Mannequin
Name
What made him any different than the past people I’d slept with?
Nothing, really. Only this tiny thing that crawled in my brain and laid its eggs and died. And from those eggs, little thoughts came forth, taking over every single thought in my motherfucking brain.
And now, all I could think of was him. All I could see was him. All I could hear, smell, taste, feel was fucking him.
Yet it didn’t explain why a single night seemed to change so much. It didn’t explain why when I was fucking him I realized exactly what I was really doing.
I was making love to him. Because no other time had I felt, tasted, seen, heard, and smelled them. I hadn’t ever thought about them, when I was buried deep inside the very person. Instead, I’d count sheep, like I was just trying to get over it.
Like it was needed to be done. Go to work, check. Buy groceries, check. Do laundry, check. Fuck mannequin number 37583, check.
That was all they were, mannequins. I paid no mind to them; they had no soul, no life to worry about. Except for the one that had somehow managed to worm it’s way into my brain.
Nothing special about him at all.
Brown hair. Hazel eyes. Millions of people had the exact same assets. What the hell made him any different? It wasn’t the way his hair fell softly over his eye, or how those eyes sparkled and you could see everything in them. No, I had seen that in many other mannequins. But what was it that made him different?
The tattoos snaking up his arms, back, even neck? Not those either. What was it about this man that made him just a bit different, just enough for me to notice, just enough to fucking crawl and die inside of me.
It wasn’t his smooth voice, warmer than anything and so sultry. And it wasn’t his cynical humor, which was obvious even though I was the one helping him have his food tomorrow.
“Hey, ain’t you that hotshot rich boy? The ‘youngest billionaire ever’ or some shit like that? What’s his name…Gerald Way?”
I sneered, “My name is Gerard, and I am the one you’ve heard of.”
He arched an eyebrow, “Then what the fuck you doin’ here? Shouldn’t you be in some high-class whorehouse where all the prostitutes wear silk thongs and gold chains?”
“You’re giving me second thoughts now about not going there. But if I involved myself in there, it could be easily publicized. They keep records and shit. If I go to the streets, no one will ever have any proof.”
He grinned, “Well, if you want me to wear any of those silk thongs, you’re gonna have to buy ‘em yourself.”
I grunted, “You sure are cocky for someone who has to give out blowjobs just to be able to stay in what I would assume to be a ratty apartment.”
He was beaming now, prideful, “Well, it’s just the way I am. And anyways, customers usually get off of my arrogance; I suppose it makes me handsome or something.”
I hummed in what could either be perceived as agreement or disdain.
“So, anyways, do you plan on taking me home anytime soon, Richie Rich?
“I already told you, my name is Gerard. And because you seem to be the only one around, I will.”
Suddenly, everything came into perspective. There wasn’t a reason why I felt this way. I just did, and sometimes things worked that way.
But there was proof. It was in the way he was the only one who I ever remembered so clearly the morning after and still the week after.
His hair, his eyes, his voice, his face. I even remember the contouring shape of his tattoos, pictures spread beautifully around his body as if he were a canvas.
But most important of all, I remembered his name.
“Since you’re about to fuck me, I think it’s only fit you know my name.”
I growled in frustration, having carried an erection for the past fifteen minutes, “I don’t care, okay? The other ones never tell me, and I wouldn’t remember anyways!”
He smiled wanly, and leaned up close to whisper it like it were a secret no one else could ever know.
Maybe that was another reason, that after all of my time doing it with mannequins, I had never known their name. They weren’t real people because real people have names.
Frank Iero, you fucking ruined my life.
Nothing, really. Only this tiny thing that crawled in my brain and laid its eggs and died. And from those eggs, little thoughts came forth, taking over every single thought in my motherfucking brain.
And now, all I could think of was him. All I could see was him. All I could hear, smell, taste, feel was fucking him.
Yet it didn’t explain why a single night seemed to change so much. It didn’t explain why when I was fucking him I realized exactly what I was really doing.
I was making love to him. Because no other time had I felt, tasted, seen, heard, and smelled them. I hadn’t ever thought about them, when I was buried deep inside the very person. Instead, I’d count sheep, like I was just trying to get over it.
Like it was needed to be done. Go to work, check. Buy groceries, check. Do laundry, check. Fuck mannequin number 37583, check.
That was all they were, mannequins. I paid no mind to them; they had no soul, no life to worry about. Except for the one that had somehow managed to worm it’s way into my brain.
Nothing special about him at all.
Brown hair. Hazel eyes. Millions of people had the exact same assets. What the hell made him any different? It wasn’t the way his hair fell softly over his eye, or how those eyes sparkled and you could see everything in them. No, I had seen that in many other mannequins. But what was it that made him different?
The tattoos snaking up his arms, back, even neck? Not those either. What was it about this man that made him just a bit different, just enough for me to notice, just enough to fucking crawl and die inside of me.
It wasn’t his smooth voice, warmer than anything and so sultry. And it wasn’t his cynical humor, which was obvious even though I was the one helping him have his food tomorrow.
“Hey, ain’t you that hotshot rich boy? The ‘youngest billionaire ever’ or some shit like that? What’s his name…Gerald Way?”
I sneered, “My name is Gerard, and I am the one you’ve heard of.”
He arched an eyebrow, “Then what the fuck you doin’ here? Shouldn’t you be in some high-class whorehouse where all the prostitutes wear silk thongs and gold chains?”
“You’re giving me second thoughts now about not going there. But if I involved myself in there, it could be easily publicized. They keep records and shit. If I go to the streets, no one will ever have any proof.”
He grinned, “Well, if you want me to wear any of those silk thongs, you’re gonna have to buy ‘em yourself.”
I grunted, “You sure are cocky for someone who has to give out blowjobs just to be able to stay in what I would assume to be a ratty apartment.”
He was beaming now, prideful, “Well, it’s just the way I am. And anyways, customers usually get off of my arrogance; I suppose it makes me handsome or something.”
I hummed in what could either be perceived as agreement or disdain.
“So, anyways, do you plan on taking me home anytime soon, Richie Rich?
“I already told you, my name is Gerard. And because you seem to be the only one around, I will.”
Suddenly, everything came into perspective. There wasn’t a reason why I felt this way. I just did, and sometimes things worked that way.
But there was proof. It was in the way he was the only one who I ever remembered so clearly the morning after and still the week after.
His hair, his eyes, his voice, his face. I even remember the contouring shape of his tattoos, pictures spread beautifully around his body as if he were a canvas.
But most important of all, I remembered his name.
“Since you’re about to fuck me, I think it’s only fit you know my name.”
I growled in frustration, having carried an erection for the past fifteen minutes, “I don’t care, okay? The other ones never tell me, and I wouldn’t remember anyways!”
He smiled wanly, and leaned up close to whisper it like it were a secret no one else could ever know.
Maybe that was another reason, that after all of my time doing it with mannequins, I had never known their name. They weren’t real people because real people have names.
Frank Iero, you fucking ruined my life.
♠ ♠ ♠
This is...different. For me, at least. I like it. I kinda had to think a little with this one...and I sort of like working for things, and feeling accomplished and all.If you love it, like it, hate it, want to critique, or pretty much anything else would you please comment? It would make me happy. Though if you hate it, I don't think you'd want me to be happy...but comment any way!