Anxiety shows you that things will never be okay, it becomes the compass telling you that even if the things will be okay, you won’t because you’re digging out your soul with bloody fingernails and you become your own worst enemy because you hate yourself so much and you’ll never be loved, never fulfilled, just like your parents had told you so.
And I don’t know why shaving has ever been so sexual and why do I always look at him, holding the razor no matter electric or not, if not electric washing off the foam and wondering how it would have been before with an actual knife and how he would be on my mercy
and seeing that artwork made me remember how it had felt to shave him, watching him close his eyes and then back at me, dark and sunken, funny and swollen, entirely smitten
entirely built up to the feeling but never touching
we had been like that for years
and we will remain as such because when you’re platonic you believe you have it all, but in reality one of you sometimes doesn’t love back. I’ll never love and he’ll never love.
How do you say goodbye when it’s been months?
And life is the least of pretty.
No one really knows what goes on stage, they see what they want to see, that’s why all interaction is kept hidden, as if observing fish in a fish tank, you’ll never hear what they hold dear.
He shows up on the telly screen and he’s breathtaking just as he as on the dancing classes. I can’t recall anything besides his face and the fact that I dance with him tomorrow as he shifts from leg to leg in the talk show in all red, never saying a word among the crowd which is supposed to be curious and asking about sexuality.
I kept watching him on television recalling how it had felt, being younger and peeping on the right side of the fence where men would please each other, that one had jerked off to two men on television and that’s what I do, imagining him on me, pleasing each other in a reckless way, teasing and driving each other mad that I come on my hand, but I watch the rest of it as he doesn’t speak and neither will I tomorrow.
When you can’t piece the past together you become nostalgic even for the faces you wouldn’t see under a death knife to reminisce your life before it flashes. I don’t even know why do we think so much of the past and of all the lost lovers and it’s all because they once knew us so we think that they still carry the same knowledge we had once lent them. Or is it because we want the self we had known while we were with them? What if we just want ourselves back before everything had collapsed and we had decided that time means nothing and we had never grown much wiser and all we were given is just misery and in that one step of suicide contemplation it turns out waiting to see what awaits was never worth it?
And is that why we kill ourselves in any way, no matter how deep the forest, no matter how many kilometers you’ve ridden yourself to death to because you thought it would be okay with the shards of arguments which only shone break ups?
And it would go day after day, as I wouldn’t be able to call up on him, now feeling more than unease from all the flashes and picking up headlines which would have me somewhere in the middle of the press, giving some deja-vu as people would muse on what would’ve been wrong. And I wish I had always been the same, no matter how much has the flesh ever grown.
When he does call, it feels a bit odd and I can only imagine him with hair much shorter than he’s had before I met him, no longer having some halo of androgyny stuck in his curls and it feels as if I am talking to death and I know how I would have reacted in a pocket of nostalgia, but all I want to do is to cry, while listening to his voice like a spicy lullaby and I wonder why is this even fed to children when I’m deep rooted in my forties. We both feel that way and he keeps telling me to try and pay attention but all I can think is that I’ve skipped my medication, allowing myself to free float
and feel blood on the back of my lips as I’d get told that faggots can’t be blokes. And I would rarely hit back, which possibly explains why now I would hurl people across rooms, screaming, because I knew how deep would blood draw paths on my skin, making small flows and drying up as if it were all sand.
Dancing had become more intense and when people get used to what they see, it’s harder to get annoyed and it felt odd, but then neither of us would think that either would end up kissing each other anywhere and we would reverse the roles session after session, holding each other either on the waist or shoulders. I wondered if we would manage to compete somehow, but then we would surely be given other partners for the pleasing look and that was something neither of us wanted.
It became harder to listen to Jamie eventually with his voice and I would catch myself just listening to it as if it were a scarf and he were my night companion and even when it got significantly cold what happened was that we would still get ice cream, so that during winter it didn’t melt in our hands, as we would sit outside where the rebels would in the summer, allowing ourselves to collect snowflakes and wonder how much more would the town go gray. We wouldn’t speak, because if we would we say too many things.
This chapter is split into three I guess tenses or what not: the alternate dancing thing which could serve as an odd past, the present and in general fluidity of progression and kind of up in the air.
I guess what I love the ambiguity of this story which shifts plot lines and points of view that even I don't know who is where to be honest, so that's why I love it. I was feeling rather tired and looking back at my past with the dancing, not the creep which was my partner but rather the whole setting and that before I got a shit partner I enjoyed it and I wasn't obviously romantically interested in the friend which ended up getting a classmate of hers which was lovely to be her partner and I was left with said creep.
I speak briefly of abuse but I don't like being too cliche and always making an abusive sibling which I had.
The shaving sexual was because I often make shaving sexual, maybe because Callie always shaves my face, I'm awful at it. But also my first sexual Jack/Jamie involved shaving as well, so I made a mock stating that it's cliche.
I was on telly once and I took that experience of Jamie watching Jack, I had worn a gorgeous red and black plaid suit and it was the first time I showed up to my middle school class wearing red lips and I remember how mocked I was for it, because where I grew up it wasn't seen that women would wear bright lipstick, it was lipgloss, mascara, blush and so on, so red lips was seen as ridiculously bright, it's interesting and maybe that influenced my obsession with red lips, I honestly don't know but all the make up I did growing up was never seen as feminine so yeah. So I took that for Jack being there.
Another scene is Jamie jerking off to Jack, it was confusing growing up and I dunno whether my sexuality just changed over the years or it was because I could relate body-wise at the time, but I recall reading a lesbian fiction online which was rather hot and it was just some erotica about a girl wanking to I think two twins touching each other on telly and I took that for this. And I took that for this really, since we're talking about the past here.
I get lonely when I'm depressed and nearly nothing can patch that up and I started thinking of old friends and then I binged until now really, I'm better now xD but we do need to speak more of depression
I also started recalling places where we've lived and biked through thick forests for that matter and made it angsty really story-wise purposes xD
The present is set from all the current headlines which go "Oh, where's Kate, why is Jamie Hince alone" sort of thing.
I broke down through writing half of this with really heavy dysphoria, scared that I'm not like my characters since I'm trans and then I calmed down a lot thanks to Callie which always helps me like this and well, I'm still a man and hopefully such intense dysphoria is temporary but I do dread this body with all my soul. So Jamie getting beat up and the faggots can't be blokes line is more of me screaming about things I've heard that I can't be a man due to my body really.
I also mused on reading Jamie's past so yeah and bullying specifically.
and the last bit is from alternate Jack and yeah. I quite like that bit, I was listening to Eye by Smashing Pumpkins, so that explains the love really. I love that plot line.
I hope you enjoyed it and if you did please please tell me that you liked this chapter
Thank you for all your support loves