Disclaimer: The story is not true and no malice or impeachment was intended.
Note: BIGGEST AND VERY SPECIAL THANXX to Heather aka ScrewTheDaisies for actually taking her time to proof-read this for me! If anything doesn't read all that smoothly, that's only because I had the nerve to neglect some of her recommendations... so blame me and only me!
Note 2: No real plot here and it's boring, but I posted it anyway because I'm MEAN!!!
Note 3: There actually IS some sex there, you'll just have to look for it.
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I got an e-mail from him today.
Just think about it. The King Of Losers himself actually took time out of his day to send me - me! - a stupid little two-word email.
MISSIN YOU
I feel special. No, really, I do. He's on tour, you know. And that shitty, loser, small clubs tour is keeping him so busy he can't see his wife and children, can't type twenty answers to Metal Sludge's interview questions, but he found some time to type MISSIN YOU - all caps, right, and I guess he did it with his index finger, too - and hit "send".
Wow. I'm impressed.
He hasn't seen me in half a year, and that last time we hardly talked more than twenty minutes in total. He called me last week, and guess what for? To ask for some advice about his new bitch's - OK, his new vocalist's, you see any difference? I don't, not with this guy - his new vocalist's sore throat. Sure, I gave him some. Why not. I have some profound compassion for this London dude. When he's tired of London, he'll toss him into the gutter, and the kid just isn't aware. I am, though. Been there, done that.
Missing me. Sure, he is. Whenever he's sober, he misses me like a hole in the head. He must've loosened the grip a little and allowed himself a pair of JD's to actually e-mail me.
But I don't know why he's done it. And that's what bothers me. What makes me hit "reply" and punch a single line in.
The fuck you are.
I hit "send", and all of a sudden my eyes are tired of that screen. It's a bit too bright when I'm hungover.
That must be the reason they sting.
------------------------------------------
And whaddaya think? He wrote back!
I wasn't even going to check my mail today, but it just so happened that I did, and there's that little thingy from him, another deliciously written laconic all-caps masterpiece:
THE FUCK YOU KNOW.
IM FEELING SO LONELY.
Two lines this time. The dude's obviously progressing.
Feeling lonely, oh are you? Do you know what it feels like at all, to be lonely? Do you, baby? When I was stuck in that rehab center after killing Razzle and I never heard from you once, that felt lonely. When I spent three weeks in jail and you never came to visit me once, that felt lonely. When I was drinking myself into delirium tremens after my daughter died and you never called me once, that felt lonely. Do you really know how it feels, Your Grace? Your Highness? Your Majesty?
This guy only notices other people when he trips over someone and looks down to see who it was he stepped on.
Feeling lonely. Shit. That gets me so pissed that I write a reply, even though I wasn't going to. I type:
Why don't you turn to your current singer for some company?
and send it all the way back to where it came from. Wherever that is. Last time he said it was in Minnesota or something.
I don't really care.
------------------------------------------
He is in Nevada. So close.
Wasn't really trying to find out. Just read it in the news. He hit a kid with his bass there or something like that. True to form. Hurting is certainly his cup of tea.
His reply is a bit longer this time.
I NEVER HAD A THING WITH LONDON.
YOU CRAZY? THE KIDS HALF MY AGE!
WHY ARE YOU BEING SUCH A BITCH?!
Y'know, I totally love this last line. I'm going to get it on a T-shirt. I'll have it engraved on a silver plate and put it on my bedside table.
Why am I being such a bitch?
I guess it's not what I was supposed to be. I guess on receiving those e-mails I should have gotten all sweet and understanding and written back something comforting, like, "Yeah, baby, I miss you too, it must be so pressing, you're doing great, I love you..." and so on, for approximately twenty lines. Fifty, if I wanted to pass off as a good boy.
Love you, miss you, kiss you, fuck you.
Maybe I do miss some things that come with him. Hands, mostly. He has really strong hands, with those calluses on the tips of his fingers. Really strong arms, too. His lips, firm and thin, his kisses, like bites, and then less like bites, and then not like bites at all. He's really good at kissing.
Maybe I miss all this. But just not bad enough.
I write back, once again. Ain't got much to do, anyways. What I send back to him this time looks like this:
>YOU CRAZY? THE KIDS HALF MY AGE!
As if that ever stopped you.
>WHY ARE YOU BEING SUCH A BITCH?!
Because you made me a bitch.
I type "Remember?" at the end of the last line... and then erase it. It sounds almost flirty, and that's not what I mean. Besides, I don't need to ask. He remembers it. Has to remember.
I sure do.
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I remember the night Nikki made me his bitch.
Remember it pretty vaguely, that's true, but I still do. Distant memories, flashbacks stealing into the back of my mind, and then all of a sudden they're not so distant anymore.
It hurt, oh Goodness Gracious, you bet your tits it hurt, hurt, hurt. Everything he did, hurt. His bites hurt. His grip on my hips, hurt. His tug on my hair, none too gentle, hurt. And that unsteady, uneven, irregular pounding inside me, that hurt the most.
And there was nothing in the world I wanted more.
I forget how it started. It was so damned long ago, in 1982, hell, maybe even in 1981, and now I forget why I let him do that to me.
Why I asked him to do that to me.
I remember his hands on my back, hot, running down my spine till he grabs my ass. His grip tightens and it almost hurts, too, because he's so strong, I've never had a lover stronger than me, never had a lover big enough to beat me up, a lover so tough that if I changed my mind now, I couldn't stop him. Never had a he for a lover. But it feels good, it feels awfully good, and I moan. He pulls me close, presses me close, he's hard, and I am, too, and I'm so afraid, and somehow it just makes it better.
I feel his bite on my neck, or maybe it's a kiss, one of his furious kisses that is sure to leave a hickey. He's marking me. I shiver, whimper, arch.
It hurts so good.
And he's asking, actually talking, I'm surprised he can actually talk when he's so hard against my body and breathing so shallowly, but here he is, asking me, "You ready, blondie?" And I am, God knows I am, never been more ready, so I dig my fingers into these shoulders and bury my face on this chest and say in broken whisper, "Yes, God yes, please, Nikki..."
Please, Nikki.
Please, do it.
Please, fuck me.
I asked him to do it to me.
And he did.
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I haven't gotten any mail from him in two days. Part of me is disappointed. Part of me feels relieved. So I can't keep on pretending I don't care, but it's OK, because now it's over.
It doesn't matter anymore.
Or it wouldn't if I hadn't received his reply on day three.
> Because you made me a bitch.
you still resent it....as if i hadnt asked for your permission before i did
it....and i did ask....remember this well....hardly asked for anything before....you
know....and damn the memories are hot....sorry if it bothers you that i need
a word or two from you....i thought it wasnt breakable
As you see, all-caps are out of fashion, as is brevity. The latest fad is ignoring punctuation as far as I can see.
I stare at one line, read it and re-read it, not believing what I read.
....and i did ask....
No, really?
Why the fuck can't I remember?
Somehow I just don't think he made that up. But why don't I remember? Why the hell do I forget so much?
Could it be because I drink so much?
I think it over, let it go and suddenly - well, not so suddenly - I feel an urge to have a drink. A bad, burning, overwhelming urge.
I probably shouldn't. I've already had my share today. Last time I topped that pintage, I dehydrated so badly they had to call an ambulance for me. No great fun.
I'm the only guy in the Crue who overdoses on whisky.
I have another drink. Play now, pay later. As always.
Then I return to my laptop. So much badly punctuated shit must've taken him ages to type. That deserves a response. I'm not as mean as most people think I am.
>you still resent it
No, not really. I just can't forget it.
>and i did ask....remember this well....hardly asked for anything before
Since I don't remember it, I believe it was a formality. You would have taken
yours anyway. So don't you DARE throw that in my face.
>and damn the memories are hot
Glad to know you found something to distract you from loneliness on
the road. And to keep your hands busy.
>sorry if it bothers you
It doesn't bother me...
>that i need a word or two from you
...because you don't need that; you need some ass-kissing. And I was never
good at that.
>i thought it wasnt breakable
Did you laugh when you typed this last one?
It took me a while to figure out what to make of this last line. It cuts me. I know he meant it to cut me. Son of a bitch. I hate him so much.
He took such great pains to break it.
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Oh shit. I'm having a relapse. I really started missing him. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.
The bad way. Not the hands, or the lips, or the cock, for that matter. Things that are more subtle and yet stronger. The warmth. The smell. The feel. The feeling of danger when he did me. The feeling of being protected after he did me. Because he'd hold me. You know? It was so not typical of him, to cuddle, but he always held me tight after he was done with me. Maybe because I was always sore after that, and he knew it, and maybe these were some of the very rare moments when he did feel guilty.
Not his eyes, but the way the look in these eyes changed. Even though I was never able to tell quite what it meant.
Lia's not home, and maybe that's why I can hardly brace myself. It's too big. I thought I was over it. I thought it was breakable.
I check my mail, and thankfully there is a letter from him there. I'm not sure what I'd have done if there wasn't. Something stupid. Something shameful. Like crying.
But it is there, so I open it and read it.
>I just can't forget it.
didnt expect you to say that
>you need some ass-kissing. And I was never good at that.
sure....your thing is cocksucking....i dont forget things either
>Did you laugh when you typed that last one?
STOP HURTING ME
What? WHAT?! "Stop hurting me"? It's me hurting him?! You mean it?! You sure you haven't mixed things up a bit, sugar?
I hurl the laptop across the room, my teeth clenching, grinding. It lands on a sofa with a soft thump. I stare at it, my eyes watering, and try to calm down. I could have trashed the little machine to splinters, all because of some fucker's choice of words. I'm getting so sensitive.
Cock-sucking is my thing, you know. One of the things I miss doing. He has a perfect cock for it. Not small, but not too big, so I don't choke on it or anything, but it's big enough to reach the back of my throat if I want to take it in deeper. I loved doing it at times. Taking in the whole length, while he made those funny little sounds, and growled, and groaned, and told me things about my lips - he had plenty to say about my mouth.
Those were the only times I was more or less in control.
That's the thing those liberation bitches who refuse to suck cock will never understand. The only time you come close to controlling a man is when you hold his balls. When I had him in my mouth, he belonged to me. Completely. Fully. Mine all over. Maybe that was why it felt so great.
But now I'm just hurting him.
I have a sudden fit of laughter. Hysterical. I'm thankful for that, because it makes the tears in my eyes seem OK. You have tears when you laugh too hard, right?
I stagger across the room and pick up my long-suffering laptop. I'm willing to keep up this morbid correspondence by now. Just like with our no less unhealthy relationship once, I'm too curious as to where it might lead.
Yeah, I know last time it led to big wide nowhere, but hey, some men never learn.
>didnt expect you to say that
Always pisses you off when you can't predict people, doesn't it?
>sure....your thing is cocksucking
And cock-swinging is yours.
>STOP HURTING ME
And you had the nerve?
I sign the letter this time.
The Little Cocksucker
And add a post scriptum.
P.S. This is all I ever was to you, right?
He never said I was more than that. Always just screwing, screwing, screwing like there's no tomorrow. No time for words. Maybe just some dirty talking. When I came back from jail, he took me to the bathroom and fucked my brains out. Not a word other than "You suck like a vacuum cleaner, baby". When I first saw him after his overdose, he bent me over the table in the counseling room. Not a word other than "You got the tightest ass this side of Inferno, kid". Though apart from these moments he talked a lot, if not too much. It was as if the world where we two could have a thing going was a different world where lovers just couldn't talk normally.
Oh, that's not correct. I do him an injustice.
One time he talked to me.
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It was in 1996. In fall. We had been working in Nikki's home studio for quite a while by then. Me and him, we were getting amazingly close amazingly fast. There was that attraction. I looked pretty decent back then. Not skinny - never since 1989 was I skinny. But I wasn't as gross as I am now. I weighed, maybe, one sixty, I had a hair-do and I shaved daily.
He looked gorgeous, just as he always had.
We rubbed elbows all thru the days, we stayed up working and spent whole nights in his house, and pretty soon that sparkling tension between us was so obvious, that to deny it further would be just ridiculous.
So we found ourselves sharing the same bed once again.
I remember it with surprising lucidity. He tugs at my sleeve and pulls me away from the studio. Mick's crouched over his guitar, and Tommy's busy, because it's Friday, and on Fridays his wife comes over. I feel a bit funny when we're all in one room. I fucked her, and we all know it - I know it, she knows it, Tommy knows it. But Tommy hates my guts anyways, so why would I care? He's talking to her now, and he doesn't see Nikki pulling me away, out of the room, across the house, to the bedroom wing.
I don't object. I don't mind. I let him lead me all the way to the closest bed in sight. Let him open my shirt. Let him hold me close. And I answer the kiss he gives me.
I want it, too.
I never could let anyone but him do that to me. He's the last person in the world you should trust... but he's the only one who ever saw me with all defenses down. I don't know why, but then again, there are so many things I don't know.
He's ravaging my mouth. He's hungry. He smells of whisky. He's been trying to stay sober lately, but one thing about Pamela Fridays is that she always brings a couple of bottles along and insists everyone gets drunk with her. And while Nikki can't stand Pamela, he apparently can stand her booze.
I let my hands run through his hair. It's jet-black, and thick, and prickly on the ends where he cut it short. I miss his unruly mane a little. He's done with my mouth, so he buries himself on my shoulder, kissing and biting, that's what he does best, and his hands have got my hips in a death-grip, and he grinds our hard-ons together. I sigh.
And then he does things to me, oh the things he does to me, and the world is a blur, and my body's on fire.
We stay in that bed afterwards. I'm curled next to him, with his arms around me and his breath on my hair. And that's when he talks to me.
"You're not mad at me."
Well, right now I'm not, and I'm a bit out of breath. So I just whisper, "No".
"You're really back?"
That's a harder question. But it just feels so good, lying there, warm and cozy, next to him. And if I say no, he'll ask why. Or he won't say anything at all, but it will be a different silence, and something - something very fragile, delicate, invisible - will be broken.
Besides, now I'm softened. I don't look into the future much, and right now I like it right here. So I don't even lie, telling him, "Yes, I'm back."
He sighs, a whiff of breath in my hair, sending a shiver through me, and says:
"I'm happy."
I gasp, and the next second he pulls me up and claims my mouth. Breaks the kiss and moves away a little. That's a question. That's a "Can I fuck you again, Vince?". He can. I tell him, "Go Nikki." So what if I'll be walking funny tomorrow? Play now, pay later - I have always done just that.
And he flips me over, and he touches me, touches me, touches me, and I'm hard again. Quick kisses start at the small of my back and run up my spine in a dotted line, and then he's inside me, thick and hot, rubbing against that sensitive spot, my sweet spot. His weight on me, his hard length inside me, and I scream, not caring if Mick, or Tommy, or Pamela can hear it. His words pulse in my mind, echoing, re-echoing, filling my universe just like he's filling me, and when I explode, they still ring in my ears.
"I'm happy."
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If he was in the room, I'd probably break down and hug him.
Since he isn't, I have more time to think his latest e-mail over. Enough time to remember that he most likely will freak out if I hug him, anyways.
Or he'd fall. If he's been losing weight again. At times he does that, on tours more often than not. So that'd be quite a sight. Three hundred pounds of bullshit throw themselves at you. CRASH! You're on the floor with your ribcage hammered in. Happy Valentine's!
OK, not three hundred. But enough. Too much.
Lia's aware I'm a bit off. She has suggested we find another girl for a threesome. For some distraction. She's so fucking kind, I almost feel bad.
His latest one is long. Nicely written. Normally punctuated. Maybe because he writes from home this time.
Home today. In two days we're leaving
for Europe. Gonna see Alice Cooper again - want me to pass your hello?
That was an attempt at a civil greeting. Failed. I'll just write what I think,
OK? You're already pissed at me, so there's no risk I make things worse.
Vince, where was that point when I did you wrong? I don't mean those distant
years, don't mean 1985 or 1992. I'm aware of those. You told me they
were buried. But were they?
I just don't understand why you were suddenly gone. We had such great fun through
that last tour, and then I see you once a week... once a month... once a year
- you're gone! I didn't even catch it until it was too late. Is this
my fault? Maybe... But I had so much to deal with. My family. I have five fucking
kids who have already lived thru a divorce - I'd be such a bitch to let them
see another, so I have to work at this one.
I tried to be there for you. If I failed so obviously, I'm sorry. I never knew.
You're pissed about the Brides, right? But hey, what was I to do? You refuse
to play with Tommy, he refuses to play with you. When I get one of you, the
other's out. It's been hell... and I need to play. I swear there's nothing there
about London. Shit, he's not even blond. :-)
That's what I meant. Each time I read your reply it feels as if I had murdered
your whole family and then went asking, "How's your mom, sunshine?"
Just tell me. Please tell. I need to know. I want you back.
Can I fix it?
Nikki
P.S. Believe it or not, I never thought of you as of a little cocksucker. I loved you. It was just hard to say aloud. Since it hurts so bad, I guess I still do.
I printed that out. I read it over and over again, different phrases popping before my aching eyes, cutting them like midday sun.
I never knew
I shut my eyes. Open them again.
I want you back
I bite my lips.
Can I fix it?
I breath in with a sharp hiss.
I loved you
My nails dig into my palms when I clench my fists.
I still do
I rub my temples.
He's right.
I really was hurting him.
Blaming him was so easy, huh?
Now I'm not even sure how it happened. I just began to grow... bigger. I got stubble. I was unwilling to get hold of myself and take care of that, but that doesn't mean I wasn't aware of what I was starting to look like. And I recoiled. Each time he tried to touch me, I recoiled. Self-conscious, I guess. God Almighty, I've just realized that now! Each time he said something nice I thought he was making fun of me. Mocking me. Trying to make a fool of me. To hurt me. He couldn't mean what he said. Not when I looked like Sam fucking Kinison.
But really, how could he mean it?..
I type a reply for him. A short one. No twists this time, no harsh jokes. No hard feelings. I keep it short only because I don't trust myself.
Nikki, I'll only say it once, OK? I'm not pissed. Not anymore. But if you mean what you wrote, you're fucking crazy. I miss you, babe. I do, and badly. But you'd never like living with the old, fat, drunken, golfing mess that I have become.
Love,
Vince
I send this and flip the laptop off.
"Lia?"
"Yep, hun."
"Get yourself glammed out, lady. We're doing Vegas!"
A threesome isn't as good as cocaine, but mixed with a martini or ten, it must work.
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I thought I knew what a headache was. I was wrong. I didn't. But I sure know it now.
Two days passed, but it's only now that I'm quite sober again.
I wish I wasn't.
He's in England now, you know. These jets. Get you anywhere in hours. Too goddamn fast.
He's in England, but his last letter is here. A one-liner, like the very first one I got from him over a week ago.
I sit and stare at the only line he quoted from my letter.
But you'd never like living with the old, fat, drunken, golfing mess that I have become.
And at the only line of his response.
YOU NEVER TRIED ME.