What The Devil Doesn't Know
20
Later that night I'm fastening a belt onto my once skin-tight skinny jeans, and Mickey knocks on the bedroom door.
"Are you decent yet?" He yells.
"Yeah." I yell back. He walks in and looks me up and down, then does a mock horny-growl thing. I just laugh and lightly push him away.
"You really do look beautiful though." He says.
I smile, and he walks over to me. Dear god, I feel like my insides may explode at any moment. How did I get so lucky, to be in the presence of someone like him? I feel his arms wrap around me; his warm breath on my face. He has to look down, way down to make good eye contact since I'm almost a foot shorter. We don't mind.
"When do we have to leave?" I asked, whispering.
"We have time." He whispers back. I feel his chapped lips brush mine. He smells like cigarettes and salt. He gives me a kiss. Then another, and I kiss him back. I kiss him again. And again. Before I realize it, I'm on my back, on the bed. Mickey undoes the belt I just put on. I quietly whimper in protest, afraid he might go farther than I'm OK with. I know he wouldn't if he understood. Why can't I just tell him? Won't he be content with blow jobs? I can't think any more.
I'm on my back with my arms pinned behind me. I will accept whatever happens next. I trust Mickey. I love him. I am his.
His body hovers over mine, and I feel his heat. He is poised over me, on his hands and knees looking into my eyes. He wasn't wearing a shirt to begin with, and I feel his chest brush up against mine. Our lips touch one more time. Then, he lowers his hand to the warmer region between my thighs, under the waistband of my pants. Slowly, I feel one finger inside me.
"I want you back here later. And don't give me any bullshit. I know you aren't on your period."
He removes his hand, and stands up. I sit up, dizzy, and I watch him take a large crucifix necklace out of his back pocket and unscrew the top. This is where we keep our coke for transport. He pulls off the top, and out comes the long, thin piece of silver, carrying that beautiful white powder. I hold out my long, carefully manicured right pinkie, and he dispenses the coke. I snort out my coke nail, and he uses the crucifix top. We each take another hit before we finish getting ready. I redo my belt, and put a crotched rasta hat over my log, untamed hippie hair. I'm considering getting dreads.
Mickey pulls a wife beater over his head, then a dark, olive green t-shirt. It nicely complements his dark brown curls, and his thin frame. His black jeans are still falling off. He puts on aviator sunglasses even though it's almost 10:00. Just in case we should run into any cops, he explains. He wants his blood shot eyes to be hidden. I follow his lead and put on some over-sized glasses.
We are quite a pair, walking out of Jakob's house. We decided to borrow his mom's car. If we got too high to drive home, it wouldn't be a big deal since it didn't belong to a rental place or anything.
The ride to Jayden's house was quiet. Mickey drove, and Frances and Jakob sat behind us, casually blowing smoke into my hair. I rolled down my window to feel the warm summer breeze on my face.
***
Jayden was born with an infection that left him deaf in his left ear. His right ear was damaged too, from so much noise exposure in the clubs. After we got to his house, he seemed like an entirely different person. He had traded in the weird rain coat for a white t-shirt, and the purple faux-hawk was limp.
The house was incredible. He lived in a nice, expensive neighborhood, with uppity neighbors. It was very foreign to me.
We sat down in his recording room, and all had a talk and a few drinks to unwind.
"I really only do that club promotion stuff for the money. You'd be surprised how much money you make as a myspace celebrity. I hate it, but a guy's gotta eat. And I do like the house it bought me..."
We talked for almost two hours, and he explained his deafness to us some more.
"It's really not a disadvantage when it comes to making music. I can still hear enough to know what note I'm playing. And it's not about hearing, it's about feeling. Too many people today don't feel music. They just let it pass through their ears! I can feel my drums. I could never be a singer though."
We all laughed. The stupid fake lisp and high pitched voice were replaced by a low one, that couldn't always form words correctly.
The rest of the night was spent, feeling music.
And I almost forgot about what Mickey had said earlier.
"Are you decent yet?" He yells.
"Yeah." I yell back. He walks in and looks me up and down, then does a mock horny-growl thing. I just laugh and lightly push him away.
"You really do look beautiful though." He says.
I smile, and he walks over to me. Dear god, I feel like my insides may explode at any moment. How did I get so lucky, to be in the presence of someone like him? I feel his arms wrap around me; his warm breath on my face. He has to look down, way down to make good eye contact since I'm almost a foot shorter. We don't mind.
"When do we have to leave?" I asked, whispering.
"We have time." He whispers back. I feel his chapped lips brush mine. He smells like cigarettes and salt. He gives me a kiss. Then another, and I kiss him back. I kiss him again. And again. Before I realize it, I'm on my back, on the bed. Mickey undoes the belt I just put on. I quietly whimper in protest, afraid he might go farther than I'm OK with. I know he wouldn't if he understood. Why can't I just tell him? Won't he be content with blow jobs? I can't think any more.
I'm on my back with my arms pinned behind me. I will accept whatever happens next. I trust Mickey. I love him. I am his.
His body hovers over mine, and I feel his heat. He is poised over me, on his hands and knees looking into my eyes. He wasn't wearing a shirt to begin with, and I feel his chest brush up against mine. Our lips touch one more time. Then, he lowers his hand to the warmer region between my thighs, under the waistband of my pants. Slowly, I feel one finger inside me.
"I want you back here later. And don't give me any bullshit. I know you aren't on your period."
He removes his hand, and stands up. I sit up, dizzy, and I watch him take a large crucifix necklace out of his back pocket and unscrew the top. This is where we keep our coke for transport. He pulls off the top, and out comes the long, thin piece of silver, carrying that beautiful white powder. I hold out my long, carefully manicured right pinkie, and he dispenses the coke. I snort out my coke nail, and he uses the crucifix top. We each take another hit before we finish getting ready. I redo my belt, and put a crotched rasta hat over my log, untamed hippie hair. I'm considering getting dreads.
Mickey pulls a wife beater over his head, then a dark, olive green t-shirt. It nicely complements his dark brown curls, and his thin frame. His black jeans are still falling off. He puts on aviator sunglasses even though it's almost 10:00. Just in case we should run into any cops, he explains. He wants his blood shot eyes to be hidden. I follow his lead and put on some over-sized glasses.
We are quite a pair, walking out of Jakob's house. We decided to borrow his mom's car. If we got too high to drive home, it wouldn't be a big deal since it didn't belong to a rental place or anything.
The ride to Jayden's house was quiet. Mickey drove, and Frances and Jakob sat behind us, casually blowing smoke into my hair. I rolled down my window to feel the warm summer breeze on my face.
***
Jayden was born with an infection that left him deaf in his left ear. His right ear was damaged too, from so much noise exposure in the clubs. After we got to his house, he seemed like an entirely different person. He had traded in the weird rain coat for a white t-shirt, and the purple faux-hawk was limp.
The house was incredible. He lived in a nice, expensive neighborhood, with uppity neighbors. It was very foreign to me.
We sat down in his recording room, and all had a talk and a few drinks to unwind.
"I really only do that club promotion stuff for the money. You'd be surprised how much money you make as a myspace celebrity. I hate it, but a guy's gotta eat. And I do like the house it bought me..."
We talked for almost two hours, and he explained his deafness to us some more.
"It's really not a disadvantage when it comes to making music. I can still hear enough to know what note I'm playing. And it's not about hearing, it's about feeling. Too many people today don't feel music. They just let it pass through their ears! I can feel my drums. I could never be a singer though."
We all laughed. The stupid fake lisp and high pitched voice were replaced by a low one, that couldn't always form words correctly.
The rest of the night was spent, feeling music.
And I almost forgot about what Mickey had said earlier.