Dreaming Red
Black and White
It started when we still lived in a black and white world of childhood. I couldn't tell the difference between love and lust, I couldn't even bring myself to try to understand it. But what we were, we were, and during one hot, sticky night of teenage boredom, Billie and I were red lust.
Perhaps I should explain myself more clearly – Billie Joe Armstrong was a small kid with green eyes and an extraordinary talent with words and melody. I was his best friend – wiry and awkward, but I had come to know him like no other. Most would say that Billie and I were like brothers. At first, we'd agree, and clap each other on the back. But after that night, and the continual nights that followed, we would simply smile when we heard it, more out of politeness than anything, and exchange glances.
The truth is, that first night with Billie was one of the best things ever to happen in my teenage existence. We were so young then, barely fifteen or sixteen. I was staying at Billie's for the night, what with suburban family drama and at the insistence of Billie's mother Ollie. I still remember how I lounged on his bed, strumming his guitar. It was late, and the Armstrong household was uncharacteristically quiet. Billie came into the room in nothing but a pair of shorts, his dark hair still wet from the shower. He dimmed the lights, and lay down on the bed next to me. I heard him mumble something about being tired and how I should hurry the fuck up and sleep. So I move the guitar, and sink down with him. We were close, nearly touching on the cramped twin best, and almost uncomfortable.
“Are you sure you don't want me to sleep on the couch? I don't mind,” I said. He called me a prude, and flipped over so his back was facing me. Even in the darkness of the room, I could make out the nuances in his shoulders, the curves of his back under the duvet. Maybe it was just the electric bolt of intimacy of the moment, or just the way he looked with the slat of light from the blinds hitting his angel face just so. But something in that moment paralyzed me, and I realized that the neither of us were going to be falling asleep anytime soon.
About an hour later, Billie Joe turned around and whispered my name.
“Mike? Mike?”
I pretended that I was at least a little bit tired. “Hm? What's up, Billie?”
“Can't sleep,” he mutters.
I pause a moment or two. “Me neither.”
We are silent for a moment, and I swear I could almost touch the stillness of the air. Then, he looks at me with those eyes of his, and we both know what we meant from those short, snippets of exchange. I lifted my arm onto his bare shoulders, and slowly, he moved his head closer to my wife-beater clad chest.
Soon we were in an embrace, his hands gripping my waist, my back; my fingers running through his hair, our legs touching and locked together. He raises his head to reach mine, and our lips touch. And it's certainly not my first kiss, but it was my first with him and it was the first kiss that gave me those tingles down my spine, and that shiver down my neck and it was the first fucking kiss that gave me a feeling of euphoria right down to my toes.
We don't fuck that night. But we do the next week. And the next. And the next. It was our little secret, hidden in the late hours in Billie's bedroom. No signs of this romance in daylight, except the one or two times we sneaked off school and drove out of town, or in a few lingering moments during a hug or a hovering imitation of a kiss, his mouth breathing onto my skin. None of us knew exactly what this relationship was, but we didn't talk about it. We didn't talk about love, either, or girls, or guys. We weren't dating each other, but we weren't dating anyone else either. At least, until Billie met Adrienne.
That was when I knew I had to let Billie go.
Adrienne was charming, I had to admit. The first time I met her was at a club we played while we were on tour - she was in a red minidress, her huge pile of dreads done up in a crazy heap of an up-do. She was slightly drunk, and clutching onto the arm of an equally tipsy Billie Joe. He introduced her to me as “my Adrienne”, giggling and slurring with a hickey on the side of the neck. I slammed down my drink and left.
Despite this, I began to see more and more of Adrienne. And without a word exchanged between me and Billie, I stopped staying over at his place. Adrienne Nesser, the human sexuality girl from “2,000 light years away” Minnesota, had taken my place. And silently, I began to bury the lust I had for Billie, although we all know that love can remain for a lifetime.
Perhaps I should explain myself more clearly – Billie Joe Armstrong was a small kid with green eyes and an extraordinary talent with words and melody. I was his best friend – wiry and awkward, but I had come to know him like no other. Most would say that Billie and I were like brothers. At first, we'd agree, and clap each other on the back. But after that night, and the continual nights that followed, we would simply smile when we heard it, more out of politeness than anything, and exchange glances.
The truth is, that first night with Billie was one of the best things ever to happen in my teenage existence. We were so young then, barely fifteen or sixteen. I was staying at Billie's for the night, what with suburban family drama and at the insistence of Billie's mother Ollie. I still remember how I lounged on his bed, strumming his guitar. It was late, and the Armstrong household was uncharacteristically quiet. Billie came into the room in nothing but a pair of shorts, his dark hair still wet from the shower. He dimmed the lights, and lay down on the bed next to me. I heard him mumble something about being tired and how I should hurry the fuck up and sleep. So I move the guitar, and sink down with him. We were close, nearly touching on the cramped twin best, and almost uncomfortable.
“Are you sure you don't want me to sleep on the couch? I don't mind,” I said. He called me a prude, and flipped over so his back was facing me. Even in the darkness of the room, I could make out the nuances in his shoulders, the curves of his back under the duvet. Maybe it was just the electric bolt of intimacy of the moment, or just the way he looked with the slat of light from the blinds hitting his angel face just so. But something in that moment paralyzed me, and I realized that the neither of us were going to be falling asleep anytime soon.
About an hour later, Billie Joe turned around and whispered my name.
“Mike? Mike?”
I pretended that I was at least a little bit tired. “Hm? What's up, Billie?”
“Can't sleep,” he mutters.
I pause a moment or two. “Me neither.”
We are silent for a moment, and I swear I could almost touch the stillness of the air. Then, he looks at me with those eyes of his, and we both know what we meant from those short, snippets of exchange. I lifted my arm onto his bare shoulders, and slowly, he moved his head closer to my wife-beater clad chest.
Soon we were in an embrace, his hands gripping my waist, my back; my fingers running through his hair, our legs touching and locked together. He raises his head to reach mine, and our lips touch. And it's certainly not my first kiss, but it was my first with him and it was the first kiss that gave me those tingles down my spine, and that shiver down my neck and it was the first fucking kiss that gave me a feeling of euphoria right down to my toes.
We don't fuck that night. But we do the next week. And the next. And the next. It was our little secret, hidden in the late hours in Billie's bedroom. No signs of this romance in daylight, except the one or two times we sneaked off school and drove out of town, or in a few lingering moments during a hug or a hovering imitation of a kiss, his mouth breathing onto my skin. None of us knew exactly what this relationship was, but we didn't talk about it. We didn't talk about love, either, or girls, or guys. We weren't dating each other, but we weren't dating anyone else either. At least, until Billie met Adrienne.
That was when I knew I had to let Billie go.
Adrienne was charming, I had to admit. The first time I met her was at a club we played while we were on tour - she was in a red minidress, her huge pile of dreads done up in a crazy heap of an up-do. She was slightly drunk, and clutching onto the arm of an equally tipsy Billie Joe. He introduced her to me as “my Adrienne”, giggling and slurring with a hickey on the side of the neck. I slammed down my drink and left.
Despite this, I began to see more and more of Adrienne. And without a word exchanged between me and Billie, I stopped staying over at his place. Adrienne Nesser, the human sexuality girl from “2,000 light years away” Minnesota, had taken my place. And silently, I began to bury the lust I had for Billie, although we all know that love can remain for a lifetime.