilishly handsome mr. Honda Four. We will be doing this every night, going out and grabbing some dinner together, for as long as I'll be here on the road with you ... tomorrow, we'll spare a call to the restaurant to ask if they have fellatio, before we materially sit down at the table and end up disappointed because they don't.
'Oh... then I'll just get this'. I speak, going for plan B as they don't serve plan A in this restaurant, as I point at my fresh picked dinner from the menu. I'm feeling a little self conscious about my Italian, the waiter is still trying to muffle a laugh at my attempt of not so long ago, Sean ain't doing anything to protect me... and that's the reason why I point at my new dish of choice, instead of saying its name out loud. Once laughed in the face, twice shy.
But there's a silver lining in this: the waiter is finally scribbling down my order, aka he's finally sticking to his one job, and Sean is taking a look at what my finger is pointing at, like the curious little fuck that he is. His one hand in mine, his other hand ... on his peepee. I guess he's ... impressed by the fact that I can speak a little bit of Italian, ain't he ?
'Two of 'em. My lady is tasteful '. Sean orders, and the fact that he keeps ordering my same stuff would be real fucking sweet. It would've been real fucking sweet, if he didn't randomly decide that giving me no context, pre dinner confusion by calling me 'his lady' in front of a very confused waiter would've been a good idea. I ain't his lady. Okay, we're officially dating now, y'know, going out together, travelling together and fucking when things get spicy, but no way there's any degree of commitment between us. We ain't together. We ain't even trying to be together. We've never talked about such stuff. I've only got eyes for him and he's only got eyes for me. He pays for my everything out of kindness, and I appreciate it to the point that I almost hate it. He would do everything to make me laugh, and I am always here ready and willing to reciprocate. He gives me all the little, sweet attentions, and sometimes he even does the cryptic and compliments me. This is beautiful and I'm loving every moment of the euphoria that comes with falling in love with him ... but sadly, I ain't his lady.
Saying that I am is just a silly ass exaggeration of the truth ... but he's smiling like an idiot who fully believes what he's just said. And I'm even more idiotic than him, giggling my heart out and playing footsie with him, at this point. I'm wearing glam as fuck heels, playing footsie with a guy wearing low rise Converse's, and ugly fucking green socks. At the Italian restaurant, in front of a waiter guy who looks an awful lot like Tony Montana. Life is beautiful, I'm lucky, I'm living it, and I know it.
'Your ... what?' I chime in, as soon as the waiter leaves our table with our order in hand. We are still holding hands and playing footsie here, and I'm pretty sure that to outsider eyes, we're pretty much looking like a couple of lovebirds. But guess what, we aren't. Prior to yesterday, aka when I rode to Oakland all the way from Seattle, just to catch up with him, we weren't even friends. Twenty four hours and a lot of mingling later, he's calling all shots on me ... and knowing Sean, the man from whom you can expect pretty much everything, including selling a lie for the truth and vice versa, well, I don't know how to feel here. I don't know if he's being for real, if he's purposely trying to confuse me, if he's testing me to see my reaction, or if he's flat out joking. But I want to find it out, and how do I do it? Putting shame on my face and asking him straight away, I suppose.
'Just let me live? Won't you?' He answers, and I giggle under my breath at his cryptic response. Whenever I ask him something more in depth about the state of us, or whenever I get pissed by the fact that he keeps paying for my crap, he gets away with a shrug, a smile, and a 'let me live'. A cryptic way to tell me to enjoy ourselves while this little affair is in swing. That he's doing and saying all of this because he's naturally genuine and having fun with me.
Twenty four hours worth of mingling with him after, and I'm pretty sure he likes me, he ain't just pretending. I'm in his graces, thank fuck, and he would never deliberately mess with me. He doesn't come to harm, so why am I having such a hard time trusting him and his intentions with me? He's treating me right, giving me everything I need and then some. I'm letting him live. I'm living my best life. But we're also playing with fire here ... 'cause I'm in love with him, he's most likely interested in me, and his little attentions enable my feelings for him and keep me going some more.
'Live ... or dream?' I teasingly ask, playing footsie with him some more. He has a good laugh at my teasing question, but he doesn't lose his chill, and keeps my hand held tight in his like it's none of his business. I ain't playing hard to get here, telling him that I can only be his girl in his dreams. I can be his girl from now on until forever, if he asks me to be. I'm just teasing him to get him out of his sarcastic clown element. Sean isn't my man, but I have him well figured out nonetheless. Sometimes you just gotta trash talk n tease him and not take him for granted, in order to shake him off from his cryptic element. It always works. Works even better if you're a girl, you're lucky enough to have a smidgen of his interest, you give him your most credible set of doe eyes, and you twirl a strand of your hair around your pointer finger.
'Oh baby, you don't know it yet... but one of these days you're gonna be mine'. He answers, a wide smile on his lips to accompany his words, like he really means what he's just said. He might as well be playing, clowning or doing the cryptic Sean, but still I jump off my seat in excitement because, reasonably... being his? One of these days? Sure, babe. Like Morrissey would say, if there's something you'd like to try, aka being my boyfriend, ask me, I won't say no, how could I ? Ask me, ask me, ask me, because if it's not love, it's the bomb that will bring us together.
'I can't wait 'til it's one of these days'. I answer, keeping things easy instead of jumping off my seat to go throw my arms around his shoulders and kiss him dry, like my mind is suggesting me to. I am the heartiest person ever, but with him, I'm learning to control my impulses because I never know if he's being for real or he's just playing. Whatever the case is, I just want to let him know that he'd just have to be transparent about his intentions with me, and I'd be handing myself on a silver plate over to him, straight away. Today, tomorrow, the day after tomorrow... anytime. Like Axl Rose would say, it's so easy. So fucking easy. Why don't we just ?
'Same, Cherry. And I can't wait to get back to the hotel, strip you off this little fucking dress, and make love to you '. He chimes in, his gaze playfully switching from my face, all reddened up because the content of this exchange is levitating, to my rack. I lower my glance to the cleavage of my dress, to see what's going on with my tits, and I laugh like a clueless idiot when I see that they're calm and, most importantly, so gapped that it's hard to find them alluring. I can see my sternum, not my tits, but as long as he likes em titties small, its all good in my book.
He laughs too, and I don't know why, but I feel my cheeks getting even redder under his amused gaze. Then I remember that he really tried to strip me off my little fucking dress, when we were still at the hotel, making out against the door, straight before leaving for the restaurant... but we realised that we were fucking starving, and we made a resolution to fuck after our little Italian dinner out. We talked about fucking, though ... now why is he talking about making love? 'Cause I gave him the most loving head ever, as little as one hour ago, and he thinks he has to return the favour by being as gentle to me as possible, the next time we have sex ? He doesn't have to. It's dangerous. I know it, but he doesn't seem to be aware of the risks we're taking by being two smitten asses. He's an amazing guy, but at the end of the day, he's just your average dumb, confusional, risk taking male. A man with a man's mind, for instance. He doesn't seem to worry about the things that send a woman with a woman's mind on the brink of a panic attack.
'Make what?' I ask, pretending I haven't quite understood what he's just said, even though it's a lie. I've caught his message loud and clear, and it freaks the living shit out of me. I've slept with him before, and when I say that, I mean that not only we've fucked, but we've also woken up all cuddled up in the same bed. I've been treated to sweet and tender aftercare both times we fucked. He thought he was my full fledged boyfriend this morning, didn't he? He apologised for getting carried away last night, got me a rose from only god knows where, and we indulged into some AM, gentle and loving coupling. I think that we've made love already, and it was incredibly good, probably the best sex of my life 'cause I felt like I was emotionally close with him... but hearing that coming off his mouth? Making resolutions to strip me off my dress, and make love to me as soon as we get back to the hotel ? Man, that hits hard. So hard it makes my heart bump frantically into my chest, and it gives me the funny butterfly feeling in my tummy.
'Ahem ... I mean, fuck you silly 'til you break. Sorry, sometimes the creep really comes through'. He jokes, in his usual fashion of taking back the serious shit he's just said... in order not to come across as a cheesy loverboy. Something that would piss the average girlie off, most likely the reason why Chrissie dumped him, but something that makes me, your weird girl next door, fall even more in love with him. He never takes himself seriously. He is always ready to make a fool of himself. He is a master of self deprecation. He would rather go down on books as a creep, than as a secret softie. A man after my heart. I'll never get tired of saying this.
'I really do like you, creep. You make me laugh... feel good... and happy'. I answer, stretching my hand towards him and gently rubbing his cheek with my thumb. Now this is sappy, very in your face lovergirl like of me, but he lets me do the thing and welcomes my sweet little attention with a sincere smile. And when I'm done rubbing his face, he grabs my hand in his and kisses the back of it. I wasn't lying, I really do like him, to the point I'm almost sure I love him. He makes me laugh, sometimes so hard that I have to bend down and hold my stomach with the hysterics. He makes me feel good, no matter what's the setting. I feel good when I talk to him, hang out with him, kiss him, snuggle with him, play poker on the tour bus with him, ride with him, get high with him, and all the little things we do when we're together. I feel mighty good when we fuck too. He makes me happy, in his very own way, it's written all over my face, and everyone can see it.
I hate to talk about my feelings, because they weaken me and my self assured young woman pride ... but he has to know how I feel for him. He's the reason why I'll be living the nomadic life for a whole month in a row. And I'll dig it as fuck, knowing that he's gonna be the one I wake up to every morning. Him. The man after my heart, and my full fledged kindred spirit.
'You make me ... feel a little bit ... less dead inside. Good Cherry'. He chimes in, scratching his chin while he conveys his feelings, I suppose, with a little sprinkle of ... dark humour? And a deadass serious expression on his face. Totally Sean, totally deadpan, totally a man after my heart. I don't know if he's clowning or being serious, but man, I can't help but giggle at his very candid admission of how my presence is making him feel just 'a little bit less dead inside'. And I can't help but hope he's joking, because I hate to know that he somehow ain't having it good, with or without me around.
I look at him, sitting in front of me, with his one hand holding mine, and his other hand toying with his almost empty glass of wine. And this is actually the first time ever I can see a sheer aura of heaviness around him. Besides the pale complexion that makes him look like he has severe iron deficiency, Sean always looks just about fine. And only now I'm learning that, most of the times, he's just pretending to be fine, but that he ain't entirely. He's a good actor ... and he's very good at keeping his stuff to himself. And I don't know what he's being up to, but I stand by his side and I endorse of his secrecy. He's surrounded by sharks, all the time. I could be a shark like another one, but I ain't. And to prove this, I won't ask him anything. If he wants to open up to me, I'll let him talk and I'll rub the back of his hand while he's at it. I surely can't fix all of his issues, but as long as I can help him feel just a little bit less dead inside, I'll gladly pay my humble contribution.
I smile, shyly enough, because this conversation has awakened a sense of heaviness that I didn't even think I had within myself. He smiles back, only less shyly, and stands up from his seat. I think he is gonna go hit the loo and lock himself in there for fifteen minutes in a row, like his usual, but I have to change my mind when he crawls to me ... and kisses my lips. Just a little smack, because I'm wearing shiny, cherry red lipstick, he's smart, and he doesn't want to smear it all over my face. I love this guy... I really do love him. I love him so much that I'd like to scream it out loud for everyone in this restaurant to hear... including the Tony Montana lookalike waiter who's approaching our table with two big, big plates of pasta in hand. But I keep my mouth shut, I just let my hands do some bland talking, and I rub my handsome knight's cheek with my thumb. He does the smitten loverboy, and kisses the tip of my nose... but then he does the silly idiot, or the Cock Soup, I just don't know, and he pulls my nose hoop. With his teeth. Just a second before he slips back into his seat, as the waiter lays the two big, big plates of pasta on the table.
I am in love. Desperately. Help me. Or, while we're at the Italian restaurant ... aiuto.
*** this chapter sucks, and I know it, but I'll drop it no matter what! I'll try to fix this later on. I think 🤭***