Frontwards

Sunday, November 6th, 2005/

For the second morning running, I awoke slightly confused, very nude, and next to an extremely attractive man. The first second and a half of consciousness was quite unsettling as the events of the past couple of days caught up to me and my face broke into a big stupid smile.

Sunday morning. Expensive hotel room. Silk sheets. Naked sexy rockstar. The first few rays of winter morning sunshine peeking through the edges of the velvet curtains. What kind of woman wouldn’t wake up with a smile on her face? A stupid one, that’s what. Or maybe a lesbian. I should probably ring Kate...

I cast a glance over at Frank’s sleeping form and just watched him for a little while and I forgot about Kate. He was facing me, in a foetal position with one hand underneath his pillow and the other pressed between his legs. It was delightfully endearing to watch. Sadly, though, he soon began to stir and I pretended like I was only just waking up too so that he wouldn’t know I’d been stalking him in his sleep.

“Morning,” I said, adding a small yawn and a stretch for effect.

“Morning,” he grinned, reaching his arms out and shuffling into me so that his head was against my bare chest. He blinked a couple of times and let out a little yawn, before leaning back a little and addressing my naked breasts. “And a good morning to you, boys,” he said, before kissing each one in turn.

“Pervert,” I said, but I was smiling because so help me god I just couldn’t stop myself. He was so adorable in the mornings, as I believe I mentioned yesterday.

“You love it,” he smirked, nestling his head back onto my left breast. I didn’t argue, so he continued. “I’ve decided to call them Ben and Jerry.” He pointed to my right and then my left, and before I could question he elaborated. “Because they are wonderful and delicious.” I laughed and told him he was a dork, but secretly I had already named them myself, one drunken night on the couch. I had decided on Bill and Ted, because of all their excellent adventures. Ha. Wishful thinking. Most of the time the poor guys are tucked away in the confines of a blouse or shirt. They are always desperate to escape though, or maybe I’m just easy. Whatever.

We stayed in bed for a long time, just talking and fooling around and whatnot. At around midday we were still naked between the sheets and were rudely disrupted from a rather intense make-out session by a loud banging on the door.

“I swear to God, Iero, if you don’t open this fucking door in twenty seconds I am knocking it down.”

Frank rolled his eyes but hopped out of bed anyway. I couldn’t help but perv over his arse as he scurried around for his clothes. It is a very nice arse.

“Let me just put some fucking pants on,” Frank called back to whomever was behind the door, glancing quickly at me. Hopefully I looked away in time and appeared nonchalant enough for it not to be so obvious that I was checking him out.

Finally grabbing a dressing gown and tying it around him, Frank yanked the door open and a very red-faced bald man walked straight past him and into the room, coming to an abrupt halt at the foot of the bed where I met his gaze with a look that I could only describe as incredulous. Nobody moved or said anything for several seconds. Four, to be exact. Yes I was counting.

Finally, Frank cleared his throat, pushed the door closed and came over to us, standing somewhere between me and the other guy, whose facial expression was becoming gradually less aggressive. “Erm, Tony, this is Daisy,” he said lamely. “Daisy, this is Tony, our manager.”

Ahhhh, now it made sense. Kind of.

“Hi,” I squeaked, afraid of moving at all in case the sheets around me moved and exposed me to the world. Well, mainly Tony.

The poor guy clearly had no idea where to look or what to do. Eventually he settled for a modest wave and averted his eyes to the carpet. “Band practice in thirty minutes, Iero,” he mumbled, and then left the room.

As soon as we heard the door slam, Frank and I looked at each other like teenagers who had just been caught by their parents, and we cracked up into hysterical giggles. When we had both calmed down, Frank pulled me out of bed and started kissing me again and before I knew it we were in the bathroom and I didn’t even have time to appreciate the grandiose of the marble bathtub before I was standing inside it under a rush of hot water next to a very naked and very slippery Frank Iero.

I am a lucky girl.



With every fibre of my being I wish to stride into the office, find my boss Helen and kiss her right on the mouth, for she has allowed me the next five days to “work from home” which we all know means nothing more than waking up at midday and having the laptop logged on as you stroll around in your pyjamas. Or, in my case, having the laptop logged on as you have lots of sex.

I never really considered sex to be a particularly important aspect of my life. Sure, I am partial to it, as we all are, but I can generally go a couple of months at a time without really missing it or thinking about it. When I’m around Frank I just can’t keep my hands off of him.
The thing about sex is that I never associated it with love before. And you’ll have to excuse me now because I am going to use a mathematical metaphor. Imagine sex and love as parallel vectors along a horizontal plane. Running alongside each other, but never ever crossing. They never meet at any point. They are completely separate entities. Got that? Okay. And now imagine Frank Iero naked. Yes, you see, that’s what I thought: Love. For the first time, I feel like I am making love instead of just fucking. And it’s much nicer than I ever thought it would be. Doesn’t hurt that I am making love with the sexiest man on the planet, either.

While Frank was at band practice I took the opportunity to pick up some stuff from home. The plan was for me to spend the week staying with Frank in his hotel room and occasionally making a spreadsheet or something.

As I watched the countryside zip past it was difficult not to think about what might happen when Frank has to go back to America. Chances are I’ll never see him again, I guess. Maybe that’s for the best. Reputable sources, such as Kate and Cosmopolitan, tell me that flings are often better than fully-fledged relationships because you don’t grow to hate the person. You don’t have enough time to find their flaws so you only get the “honeymoon period” and then you have the memories for the rest of your life. I am not convinced, because mostly I’m aware that saying goodbye might kill me. But I suppose we will just jump off that bridge when we come to it, or whatever the saying is.

By the time I got home, after two trains and a bus and a mile walk, it was getting dark again and I couldn’t help but resent the fact that I had wasted a day travelling that could have been put to better use with Frank. By the time I got all my stuff and arrived back in London it would probably be past dinner. Oh well, I’ll just have go straight to bed. Shame.

“Honey, I’m home,” I called as I kicked the front door open.

“Kitchen,” came a holler from down the hallway. I heard a loud thump from the ceiling and could only assume that it was Atticus jumping off the bed upstairs. He’s getting a little chunky these days.

Sighing as I anticipated the flood of questions I was about to be ambushed with, I pushed the door to a close and dragged my feet all the way into the kitchen. “Evening,” I greeted my cousin with the best smile I could muster. The kind of smile which read ‘please go easy on me’ even though we both knew it was not going to happen.

She looked at me long and hard as I took the seat at the table opposite her. Staring right into my eyes. Suddenly I felt like this was an intervention. Interrogation seemed more likely, and boy oh boy oh boy was I on the money there.

Kate did not as relevant or interesting questions, but rather questions about the band and what they were each like and she tsked me when I said I hadn’t really had much interaction with them. Very often she rolled her eyes like she did so frequently when I displayed my ignorance for popular culture. Then finally we got around to the good stuff.

“I’m spending the rest of the week with him,” I interjected as she was ranting on about the band’s first versus second album. Normally I am not in the habit of interrupting as I am somewhat of a stickler for good manners, but I was very aware that time was racing forwards and I did not want to miss the last train back to London.

It certainly shut her up, I’ll tell you that. For several sweet seconds I rendered her speechless, but silence is not my cousin’s style, and so she soon piped up again. “Oh my god, Diz,” she breathed, sounding almost in awe. “That’s amazing. Can I come with you?”

“Absolutely not,” I answered immediately. “You will embarrass yourself and most importantly me. You will stay here and look after Atticus and anyway you can’t very well work from home.” Kate is a chef. A good one, too. And still sickeningly skinny. She must get it from her dad, because it sure as hell isn’t a gene we seem to share.

She grumbled something inaudible and rose to her feet, taking her empty mug over to the sink to rinse. “You really like him then, huh?” she said, voice raised slightly over the sound of rushing water as she swilled the dregs of tea from the bottom of her cup.

“I really do,” I sighed, picking a little at my fingernails.

She nodded and turned back to me, water still running behind her. “Then what are you wasting time talking to me for?”

Fair point, well made. I gave her a big grin and a quick hug before running upstairs and throwing some clothes and a toothbrush into a bag. I gave Atticus a quick scratch under the chin and he replied with a short grumble. And then before I even knew it I was back on the train. Too much of my life is spent on trains right now, it would seem. The whole ride there I tapped my foot against the heating unit on the floor and chewed on my lower lip and kept letting out frustrated sighs because I just wanted to be back in his arms again and oh dear goodness I am falling in love.