Hypocrite

For the past twenty-one years, I slept alone. Sure, I’d shared my bed with other men, but I usually left or forced them out after we had our fun. I wasn't big on morning-after conversations - we hooked up to have sex, not to flirt around afterwards. You porked me, now leave.

This was why I was understandably worried when I woke up spooning with an unfamiliar person, completely naked. I knew it was a man because his dangly bits were pressing against my butt, and I didn't like it one bit. Making up my mind to sneak out of this situation before my partner woke up, I shifted a bit to try and slide out of his arms. Like a bear trap of unholy death and despair, they tightened around me.

“Awake, huh?” I froze, and almost cried when I realized exactly who it was that I had slept with last night. Gerard. Memories of the drugs I’d taken and the alcohol I’d consumed came rushing back to me, and I found myself feeling frustrated at only one person - me. I knew something like this would happen, and I went ahead and did that stuff anyway. Jesus, this is so cliche. Like I'm in some shitty story. Gerard noticed my tense form, and released his arms from around me.

“I think I should go,” I hurried to get out of bed - trying my best to retain some modesty - and searched for my clothes. Luckily, my bra was still on, so I yanked my shirt over my head and pulled on my jeans. With my panties stuffed in my pocket, I rounded towards the door. When I got home, I was going to destroy the painting of Gerard like I should have the second I saw it.

“Now wait a sec, Iris,” Gerard rolled out of bed and fortunately looked for some boxers. As much as I hated to admit it, I wouldn't be able to tear myself from looking at his genitals. Reflex, I guess. That didn't mean he didn't have a nice body to go with it, so I opted to stare the door down with the force of one thousand fiery suns. I channeled all my anger and frustration at the situation I'd backed myself into, and I directed it at the frayed carpet under my feet.

“Can we talk? Just for a second?”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” I interrupted his questioning, and reached for the doorknob, “We’re going to forget that last night happened.”

“Was sleeping with me really so bad?”

“I’m sorry, yes,” I was such a bitch, but I had to nip this in the bud before the both of us started to get in too deep, “Last night shouldn't have happened. I was drunk and high, and unfortunately my inhibitions stopped responding. Yours too, I guess. Whatever.”

“So last night was a mistake. I understand that, it’s not like it was my intention either, you know. But the least we could do is figure out where to go from here-”

“We’re not going anywhere, Gerard,” I turned to him and was relieved to see he had finished dressing and was currently coursing a hand through his hair, “You're going to stay here, and I'm going to go home. Without you. I really don’t want to hurt you, but you aren't taking a hint. I’m not interested, okay? I don’t want a relationship with you.”

“Why not? I thought we got along pretty well-”

“That’s not the problem,” I ran my hand through my hair to rid it of tangles, and only succeeded in getting my fingers caught. With a sound of annoyance, I yanked my hand free and jammed my hands into my back pockets, “I don’t like dealing with problems, alright? You've got problems. You told me yourself that you’re an alcoholic. You’re depressed and you have no self-esteem. Alright. I don’t want to pussyfoot around that, Gerard. I like you, you’re a great guy. But I don’t want your problems, too.”

“You’re a real fucking card, Iris,” his relaxed demeanor had tightened into one of anger, his shoulders bunching up, his right hand clenching and his right hand tightening around the waist of his loose pants. I knew that somehow I had touched a nerve. He would have to face the facts, and today would be the day, “You think you’re so fucking perfect. Get over yourself, Iris. You've got issue too, and it’s real clear now that you don’t want to deal with those, either. This is hilarious, you’re preaching to the choir and you don’t even know you’re the pastor!”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“I mean you’re a hypocrite. You use your art as an excuse to do drugs and drink and that whole pile of bullshit. You can’t make shitty excuses for that, Iris! You've got the exact same problems as me; your act isn't an act anymore. You burned yourself with your own fire,” he stormed past me to the doorway, and the slam that followed his exit was enough to knock a picture frame off the wall. I faintly heard it shatter across the ground, but I was too absorbed with what Gerard had said.

Preaching to the choir? Hypocrite? Gerard didn't know what he was talking about. He had no idea what he was saying. Gerard knew nothing about my life - nothing.