"You okay?" I ask.
"Yeah," she sighs contentedly in her lust-filled voice.
Fuck. I pick up the pace because it's building. I feel it in both of us. She's moaning now, tightening around me. Wringing every last wish, and every last craving, and every last ounce of passion out of me; I willingly and hungrily give it all to her.
My lips find hers one more time and she responds like the world's about to end. This kiss is the precursor to a euphoric detonation.
And then she completely shatters underneath me and it's the most beautiful thing I've seen in my life. I explode along with her. "I love you," I gasp.
She's panting beneath me and smiling, but suddenly she looks bashful as she bites her bottom lip. And she looks tired.
I kiss the tip of her nose and pull out of her. And then we just stare at each other for a long time. And even when the shyness fades, we don't say anything. I think we're both trying to process what just happened. And me? I'm trying to commit every second of it to memory because I know in my heart this will never happen again. I was just given a gift. And I will treasure it for the rest of my life.
My eyes flash open when I hear Franco cough in the bunk beneath me. It brings me back to the shitty present. I hate the shitty present. I want to rewind time. I want to go back. That's why I don't think about that night. It amplifies the fucking disaster that is my current life.
Sunday, February 5
(Gus)
Last night it seems I was impaired two or three lagers beyond the ability to function. I honestly don't remember any of it. I guess they cancelled the show due to my sudden "illness." It will be rescheduled and tacked onto the end of our tour. Everyone's pissed at me and I know I should care, but I don't. How fucking sad is that? Robbie yelled at me last night. He told me to, "Pull my selfish, fucking head out of my ass." In the five years I've known Robbie, I've never heard him yell. It should've had more of an impact on me, but it didn't.
The logical part of me knows I'm letting them all down.
Every other part of me doesn't care.
Tuesday, February 7
(Gus)
It's afternoon, and I've been sleeping off another long night. I wake up to the sound of Franco's voice coming from the front of the bus—and he's talking with a woman. This intrigues me because the bus is moving, which means we haven't reached our destination yet, which means there shouldn't be any females on this bus. The longer I listen, I learn that Hitler is gone due to a personal matter back home. Which sucks for him, but is fantastic for me because his constant fucking condescension was getting on my last frayed nerve. He's left us with a stand-in, a new tour manager. I can hear her listing off her credentials to Franco. Based on what I can make out, she's fairly new to the game, but she sounds legit. Like she knows her shit, or at the very least is a great bullshit artist. Either one works for me. And she sounds ambitious, saying something about how she's "committed to helping us succeed" and "keeping this crazy train on the tracks." I almost laugh to myself—good luck with that.
I roll out of my bunk and stagger toward the sound of their voices. The stand-in is sitting at the table behind the driver. Her skirt is so short it's almost non-existent. Thin, mile-long legs are crossed at the knee and presented like an exhibition out in the aisle. They're the first thing I see. The second thing I notice is her blouse. It's strategically unbuttoned to frame her impressive cleavage. The third thing I notice is ... nothing, because I'm still fixated on her legs and breasts. It's February and we're in Sweden (I think) and it's snowy and cold as hell outside—she's definitely not dressed for the weather.
Sex. I'm not gonna lie, it's all I'm thinking about at the moment. Sex with that body. Somewhere in the back of my mind I feel like an asshole for immediately going there.
Sex, for me, used to be about exploration of a woman's body, an appreciation of the act itself, a mastery of my craft, and, well, intimacy. Watching a woman come unhinged with pleasure and passion as a direct result of my touch, my body, is fascinating and hot as hell. I've never been in a relationship, but I've been with plenty of women. I lost my virginity when I was fourteen—to a seventeen-year-old, no less—and the train's been in motion since. I wouldn't say I'm good-looking, but I'm decent in the looks department and the ladies seem to like my body. I'm six-foot three, and I used to surf a lot, which kept me in good shape. I'm a big guy. Muscular. Chicks dig big guys.
But everything I knew about sex changed when it happened with someone I loved. Last August—Bright Side. We'd known each other our entire lives. She was my next-door neighbor—my best friend. I was so in love with her, but she never knew it. She was funny, smart, talented, and fucking gorgeous. The most perfect creature God ever created. And that one night was all about exploration, appreciation, and intimacy. She's the most responsive lover I've ever had, but it was so much more. It was emotional; the best fucking night of my life. Period.
How do you follow that up? The answer is: you don't. At least not with any kind of honest effort. Every woman I've been with since is just a fuck. Plain and simple fucking. I'm in it to get off and that's it—quick and dirty. Selfish? Absolutely. Does it make me feel like a dirtbag? Absolutely. For all that, it's still astonishing how many willing participants I get. It's sad how anxious and indiscreet they are—no shame ... no pride. But you know what? It's not my job to parent a twenty-five-year-old woman just because someone else has clearly failed in that department. So, yeah, I let them accommodate me. I turn my attention back to the stand-in, and let my eyes drift up to her face. It's commercially pretty: big, dark eyes; high, prominent cheekbones; and full lips—all aided by a heavy coat of makeup. I'm a fan of natural beauty myself, but these days I can overlook that kind of thing. She's probably in her mid-thirties given the smile lines that frame her mouth. She's staring at me with her heavily lined eyes. She's stopped talking to Franco now that I'm here, and her expression is like an open book—easy to read.
She excuses herself from the conversation and stands to meet me in the aisle, extending a hand. "You must be Gustov." She's talking to my bare chest.