This is the story of my life
(1 - Domestic fucking bliss)
I’m sitting on the floor in the room he calls mine, working on my laptop. I have a desk but it’s covered with books, pictures of my kids, old letters, stuff, dust. I’m not the best housewife in town and I’m too lazy to clear things away. It’s a sunny late afternoon in September and sunlight’s pouring down on me from the wide window.
I listen to the elevator. One, two, three, four floors.
I know it’s him before he opens the door. Call it a 6th sense or whatever you want.
“Hey, Chiquita, I’m home,” he shouts, slamming the door shut. I hear the suitcase fall to the floor; I know he’s throwing his coat away; footsteps and my bedroom door flies open.
“In the good-manners department, weren’t you ever told about knocking on doors before walking in?” I say, not even raising my eyes, pretending to be fascinated by the screen and I hear him sigh.
“Bad mood, baby?”
“Call me Chiquita once more and you’ll see what kind of mood. I’ll whack you. Now fuck off, Keller.”
I hear him sigh.
“Come on, Beech, don’t be so touchy; I’m back.”
“Yeah; maybe that’s why.”
“I see. OK; see you later.”
And he shuts the door closed; I get up and lock it, making sure it’s loud enough, making sure he hears it. Then I close the laptop and crash on the bed, pressing my fists again my eyes until it hurts. FUCK. I hate that.
Much later; I must’ve dozed off; night’s bathing the room and the apartment is quiet as death.
Shit, he’s gone.
I pad along through the rooms; the suitcase is exactly where he left it, his coat over a chair but he’s nowhere to be seen. Not in the bathroom, not in the kitchen, not in his bedroom. The TV’s silent.
Now who’s touchy?
The door’s locked from inside so there’s only one place where he can be and I step out, make out the silhouette crouched on the emergency stair and the dazzling tip of a cigarette.
Uh, uh. Things didn’t go right, then. Whatever those things are.
He’s still wearing his tuxedo and a white shirt but his hair’s all ruffled and the suit doesn’t look so fresh; the kind of details that speaks volume when it comes to Keller.
“Hey; someone stole your wallet?” I ask, trying to keep it light.
“Very funny. Go to hell, Beecher; I’m not in the mood,” he says and after a drag or two he still says, “Why do you stay anyway?”
“Because I’ve got no better place to go.”
“Not the answer I was expecting.”
“Then why do you ask?”
He runs his thumb against his lips. Wary. Weary.
“You were supposed to be back three days ago. What went wrong?”
“You don’t wanna know, Beecher.”
Fuck; my heart’s clenching all of a sudden.
“I hope it’s nothing that could make me the only occupant of this place.”
“You’d love that.”
“Yeah. Maybe. How bad?”
“Not that bad. Just… Not quite as easy as I thought it’d be; I guess I’m not getting any younger; I lost my magic.”
I only see his profile, precisely drawn over the shadows; all hardness and hunger and danger.
“Stop that, Keller; it’s too dangerous; you’ll end in prison. Like before.”
“It’s my fucking life Beecher and I do what I want with it; you have no say in the matter.”
OK, now we’ve both put on our little performance I think the time’s right for a change; I rest my hand against his thigh, fingers crawling toward his crotch; he bats me away, hard.
“Don’t. Please don’t. When you do that I feel filthy.”
I withdraw my hand.
“Let’s face it,” he says, “you’ll never get over it.”
I steal a cigarette from his pack and light it with his own, drag a long soothing puff.
“Don’t you have anything stronger?”
“There’s some in my case; I didn’t try it though so you’d better be careful.”
But getting up and looking for dope is just too much of an effort right now so I don’t move.
“I get over it most of the time,” I say.
“Yeah? Must be when I’m away, then.”
But he probably hoped for something like that, an encouragement, because he takes a deep shuddering breath and throws his cigarette over the railing, turns to me and kisses me, an arm around my shoulder, a hand holding my chin. It’s a fierce Keller kiss that goes deep, forces me to kiss back, presses us together, his hard body against mine.
“You lost weight. You didn’t eat,” he says after breaking the kiss, allowing us to breath, “What the hell do you do when I’m away?”
“Sleep. Work. I ate with my father on Monday, with my kids on Friday and Saturday; ordered some Chinese yesterday.”
“Yeah; what about the other days?”
“Drop it, Keller; I don’t need another mother, mine’s enough.”
He pushes me at arms length; my hair’s too long and I didn’t shave; he runs a hand along my jaw.
“You always do that; use it to make me feel bad; you’ve done it from the beginning. Bitch.”
“And now *who* can’t get over it?”
I’m kissed again, and again, and I kiss back, clutching the shoulders that support my whole world since I crashed here a year ago.
“Not here,” he says stopping me from stripping him out of his clothes, “let’s go to bed.”
“Listen, Keller; I’ve been waiting for you like the good boy I am; now you’re not gonna get fussy about where we fuck, right?”
I hope there are no neighbours out on the stairs below; not that I really care, actually it’s just a rambling thought while I get stripped off my jeans, pushed on my back; Keller looking me deep in the eyes in case I’d change my mind –guy gets wary now; he knows what kind of unpredictable motherfucker I am and I just nod, close my eyes.
There’s no preparation, no charitable fingers loosening the way; not a lot of lube but I find a lotion soaked tissue in his pocket, something he got on the plane; no condom, never with him; I trust him that way at least and I arch back with a desperate moan when he enters me; fluid motion that pushes him in deep, too deep; God only knows how he does that and he thrusts, bats my hand away from my cock…
“No. I’ll do this too,” he says against my ear and I clutch the woollen cloth of his suit, but he suddenly heaves himself up, lifting me with him, my legs locked around his waist, stumbles to the wall and shoves me against the bricks, spreading his legs to steady himself.
“Oh shit I love that; please do me now, do me hard.”
Wicked Keller grin; wicked Keller’s mouth on mine, my jaw, my neck, and Keller’s cock –Fuck I’m madly in love with Keller’s cock- pushing further, thrusting like a madman, my own cock rubbing against the fabric of his shirt.
I come much too soon and it annoys the hell out of me so I hit him square in the face and he growls; we fall on the floor, my knees hitting the metallic ground. Now the time for caring is over; he’s fucking me like crazy, his breath laboured and short and it’s so good I think I’m going to come again when he does.
Later we go to his room and I fuck him there, nearly make him bleed but he doesn’t complain; just because he’s Chris Keller and he can take it, and because he doesn’t want to spoil the mood, keep the little I give him.
I can taste blood in my own mouth; while I was fucking him I bit my cheeks and my lips so hard I broke the skin.
After that we’re lying side by side on his bed, silent. He slides an arm around my shoulder and pulls me against him; kisses my lips with such softness that I have to brace myself not to purr.
“I love you, Toby. I always did. You failed to see it.”
Not very enthusiastic but it’ll take more than that to discourage him.
“What I did… I did it out of love.”
“Great; that’s a fucking comfort.”
He turns on his side to watch me.
“You don’t believe me.”
“I don’t know. I guess I do. But I have trouble picturing it, you know…ruining someone’s life just out of love. I think it takes a lot of jealousy, anger, madness and rage to do it.”
“Yeah. Maybe that too. But love. I never stopped loving you.”
Cold comfort but comfort nonetheless.
“You left with my money,” he says, “you ran away with 5000 dollars of dope in a suitcase.”
“I didn’t know what was inside. And that was 20 years ago, Keller. You ruined my life just 25 months ago.”
“Do you love me?” he asks in the shy voice he sometimes has when it’s about me and I don’t feel like cheating or lying or starting another fight, this time. I look at him. Look at these eyes dark with things I can’t name or figure out, these lips, this body sprawled on the bed just for me to enjoy; this softened dick nested in a black bush and I want to lick it. Suck it. Devour it.
But I can’t say it; I just can’t; I feel tears dwelling in my eyes and my chin begins to tremble.
“It’s OK, it’s OK, I know; I shouldn’t ask; I know, I’m sorry,” he says, wrapping me in his arms and cradling me like a child until we both sink into a dreamless sleep. In the middle of the night I wake up and he’s sound asleep, his eyes closed. Vulnerable. I could kill him now; isn’t it what I wanted so badly in the beginning? Kill him, see blood run down his skin, life fade from his eyes?
But as I picture the scene there’s something scary; the thought of losing him.
So I kiss the sleeping face and I say “I love you.”
Hoping that he doesn’t hear; hoping it’s not why his arms suddenly tighten around me, his lips curving into a smile.
I don’t want him to know. I don’t want him to hear me say it. I want to go on pretending I *never* said it.
And if you think I’m being too hard on the bitch, well… This is the story of my life…
back home / To part 2