'Whatever, fuck this bullshit. I'm pissed. A round at the slots, brother ?' Sean chimes in, breaking the odd silence that followed his dry joke... and his odd, prolonged stare on me. I've stared back at him the entire time, trying to elicit a word or two from him, but I think I failed miserably in my only one intent. I really fucking wanted to find out what the hell was (and probably still is) going on in his mind, but he didn't say a word to save his life. He kept the damn mouth shut, looked at me with a hint of a smile on his lips, and an unusual, never seen before look in his eyes. I feel safe to say that I've navigated his little, coffee brown eyes, in and through, but I still have no clue what's the deal with him. I just saw... tiredness, almost compassion, and a tiny bit of anger in his eyes. Not sarcasm, he's pissed off and out of it now. Not belligerence, he's calmed down a bit and I thank goodness for that. Not guilt, because he apparently hasn't fucked another chick while I was taking a piss with Maryann, and I'm just a fucking pessimist. Not love, cause I'm sure that love doesn't look like that, and I'm well aware that he doesn't love me. So, what the hell's going on with the ever so blunt, ever so sharp tongued, sharp dressed Kinney? Why hasn't he dared to say a word? Why hasn't he even dared to kiss the fuck out of me, to calm my clueless hysteria like he always does ?
I am genuinely confused, he's doing the cryptic, he quite can't stop doing the cryptic, but Layne kindly offered me a cigarette, so... I'm puffing my thoughts away on a Luckie, blowing thick clouds of smoke out of my nostrils, as Sean's arm is still thrown around my shoulders, motionless and all. Done with doing the angry, now he wants to do the gambler and spin his pissed-offness away. The Sean that I know would generally take a pull on his anger, or throw a couple things, because that's how he conveys his ... emotions. But now, for some reason I can't quite tell because he's in his 'I keep it all inside until I fucking explode' element, he doesn't seem to mind that there's a bar that serves booze in this casino. He knows he gotta ride to Denver, and he's trying out the straightedge way because of that. He just wants to do the full blown yank and spin the slot... 'cause luck is on his side today, gambling wise, and we both know it. I mean, I've had a taste of it when he won hands and hands in a row against Cuntrell, not so long ago.
I don't understand all of these white, privileged people shenanigans, as I've said before we don't even have casinos in my homeland, and this is all so weird to me... but I embrace my white, privileged non boyfriend's knack for gambling no matter what. As long as gambling helps with rubbing his anger off, I'll keep sticking by his side, being his lucky charm like he's kindly asked me to do... yes, back to when he was spinning the slots with Gerry, and the cunt and I were almost having a civilised, although deterring relationship. Seems like it's been a lifetime since then ... but it was just a few comments on how I'm a dog, a minor, and a fat ass ago.
I chuckle, trying to gather each and every ounce of positivity from within myself, as I stand up from the lounge chair and I tug Sean by the arm, bringing him along with me. As soon as he's back on his feet, towering in front of me, he tugs my arm back and pulls me closer to him. My head bounces against his chest, and we both laugh at the impact. I laugh, but he laughs harder, and I can literally feel my heart bumping like crazy against my ribcage at the sound of his low laughter, and at the feeling of his arms around me. Fuck, I'm in more in love with him than I thought I was, and it's fucking CONCERNING.
I close my eyes, as he begins to sweetly rub my back, and I sniff the fabric of his T-shirt... inhaling all of that Davidoff goodness. Cherishing the fact that he's smelling like the cologne that I've chosen for him, that it suits him so much, and that I've somehow managed to make him become putty in my hands for the umpteenth time. We don't look like we are, but on occasion, we are cheesy, cheesy people. Right back at eachother's back when we need ... eachother. We are exclusive, yes, but also pretty fucking sweet. Aren't we?
I tug his arm, mid hug, all over again... because what I can't understand, now, is why we're still here, doing the relentless lovebirds, when he's so clearly said that he wants to gamble with Layne. I keep tugging his arm, but he doesn't move an inch. On the contrary, he laughs at my each and every attempt to lure him to the slot machines. He only wraps me tighter into his arms, instead of walking his way to a new gambling session with his curly haired, blonde bandmate. This, ladies and gentlemen, is starting to feel like another episode of 'Sean works in mysterious ways'. But I won't complain, because he's giving me the lovergirl treatment, and he's making me feel like he ... treasures me. Sincerely. Because he may as well not love me, and I know he doesn't, but still he treats me ever so good, and I'm thankful for that.
He doesn't look like he is, he looks like he's cold, emotionless and never gives a fuck about anything, but he's a rotten fucking romantic at heart. Sweet, loving, thoughtful, but never mellow. Never predictable. Never not humorous. Always a treasure. Always right back at me. Having this kind of attentions from him enables me and my feelings for him even more... and makes me wish he feels the same way for me. He doesn't, I am well aware, but a young and naive girlie can always hope.
'Stop gambling, asshole... take care of your girl. She wanted to fuck'. Layne comments, poking my cheek as he delivers his taunt on us. Big, big smile on his lips, as he notices that I've blushed because he's just fucking labelled me as Sean's 'girl'... and he's made a comment on how horny I was, before the umpteenth Cuntrell hatred incident. I giggle, because in all of this drama, I'd almost forgotten that I was horny as fuck, before the Cunt came along and killed my vibe... but Layne hasn't forgotten shit. Bessie hasn't either, and she's laughing in unison with him. All of this, while Sean and I are laughing a more chilled kinda laugh.
Layne is ...so.... fucking real, always, I stan this man and I totally see why Bess would peel her panties down for him. He's a tongue-in-cheek gentleman, he's hilarious, he's almost as smart as Sean, and I can't think of one time he didn't strike shit straight to the point. This time makes no exception to the rule, Layne is correct : Sean and I may be tame by now, and we are ... but we're still the same two specimens who were doing the dirty, horny foreplaying in front of an audience, until not so long ago. We were so far gone on the hormone that Layne kindly handed us a condom (because Sean forgot his own under the saddle of his Kawasaki, bless him, his silliness, and Cock Soup who let everyone know about our sheathed, sexy endeavours) and I really thought we were gonna use it. I was soooo close to bending myself down on the ball pool table and starting the sex fest. Possibly dragging Layne and Bessie down horniness lane with us. But Cuntrell chimed in, and said 'Khair can't fuck'. All over again. And Khair shall not fuck. Not in Green River, at least.
A whole talk on how someone gotta kill Cuntrell while someone else keeps him still, and my horniness seems to be long gone. Pretty much the same could be said about Sean's : he used to have a riot in his pants, he was bloody proud of it, all digging my inappropriate groping, and groping me back nonchalantly... but now that I'm literally glued to him and we're hugging, I can feel that everything's far too quiet, in his ugly shorts. All of that Gerry drama killed my lover's boner, and now I naturally wanna kill Gerry for that. He's done it to us again, hasn't he?
'Take care of my son, I know you will'. Sean answers to Layne's taunt, passing Cock Soup, his full acknowledged son, on to Layne. The singer of Alice in Chains, coolest man alive after Sean, welcomes our feathered child with a smile. Cock Soup beaks Layne's shirt as to show affection... before he blurts out a 'fuck me in the ass, Layne! Squawk'. Well, he must've recognised that the man whose shirt he's climbing on is the 'Layne' in question... and this is fucking hilarious. It's so hilarious, that we're all howling in unison, here.
Having a speaking bird is amazing, entertaining as hell, and never really predictable ... my baby goes from 'Mamma! Pappa! Squawk' to 'Stone Gossard, Squawk'. All the way to 'fuck me in the ass, Layne '. Which is, to this day, my favourite Cock Soup sentence ever. And I've heard many of them... including the 'Sean did me front to back. Squawk!' that got me in trouble with mr. Inez through the phone ...
Cock Soup is between Layne's arms, and he's pulling a Bess of the one time she fucked Layne himself in our shared apartment. Sean just referred to my bird as 'his son', instead of biting Layne back for his 'take care of your girl' with a 'who the hell is this chick, to even begin with?' like he did yesterday on the tour bus. We are all laughing here, and although I'm laughing my ass off with my peeps... I'm swooning. I'm swooning, and set to have some alone time with my hunk, FINALLY ! Thanks Layne !
'He's Irish! Squawk'. Cock Soup blurts, totally out of the blue, pulling a Layne of not so long ago... aka, of when we were chatting about some dumb stuff, and Sean said something I couldn't quite catch. I asked him to repeat the same thing all over again, three times in a row, and I still couldn't get it right. I asked for a fourth encore, and at that point, everyone was laughing at my silly, non native English speaking naïveté. Except Layne. Who was laughing at his drummer's slurred, slurry Irish slur. So my gut feeling was right... my hunk is part Irish, and I've been knowing it since the very first time I spoke a word to him. Good job taking the 'Mc' away from McKinney, babe, but your Irish-ness really shows through nonetheless !
'And mom is Italian... we have more or less the same colors... makes sense'. Sean answers, because answering a cockatiel's teases is a thing, here in the Alice camp, and he rubs the birdie's head to show him his approval. I fucking swoon all over again, because reasonably... a man who calls me 'mom' in front of a child we haven't bred together, knows the colours of the flags of random countries in Europe, and tells everyone that we're painted in more or less the same colours ? He's a keeper. A keeper who's too knowledgeable to be a quarter of a dirty, dirty Seattle grunge band. A keeper with one hell of a way with words. A man after my heart. MY fucking MAN and noone else's ! Tell me otherwise, and I'll throw hands à la Kinney and start a riot à la Khair.
I kiss my feathered son's head, Sean waves goodbye at him, and once we're done doing the good parents... we kiss, because a kiss was long overdue. And we keep kissing, quite a bit, as we proceed to walk hand in hand to the exit door of the casino. I look at him with the side of my eye, confused, when he stalls in front of a slot machine, spun by a hick looking bloke who's wearing a hat in reverse... like a me, except for the hick looking part.
He's in the mood for gambling... isn't he? He wants to spin the slot and try his luck again, doesn't he? No, not really. He's laughing like a dork, aka what he is, pointing at the display of the slot. The hick looking guy has just scored a row of three cherries, and I don't know what's that mean, in yank casino lingo... but hey, that's me, Cherry ! I wasn't on the slot that Gerry and Sean were spinning not so long ago, but I appear to be on this smaller, more vintage slot operated by the hick looking bloke. Sean noticed me, and he's laughing, pointing at the display of the slot machine, so that I can see ... myself ! Cherry ! How fucking sweet is my non boyfriend boyfriend?
'You're very photogenic, Cherry '. He comments, his index finger still pointing at the display of the slot machine. He's here, unbothered, clowny, laughing his ass off in the hollow of my neck. Standard Sean: no place he'd rather get the hysterics on, than my neck. The Hick is giving us a killer stare, like he thinks we're mocking him or something. And I get it, stuff can get pretty ambiguous, if two complete strangers look your way and laugh their buttcracks off, but I swear to god... Sean and I are looking at me... I mean, the row of three cherries on the display. Most definitely not at him. I am a good non girlfriend girlfriend, loyal to a fault, only got eyes for my hunk. Sean ain't gay, despite of all 'em, Alice in Chains, 'Sean is gay' jokes. How do I tell this Hick guy, who looks like he's got a full blown, Swiss firegun in his pants, that we are nice, humorous people? That we ain't even looking at him, but at the cherries on the slot machine? How do I tell him that I am Cherry, after Sean's just called me like that, and I'm bent in half laughing like I well know I ain't ?
'Yes, the camera loves me'. I bite him back, doing the humorous person, and Sean receives my joke with half a grin, half a brow raise. As if he'd like to laugh at this one, but he quite can't because... it's blatant that it's my porn movies I'm slandering myself l about. My movies, aka the ones he's pulled me out of, at least until the end of this leg of the tour, because he's a good man and he wants to be the only one to fuck m...I mean, he only wants the best for me. Sean? A fucking keeper. I ain't gonna keep my job, I'm gonna get fired as soon as I head back to Seattle, I already consider myself as unemployed... but hey, I've got a man who knows my worth and doesn't want me to settle for any less than what I deserve. HE is my standard, not porn. He knows it, now I know it too, and I'm happy. Although Hick is still looking at us like he wants to shoot a shoot right at our ribcages, and it's fucking scary. I thought Gerry was the one set to die this afternoon... but now it looks as though as Cherry and Sean are gonna be the victims of someone's homicide spree.
Green River, squawk !
'I think I may be a camera'. He speaks, his half grin half frown now turning into a full blown grin. Pearly white, beautiful, and very, very sincere. My hunk's got a way with words, nothing new here, nothing that I didn't know before. But hey, he never fails to amaze me everytime he opens his mouth and speaks. Now he's tryna tell me that he may as well be a camera, 'cause I've just said that the camera loves me... he 'loves me' too, hence he's a camera... and although this is quirky as hell, it's also real fucking sweet. A signature Sean kind of sweet. So sweet that I'm, guess what? Swooning. I swear to god, this man does me THINGS. Including believing that he has feelings for me, while he clearly has no fucking clue what he's talking about when he says so.
'I think you may be clowning. Squeak squeak '. I joke, locking his nose between my index and middle finger, squeaking it for what it's worth. Aka, a lot... because he has a big, big, crooked, crooked, jewel adorned honker, and I love it. I love him as a whole concept, I am aware of my feelings for him, and I am pretty sure that he's aware of his feelings for me, as well. I just know, thanks to my infallible female intuition, that his feelings aren't as romantic as mine. I know my heart, not his, and I know how hard I can love, when I am in love. I love pretty fucking hard, and I don't know if he's ready for it. I don't know if I am ready for it. I don't even know if he can love ... because y'know. There's a difference between loving and being a lover.
Sean is an amazing lover, I wouldn't change a thing about him, he's perfect for me and I feel like I'm tied to him in a way in which I've never been tied to anyone else before. But can he love ? For real? No holds barred, full in, like I know that I can ? I highly doubt so. Maybe I'm right, maybe I'm wrong ... but I gotta have my back, stay grounded and lessen all hopes on him, if I don't wanna hurt like I've just fallen off a cliff with the wind in my disfavour. Love can hurt, on occasion, and I don't want to hurt, when I could've shielded myself better before falling. Too hard. For a guy who hits a bunch of drums in a dirty, dirty Seattle band with a certified track record of STD's.
'Cherry ... how I wish I were clowning'. He speaks, more like he whispers, straight into my ear, and kisses my cheek once he's done. I don't know why's that, but I get all the goosebumps at his sweet, sweet yet cryptic words of affirmation. This guy likes me, and he makes no secret of it. Sometimes he conveys his 'feelings for me' with humour, but it doesn't mean that they're any less sincere than they would be, if he kept 'em serious. He respects me, he treats me like I'm the literal Cherry on top of the cake, he makes me laugh, he gives me the best fucking kisses and cuddles I've ever received, he always makes sure I'm having it good, he's never given me reason to doubt his intentions with me... and he always looks at me... with these beautiful, little brown eyes, like I'm the only thing that matters to him. Probably I am, together with his drums, his booze, his narcotics, and his bikes. And I'm an idiot for not wanting to realise it.
Like I am an idiot for handling him like I ain't bothered by his feelings, whenever he brings them up to me, playfully or not playfully. Last night, he told me that he's fallen for me and he can't get himself back up. He told me that he's gone nuts for me. And I handled him with a dry, pessimistic as hell 'you don't know what you're even talking about, Sean'. Now I'm handling him by letting go of his honker, slipping away from our embrace, and heading to the exit door of the casino on my own. With my invisible tail between my legs, à la defensive dog, like Cuntrell would say. Leaving Sean there, many many steps behind me, looking at the Hick guy like he's almost mock asking him what the hell he gotta do with me. I think I've let him down, and it doesn't empower me. It doesn't me feel like I'm a reincarnation of Mata Hari. It makes me feel like an immature piece of fuck. Aka what I am, because he's the first man I've ever loved in my life, and I don't even know how to handle him and all of his goodness.
'Offended? I ain't gonna stop this... nor apologise'. He speaks, as I can feel his arm tightening around my waist, and his head back in the hollow of my neck. He tickles the delicate skin of my neck with a bunch of sweet, little kisses, and I chuckle like the sweet, little idiot that I am, at his attentions. I may be sweet, cherry pie kinda sweet, but he's sweeter, in his very own, never obvious, always sarcastic way. He doesn't leave that sugary taste in my mouth, he doesn't give me the sweet ick, and he's never too mellow. Just very... stubborn. Persistent. Real. Sarcastic. ROMANTIC. He always chases me, even when I'd just deserve the 'go fuck yourself, I'll go fuck someone else while you close the door behind your back' kinda treatment. I deserved it, now. He's staying playful through it, asking me if he's offended me with his up-frontness, but he hasn't. He's just warmed my cockles a bit too much... and I've pulled away from him because this warm feeling in my heart scares me. The hold that he has over me scares me, no joke. But the moment that he holds me, in the literal meaning of the expression, I feel like I'm scared no more.
What the hell is happening to us... I mean, to me ?