Love Is Ǝvil

60 My Brain's Gone, My Soul's Worn, My Spirit Is Torn

He should've aborted the plan. You never do what you should, homo. They were broken up, sort of, they shouldn't be on a date. A goodbye date, how desperate that sounded. You're one desperate motherfucker, bitch, always pining for a dick to suck. The perfect way to make one last-ditch effort in being the worst boyfriend ever, wrapping up all his failures in a cute little bow. Ain't nothing cute about you, slut, however many skirts and bras you put on. "I wanted it to be a surprise?", Marshall defended and rubbed his neck nervously.

A shake of his head and Nicolas smiled softly. »You are a surprise.«

Was that a good thing? Probably not anymore. Not that a playoff game was any kind of surprise that could sneak up on you. And for that matter, it wasn't any kind of quality date either. Marshall had the urge to apologize again like a broken record stuck on the same sad chord. For what this time? He wasn't too sure but probably everything. How about that you can't get your ass on his dick? You've been dating for months and he barely got to fuck you. That needs an apology, fag. Agreed, but it was too late now. No sex for Marshall no more. Pff, you ain't keeping that up for a minute, slut. Your pussy's always wide open. He was determined. Whatever that counted for, it had achieved some victories in his life. Without determination he would've never impressed Dre enough to sign him. But other than that? Biting the apology down, he kneaded his lips between his teeth and followed Nicolas up the staircase into the plane.

The interior was evocative of a lounge at a high-end hotel, a lot of white leather and fine wood. It wasn't totally outrageous to charter a private plane, at least not in a position like his. It wasn't even a big plane and the flight wasn't long either, just a quick hop south to watch the game, a little weekend trip. Still felt like he was flexing his bank account: Look at poor little Marshall too famous to fly on a normal plane like a mere mortal, and: A couple thousand dollars, just a bit of pocket change he wouldn't even notice he spent. Couldn't have said it better. Plus, you can always make it back by selling yourself. A well lit stage for you to show off your ass and tits and ka-ching! Pandering always works. He was a performer not a hooker. Shouldn't his own thoughts know this better? Ain't a difference to you, slut. We both know the real you. Which was a rapper and songwriter. Don't play dumb, bitch, you ain't the girl next door. Marshall huffed about himself and put his bag down next to the couch. He fell into a cushy seat.

Nicolas sat next to him and was leaning over the backrest to examine the shelves above. Behind the glass was a row of books and Marshall had asked to include some new volumes from serials he knew Nicolas read. The man looked at him with quizzically raised eyebrows, probably realizing this right this second.

Marshall avoided the eye contact but the shy smile stayed. He winked for the stewardess to serve their drinks. For the sad occasion Marshall had the red drink he only knew because of Nicolas and the lemon pop the man liked so much stood in front him. Lame! If you wanna win him back, you need to get your tits out or something. It's a fucking plane, it's an exotic place for sex even without you trying. But our little gay looking boy can't get it up. He could get it up for Nicolas just fine! Then show me, slut! But he promised to not have sex again. Who you promise that to? It's a plane, you gonna be hundreds of miles above the clouds, promises don't count up here. They would always count to him. Marshall took promises rather seriously. You broken a lot of them, though. What's one more? It's like your money, you won't even notice.

A sad sigh. Wasn't that the truth? But just because he had been a horrible person in the past didn't mean he had to be the same horrible person in the future. He wanted to change. He was working fucking hard to change and become a better person. You are who you are: a dirty slut. What's so bad about it? You love it, the guys that bang you love it, everyone wins. Well, except for this poor sap. He gets strung along and suffers through your crap and you won't even let him fuck you one last time, fag. When did you become this much of a party pooper? He was making a good decision with this. Somebody had to look out for him and apparently Marshall was the only one who cared. Since when do you care? Bitch, please, you haven't cared about yourself since, what, first grade?, kindergarten?, possibly ever? As if somebody that young had the capacity for that yet. Besides, just because he hadn't cared all that much in the past, didn't mean he couldn't start caring now. True, but seems like a bit of a waste. You have much more fun when you don't care. Hey, I got an idea for this weekend trip! Why don't you two lovebirds take the edge off with a couple shots and see what happens? I'm sure he'd be thrilled to get into the Mile High Club with you. I mean, that's what private planes are for.