ANGLE ONE
We're deceiving each other. On a daily basis.
Me and him.
Oh, we like each other. A lot. We share the same interests and the same attitude, and everyone thinks we're a perfect match. Even my parents took an instant liking to him - my mother practically fell in love. Must be that streak of Italian blood they both have. Boy, is it fun to watch him squirm - he's so not used to normal people liking him. Yes, we match each other fine. And I think he's pretty hot. And I know he thinks the same about me.
And still it's deceit.
I do think he's hot. Tall and good-looking, he has that air of danger around him, and the blue of his eyes gives me a thrill any time. I'm kind of mesmerized by that dysfunctional personality of his - I must admit it's a turn on. And his arms are so strong. He can dominate me. He's tougher than me. He's cooler than me. And I have grown starvingly unaccustomed to men tougher and cooler than me. He's great in bed, too, always knows how to get me all worked up, how to pick that one rhythm that will drive me crazy, knows just when to quicken it up. He's one of the very few men who can do that to me, and he's the living proof to the theory that size doesn't matter shit.
But the thing I appreciate the most is that he's absolutely fantastic at oral. The things he can do with his tongue... that must have taken some practice, baby.
And it's the fact that I love that most of all that feels like a lie.
Because when he's buried there, between my legs, I can just tug on his jet-black hair and moan away... forgetting that he actually has a dick.
Forgetting it's him at all.
Jet-black hair. Jet-black. Jett-black. Sounds like a bad pun.
"You okay, Lita?"
"Yep. Just thinking."
"Gotta joint to share?"
"Sure, man. Here you are."
"Love ya, baby!"
And he probably does. I can see he's fond of me in a way. He likes it that I can take the initiative at times. He's fascinated with my guitar skills - he confessed to me once that I had revolutionized his mind: prior to meeting me, he had never thought that women could really rock. And I know for sure he loves the way I fuck. Seven years of rockstarship have taken my shame away along with my innocence: I'm not afraid to do things, and I know how to do them well. I'm aware of all those chicks that seem to fall into his bed from nowhere in packs, but he always comes back - and that says something, considering I don't have money, or cooking skills, or anything else going for me. I just fuck like a woman and play guitar and drink like a man.
There's actually quite a few things I do like a man.
I know that's what he loves about me, and it's the knowing that makes me feel he's a deceiver, too.
I know why he likes my body that's just a bit too sinewy for a chick. And the night I dyed my hair all-blonde and cut it the new way, he went wild and we had a night-long Fuck Fest, after which we both could hardly walk. I can't but notice the obvious.
After all, I know who I copied the hair-do from.
He tries his best not to show it, not to yield to it, but he slips all the time. I don't really mind, though. I have no right to. I'm not without fault and I can't cast my stone at him.
We like each other. More, we're in some twisted kind of love. Yet more, we're really good friends.
But it's not his half-smile that I see when I close my eyes. And it's not my name that he whispers in my ear when he comes.
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ANGLE TWO
I can't be what she wants me to be.
That makes me feel like shit. Because I feel for her. She's such a great person. The best woman I ever met. That's true that while every man is a dick, every woman is a bitch; but she - she has the tiniest portion of bitchiness in her of all the women in the world. I owe a lot to her. She hocked her car to bail me out of jail - I mean, no-one has ever done anything like that for me.
And she's beautiful. You just have to look at her for a while to see it. Because she's not pretty - unless some make-up artist does some really good job on her. Oh, she sure is eye-catchy, hundred percent, but that's it. Look again, though. Look some more... watch her for a while... and you'll find you're not able to take your eyes off her. Beauty isn't the fancy lamp and isn't the light inside it - beauty is the mixture of the two, and in her, they're mixed perfectly.
I should know, right? They wrote in some LA paper yesterday that I have impeccable taste. He laughed his slutty little ass off. I didn't tell him he could take it as a compliment to himself. I held back. But just barely.
There she sits, hugging the neck of her guitar, her stare stuck in the middle of nowhere. Memories. Such moments make me hate myself. She's lost in her past. I can't keep her in the now. I don't have the devotion.
Have to talk to her. To do something.
"You okay, Lita?"
"Yep. Just thinking."
"Gotta joint to share?"
"Sure, man. Here you are."
"Love ya, baby!"
Girl, girl, I'm lying to you. I'm not being faithful to you.
Wasn't since Day One.
The chicks I stopped keeping count of aren't the case. They truly don't count, because they're just my reward. The salary I get in flesh. I never remember their names. Or if I do, I don't care about them.
But there's someone who's getting my care. My concern, my thoughts, my mind, my soul. My fucking libido.
And it's not you, Lita, sorry. It's not you.
The smoke seems too bitter in my mouth, too thick in my lungs.
She must be aware of all this shit. She's not dumb and neither is she blind. And I just keep making mistakes. So she probably knows. I think that's why she cut her hair and dyed it so fucking white. She had beautiful hair, it was a sin to cut it... but she did, and I practically wet myself when she did that, and she saw it all.
You know what she does when I've been good and she wants to give me a little present? She corners me somewhere when we're out, just gets me in the corner, drops to her knees and sucks me off. And she never ever takes the jacket off while giving head. Because she knows I get off on it. This way I don't see her tits or anything - just blonde hair, black leather and blue denim. And I love it when she does it. I live for these moments.
She knows.
But she doesn't speak up, and I know why.
I'm not quite what she needs either.
I owe her. I hate to be obliged and I usually don't care much for my obligations, but she's one person I want to pay my dues to. And so I try to make it up to her - when I'm not too fucked up to bother.
But I can eat her out all I want. I still won't be what she wants me to be, the one she really wants to be there when she's yanking on a handful of my hair and screaming.
I can never be a woman.
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ANGLE THREE
I don't like her. She's not my kind. Oh, I do like her as a friend, and I like her even more when she buys us beer or shares her Quaaludes. But she's not my type of chick. Too little of tits and too much of wits for my liking. I don't appreciate that.
In chicks, I don't.
Besides, I don't like getting involved with girls who work in the music industry. They're all dead set on proving something, I get an overdose of attitude every time. I don't need that. I need a chick who'll help me take my boots off when I'm drunk and will let me fuck the shit out of her when I want to.
So I'd never want to even lay her.
But I get so inexplicably jealous whenever I see them together.
There they are, at the window. She clutches at her guitar as if it were her last bottle of whisky, and he's smoking a joint. They aren't even talking, but they seem a unity. An item. As if they shared some gruesome secret no-one else knows.
I feel a sharp pang of pain shoot through me.
I'm jealous.
I wish I could play guitar, too. I tried learning it, but it's not my thing. Maybe if I could do something well, he'd think I'm special, too. He talks so much about her, how she can play a solo, or how she writes songs. He's also a songwriter, and it makes them closer, I guess. He wrote a song about her.
No-one ever wrote a song about me.
I don't seem special to him. All he tells me these days is "Hit the notes, dammit" and "Just being pretty won't make you a good singer". Yeah, chicks think I'm pretty, and what of it? I used to think it was a big deal, too, but now I know it's not. It's not, when you can't make the one you need even look at you.
I can't make... who?
I-- I don't know.
I don't want to know.
But I'm so fucking jealous.
And I'm just standing there in the corner, not swigging Jack or fucking some horny groupie bitch who couldn't care less if I can hit a note. No, I'm standing there, watching them. Can't miss the opportunity to torture myself. He leans over to her, and his black hair mingles with her blonde strands.
I even have a better dye, fuck it.
Oh, she's good. But he deserves better.
Fuck, I don't know why I even care. I should fuckin' hate the man. He seems to have a personal grudge against me, the way he's always picking on me, the way he won't let me be. Seems like he despises me for the sheer fact of my existence.
But I don't hate him.
I only wish he liked me a little more.
He takes her hand and pulls it off the guitar, smiling. She smiles back, stirred from thought. He's got large hands. I at times wonder if my hand would look as petite clasped between his palms as I look next to him in all the pictures... Hers doesn't. She got big hands. Rough, I bet. Not pretty.
I don't like her one bit.
Then why am I so god damn jealous?