Paper Doll


At Lisa's less than gentle prodding, I've finally figured out this story.


The first time, the very first time I fucked a musican, it was on a leather-seated tour bus belonging to one of those oh-so-famous Nebraska bands with thier surly mouthed sound technician. The sun was rising over the ocean, and I was but a few blocks from my house, right off Collins, fucking some kid in an empty tour bus as all of the band members lay asleep, right inside, at the Holiday Inn. I was twenty-two, it was April, he was number 15, and I still contend to this day that that band sucks. Even little Phil cannot persuade me otherwise.
A few months later, I fell in love with a musician.

Much like many others I have known since then, he fucked me beautifully like I was not me. He fucked me with so much care for something he wanted so badly that I could never offer, and starting with that very first time I pretended it was me he was seeing when his nose was inches from mine with my fingertips on his cheek. The worst part is, I will never know if this is not true.

It seems true now, though. It seems true with all of them, whether I loved them or no.

There was so much pretending with all of them--like the John's who I pretended were not bandmates, the first of which I pretended didn't love me and the second I pretended I loved. There were some I pretended I was going to call--promised, in fact. With the drummers, I always pretendded I was okay wth the callous way they treated me, both emotionally and physically.

There was one boy--one fucking boy that for me, was the absolute last straw, and he hit way to close to home, and was beautiful and soft spoken and tall and thin and he touched me like he wanted so fucking badly to love me, and yet he never cradled me with quite the same way he held her.

Unless we were absolutely alone, with the lights off, his fucking guitar was in his lap where I should be, nay, where I needed to be, yet when the tables were turned and I was the fucking one jarred from sleep at one, three, five in the fucking morning, I would be expected to traipse over to his Hayes Valley apartment to let him fuck me like I was some other girl he missed so fucking much. I was always expected to shelve my proverbial guitars for them, to hand them over so they may play me songs of thier liking while I am still and silent. While I am obedient. While I play thier perfect princess.

What I mean from all of this is that from all the voices I have found in my lifetime, I have not yet found one I'd like to let stand up to even one pretty boy's pretty guitar.

I'm still too scared.

[p.s. to Hunts--I don't know if I've ever really thanked you for helping to pick up all my pieces and plant me squarely on a barstool that fall. Thanks.
p.p.s. to Lisa--It's been so built up--see, now you think it sucks, no? Man, you gotta let me figure out my stories in my own time, haha. Oh, and on a side note, I finally made out with that guy James on Saturday. Funnily enough, I think I might be over it now.]

1 comment:

lisa said...

Nothing you write sucks, dear. It never will. We adore you. P.S. add green jello shots to Makers as things that should not touch my lips. arrrggghhhhh!