Queen Bee

July 2008 (1)

Sitting downstairs with Marshall in his studio, I had been back in Detroit only a few days. But even though it's only been a few days, it's been amazing nonetheless. I have no idea what's gotten into Marshall since the last time I was here two months ago, but it's almost as if he worships the damn ground I walk on. He's attentive, and caring, and warm, and kind. He tells me he loves me every chance he gets. He thanks me for even doing something as small as putting his plate in the dishwasher. I would say it finally feels like I have my old Marshall back, but it doesn't. This person that he's becoming through his sobriety is ten times the person that he was even before the drugs. This person loves me in ways I didn't even think was possible, and honestly even thinking about it makes me incredibly emotional. 

It's not that I haven't noticed a dramatic shift over the last few months, because I have. Our texts, our phone calls, I saw it. I saw his true, deep, passionate love for me. But being here, and actually physically experiencing it is absolutely unmatched. And I don't mean physical as in sex considering we're still forcing ourselves to sleep in separate rooms. I mean physical as in acts of love. As in he rubs my feet, plays with my hair, cooks me dinner, makes sure my bathroom is stocked with my favourite body wash. He's amazing. And he's so amazing, that he's makin' it really fuckin' difficult to keep my hands off him. 

But even if that all weren't enough to make me wanna hop on his dick and ride him as hard as I can, the way he's been looking certainly is. The gym has definitely been paying off, and I swear he must have lost at least forty pounds. Between that, his natural brown hair, and his bright blue eyes that finally seem to have gained back their light... All I wanna do nowadays is just get him under me. But I can't. He's not ready. He's only been sober three months, and the last thing I will ever do is be responsible for a relapse. 

"It's just- It's not fuckin' comin' out right!" Marshall barked, storming out of the sound booth as his heavy, frustrated steps took him directly to the chair beside me. "My words don't make any fuckin' sense!" 

"Marshall, baby," placing a gentle hand over the back of his head, I allowed as it slowly ran down towards the back of his neck. "Just relax, okay?" I comforted his defeated emotions as best I could. "This is your first time recording again in years, it's not gonna be perfect, and that's okay. It doesn't have to be perfect. This is just us..." Trailing off, I flailed my hands around as I tried to think about what I was wanting to say. "Fuckin' around in the studio like we used to. It's not a big deal, baby." 

"I know, but the shit I have written isn't fuckin' good! It's stupid, it's dog shit, I hate it! I hate all of it!" He exclaimed, throwing his pad down onto the ground. 

"So then baby, don't use it. Just use your brain. Go in there and start rattling shit off, you'll find your footing eventually, just stop with the thought of it having to be perfect. Let yourself go for a minute." 

"Free styling? Angel, I have no idea where to even start with a freestyle-" 

"I'm not saying freestyle. I'm sayin' go in there and just talk. Talk about whatever you want and let it just flow outta you."

"That ain't gon' work, Angel. I came in here so fuckin' prepared-" 

"Just try, Marshall." I gently, but sternly stated as his doubtful eyes locked on mine. "If it doesn't work, we can go back upstairs and forget about it, okay?" I paused briefly. "But just try, please."

Sighing, he rolled his eyes and nodded as he began to peel himself from the chair. "Fine." He groaned, dragging is feet back towards the booth almost as a child having a temper tantrum would. 

Watching him enter, he put the headphones back on as I clicked the mic button. "Okay, I'ma play the beat again, and I just want you to talk. See what comes out."