When All of Your Wishes Are Granted, Many of Your Dreams Will Be Destroyed
These are my rules
I’m full of a restless, uneasy excitement as I lie on the sofa, half day dreaming about tonight, half contemplating Marilyn’s reaction. I wonder if he really is alright about the hooker or whether he’s silently simmering. He had been nonchalant but the slight, involuntary twitch of him jaw had made me wonder if there was something else. I don’t know why he feels the need to hide his feelings from me. It would make whatever we have together a lot easier to deal with if he didn’t.
The whiskey calls to me from the coffee table and I reach for it, everything is easier to deal with when you have whiskey. Screwing Marilyn is like walking on egg shells. The boundaries of the relationship constantly shifting; today he might let me touch him but tomorrow he might not and he’s angry if I’m out of tune with what he wants of me that day. A kiss is always a gamble; he’s as likely to shove me away as he is to kiss me back. Everything is always on his terms, taking me when he wants me and leaving me when he doesn’t. I know I’ve taken a serious risk with the hooker; it could be amazing or it could be a car crash. So many different scenarios for tonight play through my head that it makes me dizzy. I wonder how far Marilyn will be prepared to let things go between us when there are another set of eyes in the room. I hope he isn’t mean to the hooker. I know only too well that Marilyn has a tendency to take his frustrations out of the people who don’t deserve it. I drink more whiskey, neat, from the bottle.
I notice the soft noise of the shower only after it has been turned off. This signals that Marilyn is done and I roll off the sofa and make my way upstairs to get a shower myself.
When I enter our bedroom I find Marilyn sat cross legged on the floor in front of our huge, ornate mirror surrounded by hoards of make-up. His hair is still dripping water down his back and he is covered only by a small towel wrapped loosely around his waist. I have an overwhelming urge to feed him as my eyes are drawn to his ribs which are more noticeable than ever after a few days of not eating very much.
“Do you need to put all your make-up on?” I ask gently as I join him on the floor, watching his reflection turn its skin white and its eyes dark.
“I want it on”
“Are you putting your contacts in?”
“Is it any of your fucking business if I’m putting my contacts in?” His reflected eyes turn on me and watch as I shrug. He knows I like him to leave them out when we fuck. I feel sad as I watch him hide himself, as he does with increasing frequency, behind his Marilyn Manson mask. It would be a tragedy if he was never found.
“We need to figure out some of the details for tonight” Marilyn informs me in a lighter tone. This might sound reasonable enough but what he means is…this is how tonight is going to go. These are my rules and if you break them, you’re fucked. I listen intently.
“We wear condoms. God knows what she’s got if she’s been screwing Pogo” I nod silently, I love Pogo but he has a point. “She doesn’t see anything that she wouldn’t see at a gig” He continues, looking at me now to make sure that I understand rule number two. I roll my eyes at him, trailing my fingers down his exposed side. “And none of this shit” he snaps, looking exasperated and brushing my fingers away. Ok, so he is simmering and tonight is probably going to be a motorway pile up with multiple fatalities.
“What shit?” I ask indignantly
“All the cute shit Jeordie. No gazing into my eyes, no holding my hand, no stroking my side” he reels off. He’s basically telling me I’m not allowed to show that this is anything more than just sex to us. It irritates me how this man can so eloquently express himself on stage or in interviews to millions of people he doesn’t know but when it comes to us, to me, his best friend and lover, he fails so epically.
“Oh, that shit.” I thane an epiphany “the touching my hair, kissing my neck and calling me “baby” shit” he can’t hold my gaze now and he looks away, back to his make-up. I smile inwardly to see the subtle way his face flushes, visible even under the make-up, indicating the discomfort I’ve caused him. My irritation leaves me just as quickly as it came and I feel like I don’t need to say anymore. I take his face roughly in both my hands and without giving him time to react quickly lick from his jawline to his temple before jumping up and making for the bathroom. Sometimes I just really don’t know what the hell to do with him.
“I’m going to be the one calling the shots” he calls after me. I stop in the doorway to our bathroom and turn to meet his smoldering eyes, like the barrel of a gun.
“I know” I tell him, simply but seriously before disappearing into the bathroom. If I know nothing else for sure about our relationship, I know this.
The whiskey calls to me from the coffee table and I reach for it, everything is easier to deal with when you have whiskey. Screwing Marilyn is like walking on egg shells. The boundaries of the relationship constantly shifting; today he might let me touch him but tomorrow he might not and he’s angry if I’m out of tune with what he wants of me that day. A kiss is always a gamble; he’s as likely to shove me away as he is to kiss me back. Everything is always on his terms, taking me when he wants me and leaving me when he doesn’t. I know I’ve taken a serious risk with the hooker; it could be amazing or it could be a car crash. So many different scenarios for tonight play through my head that it makes me dizzy. I wonder how far Marilyn will be prepared to let things go between us when there are another set of eyes in the room. I hope he isn’t mean to the hooker. I know only too well that Marilyn has a tendency to take his frustrations out of the people who don’t deserve it. I drink more whiskey, neat, from the bottle.
I notice the soft noise of the shower only after it has been turned off. This signals that Marilyn is done and I roll off the sofa and make my way upstairs to get a shower myself.
When I enter our bedroom I find Marilyn sat cross legged on the floor in front of our huge, ornate mirror surrounded by hoards of make-up. His hair is still dripping water down his back and he is covered only by a small towel wrapped loosely around his waist. I have an overwhelming urge to feed him as my eyes are drawn to his ribs which are more noticeable than ever after a few days of not eating very much.
“Do you need to put all your make-up on?” I ask gently as I join him on the floor, watching his reflection turn its skin white and its eyes dark.
“I want it on”
“Are you putting your contacts in?”
“Is it any of your fucking business if I’m putting my contacts in?” His reflected eyes turn on me and watch as I shrug. He knows I like him to leave them out when we fuck. I feel sad as I watch him hide himself, as he does with increasing frequency, behind his Marilyn Manson mask. It would be a tragedy if he was never found.
“We need to figure out some of the details for tonight” Marilyn informs me in a lighter tone. This might sound reasonable enough but what he means is…this is how tonight is going to go. These are my rules and if you break them, you’re fucked. I listen intently.
“We wear condoms. God knows what she’s got if she’s been screwing Pogo” I nod silently, I love Pogo but he has a point. “She doesn’t see anything that she wouldn’t see at a gig” He continues, looking at me now to make sure that I understand rule number two. I roll my eyes at him, trailing my fingers down his exposed side. “And none of this shit” he snaps, looking exasperated and brushing my fingers away. Ok, so he is simmering and tonight is probably going to be a motorway pile up with multiple fatalities.
“What shit?” I ask indignantly
“All the cute shit Jeordie. No gazing into my eyes, no holding my hand, no stroking my side” he reels off. He’s basically telling me I’m not allowed to show that this is anything more than just sex to us. It irritates me how this man can so eloquently express himself on stage or in interviews to millions of people he doesn’t know but when it comes to us, to me, his best friend and lover, he fails so epically.
“Oh, that shit.” I thane an epiphany “the touching my hair, kissing my neck and calling me “baby” shit” he can’t hold my gaze now and he looks away, back to his make-up. I smile inwardly to see the subtle way his face flushes, visible even under the make-up, indicating the discomfort I’ve caused him. My irritation leaves me just as quickly as it came and I feel like I don’t need to say anymore. I take his face roughly in both my hands and without giving him time to react quickly lick from his jawline to his temple before jumping up and making for the bathroom. Sometimes I just really don’t know what the hell to do with him.
“I’m going to be the one calling the shots” he calls after me. I stop in the doorway to our bathroom and turn to meet his smoldering eyes, like the barrel of a gun.
“I know” I tell him, simply but seriously before disappearing into the bathroom. If I know nothing else for sure about our relationship, I know this.