Tuesday, February 7
(Gus)
It's afternoon, and I've been sleeping off another long night. I wake up to the sound of Franco's voice coming from the front of the bus—and he's talking with a woman. This intrigues me because the bus is moving, which means we haven't reached our destination yet, which means there shouldn't be any females on this bus. The longer I listen, I learn that Hitler is gone due to a personal matter back home. Which sucks for him, but is fantastic for me because his constant fucking condescension was getting on my last frayed nerve. He's left us with a stand-in, a new tour manager. I can hear her listing off her credentials to Franco. Based on what I can make out, she's fairly new to the game, but she sounds legit. Like she knows her shit, or at the very least is a great bullshit artist. Either one works for me. And she sounds ambitious, saying something about how she's "committed to helping us succeed" and "keeping this crazy train on the tracks." I almost laugh to myself—good luck with that.
I roll out of my bunk and stagger toward the sound of their voices. The stand-in is sitting at the table behind the driver. Her skirt is so short it's almost non-existent. Thin, mile-long legs are crossed at the knee and presented like an exhibition out in the aisle. They're the first thing I see. The second thing I notice is her blouse. It's strategically unbuttoned to frame her impressive cleavage. The third thing I notice is ... nothing, because I'm still fixated on her legs and breasts. It's February and we're in Sweden (I think) and it's snowy and cold as hell outside—she's definitely not dressed for the weather.
Sex. I'm not gonna lie, it's all I'm thinking about at the moment. Sex with that body. Somewhere in the back of my mind I feel like an asshole for immediately going there.
Sex, for me, used to be about exploration of a woman's body, an appreciation of the act itself, a mastery of my craft, and, well, intimacy. Watching a woman come unhinged with pleasure and passion as a direct result of my touch, my body, is fascinating and hot as hell. I've never been in a relationship, but I've been with plenty of women. I lost my virginity when I was fourteen—to a seventeen-year-old, no less—and the train's been in motion since. I wouldn't say I'm good-looking, but I'm decent in the looks department and the ladies seem to like my body. I'm six-foot three, and I used to surf a lot, which kept me in good shape. I'm a big guy. Muscular. Chicks dig big guys.
But everything I knew about sex changed when it happened with someone I loved. Last August—Bright Side. We'd known each other our entire lives. She was my next-door neighbor—my best friend. I was so in love with her, but she never knew it. She was funny, smart, talented, and fucking gorgeous. The most perfect creature God ever created. And that one night was all about exploration, appreciation, and intimacy. She's the most responsive lover I've ever had, but it was so much more. It was emotional; the best fucking night of my life. Period.
How do you follow that up? The answer is: you don't. At least not with any kind of honest effort. Every woman I've been with since is just a fuck. Plain and simple fucking. I'm in it to get off and that's it—quick and dirty. Selfish? Absolutely. Does it make me feel like a dirtbag? Absolutely. For all that, it's still astonishing how many willing participants I get. It's sad how anxious and indiscreet they are—no shame ... no pride. But you know what? It's not my job to parent a twenty-five-year-old woman just because someone else has clearly failed in that department. So, yeah, I let them accommodate me. I turn my attention back to the stand-in, and let my eyes drift up to her face. It's commercially pretty: big, dark eyes; high, prominent cheekbones; and full lips—all aided by a heavy coat of makeup. I'm a fan of natural beauty myself, but these days I can overlook that kind of thing. She's probably in her mid-thirties given the smile lines that frame her mouth. She's staring at me with her heavily lined eyes. She's stopped talking to Franco now that I'm here, and her expression is like an open book—easy to read.
She excuses herself from the conversation and stands to meet me in the aisle, extending a hand. "You must be Gustov." She's talking to my bare chest.
I shake her hand. "I must be," I say, not embarrassed in the least by the fact that I'm standing here in my underwear on the verge of an erection.
From my peripheral, I catch Franco out of the corner of my eye behind her. He's shaking his head slowly and he's wearing his serious face. He rarely brings out his serious face. It all adds up to say, Don't do it. He's been my wingman for years and he has an uncanny gift for spotting batshit crazy a mile away.
She's still holding my hand and her eyes have dropped to my midsection.
I follow suit and let my eyes drop to her chest. I don't want to look at her face. This isn't going to be personal. Eye contact makes everything more personal.
Now she's urging me backward. I oblige and when we reach the bathroom door I open it. It's an invitation that she accepts without hesitation when she follows me in.
I'm unbuttoning the rest of her blouse before the door shuts behind her. And by the time she manages the lock on the cramped quarters her shoulders are bared and her bra straps are pulled down to her elbows freeing her huge, obviously silicone tits. Again, I prefer natural, but once they're in my hands, my mouth, I'm not complaining. She's theatrically moaning. I tune it out.
When she starts wiggling out of her micro-skirt and panties I stop her, "Save it. I don't have a condom in here."
She whispers in my ear, "It's okay, I'm on the pill." Her voice is husky. It's not sexy. It's needy. I hate needy.
Now she's trying to kiss me.
That's not gonna happen either. It's too intimate. I haven't kissed anyone since Bright Side. I turn my head. "Not okay. The way I see it we have one option here—"
I don't even have to finish my ultimatum before she's dropped to her knees and my underwear have been tugged down.
When she takes me with her mouth I can't hold back, "Ah shit, that feels good."
She's aggressive. It's obvious this isn't her first rodeo. There's no fooling around with just the tip, she's taking me all in. And I'm a big guy; this is full-fledged, deep throat, porn material.
She's got my ass in her hands and is holding me tightly against her. I'm worried I'm hurting her so I pull out. She literally begs me to continue. Well shit, you don't have to ask me twice. It's not long before her hair is knotted in my hands and I'm full-on thrusting.
Release isn't what it once was. It's momentary blinding satisfaction, followed up too quickly by reemergence into bleak reality.
I reach down and pull up my underwear as she's standing, wiping her lips and chin with the back of her hand. Her eyes are dilated and tell me that though I'm finished ... she isn't. "I'm Clare, by the way."
I nod absently. "You have quite a way with introductions."
She runs her finger down my chest. "So do you. I look forward to working with you." The look in her eyes tells me "working with" in that sentence is interchangeable with "fucking."
I release the lock on the door behind her, "See ya around," and leave her alone in the john to her own devices.
When I emerge from the bathroom, Jamie is sitting with Franco at the table playing poker. Jamie raises his chin in greeting. We aren't talking much lately. Franco shakes his head. I know he's disappointed in me. He tried to warn me. It's strange, because I used to be the one that looked out for the band. I used to be our leader. Now it's Franco. Maybe it makes sense; he's the oldest at twenty-five. Or maybe it's just inevitable given that I'm failing miserably at life.