genderFucked.

I. ”you're pretty.“ the words spill from his chapped lips like vomit, as if he had meant it to be an insult, and for a moment you just want to actually vomit, chuck out the fat amongst all the pretties, paint the bathroom porcelain in a new version of the rainbow (green-brown-green-yellow-green-brown-green), get it all out until there's nothing but bones and skin and muscle and man. nothing but a handsome.

III. the first time you fuck him, it's a lot different from what either of you had expected, there's none of the awkward glaring and stupid questions. all that you had wanted was talk (and now that you think back, you don't even remember why) – but all of all sudden, you were on your back, and then there was skin on skin and hands in places and tab a went into slot b. (you went home later that night to puke, to purge out all of the beautifuls, all the baby girls, all the pussys, all those hands in places where they don't belong.)

V. it takes another few weeks until you fuck him again. this time, he's drunk, and the whole process of add bed-subtract clothes-tab a-slot b goes over a lot less awkward than the first time. you wind up falling asleep in his arms, but not before 'officially' declaring him your boyfriend. thinking back now, you kind of wish you had been drunk that night as well; at least, it would have given you an excuse to call it off right away.

VII. sometimes, you would watch yourself dress in the mirror, watch yourself transform from woman to man ever so slowly, and just the thought of seeing the right person staring back at you would make you incredibly happy. (sometimes, he would also watch you dress, and just the thought of him glancing at your half-naked body, the feeling of his eyes tracing every single curve would make you sick; it would all remind you that this was nothing but an elaborate masquerade.)

IX. it's about two years after that fuck when you first start questioning why you're still with him, or perhaps that should be why you haven't left him yet; since there is no “with him”, all there is is he. he and an illusion of the girlfriend you aren't. and you think about the things he says, the ones about pretty girls and cunts and tits and other four letter words, and no matter how much the thought of this hurts, all you can think is how somehow this is much more desirable than the idea of being alone.

XI. the room is dark, but your eyes are closed either way; small groans are leaving his mouth, and you can smell his skin. “does this”, you say, mainly as an excuse to take a deep breath, “does this feel good?” he smiles and pushes you towards him, running a hand across the back of your head. “you look so beautiful like this, baby, you know”, he mumbles and leans back, and with every word the idea of just biting down gets more and more tempting.

XIII. “so.. when did this start? you know, the whole thing?”, he asks, and just by the way he uses his words you can tell that his heart isn't really in it. you think back, back to way before, before him, and the memories are just as vivid as the actual experience, and you can almost feel the blood on your hands and almost smell the smell of vomit and something else you'd rather not think about. you swallow. “i don't remember”, you say, and judged by the look on his face he actually believes you.

XV. your head is spinning when you throw your bags onto the backseat, and you can't tell which part is from excitement and which is from the vodka, but your hands are completely calm when you put them onto the steering wheel, like it was made just for you to hold onto. the streets are dark and wet from the rain underneath the wheels, but you've never felt this comfortable in your life, and the speed goes up up up up up 70 80 90 mph and beyond, far beyond. and as you feel the bright white of the headlights coming closer and closer you can't help but think that you've made the right decision.

watch the ghosts dance

I. the lights are bright and the night is young and filled with noises.
he is beautiful, unexplored, different. he doesn't do, all of all sudden he just is.
and what he is is fascinating. (and you're not sure in which way.)
his voice is soft and shaky when he speaks, and the words fit into him
way too perfectly, like they were made to be spilled from his lips.

II. his eyes are warm when they lock with yours, and his fingers slide
into the creases between yours a little too perfectly, like a lock and key.
and still he is fascinating magnificent beautiful, like the first time. he laughs,
and his breath tastes like hot coffee and the sound of 'forever' when he's the
one saying it. "forever", you say, but it doesn't sound nearly as pretty.

III. "nat", he says, his voice is scratchy and smells like sticky summer air, but it's
still far more beautiful than anything you could ever say. "yes?" "i can't sleep."
you sigh and shift on the matress until there's enough room for the two of you,
and even though the room is dark his smile is still bright and perfect when he
crawls in next to you, and his body is soft and strong and cold and hot at once.

IV. the night is cold and wet, with snowflakes pouncing against the windows and
the lingering cold extending its fingers through the open window. he is curled up
against you, his hot breath against your chest, and his fingers are threaded
together with yours. "nat?", he asks, "can i tell you a secret?" and before you
find the time to nod, he whispers, "i have a little girl in my head."

V. there is a pause. you both just sit there for a second, and it is now that you
notice the blank stare in his eyes, and all of all sudden his hand seems to be
just as cold and clammy as the air outside. he tightens his grip on your fingers,
as if he was scared you'd run away. "sometimes, she sings to me", he continues,
and before you can say anything your lips meet and he tastes like perfection
(if perfection and stale beer taste anything alike).

VI. his body is warm and firm and sweaty and perfect all over you, and it's almost
funny how perfectly he fits against you. "nat", he says, his voice caught somewhere
between a moan and a sigh, "nat, this is so perfect." and you nod and laugh,
and just because the way he says your name is nearly as perfect as this, you
kiss him, and the moment is almost perfect until you realize how much he tastes like sickness.

VII. it's only a matter of a few months until the two of you end up lying on the sofa,
him sprawled out against you, and this time your fingers aren't interlaced.
"nat, i'm sorry", he says, "i'm sorry", once again, and now there is no trace of
perfection left in his words, all there is left is a big hole, and you're not sure if
it's always been there. "you don't need to apologize", you say, because he doesn't.

that is the moment when you realize that she'd stopped singing.

the one with the backseat

The first time we met, he signed his name onto the back of my hand in dark green marker – Alec Jamais, “with one A, one L, one E, one C and no X,” he added, and jamais like the French word for never. (Years after, I'll find out that it's actually Jamesson, but he claims it reminds him too much of bad actors and breast implants.)

I barely call him by his given name though; whenever we meet, it always starts with “love”, to then progress into “harder”, “fuck” or “do that again”, to then end with a single moan.

In turn, he starts out with calling me his favorite pretty boy, which is soon replaced by “greedy little slut”, and then eventually leads to pseudo-endearments like “you're amazing” or “I fucking love you”, but both of us know that they're just empty words mumbled against the shell of my ear.

His skin is cold and paper thin beneath my hands, and his ribs make small bumps under my fingertips as I let them brush down his chest, rib rib rib nipple rib rib rib rib rib. He calls me a whore when I shove a hand into his briefs, but the expression on his face and the raspy low moans spilling from his lips when I replace my fingers with my mouth all make up for it, and the contrast of my pale, freckly hands against the caramel color of the skin stretching across his hipbones is almost pretty enough to help me ignore the moment when he tells me to roll over before pushing in.

He kisses me a lot, but it's never on the lips, but instead all over my cheeks, neck and collarbone, and whenever we fuck, he sprinkles tiny bites all over my shoulders and down my spine. Sometimes, after we parted, I'd stand with my back to the mirror and look at them over my shoulder, playing mental connect-the-dots and trying to find a greater picture in the small red scabs, a heart on my shoulder and a huge lightning bolt squeezed into the space between my shoulder blades, right below the small crescent moon at the base of my neck.

His skin makes a sharp contrast to mine yet again whenever he runs his hands up and down my chest and sides, grasping at tits we both knew weren't there, and that's usually the point when I dart my tongue out and lick a long stripe of saliva up his throat, and that's when his grip on me would tighten and small gasps would leave his throat, and just hearing that got me more and more excited every single time. He'd tell me not to stop, and I'd move my mouth further and further downwards, his previously cool skin now boiling hot and glazed with sweat, and oftentimes I'd try to sneak my tongue into his mouth, just to see whether he tasted this good on the inside as well, kind of salty, kind of sweet, and definitely hot.

The first time we have sex is less than 24 hours after our first encounter. It's not particularly romantic or thoughtful, and now that I look back onto it I can't even remember how we got there, but somehow we had ended up in the back of his car, in a parking lot outside the local fast food place. The sex itself was rather awkward and really uncomfortable – like the backseat of a Volkswagen – but after the initial moments of shock, it started to feel good. Incredibly good. And so, we kept doing it over the summer. Same parking lot, same time, same car, same sex, same Alec-and-Loren.

After we'd finish, we'd usually just clean ourselves up before he would curl up against me and whisper nothings against my ear, sweet ones and not-so-sweet ones, and in all honesty, some of the words slipping from his lips were dirty enough to make me want to fuck him once again (and again and again andagainandagainand). I'd never say anything though, just run my hand up and down his side, rib rib rib nipple rib rib rib rib rib, and the world would be sunshine-and-rainbows perfect for a few seconds, just between him and I and the ratty old upholstery, neverminding the fact where we only knew each other's names and license plates.

echoes and mirrors and .

. . .

.and i say, "what's up",
and i really mean,
"i really like your eyes"

"nothing", he says and
he really means,
"too much for both of us"

.and i say, "i'm bored",
but in all honesty,
i just want to hear you

"me too", he says and
i know that
he just wants an excuse

.and i say, "let's fuck",
but really i think,
"i just want to have you"

"okay", he says and
he thinks,
"tab ay -> slot bee"

.and i say, "take it off",
and at that,
i just want to faint

he takes it off and
he knows,
he can't hide anymore

.and i think, "be still"
but it won't,
my heart keeps fluttering

"butterflies are for girls",
he says but
i don't care anymore

.

he.

"you're such a slut, and you know it", he hisses, balling his hands into fists and clutching the ends of his sleeves. i just shrug, then look down onto our feet standing side by side on the concrete, green with pink laces next to checkered grey, and i should probably say something now, but it's not like that would fix anything.

"yeah, like you're one to talk", i mumble, and as soon as the words leave my mouth i just want to eat them or smash them with a hammer and then pretend they were never spoken in the first place, because holy shit, that came out way more hateful than i had intended it to. for a few seconds there's silence, before he turns his head to look at me and whisper "shut up", and if i didn't know any better i'd guess that his eyes are filling with tears.

his fingers tighten around the fabric, and honestly, he looks so small and vulnerable as he's standing there that i get the urge to just wrap my arms around him and kiss him, kiss his tears away and hold him like they do in romantic movies, but instead i just settle for wrapping one arm around his shoulders and pulling him close, and that's when the first few droplets hit me, but i can't tell which are from him crying against my shoulder and which are from the rain.

the muscles in his upper arms convulse once, twice, before he pulls away and bites his lips. "i fucking hate you, you know that", he mumbles, but judged by the tone in his voice he doesn't mean it, and now i can see the make-up run down his cheeks. i tighten my grip around him once again, then wrap my other arm around him as well, and this time he just leans into me, and really, if it's possible for a moment to be absolutely perfect this is definitely it.

we just stand there in silence for a few seconds, before he finally speaks up. "i'm okay", he mumbles, and the spiteful tone in his voice has completely disappeared now, instead replaced by a tiny, raspy whisper. he moves his arms to wrap them around me, and that's when i just have to bend down to kiss him. his eyes pop open out of surprise when our mouths meet, but after a few split seconds his lips part under mine, and whoever claimed that kissing the one you love tastes like rainbows and sugar was wrong, because he tastes more like cheap salty fries and blood, but really, i couldn't care less.

"i'm not a slut", i mumble a few seconds after we break apart, and at that he just turns his head in disbelief. "yeah, right."

soundtrack of a summer night.

ring.
"whitehall residence?", you ask as you pick up.
"kid?", his soft voice comes from the telephone receiver.
"lee?"
"yeah?"
"don't call me kid"
"well, it suits you"
"whatever"
"i'm sorry"
"shut up"
a pause.
"jamie?", he asks.
"what now?"
"i'm bored"
"nice for you"
"entertain me"
"don't feel like it"
a really long pause.
"lee? you still there?", you ask.
"yeah"
"alright"
"so.. what're you doing?"
"not much.. how 'bout you?"
"not much either"
"oh"
"you know, i'm kinda horny"
"...nice"
"wanna have sex?"
"not really"
"aw, c'mon"
"no"
"listen, it's two a.m. and i have a boner, what's a guy to do"
"wank?"
"it's more fun when it's with you"
"i already told you, i'm not in the mood"
"what, do you have a headache or something?"
pause.
you lean back, how could a single person even be this annoying.. and how could someone this annoying even be your boyfriend? well, of course, there were those arms. and eyes. and those legs, especially when they were wrapped around your waist, and at that thought you can feel your pants tightening. damn it.
"alright, come over." you sigh.
"i knew it", he chuckles.
"shut up, it's not my fault you get me all hot and bothered"
"it is, because you love me"
"shut up, i just love you for your body either way", you say, obviously sarcastic.
"you're such a whore"
"and you're not, huh?"
pause
"not really, no", he says, but judged by the tone of his voice he's amused by the concept.
"well, you definitely sounded like one when i sucked you off last night"
"oh, shut up, i'm coming over.. gonna have to teach you who's boss"
"alright", you chuckle
silence, beep. he hung up.

piano keys

10. i remember the first time i saw him, the way he moved, the way he laughed, the way his lips would open and close, drawing words into the air surrounding him, and how his hands would talk as well, painting pictures to go along. i was too young to know it back then, but that moment was when i first fell in love with him.

09. the day we first spoke, we were just walking around the neighborhood, kicking a can of soda around between us, and he told me about piano music, how it was able to move people, how just a simple tune could provoke incredibly deep feelings.

that day, i bought a handful of piano records, and all i could think of while listening was him.

08. the first time we kissed, we were sitting on the ratty couch in his parents' house, playing video games like we always did. i remember how he was talking about keys, piano keys, and how beautiful they were. he kept going on about music, and how it wasn't the most important part in piano. he just seemed so enthusiastic. i was able to hear the music right in my head, just by the way his voice described it, and his eyes were sparkling with adoration while he talked, and in all honesty, he looked so beautiful that i just had to lean in and kiss him. he pulled away at first, telling me how wrong this was, and how boys shouldn't kiss other boys, but either way i kissed him again, and he kissed back.

07. we officially started being in a "relationship" after moving into our own apartment at 16. it wasn't very great, and there wasn't enough room for either of us, but at least there was something. in exchange for that, the sex was great, and i loved being fucked to the sound of his piano records.

06. it's safe to say that we just weren't meant to be, and so it wasn't that much of a surprise when he told me that he just wanted to take a break.

05. a few weeks after our break-up, he told me he was dating a pianist. my reaction would probably have been more than just a nod if i had noticed the bruises on his arms, and the way his words had lost their magic, how they couldn't paint pictures anymore, how they were nothing but simple words by now.

04. we continued to share the apartment after that, but now he'd stay at the pianist's house much more frequently, and whenever he returned, he'd tell me about the pianist's hands, and about how amazing they felt on his skin, and about the even more amazing music they'd play just for him, and while he told me about those things his voice was more beautiful than ever, describing everything in great detail while only using a few words, and all i could envision during conversations like these was him making love to the pianist.

whenever he didn't return home, i'd light a piano record on fire.

03. we started fighting more and more after his and the pianist's relationship got "intense", and usually it was because of the dark bruises all over his body and the blood stains in his clothes. at first i just took it as a normal thing, but after a while the fights started being more physical, less about actual reasons and more about fighting for the sake of fighting, and after every fight he'd light a match and leave a burn mark on my body, for all the records that i burned, or so he said.

02. after that, things started to go downhill faster and faster. he kept coming home late at night, smelling of cheap liquor and pot more and more frequently, and every time when i felt him curl up naked against me, covered in sweat with semen running down the insides of his legs, he whispered nothings against my ear, but they weren't the sweet type.

01. we eventually started fucking again, but it wasn't the same as before, and now that i think back, maybe i should've noticed the blood and semen trickling out his ass, maybe i should've noticed the cuts and bruises on his face, but all i could think of back then was him telling me how the pianist was much better than i was, over and over again.






































00. they played piano music at his funeral. i couldn't feel anything.