When J. and I were done, we were lying there together, and the thing I felt most was grateful. Grateful he was there, that he existed, and that the world gave him to me. “I’m a lucky bastard,” I said.
“That’s funny. I was just thinking the same thing,” he said.
And then he kissed me. Then we had long, deep, luxurious kisses. Huh. I was under the impression that most sex started with the kisses first, but ours hadn’t. I realized I liked kisses after sex way better than I liked them beforehand. So I said so, feeling very accomplished that I could speak again after being so nonverbal during it all.
“I’ve noticed,” J. said. “Kisses make you anxious, except now, when there’s nothing to be anxious about.”
“Huh. You think that’s it?”
“I think you don’t like being teased,” he said. “You’re too afraid that’s all it’ll be, maybe.”
“Am I really fucked up?”
“No. I’m sure plenty of people are like that.”
That sounded like a platitude, but I accepted it for now. He was right, after sex I was probably the most relaxed I ever got. After orgasm is one of those times my mind is quiet for a while. It’s like after my mind is blown it takes a while before any thoughts dare come out of hiding.
They eventually start to, though. I remembered all of Digger’s bullshit. “Don’t they say if a puppy gets starved the grownup dog will always be anxious about food?”
“I seem to remember something like that,” Jonathan said. “You can’t self-feed a cat if they were ever deprived as kittens, too, I think.” He said it tentatively, like I might not want to be compared to a starved kitten, even if the comparison was apt.
My masculinity wasn’t feeling particularly threatened though. “Do you have a cat?”
“Who’s feeding your cat while you’re here?”
“She’s a self-feeder. My mother will go and look in on her every couple of days, though, to keep her from getting lonely.”
“Your mother lives nearby?”
“A twenty minute drive,” he said. “It’s handy when I have to go away on longer trips.”
“Does she know about me?”
I think I was more surprised I asked the question than Jonathan was, though he did startle a little and it took him a few seconds to answer. “She knows I went to visit a guy in Boston. She doesn’t know it’s you, though, if you see what I mean.”
“Ah, yeah.” For a normal person, that I was a guy in Boston would have been all there was to know. “You don’t think she’d approve of a rock star?”
“I’m sure she’d tell me I was nothing but a groupie and not to debase myself,” J. said, quite seriously. “And that I could do better.”
“You’re not a groupie,” I said, somewhat more defensively than I intended. “Do you feel debased? What does that word even mean?”
“Used, degraded, exploited?” he filled in. “And no, I don’t feel any of those things.”
“Okay, good. Because I… yuck.” I let out a long sigh.
“I shouldn’t even care about this. But I think Digger’s convinced himself that you’re, like, my bitch, or something. And that I’m sleeping with you to make sure you write good things about us.”
J. snorted. “Well, that’s consistent with Digger’s character.”
“First off, he’s the type of father who has exaggerated notions about his son’s masculinity–okay, most fathers are, but you know what I mean. And second, sex is always a transaction with him. Someone’s always paying for it somehow.”
“You mean, he can’t imagine that maybe I’m doing it because I actually like to?”
“Well, he’d have to admit you’re an actual, real homosexual then? Maybe he’s in some kind of denial over it.”
“I suppose that’s weirdly better than him deciding you corrupted me and we shouldn’t have you around.” I yawned. “He’s weird.”
“I’m sure if I wrote something he didn’t like, he wouldn’t hesitate to let me know,” J. said, and yawned also.
“Good thing he doesn’t make the rules around here.” I snuggled close, not caring where the wet condom was ending up, except then J. lovingly reached down and snagged it off me, picked up the other one which he’d balled into a tissue (when had he done that? I was too busy to notice…) and got out of bed to throw them away. Then, I guess since he was up, he decided to brush his teeth.
I decided if he had gotten out of the bed I might as well do the same, and that 6:15 call time for the morning was looking grimly imminent. 6:15 in the lobby, 6:45 at the TV studio. Ugh. I decided a real shower would be better for waking me up in the morning, so I used a wet washcloth on my face and my private parts — in that order — and crawled into the other bed. The dry bed.
J. crawled in after me and I was asleep before either of us got around to actually saying good night.
(“Adults only” bonus scene that precedes this chapter still available! Donate or help out as detailed at the end of the post before this one! AND thanks to all the donations, there will be a story post on Saturday, too! YAYYY! -ctan)
(Michael Hutchence is one of the only male singers of the decade who can hold a candle to Ziggy in terms of sheer expressiveness. -d.)