I want him stop this bullshit already. What's wrong with him lately? Think I haven't seen his penis, or what? Think I'm a fucking rapist, or think I'll laugh? What an idiot. We've done things on stage that could make rape seem like it came straight out of the Constitution, and I'm the biggest joke out there. Besides, it was more than enough to be impressive to me. I don't mean that in a homosexual way or anything, nor do I this, but man, I'd desecrate that bare body in a flash, given the chance. We always did things no one else would have the balls to take onto their records. So what? We're the filthiest mother fuckers out there. We are oh so proud to be Americans, after all. I don't really feel like getting all that dressed up today. I squirm into a tight,black wife beater, and then throw on a dress shirt a deep shade of burnt crimson. I don't bother to button it, nor did I bother to button the snap on my leather pants. I've got a boner, and it's already sore and throbbing enough. Might as well advertise. The others aren't here, but you never know what kind of gorgeous (or cheap and starfuck-hungry) slut will come slinking around, ready and more than willing to spread her legs for another rockstar. As I'd often observed in my sexual escapades, for many, this was as close as they'd get to the dreams of fame they'd thrown desperately to an industry of cheap adult films and wrecked porno companies promising a shot on the big screen if what they pat on the head and called a "pretty little thing" would take off her clothes and pose for all the undercover Kennedies out there. Twiggs comes in not a moment after I've given up and pulled my monkey out and smirks, and I know that the cockview has been returned, and all is good again. He walks over to me and sits on the floor in front of the adomen I've settled on and takes my cock into his hands without hesitance or even a glance to check for reassurance, and I'm grateful. He always helps me out in my most dire times without making shit get awkward, my dear, dear freak of a friend. I push his face into me and thrust my painfully throbbing memeber into him, ever-amazed at his ability to intake without a single gag or cough. I finish soon enough, and we sit together, my arm draped over his shoulder, his nose buried into the little pudge of skin between my chest and underarm. "You did good, man..." I praise him with a playful laugh. For a minute there, I thought he didn't have a sense of humor, but now he's smiling, and I lean in to kiss him... only to meet the raised palm of his hand. "What?" I demand, taming my anger and combing it over with curiosity. I honestly don't get him sometimes, despite our bond.
"I'm about to burp," he explains after a minute, and we grin like prepubescent boys looking at our dad's stash of porn. Everything is one big joke for the optimistic pessimist, and I'm not about to miss a beat of it. Not tonight. Not when I'm in an improving mood. He gets up and goes into the bathroom and locks the door, and I let him know that I'll meet him outside, to which he replies in a hoarse, barely audible voice,"Okay." At that, I take my leave, grabbing a jacket in case it gets cold later.
Twiggy's Point of View
Looks like I'm on my knees again... Except this time, I'm not deepthroating his dick, nor am I dreaming of the dirty things we'd do, or have done... I'm in the bathroom, my stomach aching, my back arched in perfect poise to vomit, and every few seconds or so, the lump in my throat rises, and that's just what I do. The porcelain bowl is filled with my acids, and is yet to be rid of me just yet. I'm not throwing up from something I've eaten... I just have to think of what I've done, what I'll desperately and eagerly keep on doing, and I can't help but cough up half of my insides. Whore. I don't know why I've been so fuckin' emotional lately. I've always been feminine, but why am I letting this get to me? Why is it so goddamn bothersome? I've played this role for years. I know all of my and Manson's lines in every scene, and I know the unnamed boundaries I have been given. I suck in a breath, flush the toilet, and use the bathroom counter to steady myself in stance. I don't bother looking in the mirror this time. I turn on the sink and begin to wash my face and wash out my mouth, then squeeze some paste out onto the bristles of my toothbrush and clean my mouth like Orbit White gum... After I've spit and finished, I apply some make up, making sure it's all done with precision. By the time I'm done, I feel like a new person. A pretty person. A fairly attractive person. The sexiest goddamn person on this ugly planet. I pull on my short combats, lace them up, and manage to find my soft pink fauxfur coat on my way towards the door. Later, I muse with a spring in my step, I should put on some BeeGees and clean the bus. Manson is waiting, tapping his boot against the pavement and giving me an impatiently raised brow, but I think he's in a pleasant mood. I bounce down the stairs and lightly brush my lips against his as I pass by, not pausing to indulge. I know I could get away with it, but we don't have time to enjoy ourselves, and I know how irritated he'll get if I leave him with an erection without fixing it. We get into a convertible I've seen sitting outside for awhile but I still don't know who it belongs to exactly. There are clips and snipits of the band stacked into a semi-neat pile in the glovebox, and all of the cds we've made so far, along with a few others. There are also a few pairs of sunglasses, some liptstick, and a few miscannelous items scattered in the compartment underneath the radio, and I decide to grab a pair of heart-shaped glasses and wear them. Manson laughs at me and calls me a flamer, and I don't miss the oppertunity to remind him how ever-so-homosexual it was of him to be sucked off by me earlier, to which I think I see... My god, is this Marilyn fucking Manson actually... blushing? I've seen it before, but it's so hard to get him to blush, so reason plays with my eyes for a second until I've concluded that it indeed is. I don't know what to put on. As much as I love him, I don't know if that'd be a little too weird or not, and I decide not to take my chances. No need to kill my romantic illusion just yet. I decide to put on a mix cd this... person has made. I'm not sure if it's a male or female, and no, the items alone are not evidence to jump to conclusions. Live Forever by Oasis starts to boom from the speaker system, and I feel my face flush intsantly. Way to not be obvious, Jeordie. I try to break the circuit of static instantly and cool down, realizing he's oblivious, and then press the button so that hood of the convertible comes down after i unhook it. We pull up to a light and I feel a heat that isn't my own resting on my leg and realize that he's placed his hand on my thigh. I look over to him, but his gaze is cast out the window, somewhere distant. Abstracted. Not with me. He's not thinking about me or in this moment, even; He's just my best friend making an ordinary gesture. I'd know. I've built my hopes and dreams on a foundation of meaningless touches and innocent amity. Funny, huh? Building a castle of fantasies around Manson with a framework of something like innocence. I'm ridiculous. Pathetically ridiculous. After driving for what feels like ten, maybe fifteen minutes, he pulls into a fastfood drivethrough and asks me what I want. I don't know. I'm only starving for... No, shit. That would really confirm how pathetic I am. I ask for a Java milkshake and an icecream sundae.
"That's not real food," he tells me, giving me a face that says, "Are you an idiot?" I'm between giggling and defending myself i all seriousness, but he lets up and we get out with our food and keep driving. No shows tonight. No shows tomorrow. I wander if this is how normal people feel. Real people. I've forgotten how it feels to actually exist. It takes another twenty-something minutes before we pull into a drive through showing an old, original black and white version of The Vampir, a foreign film. I finish my milkshake only to see that my sundae's melted into a soup of caramel, syrup, cream, and cold milk, a cherry floating, trapped and sunken slightly by the opression of the plastic lid.Great. Now I have another shake to drink. "Do you want some of this?" I offer him softly, his eyes peeling themselves off of the screen to meet my own, and he moves his head hesitantly from side to side before changing his mind and taking a few sips. I plant a lonely kiss on his cheek, to let him know I'm still here. That I can be a distraction, too. I'm willing to be subject to that. I continue my path of destruction of the man everyone fears, trailing down his chin and neck with butterfly kisses, as light and unpressing as possible so that I don't break the fragile monster everyone is too blinded by glory and fame and fright to see in this light, this shade, this hue of pale, fluttering colors and rays... He shivers when I nibble on a patch of skin just above his collar bone, and shakes me off of him, only to adjust the cup holder so that it becomes a back to the middle of the front seat and slides me over against him. I take that oppertunity to slip him out of his jacket and unbuttoned dress shirt. He leans into me and breathes something, words, majic, spiritual flames with no religion to restrain all of the beautiful chemical hues it may take, and I prepare myself for touchless intimacy. "Twiggs... You're good, you know that?" No, I don't know that. Good at what, I wonder? "You're a good person. A very good person," he whispers and runs his fingers through my hair, his black fingertips tracing the outline of my jawbone, removing my heart-shaped shades. The movie is still rolling, and he's kissing the back of my neck from a spot where he's brushed my dreads away. I close my eyes and breath in deep. Is this where my heaven is, here in the arms of my beloved antichrist? For a moment, we're not just empty, plastic and paper idols. We're real. We're actual living, breathing, emotional people, and I see a gleam of something beyond fear and lust and hatred and rage in his eyes, a question that's not edged with indignation, but asking, pleading, begging this world to change, to just become sane again. I want to cry for some reason,and when the tears begin to well up and trickle down in untamed, mascara stained streams, I make no effort to hold them back. "It never was," I tell him, as if he can read my mind, and he only looks at me in wonder, like a little boy, like the little, unraped boy before he was off to Catholic school, before he knew what it meant to exist in this world and see it for all that it encompassed. He presses his lips to my own and our tongues wrestle and tangle and dance and engage in passionate combat without constraint or conservative control, so free and wild that we don't notice my cups smash against the floormats, don't notice when we crash back onto the seat, don't notice the volume of our moans in our desperation for noise and music and audacity, for voices, for each other's voices... Don't notice the flash of a cheap Kodak camera taht could very well have been bought at a local drugstore down the way, or the nearby Walmart. It doesn't matter anyway. All that matters is this.
