mymymymysharona
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Mar 7, 2006
- Messages
- 494
I slept with him. The boy with the crazy hair and sparkling eyes who’d smoke cigarettes and drink water from a mug by the bedside table, where his mother put up icons of Jesus. In his house in Caulfield, not his regular residence, but where he dropped by every 6 months or so. I felt so desolate; I’d never be able to drop by should my insanity get extremely unbearable.
Went out that night, to a pub in the city where he played; it wasn’t planned but I carried his guitar and he asked a Jess who forgot his name, if he could play and she said yes. And he was so damn great. The boy is something else. No wonder even the spider hiding in the corner of the dim lit pub would fall in love with the intoxication that fills the place every time he parts his lips. Beer after beer. We sat at this table. And I foolishly parted my feelings. What a waste, again. Why does my heart betray me so? Why does my mouth choose to speak before my brain can catch up? I’m not a good judge of the perfect moment to say something. Course it meant nothing to him, perhaps a little flattery. He must get it all the time. And this was only our second meeting. Who am I anyway? And what do I have to offer? I’m not even half as interesting as he is.
Outside we smoked, me self-conscious of the low cut top I was wearing, coupled with the bright light shining on my forehead, I tried pushing hair all over my face to look more mainstream. People kept calling him and I wondered what it would be like to be him, to have so many ‘mateys’ and such love from everyone. Then I foolishly wondered what it would be like to be held by him in public and to join him anywhere he went. Fuck I wanted to kiss him with every word he uttered. But 10 minutes later in the pub, I got him another beer and laid my head against his shoulder as he was talking to a crowd - he didn’t even budge. So I removed my pitiful extremity in defeat. Decided to make conversation with a cute Chinese girl who had too much too drink and promised him she’d cut his hair on Tuesday just before he’d go up to perform. I cringed, I love the curls. He’s like Samson. The curls I grabbed in my hands as we kissed later, in an embrace of bodies and hands everywhere.
Another drunk temporary member of the bar congratulates him outside, on what must have been our 5th ciggie and my third huge headspin. He starts singing to him, and my love bops his head in time, although clearly the guy was out of tune. Once he’s done, he congratulates him and says he should play. The guy keeps looking my way or rather my breasts’ way, and cautiously asks, “So are you guys together?” At that moment my heart stops and I feel this urge to just burst into tears and run, or dive into the concrete where an imaginary hole opens up and closes right after me. “Nah man, we’re really just good friends” came the reply, before I had a chance to say anything. Not that I would have. I was more astounded at what the drunk then said, “Good on ya mate, that’s the best way to be I reckon”. I’m pretty sure I let out a not too subtle ‘humph’ and looked at the traffic. Went back in to watch the last act, but I was really just watching his face and involuntarily raised up my hand to push his hair away, which caused him to turn my way and smile. I think I melted, cos I couldn’t feel my feet.
His, “Should we go?” was full of potential and excitement- on my behalf, of course. I’ve been known to do anything to try to keep someone. I can’t snap out of it and be objective about things. In the car he tells me about his health problems and I feel this tinge of sadness, I want him to be around, however intangible- the whole, be elusive but don’t walk too far thing. I want to hear him on the radio and I want him to be a household name. I get treated to more singing in the car, I wish he’d never shut up. We stop in a dark park because he can’t hold in the beers till home, which ends up being exactly 1.5mins away. We go into the house the back way and stumble into a room he believes was left for him, only to be encountered with a “Who is that?” Female voice, presumably his mother. Saying something back in Russian and laughing, we head for the kitchen where he treats me to water in a mug, as I rudely wander into the lounge room to look at the photos on the mantelpiece.
Doesn’t take long and we’re lying on his parents’ bed, him smoking and yawning, ashes going into a cute little Russian drinking cup that looks as if it was brought with them on the plane. He starts talking about how we can do things, but he doesn’t want to give me the wrong impression, as I put my finger on his lips and roll my eyes, not wanting to hear something I’ve heard so many times before from so many people. I said something about how unfair it was I didn’t get a chance. Story of my life. “What if I want to kiss you?” I say, to which he replies, so innocently “I love kissing, touching, anything. Girls are cool”. Apparently that turned me on and I put my lips to his, just kissing softly. He turned it into more roughness and I let his hands explore, and mine joined in. “I want to hear your breathing getting heavier”, he says, as I try to reach his mouth again and he holds me down to look at me. His orders are so clear and intense: “I’m going to put on a condom and fuck you, take your panties off”. But his strict tone withers when he enters me, sighs and moans taking over, telling me I feel so fucking good. My legs wrap around his torso and never want to let go. He trembles with every push and some time later apologies that he’s out of practice and can’t last anymore. And he ends with more moaning and heavy breathing. As I close my legs, he parts them again, kissing my stomach, which causes me to say “No, you don’t have to”. But feeling his tongue on me like that makes me utter “Or maybe you do”.
“Do you want me to leave?” I ask as he lies down next to me. “No, I could never just do that, stay for a bit, if I had my own place I’d tell you to stay all night.” I smile and snuggle into him, tracing imaginary lines from his chest to his tummy and penis, feeling the sweat of his body as millions of tiny droplets following my finger. His hand runs up and down my back, as I kiss his chest and cheek intermittedly. He lights another cigarette and sings. I curl away, silent, in the darkness fighting tears and listen to him. When he’s done he asks how it sounds, and I have no words with which to praise him, because it’s better than anything I’ve ever heard and should I ever go deaf, his music is all I’d remember in my heart. Putting clothes on, he senses how far away I am and says “Hey, don’t go all weird on me”. I give a wry smile and ask again if he wants me to go. “I don’t want to kick you out, but maybe you should, I got work tomorrow”. To which I get up and he leads me out to my car, his arms opening wide as I hold him so close trying to cut off both our breathing.
“Promise me you’ll take care of yourself” I say. “I can’t”, comes the expected reply. After goodbyes, he walks away and I pull him by his shirt twice more for another kiss. Crying while driving all the way home, and crying till 6am that day, I wonder why this happens to me, and I hold the ring I stole from him close. My fingers smell of cigarettes, my hair smells of him. I notice an engraving on the ring, which causes me more heartache: “Happy 5 years”.
Went out that night, to a pub in the city where he played; it wasn’t planned but I carried his guitar and he asked a Jess who forgot his name, if he could play and she said yes. And he was so damn great. The boy is something else. No wonder even the spider hiding in the corner of the dim lit pub would fall in love with the intoxication that fills the place every time he parts his lips. Beer after beer. We sat at this table. And I foolishly parted my feelings. What a waste, again. Why does my heart betray me so? Why does my mouth choose to speak before my brain can catch up? I’m not a good judge of the perfect moment to say something. Course it meant nothing to him, perhaps a little flattery. He must get it all the time. And this was only our second meeting. Who am I anyway? And what do I have to offer? I’m not even half as interesting as he is.
Outside we smoked, me self-conscious of the low cut top I was wearing, coupled with the bright light shining on my forehead, I tried pushing hair all over my face to look more mainstream. People kept calling him and I wondered what it would be like to be him, to have so many ‘mateys’ and such love from everyone. Then I foolishly wondered what it would be like to be held by him in public and to join him anywhere he went. Fuck I wanted to kiss him with every word he uttered. But 10 minutes later in the pub, I got him another beer and laid my head against his shoulder as he was talking to a crowd - he didn’t even budge. So I removed my pitiful extremity in defeat. Decided to make conversation with a cute Chinese girl who had too much too drink and promised him she’d cut his hair on Tuesday just before he’d go up to perform. I cringed, I love the curls. He’s like Samson. The curls I grabbed in my hands as we kissed later, in an embrace of bodies and hands everywhere.
Another drunk temporary member of the bar congratulates him outside, on what must have been our 5th ciggie and my third huge headspin. He starts singing to him, and my love bops his head in time, although clearly the guy was out of tune. Once he’s done, he congratulates him and says he should play. The guy keeps looking my way or rather my breasts’ way, and cautiously asks, “So are you guys together?” At that moment my heart stops and I feel this urge to just burst into tears and run, or dive into the concrete where an imaginary hole opens up and closes right after me. “Nah man, we’re really just good friends” came the reply, before I had a chance to say anything. Not that I would have. I was more astounded at what the drunk then said, “Good on ya mate, that’s the best way to be I reckon”. I’m pretty sure I let out a not too subtle ‘humph’ and looked at the traffic. Went back in to watch the last act, but I was really just watching his face and involuntarily raised up my hand to push his hair away, which caused him to turn my way and smile. I think I melted, cos I couldn’t feel my feet.
His, “Should we go?” was full of potential and excitement- on my behalf, of course. I’ve been known to do anything to try to keep someone. I can’t snap out of it and be objective about things. In the car he tells me about his health problems and I feel this tinge of sadness, I want him to be around, however intangible- the whole, be elusive but don’t walk too far thing. I want to hear him on the radio and I want him to be a household name. I get treated to more singing in the car, I wish he’d never shut up. We stop in a dark park because he can’t hold in the beers till home, which ends up being exactly 1.5mins away. We go into the house the back way and stumble into a room he believes was left for him, only to be encountered with a “Who is that?” Female voice, presumably his mother. Saying something back in Russian and laughing, we head for the kitchen where he treats me to water in a mug, as I rudely wander into the lounge room to look at the photos on the mantelpiece.
Doesn’t take long and we’re lying on his parents’ bed, him smoking and yawning, ashes going into a cute little Russian drinking cup that looks as if it was brought with them on the plane. He starts talking about how we can do things, but he doesn’t want to give me the wrong impression, as I put my finger on his lips and roll my eyes, not wanting to hear something I’ve heard so many times before from so many people. I said something about how unfair it was I didn’t get a chance. Story of my life. “What if I want to kiss you?” I say, to which he replies, so innocently “I love kissing, touching, anything. Girls are cool”. Apparently that turned me on and I put my lips to his, just kissing softly. He turned it into more roughness and I let his hands explore, and mine joined in. “I want to hear your breathing getting heavier”, he says, as I try to reach his mouth again and he holds me down to look at me. His orders are so clear and intense: “I’m going to put on a condom and fuck you, take your panties off”. But his strict tone withers when he enters me, sighs and moans taking over, telling me I feel so fucking good. My legs wrap around his torso and never want to let go. He trembles with every push and some time later apologies that he’s out of practice and can’t last anymore. And he ends with more moaning and heavy breathing. As I close my legs, he parts them again, kissing my stomach, which causes me to say “No, you don’t have to”. But feeling his tongue on me like that makes me utter “Or maybe you do”.
“Do you want me to leave?” I ask as he lies down next to me. “No, I could never just do that, stay for a bit, if I had my own place I’d tell you to stay all night.” I smile and snuggle into him, tracing imaginary lines from his chest to his tummy and penis, feeling the sweat of his body as millions of tiny droplets following my finger. His hand runs up and down my back, as I kiss his chest and cheek intermittedly. He lights another cigarette and sings. I curl away, silent, in the darkness fighting tears and listen to him. When he’s done he asks how it sounds, and I have no words with which to praise him, because it’s better than anything I’ve ever heard and should I ever go deaf, his music is all I’d remember in my heart. Putting clothes on, he senses how far away I am and says “Hey, don’t go all weird on me”. I give a wry smile and ask again if he wants me to go. “I don’t want to kick you out, but maybe you should, I got work tomorrow”. To which I get up and he leads me out to my car, his arms opening wide as I hold him so close trying to cut off both our breathing.
“Promise me you’ll take care of yourself” I say. “I can’t”, comes the expected reply. After goodbyes, he walks away and I pull him by his shirt twice more for another kiss. Crying while driving all the way home, and crying till 6am that day, I wonder why this happens to me, and I hold the ring I stole from him close. My fingers smell of cigarettes, my hair smells of him. I notice an engraving on the ring, which causes me more heartache: “Happy 5 years”.
