Reality Without You

The door cracks open and everything falls silent again as Frank seems to hesitate whether to come in or not. My own heart hitches in my chest, calling off my breath before returning back to it’s normal state as I take a long, collected breath. This is really no big deal, but Frank seems to think different as he doesn’t dare to move a muscle. I bet he’s even holding his breath in case, you know, the air blows the door open and reveals him standing behind it totally unprepared. God, we don’t have all fucking night and I need to be on the plane tomorrow morning, what is he doing?

After what feels like the whole eternity of waiting, his head finally pops into the room, as if meaning to check if I’m really there. I watch him with interest and amusement as his hazel eyes run around the room, widening with every inch he inspects. His glance then falls onto me and I melt more into the couch, wanting to look as relaxed and careless as possible. It’s a psychology trick I read about two years ago: the less fucks I give, the smaller he’s going to feel, and therefore his mind will automatically accept me as the dominant one and he won’t try to stop me when I get onto the business.

As soon as he realises that it’s really me, waiting for him in the hotel room just as planned, his lips part, and I can almost hear the quiet “oh” falling off them. He immediately casts his eyes to the ground in embarrassment and confusion, not daring to look back up. He shudders and takes a shy step inside, his cheeks coloring pink as if aquarel has just been spilt over them. His hair falls over his face, framing it, and he brushes it back.

“Hello,” he greets quietly and hoarsely before meeting my eyes for a split second, and it sounds as if he’s being strangled by a pair of invisible ghost hands. I smile reassuringly at him, pitying him a little. He sure did seem braver back at the signing table, maybe I really should have gotten on that damned bus and gone straight to fucking Warsaw. Sure, we would probably stop several times on the way there so that I could puke in peace, but at least I wouldn’t have to sit through the night with some nerd who doesn’t even realise how lucky he is that I chose him. How often does Gerard Way himself wants to fuck you? That’s right, not that often. Only when he’s deadly drunk and sick.

“Hey. Frank, right?” I greet back, gritting my teeth as my brain pounds in my temples. I force a smile on anyway, bearing the pain without a sign. I’ve already swallowed several pills, but I still feel like shit and there's a gulp slowly expanding in my throat; I’m really not sure when it’s going to spill over the top. Maybe that’s another reason why I shouldn't have brought Frank in here- I’m actually sick, I need treatment.

Frank continues standing in the doorframe, just staring at me wordlessly, only replying with a small nod. Poor little thing.

Please don’t tell me I’m either going to have to get him drunk or do all the work myself, that’s not what he’s here for. He’s here to please me and leave the earliest time possible before the manager finds out about this.

“Come, sit down,” I weakly pat the couch next to me, motioning for him to come closer and he obliges, shuffling over to me in a slow hurry. He almost trips over his own feet and his face practically goes crimson. I notice his gaze shoot worriedly towards the champagne, strawberries and chocolate on the table; his widened eyes move back to me, and then he focuses on the treats once again, blinking dumbfoundedly. I struggle to hold in a chuckle. He seems oblivious to what’s going on, and I’m not sure if he’s just faking or not. Although now it’s starting to look like he’s getting the hint. I don’t think it’s possible to be this innocent at such age. By the way, how old is he?...

He pauses right before the couch, looking down at me. He probably feels like my personal space has at least a ten meter radius and that there’s no way he can cross this invisible line, so I need to come up with something that will make him feel more comfortable.

Just as I’m about to scooch away, meaning to free more space for him, he very silently seats down on the very edge of the couch so that he’s practically standing, folding his arms on his knees and interlocking his fingers. Good, the first step is taken, soon he’s going to be all over me, begging for me to enter him. And I won’t hesitate.

Just as expected, he looks down at his hands, starting to nervously fumble with them as his foot begins to tap a beat on the parquet. Suddenly the floor becomes the most interesting subject to him in the whole room so he decides to just stare at it, although I can still see his eyes flicker in the direction of my shoes once in a while.

“Frank doesn’t sound like a German name,” I say, deciding that if he’s going to be a pussy I’ll just have to start it off myself. I do, after all, have an upper hand in this situation. “And you don’t have an accent when you speak,”

Frank looks up at me, and his big hazel eyes are filled with a mix of painful misery, confusion, amusement and a dash of happiness which seems to just light up his whole face. His lip ring trembles as he clacks his teeth. He has no idea what to do and is scared. It’s hard to choose the right strategy for him- he’s so shy, should I try to get him feel more comfortable first or just straightforwardly tell him to suck me off?

“My family moved here when I was 12, and I just kind of settled in,”

“That’s cool. Do you speak German?”

“Yeah, but not that well,” he hesitates and I notice his Adam’s apple rise as he gulps. His looks back down at his tangled fingers, pausing for a second with his mouth open. “Like I could order something in a restaurant but I can’t get a proper job, so that’s that,”. He speaks hoarsely, hurrying and slurring his words together. He takes a deep breath and crouches over, and it almost looks as if he’s trying to hide.

I grin in response, revealing my teeth. I know my fans like my teeth, every time they describe me they just must mention my “small’ teeth. But that was off the topic. Frank answers all my questions as if they are formal, and I’m honestly starting to feel like I’m a teacher in some Catholic school, asking my student for reasons for not giving in his homework. It’s almost like he’s avoiding a punishment of some sort, and that is slowly beginning to turn me on. Maybe we could do some teacher-student roleplay, who knows. Lindsey, the bassist from Mindless Self Indulgence who I dated about two years ago, was into this kind of shit and I just automatically got sucked in. It was really hot, to be honest. I’d be drawing in my studio and she’d always come in, wearing a light transparent blouse with a tie, a checkered mini skirt and long stockings...I didn’t get to draw much those days.

I stand up, pushing off the couch with my hands, and immediately the room spills into pieces in front of me, sending me into a loop of incoordination and blurred vision, almost making me throw up on the spot. The room seems to go black for a moment, and my fingers dig into the leather cushion in an attempt to keep balance. I faintly feel myself tilt backwards and vigorously wave my free around me, hoping it will help me get back onto my feet. I shut my eyes, completely forgetting about Frank who is probably scared shitless.

“Fuck,” I mutter bitterly, taking the first step towards the table with the champagne on it. Why did I ever think this was a good idea?

“Do you need help?’ Frank sticks in and I turn around to look at him, squinting my eyes. He smiles faintly, but it seems sincere. I shake my head in reply: no, I’ll get it myself, you rest. I need to do this myself or it won’t be as romantic as I want it to be, assuming he’s into that sort of thing. Maybe he’s a kinky horny animal, even though it doesn’t really look like it at the moment.

“No no, it’s okay, thank you though,” I say and slowly make my way to the small table. I grip the metal tray and it burns my hot skin, almost making me drop it to the floor. Why does it feel so odd and cold? Am I in fever?

I carefully, trying not to break the bottle, set the tray between us on the leather mattress and sit back down. Frank stares at me in shock and disbelief, his eyes as wide as saucers as he glances down at the tray. He then painfully slowly rises to his feet, his gaze still piercing me, and takes a step back. Fuck, he’s leaving. No no no. He’s gonna tell the interviewers, he’s gonna ruin my life! He’ll post it on his fucking twitter! What if he’s underage? That would make me a fucking pedophile! I’ll go to a motherfucking jail! He can’t fucking leave!

I’m ready to leap off the couch and tackle him to the floor before he can make another step, but he opens his mouth to speak before I get the chance.

“I’ll fetch the glasses,’ he says, much to my surprise, and seemingly calmly walks over to the corner of the room. He stops in front of a tall cabinet which I haven’t even noticed before. He opens it and several shelves, packed with snacks, water bottles and clean glasses, come in view. It’s almost like he has been here before.

Frank proceeds to lean upwards towards the highest shelf, standing on his tip-toes and reaching his arm up for the needed glasses. His T-shirt lifts up, revealing a part of his lower back, and I notice a tattoo peeking out from behind the fabric. Before I can fully enjoy the view or even make out the image of the tattoo, Frank is back on his feet, his hands triumphantly holding up two glasses; it’s like he’s getting braver every second, I swear. The glasses are wine glasses though, but I don’t really mind- I’m not going to go easy on this champagne, that’s for sure; if anything, a beer mug would fit best.

I close my eyes for a second and feel the couch dip as Frank sits down. I accept a glass from him and he smiles sweetly, but the moment our eyes hold contact he immediately glances away. This is going to take time.

I carefully take the bottle, noticing that the receptionist has already removed the cork. Thank god for that. I slowly, taking my time, pour the alcohol into both of our glasses, making sure his has just a tiny bit more.

“So how was the show?” I ask, setting the bottle back on the tray and picking up my glass. Frank’s face immediately lights up, as if he’s just swallowed a sun.

“It was great- you were great, really,” he stumbles out and color spills over his cheeks again. “I didn’t think I’d ever get to meet you,”

I chuckle. “And now you’re sitting in my hotel room with me, drinking champagne,”

Frank doesn’t reply to that, or more like pretends he didn’t hear. “You’re my biggest inspiration, I started doing art because of you,” he blurts out, looking down at his champagne.

“Really? I’d like to see that one day, I bet it’s great,”

“Not really, but I’m trying my best,”

“The more you practice the better. You can achieve anything if you try hard enough,” with those words, I take a sip of the drink. It warmly runs down my throat as I swallow it down. “Plus, there is no such thing as “ugly” art. Art is always beautiful, it’s just that everyone has different ideals of beauty. Let’s look at abstract, for example. Did you know there’s a Russian guy who painted a black square and is now famous for it? Many people don’t approve, but others will fight for it to the point they’ll rip each other’s lungs out,” Frank watches me curiously and I continue. “It’s same for people, y’know. In the crowd of who you think are horrible, tasteless people, you will once find the one and only. In your eyes they can practically shoot rainbows out of their ass, that’s how fucking amazing they are. You’ll think they are the best creation of God, the flower of Earth, while others will spit into their face every chance they get,”

I hope my speech makes sense, because I can hardly hear myself through the buzzing in my ears. I have no idea how I just managed to change the subject of suckish art into a deep argument about human nature. Oh, the things alcohol does to people.

“Anyways, I’ve never met anyone like that,” I say after the silence which follows my words.

“Like what?”

“You know, the one and only. Someone who can shoot rainbows out of their ass. There was never a romance,” I explain. I spill the whole glass of champagne into my throat and scrouch my nose at the bitter taste. I reach for the bottle and fill up the glass once again. “The world of celebrities is like a Barbie house, Frank. As soon as the audience turns away and stops moving our limbs around, everyone will go dead. They don’t have any interests, souls, hearts, intestines- they are just fucking robots who do as they are ordered in order to please the crowd,”

“You aren’t like that,” Frank mumbles out.

“Haaa, no Frank, I’m the worst of them all. One thing real about me are my alcohol problems and an occasional sketch, otherwise I’m like, the queen of Barbies. If I grew my hair long and dyed it yellow, put in some breast and ass implants, no one would even question it,”

“Well, that’s just the way the world is, and in my eyes you are still better than most of the Earth’s population,”

Another glass of champagne washes down my throat just to be filled up again. I pop a piece of milk chocolate into my mouth and it melts on my tongue, leaving a sweet aftertaste.

“Thank you, I needed to hear that,” I sincerely tell Frank and, as a matter of fact, reach over and place my hand on his thigh, caressing it softly. The boy flinches but doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t even try to wiggle from under my touch.

“Y’know, I should be on the bus to Warsaw right now,” I tell him.

“And why aren’t you?”

“I don’t wanna go to Warsaw,”

“Why?”

“You don’t get it. I don’t wanna go anywhere at all. I’m so fucking done with being everyone’s toy, I feel like a monkey in a zoo,” I splash my arms and grimace, mimicing a high pitched famle voice. “Gerrraaard don’t do thisss, Gerrrraaard don’t doo thaaat… Every fucking movement is controlled, there is less freedom than there is in jail! At least you are fucking allowed to kiss people you like in jail!” I faintly realise that I’m raising my voice, almost shouting, but I don’t care. I’ve never told anyone any of this, but now my tongue seems to be out of my control. I, once again, gulp down a glass, coughing violently. “And you know what the funnest thing about being famous is? It’s dating assholes like yourself. Assholes assholes assholes, assholes everywhere. And when you dump them, you are always the one who’s blamed for everything! They pity those silicone bitches and cover you in trash! And then they tell everyone you’re a chronic hysterical drunk with numerous mental diseases, what the fuck? Who are you do diagnose me?” I feel tears run down my cheeks but I just can’t stop them from spilling over. My speech is tearing apart as I struggle for breath, suffocating. As if through a mist, I see Frank setting the tray on the floor in front of the couch, freeing the space between us. “They think I’m dangerous, Frank! I’m on the watch in a fucking police station!” I half sob and half wail and, without a second thought, leap in Frank’s direction, my head landing on his knees and my arms tying around his narrow waist. I clang onto his T-shirt from behind, crying into his jeans. To my surprise, he doesn’t push me off; instead, he pats my back, drawing circles, and his other hand tangles itself in my hair. “They are scared of me because I shout and get pissed a lot, but they never take a minute to find the cause!”

“It’s going to be okay, you just don’t feel very well now, that’s it. You need a good night sleep and everything will pass,”

“T-they s-say I’m unstable,”

“You aren’t unstable, you are just drunk. Do you want me to tell you a funny story?”

I continue crying, almost biting into his thigh from the internal pain and sorrow for myself.

“Okay, so once when I was walking back to my dorm it was raining very hard. Like, pouring. It was almost like a swim in a pool, everything was soaking wet. My backpack got torn the day before because my friend’s dog bit through it, so I was carrying like, three books in my hands. I hid them under my jacket. Now in my college you had a choice- either take the long park road to your dorm or make a shortcut, but for a shortcut you needed to climb over a high metal fence. I’m pretty short so I always just took the park road, but that time bravery hit me like a truck. I ran up to the fence as fast as I could. Only one of my hands was free since the other one was pressing the books to my chest through the jacket, but that didn’t stop me. So I, like a real ninja, swung over the railing. The second my feet touched the ground I slipped, hit my head on the same metal railing and guess what? All the books ended up in a puddle. I also had a huge bruise on my forehead for several weeks,”

Frank said something else but I didn’t hear him; I was sleeping then.

Notes

meh feedback would be nice