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Los Angeles airport is empty during my departure. A dear friend drives me here at last-minute warning, in exchange for gas money and hugs, and I leave my Pet with a full work-week's worth of time off. The scheduling at Wal-Mart is fucked; I didn't mean to leave him all alone for that time, but it can't be helped.

I'm rescuing a treasure. Everyone understands this and fully supports my endeavor. So I sit for hours on the flight, transfer in between -- straight back onto the same flight. A couple with a baby lament that it makes no sense to let previous passengers board before them. I laugh to myself; it only makes no sense to you because it isn't in your best interest.

This treasure that I mean to rescue, he texts me to ask when I'll arrive. He says he's very excited. I won't argue, but I wonder with me bringing the bare minimum -- quiet advocacy, carry-on luggage -- what could be so exciting about it.

I worry about my role, I worry about my charge. As I arrive, I want nothing more than to rush to his aid and wrap him in dark wings, away from the world. The benefactor of my trip, however, wants to offer the extra courtesy of expensive sushi. Given that I would have taken as long to arrive at my charge's home on public transport, I accept, and I eat. I watch Babylon 5. I worry.

We call for directions, and I stand by idly; I know nothing about driving, directions, navigation. I am a delivery, that's all. However, it seems expected that I'll remember the directions. I decide not to worry about that part. It will work.

Instead, I focus on my intent. I plan to play the role of Galahad the Pure, as I know of the charge's fears and insecurities. When we arrive, I acknowledge the charge as he ushers us into the correct driveway, bid my benefactor farewell and godspeed, and am led into my charge's home.

Drink till I'm pretty.

I sit in an unfurnished room with a lovely, nervous boy who tries to make the best of an incomple living-room. I sit beside him drinking cider and occasional sips of his gin and tonic, as he insists that I must pass out as he's afraid of women and wishes them to fall asleep rather than molest him.

I smile and drink. You're already pretty, you've always been pretty. But all you have to do is ask, and I'll leave you be. We watch silly shows and laugh at them. He halfway apologizes to me for the content, and I just feel blessed to be feeling at home already.

When he finally leads me to where he sleeps, he asks if he can curl up around me. Of course, I tell him. As if I could say no to you.

The next morning, he leaves for work after a long lie-in and several snooze-buttons. I get up to make his departure easier; it's not fair that he should have to leave me asleep. I sit looking through his dvd collection, I remain indecisive as to what I'll watch. Eventually, I find a coming-of-age movie about a werewolf girl on cable, and watch it instead.

His landlord stops by to check out some ongoing renovations he's doing to other rooms in the house, asks if my boyfriend is at work. I pause, surrounded by young men. Yes, my boyfriend is at work. I just have to wait for him. I carry no strange conceptions of my visit, though: this boy, this charge of mine, has just been torn assunder and left unaided by those he'd given his trust. I am nothing. That's ok.

When he gets back, he showers and I change clothes to prepare for a rooftop showing of Serenity he plans to bring me to. He wears clothes with spikes and chains, and I can hear every move he makes. I follow him from subway train to subway train, going the wrong way at almost every turn; I stand near him but don't touch him, and throughout the night, I think that I could get lost with him anytime, in shoes that hurt, in unknown surroundings.

As the insanity of Manhattan rages around us, I feel that he puts himself between myself and danger, despite his jokes about stabbing me in the leg and running. I, in turn, try to stand between him and people who exhibit belligerent behavior, knowing that the crowd around us would riot if I was harmed.

I could get lost anywhere, anytime, with you, and there's nowhere else I'd want to be.

I sleep in his arms again, and in his sleep -- I assume, his sleep! -- he pushes himself against me, and I feign ignorance. I am Galahad, remember? When he wakes, he shows me a movie about sex addicts, ill mothers, self-starvation, death, love. He weeps at personal revelation; love and food are the same. So I spend half an hour not so much eating as tasting the breakfast he makes for me. I roll it in my mouth for taste and texture: real butter, real cheese. I leave some for him, as we're sharing, and I try to dutifully ignore the butterflies in my stomach that keep me from eating a full share.

In the end, I fail. He asks if I want to go back to watching movies in bed or in the living room, and I have to pause. Yes to both? I want it all. What can I ask for that's in the scope of both what I want, and what I'm here to offer?

I want to watch you draw.

Well, I do, and I give him no requirement or request for settings. I'll get lost with you anytime, anywhere. We sit on his living room floor as he tries to make peace with pencils he hasn't caressed in a long time, and I listen and watch his crafting hands at work. I feel spoiled.

You were right, he tells me. You do put off pheromones like nothing else. You've been driving me crazy all day, I can barely concentrate. I laugh, I continue to feign ignorance, but can't control my smile. I ask if his other girls never did the same thing, and I think he said something along the lines of rarely ...

We end up tangled in eachother's arms on his living room floor, where I caress his shoulders, neck, and chest. I explore his phoenix tattoo and brush my lips over his skin. You are a kind and generous Goddess, now cut it out, I tell her, and she'll hear none of it as he runs his hands up my thighs.

We have a short time before his houseguest with the killer eyebrows will arrive at his door to cook for and molest him, and he tells me he wants me like nothing else. Asks what he can do to have me. I tell him that I separate my heart from nothing ... but nothing more would really happen to me than had really already happened.

I don't think he gets it. Not really. He's drugged and beastly and beautiful, and he growls into my ear, and all I want is one kiss. Just one. Then I can die.

I think I'm the one struggling this time.

You have no idea.

Comments

This is beautifully written. <3
Hahaha. Thanks. :) I need booze.
y'know, I never USED TO like gin. lol

April 2012

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