Rachel Anton
Rating: NC-17
Rufus mention for Laura, who will probably still not read, but I had to try
:D
xxxxxx
You asked me about my childhood once. My earliest memory, and I told you that
was a silly thing to ask because who can really pinpoint the one exact moment
when consciousness begins, when the real memories start? Then I told you some
story about learning to spell my name, but the truth is my earliest memories-
most of my memories- are of pretending to be someone else.
For some reason, everyone seemed to be impressed that I did this. My parents
and my teachers, even my brother- they all said I had "A Gift". I was a natural,
a born actor, a prodigy, and they told me this was something good, but it really
didn't feel like that. It felt like something was wrong. Even when I was five,
it seemed like more of a mental illness than a talent. Still does, sometimes.
The first time I had sex, I was pretending to be someone else. Don't think I
ever told you that either. I wasn't thirteen years old, in my room with Anthony
Williamson, humping in my underpants and hoping my parents were asleep. I was
Christian Slater, and he was Winona Rider, and I don't think Anthony even liked
that movie- or any of the other ones I picked- and I'm pretty sure he didn't
like playing the girl all the time either, but I guess he liked my dick okay
because I got him to pretend with me almost every weekend until we started high
school and he realized he wasn't completely repulsive to women after all.
The first time I had sex with you, you were pretending to be Brian. You probably
thought I didn't notice. It was subtle, I'll give you that. Almost imperceptible
and maybe no one else would've known the difference, but I did. I always do.
I had a plan, you know. The ultimate seduction, three years in the making, and
it was almost perfected, but in the end all I had to do was ask. You're so easy
sometimes. So willing and eager to please. Did you want me that day, the way
I wanted you? Or were you just going along because there was wine, and we were
happy, and you didn't want to ruin anything?
It was raining that Sunday when you invited me over to meet the cat you'd rescued
and adopted. Whiskerton, who, it turned out, didn't have any whiskers at all.
God, Gale, that cat. I still think she's feral and deranged, but you seemed
so proud of her even though your arms were mutilated and there were piles of
shredded clothing all over your apartment.
"She's...interesting," I said, as diplomatically as possible, and spent the
rest of the afternoon on your sofa, watching DVDs with my head in your lap.
I had a really nice time that day, even before the sex. It was so relaxing,
lying there with your fingers in my hair, with the rain beating against the
window and the heat blasting, and even Whiskerton seemed to mellow out after
awhile and stopped hissing at us from underneath the CD rack.
Eventually, we ran out of movies and turned to wine and Lou Reed. The conversation,
not unusually, turned to sex. You told me that story about the girl in your
college government class- fucking behind the Lincoln Memorial, and how she wanted
you to tie her up when you got back to the dorm, but you didn't know how to
make a good knot, and I don't really remember the rest because I was too distracted
by your wine stained lips to really pay attention.
"Do you ever wonder what it would be like if we had sex?" I asked, when your
story was through. I expected you to laugh and turn red, the way you do when
you're flustered or taken off guard or just don't know what to say, and I expected
to tell some stupid joke to make it better and change the subject, but instead
you stared straight ahead and nodded.
"Sometimes," you said quietly.
Suddenly my carefully thought out plans, my weeks, months, years of equivocating,
my some days and maybes all seemed like a stupid waste of time. I couldn’t remember
what I’d been so afraid of.
I remember now. I was afraid of ruining our friendship, making our work relationship
completely uncomfortable, humiliating myself beyond comprehension…but none of
that seemed to matter anymore.
"Would you like to find out?" I asked.
"Okay," you said, turning to me with a shrug, so fucking nonchalant. Like I'd
just suggested we order a goddamn pizza.
That first kiss was strange. We both slipped into character immediately, instinctually,
and for a few minutes it was Brian and Justin kissing on your couch, and that
wasn't what I wanted at all. I had to pull back, to look you in the eye and
touch your face, force myself to be myself. To feel you coming back with me.
The second kiss was us, you and me and warm and tentative and sweet and it made
my insides burn. When the tip of my tongue touched the roof of your mouth you
made a sound that Brian would never, ever make, and I knew there was something
there, something real. Something beyond an intimate friendship, beyond flirtation
and my stupid, unrequited crush. There was a connection. There were things that
I could make you feel. It wasn't just acting.
When I climbed onto your lap you were hard, and it wasn't the first time I'd
felt that, but it was the first time I knew for sure that it was for me. That
it wasn't just an accident, a random side effect of vigorous friction. I started
rolling my hips, rocking slowly against you, and soon you were sucking my tongue
and clutching at my ass, making more amazing noises. After a few minutes, I
was sliding down to the floor, pulling open your jeans. Sucking your cock.
I knew it was the first time a man had ever done that to you. You’d told me
about your “experimental” phase in San Francisco- hand jobs and kisses and rolling
around in random bong-water stained sheets- but for some reason that I can’t
even begin to comprehend, none of those guys ever took your dick in their mouth.
I was glad to be the first.
And I think I did a pretty damn good job of showing you why men are, by and
large, the superior cock suckers of the world. It wasn’t long before your legs
were shaking, and your hands were clutching the sofa cushions, and I could tell
you were holding back for my sake. Such a fucking gentleman. So fucking polite.
“It’s okay,” I said, rubbing my cheek against you. “Fuck my mouth. I like it.”
You groaned and grabbed handfuls of my hair in your fists, and I took you all
the way in, till you were hitting the back of my throat. And, sure enough, once
you had permission you started ramming my mouth like it was a blow up doll.
It was so hot, I almost started jerking off, but I wanted to save my first orgasm
for when I was inside you.
You came quick and hard and calling my name. When I looked up you were panting
and sweaty. Your cheeks were red. You were smiling. You were you.
Brian didn't show up until I had you face down on the sofa, until the tip of
my cock was pressing inside you. I felt him come back in that moment. He was
in your muscles and your breath and the sounds you were making, and he stayed
until the end, when I brought you off again with my hand.
I'm not sure why you needed him. Maybe you were nervous and he gave you that
extra bit of confidence, or maybe you were afraid and he gave you courage, or
maybe it was automatic and you didn't even realize you were doing it. Or maybe...maybe
you just didn't want to deal with the fact that this was happening to you. That
you fucking liked it.
Even though we've been together hundreds of times since that night, and Brian
stopped coming around after the third or fourth, even though Gale has been intruding
on Brian’s world lately more than Brian’s been intruding on ours, sometimes
I still think about it. Sometimes I still wonder why.
I was thinking about it last night, before I called you. I was thinking about
her, too, and wondering if you had to pretend when you were shoving it up her
cunt.
But, of course, I couldn’t ask you that. It would’ve been an angry thing to
ask, and I had no right to be angry. The rules were, after all, my idea.
I told you a long time ago that you should be with whoever you wanted, and I
would do the same. That we were friends who fuck, and nothing more. No strings,
no commitments, no hassle, because I know from experience that this is the only
way to keep a straight man coming back for more.
I told you that we should keep the fucking part of our friendship a secret.
Who needs the extra press and the annoying questions and the nosy co-stars,
and I’d rather keep you to myself anyway. But really, if you want to know the
truth, it was because I knew that’s how you wanted it, how it was gonna be,
and I didn’t want to feel betrayed every time I read one of your goddamn interviews.
I never wanted you to feel like you owed me anything, like you ought to be giving
more than you felt comfortable with, so I told you these things, and how could
I fault you for doing exactly what I said?
Still, I wanted to hear your voice.
I tried your cell first. Figured if you were sleeping or…otherwise occupied,
you’d have it turned off and I could leave some sort of lame, passive aggressive
message and maybe feel .01 percent better before I passed out. But, no. Disconnected,
yet again. One of these days we’re going to figure out a way for you to remember
when the bills are due. Maybe some sort of flow chart. Or a series of tattoos.
Anyway, since you’re incapable of functioning like a grown up human, I had to
call your home phone and wake you up. You were groggy and confused, and seemed,
inexplicably, to think I was your Uncle Reggie for a few minutes, but eventually
I heard you rustling around for your cigarettes, turning on the light.
“Why did you become an actor?” I asked, when it sounded like you were fully
awake.
“Uh…I dunno. I was a terrible waiter,” you said. “And the soccer thing didn’t
really work out.” Your voice was soft and light. Tired, but content. I prayed
that you were alone.
“I’m serious, Gale,” I said, and yes I do realize how fucking ridiculous this
all was. Who calls in the middle of the night and asks something like that?
I don’t know what I was thinking.
“Have you been drinking that shitty absinthe again?” you asked, and I told you
no, but I was lying. Sorry about that. Then you asked if I wanted you to come
over, and I told you no to that too, which was also a lie.
“I want you to answer the question,” I said. “Why are you an actor? Is it because
you hate yourself?”
“I’m coming over,” you said, and hung up the phone.
Sometimes I wonder if my first boyfriend was right when he called me a manipulative
little twat.
When you got there, I was out on the balcony, staring at the sky. A normal person
might’ve asked me why I was laying on the concrete instead of sitting on one
of the lounge chairs, but, thankfully, you are anything but normal. You brought
a blanket from inside and stretched out next to me without a word.
Your hair was sticking up in weird directions, and you were wearing a t-shirt
with holes and a pair of flannel pajama pants. Sneakers with no socks, freshly
grown stubble, and you smelled like freshly laundered sheets. I hate that you’re
so fucking beautiful after rolling out of bed at three o’clock in the goddamn
morning. Is there ever a time when you’re not beautiful? Could you maybe call
me if that ever happens, cause I’d really like to see it. Just once.
“You mad about Susan?” You asked, and nudged me with your knee.
“Why would I be mad?”
“I dunno,” you said. “You seemed kinda mad when I told you. And you seem kinda
mad right now.”
“I’m not.” Mad doesn’t really describe what I was. I don’t know what I was,
but it wasn’t mad.
“It didn’t mean anything,” you said. I knew that already. You fucking told me
that already. You told me the whole story this afternoon, but that didn’t stop
you from rambling about it again. You’re just friends, she was upset, lonely,
dumped, it just happened, you were high, she wanted you and you didn’t wanna
hurt her feelings. Blah blah blah, what the fuck else is new. That’s not what
I wanted to hear about.
“What was it like?” I asked, interrupting you. “Was it good?”
“Good? Well…it was…different,” you said. “I haven’t been with a woman in a long
time. Kind of forgot what it was like.”
Was it better, I wondered. Had you forgotten that you liked it better? But I
didn’t ask that. I asked you to elaborate. Different how? Different why?
It took you a long time to answer. I smoked two or three cigarettes, waiting
for you. I hoped you weren’t trying to find a gentle way of letting me down.
I prayed you weren’t going to tell me how soft and sweet and wonderful it all
was. Such a contrast to the “mad dash to get your rocks off” experience you
must get with me. Yes, I have that fucking interview memorized. Fuck you.
“I guess I felt more in control,” you finally said.
I thought about pinning you to the floor, slamming you against the wall, bending
you over the kitchen table, tying you to my headboard and making you whimper
and beg for the smallest touch. Now suddenly you wanted to be in control?
“Because you were the one doing the fucking?” I asked, cringing again at the
mental picture. “You know, you can do whatever you want with me. Or…to me.”
I didn’t just tell you that because of her. I wanted you to understand that
I trust you, even though it might not always seem that way. That I take the
lead because it’s what I’m used to, because it’s easier for me, not because
I don’t want you to ever have it. That if you decided to climb on top of me
and fuck me blind until the sun came up, I wouldn’t try to stop you.
“S’not that. Not really.” You turned on your side then, draped your arm lightly
over my stomach, and my chest clamped up a little from the contact.
God, I wish I had the words to tell you how it makes me feel sometimes, the
way you touch me, but I really really don‘t. I’m not a very good writer.
“I don’t mean I was in control of her,” you said. “Or the situation. I mean
I was in control of myself. Not like with you.” You leaned in and kissed my
neck, whispered in my ear, “I can’t control myself when I’m with you.”
I felt your fingers sliding under my sweatshirt, your thigh hitching up over
mine. It was snowing by then, but I wasn‘t cold anymore. I think I was sweating.
“S’kinda overwhelming sometimes,” you said.
“Yeah, know what you mean.”
“I‘m not sure you do.”
“Show me then,” I said, and you did. You really did. Not the way I expected,
though. I guess I expected to be ravaged or something, but I’m not sure why.
That isn’t really your style.
For awhile, all you did was kiss me. Gentle, soft kisses, over and over, and
I wanted more. I wanted your tongue in my throat, your hands pulling and grabbing
at me. I knew I could get it, too. I had to force myself to lay there passively
and let you set the pace.
After about twenty minutes of your sweet, chaste kisses my dick was throbbing,
and a pleading, whimpery noise came from the back of my throat. Finally, you
got on top of me, pressed the length of your body against mine, and rolled your
hips. I spread my legs, and dug my nails into my palms to keep from bucking
up against you and grabbing your ass- forcing you to give me what I needed.
Your kisses got wetter and deeper, and you grabbed onto my wrists, pinned them
up above my head, then twined our fingers tightly together. And you started
rocking against me, so slowly I wanted to die. I couldn’t breathe. Torture.
Fucking torture.
I don’t know how long we went on like that. It couldn’t have been more than
a few minutes, because I think I really would have snapped. However long it
was, at some point you stopped. Stopped kissing, stopped moving, just pulled
back and looked at me, and I don’t know how to say this without sounding like
a giant tool, but it was like I was seeing you for the first time or something.
They way you were staring at me, eyes wide and mouth open, panting and sweating
with snowflakes in your hair, squeezing my hands and just…just loving me, I
guess. I guess that’s what it was.
It turned out that you didn’t need to ravage me to make me lose control. You
didn’t even need to move. All you had to do was look at me, and suddenly there
were tears running down my face, and I was coming in my jeans like a fucking
twelve year old. Nothing like that has ever happened to me before. And I get
it now, I think. I understand why Brian was there the first time we were together,
because in that moment a part of me really wished I still had the presence of
mind to become someone else. Someone who didn’t feel this. Who could make it
just a little bit less. It was too raw, too strong, too fucking terrifying.
Then you buried your face in my neck with a groan, and jerked against me twice,
and filled those silly flannel pants with your own spunk. I’m really glad it
happened to you too.
“Let’s go inside,” you said, once you were through, and I noticed for the first
time that your entire body was shaking. Probably from the fucking cold. You
could've at least worn a coat, you know.
When we got inside, we stripped down and collapsed into bed. I was dazed and
my limbs were heavy, but everything was more…real somehow. My skin was more
sensitive, and I could see colors vividly in my room even though the lights
were off. I felt like I’d taken about three hits of E.
You spooned around me and pulled the blankets up over us and told me that you
were sorry.
“For what?” I asked.
“Susan.”
Oh yeah, Susan. Somehow I’d managed to forget all about her.
“Don’t be,” I said. “My stupid rules.”
“Do you wanna change them?” you asked.
I didn’t know how to answer that. I didn’t want to answer, so I turned it back
around and asked if you did.
“I dunno,” you said. “Kinda. I mean…yeah. Yeah, I think I do.”
“You do?”
“I don’t like when you fuck other guys.”
And there it was. So fucking simple, and yet, I still can’t believe how easy
it was for you to say. I still can’t believe that you said it.
“I’ve only fucked like, one guy since we started this,” I reminded you.
“Two,” you said.
“No, you can’t count Rufus Wainwright. He’s a celebrity.”
“So are you.”
“Yeah, but I worship him. It’s different. It would be like if you got the chance
to fuck…I don’t know, who are all the straight boys hot for these days? Britney
Spears? Paris Hilton?”
“I like Sigourney Weaver.”
Have I mentioned lately that you’re really fucking weird?
I told you that if you ever got the opportunity to fuck your wet dream, Sigourney
fucking Weaver, I wouldn’t count it against you, and you asked me if that meant
we were changing the rules.
“I guess it does,” I said, and felt you smiling against my neck.
“Good. Want you all to myself.” That was the last thing you said before you
started snoring and drooling in my hair at around five AM. Now it’s six thirty,
and the sun is coming up, and I’ve been sitting at my desk, writing this stupid
letter and watching you sleep for an hour, and I have no idea why.
I’ll never give it to you. I’ll put it in the shoebox with all the other letters
I’ve written to you, and in fifty years I’ll be able to take them out and read
them and know that this was real. That I didn’t make it up in my head, and I
wasn’t pretending.
It is real, isn’t it? If I get back in bed, you’ll affix yourself to my back
like cellophane, and I won’t be able to sleep or breathe or move under your
weight, but I’ll be happy, won’t I?
So why am I sitting here instead of there? Why do I have to disconnect from
every pleasurable experience and start mourning its inevitable end?
I suppose these are rhetorical questions.
I’m going back to bed.
I love you.
-Randy
End