فيزا
A few minutes into the deepest silence ever... nothing much has changed between Sean and I. The awkwardness level here is about the same, and so is the degree of confusion in my mind. The only noticeable difference from five minutes ago is that he's no longer hugging me, nor trying to pet 'his son's' head, because the little boy bit him twice and would bite him twice more if he dared to touch him again. So, not being quite sure about what to do or say anymore, he's just mirroring me: silently stuffing his suitcase as I keep doing the same, retrieving my stuff from all around the goddamned room, and then just hurriedly stuffing it into my travel bag number two. I don't know what's in his mind, I don't know what kinda game he's playing with me... all I know is that the silence between us is frustrating me as fuck, because I just can't seem to get to the part where I tell him that we'll be taking separate ways sooner than soon. He's packing for the roadtrip to Canada, the whole Alice gang is set to leave to there after breakfast time, but I? Where am I going, if not to fuck myself back in Seattle, if they even have a flight to there planned for today? Will he let me tell him that, or will he just keep stonewalling me and minimising my feelings because that's what most convenient of him to do?
Why is he making it so fucking hard for me to leave? Why is he making it so fucking hard to even talk to him? Why do I get the vibe that, at the end of the day, talking to him amounts to just about the same as not talking to him at all? Why the fuck is he looking at me with a smile on his lips, while I'm fuming from my ears, blowing cigarette smoke off my pierced nose, and stuffing my spare suitcase with an aura of psychotic to myself that is pretty fucking obvious? Does he find my state laugh-worthy, is he just as confused as I am here, does he find me 'sweet' when I'm mad (he told me that more than once, awww what a babe), or what else exactly?
'Baby, I think you should dress ....more. I can have my back in a fight for you, I can even give you my coat if you ain't feeling too proud... but we're going to Canada. It's cold there'. He chimes in, more or less the moment I zip up my second one of two suitcases, that to signal I'm all(most) done with the packing procedures. And while I'm too busy getting saddened over the thought that if we were in civilised terms, I'd be volunteering to help him pack his own suitcase, between a smooch and another one... I can't help but cock in a little smile at his 'joke'. This one is funny, I swear to goodness, it sounds like it is entirely free of gaslighting, and I can't help but vibe with it. Because it's fucking sweet of him, to tease me over the fact that I just don't work well in coldish temperatures. I wouldn't survive five minutes out there with as little as a cropped corset top and a miniskirt on myself, that's for sure, and that's why he's looking at me from head to toe with an amused smirk on his lips. As to say 'where d'ya think you're going, dressed like that?'... but not because he thinks he has the definitive say on what I can wear and not quite. It's simply because he's stupidly assuming that we're going to Canada together, today... so, ahem, how do I tell him that it ain't gonna happen? But that no matter that, I still wanna thank him for his wholesome, useful advice... because I'm going back to Seattle, and Seattle's just as cold as Canada? Would he regard it as a consolation prize, if I told him that I've got to be the 'dumb ass' he described last night, like for real, no hoax... because I didn't think about dressing up according to the weather? I mean, how fucking mentally deranged was it of me, to dress fancy and expensive as fuck to make a 'statement' before leaving (a statement of what I don't even know), and not to dress warm so that I won't die of hypothermia? Canada involved or not quite involved in the whole equation?
I'd like to finally tell him my plans for the rest of the day, aka leaving and crying on the economy seat of the flight that will take me back to the city we met in... which is also his fucking hometown...and which has a road named after him or the closest to that as it gets... but I'm blocked. Impaired even, by his beautiful smile, and the wholesome, wholesome flexing pose that he's pulling right now, perhaps as a way to 'celebrate' the fact that he's finally managed to make me laugh... but ahem, part one hundred. How do I tell him that I ain't laughing because I'm letting my guard down with him? How do I tell him that if I'm laughing now, it's because I've particularly appreciated his 'joke' about me being so proud and set in my ways that I'd say no to his jacket... if it was cold out there, and his jacket was the last existing one in the world? Is he throwing it back to the time I was mad at him because of that fucking fellatio prank, he chased me all the way to the terrace of the squalid after hours club we were partying at that night, he saw me shivering in the cold, he offered me his jacket... and I turned the offering down out of pride? à la I'd rather freeze than wear a garment that belongs to you and smells like the cologne I bought for you, Mr. Honda Four?
Different setting, same vibe, and I really appreciate him for having been able to draw a parallelism and see a recurrent pattern in the story of him and I. He fucks up, then he apologises, and I act proud and bossy in my own way. I'm just mere minutes away from saying goodbye to the only man who'll ever remember every detail of every exchange he had with me, the only man who'd always know what to say to make me laugh with such gusto... and I eek. Am I even doing the right thing, this morning?
'Sean, you're giving me a headache'. I mumble, taking a seat on the edge of the bed, and putting my knee high vinyl boots on... because I am a woman of good taste, I know what I like and I like what I know in my wardrobe, to say it à la Peter Gabriel. But also because I am a smart woman, and I know that I can't leave this fucking room barefoot. I'm still not sure I'm doing the right thing, leaving and stuff, but hey, who said I can't keep doing it, knowing that in the end, it will be for my own, personal good? He's giving me a headache, figuratively, because he's filling my ears with sweet nothings, my heart with vain hopes, and he's bigging me up by looking at me like I'm the most beautiful thing he's ever seen in this life... but also physically, because I'm starting to feel my temples aching like they did last night before I downed two tablets of Advil in a row. This is my sign that being here with him, in his terms, is fucking me up so much I'm somatizing my inner pain... and I can't let that happen to me. I won't eat because my stomach is all over the place, and I can almost feel my bile in my throat. My head is aching like a motherfucker. I have two bruises on my wrists that won't heal on their own before a couple weeks. I gotta be honest with him, cut the crap once and for all, and finally tell him that after last night's events, I have no option but to leave. But I'm an idiot, I feel a little too much for him, and I know he'll bawl his eyes out, if he finds out that these are our last few moments together.
He loves me, a lot, I love him thrice as much, and I just know that the farewell part won't be easy at all. He will not take it any seriously at first, then he'd just start to crack jokes to make me laugh and push me back into his arms... and in the end, we'd just fucking become ash, at my unwillingness to fall for him ever again. Fear of fucking up and fear of hurting him are the two main factors holding me back from getting upfront with him. The fact that he still hasn't been honest to me and told me the reason behind his rowdiness of last night is aggravating me and enabling me at the same time... so am I a selfish prick, for thinking that the ambiguous treatment I'm giving him now is a direct consequence of the ambiguous treatment he's been giving me over the last twelve hours? I know this sounds bad, but reasonably, does it sound just as bad as the things he had the guts to yell in my face last night? No is the answer.
'Ok, you're fucking mad and it's all my fault... what do I gotta do to have you back, this time?' He asks, walking closer to me with almost heavy steps, and taking a seat on the edge of the bed right beside me. He puts his hand on my thigh, sweetly rubbing it... but before he can rub it once more, and before Cock Soup flies over to him and bites him again, I push his hand away and he sighs out loud with it. But silly me, I regret my coldness straight away, and to make up for it (because that's how dumb I am) I lay my head on his shoulder and I inhale his light scent. I close my eyes for a second, the moment I can feel his thumb caressing my cheek with a degree of sweetness that I've tasted off him a number of other times... and silly me, I think about the words he's just told me, because they were so sweet I just can't seem to get them out of my mind now. He's a smart man, he went this close to losing me once already, because of that fucking uncalled for, humiliating, disgusting fellatio prank, and he doesn't wanna go down that lane again. I mean, he's in that lane now, much to my detriment, but he wants a way out of it and it's pretty fucking obvious at this point. He has his degree of expertise in handling a broken, hurt, vulnerable me, and he believes that just because he won me back once, he's gonna win me back again this time too. He seems to ignore the fact that our 'fights' exclusively originate from his fuck ups. He seems not to acknowledge the fact that what he did and said to me last night was far worse than having me go around saying 'blowjob' in Latin in front of strangers for his amusement. He seems to sleep on the fact that after the 'fellatio' incident, I crawled back to him mostly because he told me his version of the story, and it sounded credible enough to my ears. I am a simple girl, and sometimes all I want is a simple, fucking explanation. Especially a reason to why I was insulted, belittled, yelled at and fucking hit last night. He wasn't able to hook me up with a serious explanation for that in hours in a row's worth of talking. All the time, he's been too busy apologising and blaming his nasty actions and words on alcohol... and now, he's too busy asking me what I'd want him to do to win me back, all over again. Ain't that a bit too simplistic? Even for a simple girl like me?
I'm a simple girl, and I only become slightly complicated when he fucks me up. He's a sweet sweet guy, and he only becomes rowdy when he raises his glass a little too excessively... and in company of the wrong people. Aka, when I ain't around, because he's a horny, chaotic as fuck jewel when he gets drunk with me. I know his worth. I know that he's much better than what he did to me last night. I know he's the best boyfriend in the world when he's legit. I know he loves me. If he didn't, he wouldn't be here acting like earning my forgiveness and my trust back are the only two things in the world that matter to him. He doesn't want to lose me, and I don't want to lose him either. I want to be his girlfriend Jennifer forever. But I also want to find peace of mind. And I know that if I stay any longer with him in this room, I'm going to become eligible for mental health treatment. Is he gonna pay for that, or will I have to pay for it myself? With the money that I've earned by working my dream job after he pulled me out of my previous one in adult entertainment? Does he still love me as much as he did the night he grabbed my hand and told me he wanted to be the only one to see me naked? And that I deserved the best in life? Why does it feel like it's been a lifetime since then, and like everything's changed ?
Help me. I want to cry... but I can't, because of that resolution not to cry for him ever again in this life I've made with myself, when I woke up this morning. I can't kiss him either, because I decided that last night's kiss before we fell asleep would've been our last ever. I can't talk to him, because he doesn't seem to understand anything this morning. I can't even look at him that much, because his gorgeous eyes make me feel all stupid inside and vulnerable. So, what do I do to find slight relief in this turmoil o'mine? I pick on my own, hands while I look at him with the side of my eye, from head to toe... and somewhere mid eyeing him, I don't forget to take a look at his glorious morning hard on. Hurt women don't eye a fucking penis that belongs to the one man who fucking hurt them in the first place... but can you blame me? I'm that level of confused. So all over the place, that in and out, I feel like eyeing his bulge is less awkward than having to look at his face. Especially the eyes. Because they're all gloomy and apologetic, while the bulge... is just a bulge in itself, trivial but beautiful, innit?
'... let's fuck one last time, and then end this all'. I mumble, getting closer to him, and letting him know the only condition he gotta comply to, if he wants to have me some way this morning: fucking me one last time before I leave. And when he hears my final, cold resolution, he buzzes his eyes open like he quite can't believe that I'm giving him such an ultimatum. He wasn't expecting me to tell him that I'll be gone sooner than soon in such a cold, cynical and heartless manner... and the pained look in his eyes is really giving it away for him. I mean, he's slightly smiling through it, but I have him well figured out, and I just know that he's using his pearly whites as a shield between him and the sheer sense of hurt (and disbelief) inside of him. But I also know that there's a chance he may be taking me no seriously right now, because he has me well figured out, and he knows I just ain't one who'd use sex as a weapon.
Sex is not a weapon and will never be that, in my diary. But on occasion, it can be one's preferrable getaway to feel something ... especially when nothing else around seems to make sense. Nothing makes sense between Sean and I, at the moment: I just told him that I'm leaving and the only way he can have me for fifteen more minutes is ...ahem, sexually, and he's looking 33% amused, 33% constipated and 33% hurt by the piece of news. Meanwhile, I'm looking broken to his eyes, I'm sure of it, but still 100% unwilling to take back what I've just said. I secretly wish I could hug and kiss him until my heart'd hurt no more for the crap he gave me last night, but I know that it's no option because of the heaviness of the feelings involved... so who said we can't just fuck one last time, and then say goodbye forever? A little farewell fuck never killed nobody, and it definitely wouldn't kill us, as our intimate time is ever so amazing. Most couples settle their 'arguments' by fucking on them, or split up after a glorious farewell fuck... then why can't we just emulate? And remain in friendly terms afterwards?
I know that having sex with him in my (and his too) state would fuck me up in the head, but I need to feel desired one last time by the only man who's allowed to lay his hands on me in a sexual manner. He knows he's my one and only, he knows that I have sky high standards and that he is my standard, so he should feel at least flattered by my sudden, very blunt sexual avance. Then why the heck is he now frowning like... I've just asked him more than what he'd be willing to give me out of his own initiative? Is fucking me really that hard for him? When he told me that every other man besides him would've found me unloveable, last night, did he actually mean 'unattractive' too?
'You forgot to say 'please daddy', this time'. He answers, in his usual, sarcastic, dry and ever so funny manner. This is not the answer I was looking for, all I was hoping to get was either a simple 'yes' or a 'no'... but he ain't feeling simplicity, and the fact that he's now throwing it back to the one time I walked into his room the morning after the 'fellatio' prank, begging him to fuck me, is the proof of that. This is also the proof that to him, last night's fuck up is pretty much comparable to the 'fellatio' one, but I will have to disagree with that. 'Fellatio' was a prank, disgusting in its own way but still Sean's idea of a harmless prank... but calling me all sorts of disgusting epithets and hitting me was no prank. It was serious shit, made worse by the fact that he was far more lucid when he did that that he'd want me to believe. He's officially pissing me off again, and right now, I'm starting to realise that maybe, I don't want to fuck him anymore.
Haha, who do I think I'm fooling? I want to fuck him now more than I've ever wanted to, if we don't take into account the days when I still hadn't fucked him, and he used to be my number one forbidden fantasy. I'm muffling a laugh at his dirty joke about me calling him 'daddy' and begging for sex in a circumstance analogue to this one here, with me being mad at him and him being funny and apologetical... and in all of this, I'm still, very secretly eyeing his bulge. We're sitting together on the edge of the bed, our thighs are touching and his hand is back at caressing the inside of my thigh. He's hard, but showing restraint and setback with me, and cracking jokes instead of jumping my bones on the spot. He's either playing prudish, clueless or unattainable... and that, beloved book of my secrets, is enough to drive me insane in the best possible way. I love the chase, if something's easy to get I just don't want him... and the fact that he's so hard and playing so hard to get is doing weird things to my hormones.
I know, a hurt woman shouldn't be thinking about having sex and moaning the name of the man who did her oh so dirty... but have you seen him? Have you seen the way he's looking back at me with a teasing, yet playful smirk on his lips? Have you seen the dick print in his soft, greyish, soft lounge pants? You haven't, my words aren't enough to desribe all of the goodness that's in front of my eyes as I breathe... so don't come for me. My behaviour is quirky, but I'm a woman, I'm mentally sane (even if he'd be ready to swear the opposite, fucking asshole), I have my reasons, and I don't need to prove them to anyone. Period.
'But just because I didn't drink any wine... this time'. I answer, keeping things just as sarcastic as him, as I casually remind that if I showed up at his door begging for sex after the fellatio misdeed... it was because I'd downed an entire bottle of red wine beforehand, and we both know that nothing else in the world makes me as horny as red wine. It makes me so horny that it makes me say 'please daddy' out loud, when it's common knowledge that I ain't big on the daddy kink. Right now, much for a difference since the post 'fellatio' delirium, I'm painfully sober. I've had my last drink at the club at 3:30, in company of Barbaranne, and it was a very bland Gin Lemon that we shared. Since then, I hadn't had anything besides two tablets of Advil, a dopamine pill, a little water offered by Inez, and four cigarettes. I'm asking for sex, but I'm doing it in the way a normal, quite sober and pretty reasonable person would do... then why is he making it sound like I keep being back at him with invitations to fuck, whenever we 'fight'? Is it my fault if he's so beautiful, if it's the last time we'll ever be this physically close, and I just want to make sure to get him in the sack before I head back home and enter celibacy mode? That, while he joins his bandmates, and starts to fuck everything that moves?
But right when I'm thinking I'm just making myself looking ridiculous to his eyes, if not signing up for more, hysterical, Sean fashioned slandering, he does the least thing I was expecting him to do... and he circles my waist, gently lays me back first on the mattress, and gets on top of me. He tries to kiss me straigh away, but just in time before his lips can touch mine, I turn my head to the other side, to let him know that I don't want a single fucking kiss. If we gotta fuck, and at this point I'm almost entirely sure that we're about to do the deed, we gotta do it in my terms: which means, roughly, and with no need for hugs, rubs, kisses, and demonstrations of affection of any kind. I want one of these primal, animal-esque fucks for their own sake, à la casual hookup between two people who will never meet again in life... so I frown a little when his hands, that were once trying to lift my skirt, instantly withdraw from my body.
We're on two totally different wavelengths now, I want to fuck while he just wants to have me back in his own preferred way... and at this point, I'm pretty sure that begging for sex ain't gonna have the slightest effect on him. Still, I gather up all of the bravado I've got inside of me, and I keep trying to get to my end goal: I seductively rub his chin with one hand, and I use the other hand to peel up my skirt all by myself. And right when I'm sure that three quarters of my black lace panties are on display, there for him to enjoy if he's feeling like it... I throw my legs around his hips, and pull him closer to me. Moaning a little, as I grind myself against his lap, and I can feel his hardness right where I like to feel it the most.
'I love you, Fay. I could never do this to you'. He chimes in, as he pulls away from me... and instead of just rolling to the other side of the mattress like I thought he would've, he gets up on his feet, and he leaves me there in bed. Turned on, but also a little turned off because I just wasn't expecting him to reject me that way, and name the feelings he has for me as the reason why he can't bone me right now. That's respectful of him, kinda sweet too, if I gotta be honest, it says a lot about the kind of man that he is (when he ain't intoxicated, of course)... but why is he being so restrained, when there's literally no need to? I told him I want sex, explicitly so... hence, giving me what I've asked for wouldn't classify as taking profit of me. Is it really that hard to understand? Or is that hard for me to understand that he won't fuck me if I don't let him kiss me first?
'But you can do worse, can't you'. I mumble, as I fix my skirt back on myself the way a skirt should be normally worn, and take a look at him pulling a bottle of beer out of the minibar fridge. To drink on what's happening I reckon, because I have Sean well figured out, and I know that it'd be standard behaviour to him. So, he's getting his alcohol fix with an empty stomach, aka the worst thing one can do... and then he worries when there's to stick it inside of me one last time after having been forwardly invited to do the thing? Is he serious? More like, is he fucking kidding me when he says he can't fuck me because he loves me... yet he feels like he's totally entitled to gaslight me and treat me like shit in the name of the same feeling? Oh man, you clearly don't know what you're talking about. You think you're handling a fucking idiot, but sadly for you, you're handling someone who's just as smart as you, if not more. Try harder. Or don't try at all, because I'm getting the ick again, and that's the sign I've reached the last existing level of tolerance towards you. After this one, there's just dumping you on the spot and without a verbal explanation. Like you did with Jessica, for instance... haha. Life takes some weird turns, sometimes, doesn't it?
'I can do everything for you... just not this. Not like this'. He adds, keeping it easy and pitiful, because there's nothing else he can do, after I've basically put shame on his face for what he did to me last night. Still, he's a simplistic man, way too simplistic for my tastes... and he's once again trying to erase the memories of last night from my mind by blandly throwing it back to the many good things we both knows he's done for me. He's done plenty of 'em over the last month: just to name a few, he's glowed me up, he's made me feel like a real woman for the first time in my life, he's pulled me out of a shit job in porn, and he's given me reasons to believe that I'm worth much more than I believed I was before he came along. He gave me good love too, for thirty days straight, and I will never forget that nor stop being grateful for that... but well, his charitable, good boyfriend-like acts of charity of the past just ain't what we were originally talking about. We were talking about the absurdity that he believes he's entitled to do everything he wants to me, except fuck me when I'm coldish towards him. He's making everything about me because it makes him feel less bad with himself that way ... and hey, he's gaslighting me again! Gaslighting me while downing his beer a monstrous pull after another monstrous pull! Hooray! Time to head to the motherfucking door and shoot my best shot at telling him that I'm leaving, because he didn't understand the previous one, and all the hints that came with it!
'You don't have to do anything for me anymore. My time here is over... I'm going home today'. I state, cold as the beer that he's downing on the outside, but melting like magma on the inside, because I know what I've just said... and the lovergirl in me wishes she'd never had to say it in her life. I love Sean with my entire heart, and I would do what I've done for him a thousand more times, all over again. If I could rewind the story of us, with or without further hindsight, I'd still hop on my saddle and ride from Seattle to Oakland just to see him. I'd still say yes to him asking me to be his girlfriend, at some point and very out of the blue. I'd still take good care of him whether he'd need me to, or not quite. I'd keep putting myself second and him first because his happiness matters more than my own, to me. He's done so many things for me too, out of love I reckon ... and I'm sure he'd love to keep being my sweetheart, my best friend, my personal bouncer and my favourite clown in the world for a little longer, at least judging by the wounded look in his eyes as we confront eachother from afar.
We're losing track of the original conversation here, I'm getting lost into his beautiful, dark brown eyes, although we ain't that physically close to begin with... and ugh. I don't want leave him. I don't even believe my own self, when I say that 'my time here is over'. It's not over. Loving someone is a mission, and I want to comply to the mission of loving the most complicated guy I've ever met. He's tough, but he deserves love and he's worthy of good things. They don't do men like him anymore, and I'm happy I was able to be his girlfriend for a while. But can I give him what he needs the most, now that we're so compromised after what happened last night? Can he give me what I deserve, even? Can I be sure that if I forgive him, he ain't gonna give me hell again when I expect it of him the least? I don't think I can answer either one of these questions without having a breakdown, and this is the proof that I gotta run to that fucking door and leave before I go insane. Bye, Sean. I can't help but hope that life will treat you well from today on... because I won't live to tell it. I'll live to hear it from my friends, but well... it just ain't the same thing.
'The fuck are you talking about? You ain't gonna go anywhere without me'. He pipes in, when I hurriedly throw my padded jacket over myself, and begin to load the heaviest one of my two travel bags over my shoulder, ready to head to the door and all the good, painful stuff. In the blink of an eye, he's right by my hip, unloading the damn bag from over my shoulder, and laying his head over it instead. And I swoon, when he plants a kiss over my jaw, and pulls me so close to him that I rightfully believe I'm going to break like a cracker. So he's left his almost finished bottle of beer unattended on the mini fridge to come here and hug me... and knowing Sean, giving up on booze to have hugs is the purest love declaration one can aspire to get from him. There's something about him now, his persistence, his body language, his physicality, his territorial words than in reality aren't territorial at all, that's making him look irresistible to my eyes. But I know I gotta resist, if I care about myself and my feelings just a little bit: so, I pull away from his hug, and out of all the things I could do now, I decide to face him. My eyes into his, and my arms crossed on my chest, like I'm the mother who's about to do the scolding, and him like he's the child who's about to get hit with a broom. Could've been a slipper ... but guess what? I've packed all of my pairs of 'em into my suitcases because I'm fucking leaving. And there's nothing he can do to change my mind about that.
'So you think I'll stick around here and let you hurt me again? Man... you've learned nothing from your mistakes, and I'm done. I have a life outside of this, and I want to prioritise it over your fucking crap'. I pour it all out, doing my best not to break eye contact with him, although I wish I just had an option to look away and fucking cry... because I know I've been a little harsh on him, and although he deserved that and he'd deserve even worse than that, I just can't stay indifferent when I see his eyes going blank and emotionless into mine. I hate to admit that to myself, but deep in my heart, I know that I've just dropped a bomb on him, and he has all rights to feel at least flustered by my outburst. But why do I keep bothering about his feelings, when I have feelings too, and he was the one to play with them and get us there, in such terms, to begin with? I've been rough to him, a little too much so, but he needed his reality check over the fact that before he screwed me up last night, I didn't think he could ever, possibly hurt me. I thought that for as long as he'd keep sticking around, no one could've ever fucked with me. I thought he'd bettered himself after havung fucked me up and hurt me once already. I never thought that living my life in synchronicity with his was a detriment to my regular life. I never got the vibe that I wasn't prioritising myself, being on his trail and and never too far away from him. The truth, is that I've almost annihilated myself and everything I once used to be for the sake of spending as much time as I could with him, because I felt like it was the right thing to do for the pleasure of both of us. The truth is that he loves me, but he loves himself too, and he doesn't think he gotta better himself for someone else: he's a take it or leave it in human form, and he ain't willing to compromise one bit. I changed my short term plans for him, I haven't attended a month's worth of University classes that my father is paying for, I have barely studied within the same time span, I've given up on a job because he wasn't comfortable with me working that one... and he can't change a little and get his shit together with me, in return for all of what I've done for him? I even had plans to change my long term plans for him (for us, but let's make it sound like I'm hundred percent selfless), getting in contact with an immigration attorney and asking him to open my green card application process... that, for a man who takes me for granted, uses me as the ultimate end of his tantrums, and tries to get away with it by showing that in the end, he cares for me, and that treating me like garbage was 'just a mistake'? Mistake my ass, Mr. Kinney. 'cause sooner than you could imagine, because you're still too busy minimising shit, you're gonna see me strutting this one to the door. And then never see it again, because what you did to me yesterday... I will never forget nor forgive. Period.
'I love you so much, baby. I need you here with me... and wherever the fuck I'll be tomorrow. I need to feel like I've got a life outside of this too'. He answers, and at his words, an explosive mix of heartfelt sap, vulnerability and self consciousness, I feel hit by an invisible freight train. And I have to sit back on the edge of the bed, leaving my bag at his feet, because my own two ones just ain't keeping me up anymore. For the first time since this exchange began, I'm receiving a decent answer, and that's a win... but that's a loss too, because after this heartfelt plea, I'm beginning to realise that I'm this close to giving up on the best fucking man I'll ever meet in my life. He has his flaws, some of them so big they wouldn't get them out of the window if I was to open it to let the bullshit out... but he's just a guy. A guy like there's millions of other ones out there, but lonelier and more vulnerable 'cause that's the only way a guy who lives most of his life on the road can be. It must be no easy, to be permanently away from the reality of the 'normal' world as it is, and away from home, friends and family. It must be alienating, to go out there and play the same twelve songs on stage every day of your existence, that until you become burned out and fucking sick of it. It's hard, and this one I know it from firsthand experience, to spend most of your time travelling, checking in and out of hotels, and barely eating and sleeping. Groupies exist to make the lives of rockstars just a little bit more bearable, and although I don't like to label myself as such... I can totally understand why this guy over here would want to keep seeing a road wife in me. A road wife makes you feel less lonely and full of shit. Two road wives make you feel mighty and like the world's at your balls. Three road wives make you feel a prick à la Gerry Cuntrell. Sean is a prick too, in some aspects, but he's given me multiple reasons to see that all he wants, is a single road wife to be a perfectly normal guy with. He's telling me that I make him feel like he's got a real life outside of his rock n'roll bubble of banging stuff, getting drunk or wasted, sleeping on buses, never staying in one place for longer than two days, and continuously travelling to the next destination. He once told me that I make him feel 'slightly less dead inside', and I blushed like a fucking idiot in front of his loved up eyes, at that fucking comment. It was the moment I understood that he had feelings for me, and I'll never forget that fucking night at the Italian restaurant. Like I'll never forget that after said mellow skit, a waiter approached us, and I asked him to serve us 'two fellatios'. Now I'm blushing again, he's sitting right next to me with that almost empty bottle of beer between his thighs, his eyes are still loved up, but at the same time weighed down, and there's no waiter in sight to ask fellatio to. There's just the shadow of the perfect couple that we used to be before he dared to abuse my trust in him and do me dirty... and that one becomes pretty cumbersome, when he takes profit of a simple moment of distraction of mine, and lays his lips on mine. He kisses me softly, as he entwines our hands, and begins to rub the ring that he put around my finger on a random day at a random airport. I'm wearing his ring and my heart on my sleeve. He's wearing his heart on his sleeve and the necklace that I beaded for him while we were apart... does it mean that we gotta return the items and move on? Or does it mean that we gotta keep the items and keep us together for our own good, and at all costs?
Help me. I officially need help. So please just tell me what to do, or call the 911 on me. I'm kidnapped. And I'm starting to develop the first, most concerning symptoms of Stockholm syndrome. Come here rescue me before my cab does, please.