SOME KINDS OF SOLITUDE ARE MEASURED OUT IN YOUAs I trace the line that subtly runs from your collarbone to your groin, I wonder how much of this is an act, how much of this you create just to confuse, to befuddle, to manipulate. Is it just because you think that no one would listen to you if you weren�t perceived as vain? You have yourself stated that you were always a fashion bitch, but how much of that is true? Can a fourth grade fascination with girls and their lipgloss really translate into a desire as an adult to going against cultural expectations and putting on makeup yourself?
Once you received money, you spent it on luxuries...but if one pays enough attention, one realizes that your wardrobe recycles itself, the same outfits appear time and again, the mesh shirts you wear grow ratty and torn, is that why you don�t wear the white one anymore? It didn�t take looking at the huge rip in the right forearm in one of those pullouts from Circus to discover that you weren�t made of money. In truth, you disappear between the flurry of publicity that announces a new album, a new obsession, a new video. You have begun avoiding the fans, avoiding signing autographs, while everyone else grins and bears it. Is it because if they looked right at you, it would be hard to deny that you don�t exist? That, outside the sex appeal and cocky attitude, you are nothing? Everyone assumes it�s drugs, and, in part, that might be true. Even I, your supposed best friend (if one believes what everyone else says), don�t know how much you do, how much you want to do, and how much money you spend on it.
You shift slightly and whine a bit about how long it�s taking. I say nothing, you don�t deserve to have this finished quickly. Does anyone notice how you seem to always fill the quiet in interviews? That when there�s a lull, there you are, opening your mouth? That might make you appear to be an outgoing and adventurous person, but it also reveals that you are uncomfortable with long pauses in conversations, that when Ryan or Amir won�t say anything, you feel that you have to, you have to force yourself to contribute because that�s what the front man of a band does. I prefer to say nothing unless they say something to me. We are different in our shyness, you fill it, I let it linger. Your whole manner in answering bespeaks of a great uneasiness. Very rarely do you meet the interviewer�s eyes, you always bite your bottom lip and shake your head, nervous tics that I noticed and thought were cute. You�re not like that in private, with people you know.
My tongue meets your nipple and carries its imprint, you moan. With people you know you say as much as you want to, you act like you truly think you are...and it doesn�t look anything like the way you are in public. I understand, it�s true for me as well, it just intrigues me. Ryan is very transparent, one can almost tell instantly that he�s one person, not layers. Amir and Bobby are enigmas to me, but I don�t really care as much about their inner lives as I do about yours. Bite down on the extra flesh and your hands on my head tighten as you whimper.
�Paige...� you say softly. I say nothing in reply. In my head I have sworn to be silent while I make you hard for me, while I turn you into nothing. Your tongue sticks out slightly in your expression of dissatisfaction. Lips that pout more often than they smile. �I want you.� you finish, eyes flaring with dormant lust. Lust that you never show with groupies, they�re just strangers who have an interest in what fills your pants, things to be used and who use you. I am something different, I am someone you know, someone you wish you had known forever, someone that you might run off with and never come back...or die for. I know I would die for you, even if you wouldn�t for me. With me, there is always the possibility that I won�t do it, that I won�t succumb to your charms, because I have seen you use them, I have watched as you made others crumble in your presence and beg for you to fuck them. I have seen you refuse, I have seen you accept. And that doesn�t bother me. Because you have seen me do the same.
Finally you win out and I begin the descent to your cock, your cock which is so very hard and so very impatient. I let my mouth surround it, let my tongue caress it, my hands holding you down while you half-heartedly struggle against me. You know that you can�t thrust unless I let you. And, even though it is your special day, I�m not going to let you just yet. �Please?� you ask finally after moaning in utter ecstasy. I slowly slide my hands off of you and you close your eyes in relief. I take you in fully, remembering that I never could get used to this sensation of something in my mouth, something that wouldn�t stay there, something that belonged to someone else, that gave someone else pleasure. Ignore my own cock, that can wait until after you�ve screamed in abandon, shown some true emotion, and kissed me. Your mouth falls open and you moan , your throat an ivory column of desire. Your lips still stained with the crimson lipgloss from the party earlier. I dragged you away, we must be together to celebrate...celebrate because after this for a few brief months we will be the same age, in years if not months, days, minutes, seconds. Am I allowed to dominate you because I�m older, wiser? No, you don�t take any shit from Amir... Then again, no one takes any shit from Amir. You hold your eyes shut, I have never seen them as hazel, they were always brown to me. Was that just something you started because you didn�t want to be plain? Brown eyes will never be plain to me.
You orgasm, panting my name. I suck your fluids dry, then lick my way back up your chest to your mouth. Still gasping, you grab me with your arms and kiss me passionately, devouring my lips, my tongue with your heat. Your eyes are still heavily lidded when I pull back, but you smile when you see me. I can�t forget that you said nothing when I cut my hair, you just accepted it because I like it, you saved your teasing until after you defended me from everyone else�s asinine comments. Run my thumbs over your eyebrows, wishing that you would just let them grow normally. But I accept that. It�s part of what makes you what you are.
You reach for the table beside the bed, the lube that lies there. You�re impatient, and so am I. I take it from you and straddle you, enjoying the look of pure anticipation that plays across your face before I insert my finger inside you, spinning circles until I reach your prostate. Grip clenched on the bed, face contorted in expressions of joy, you beg me to do something more, to fuck you harder. I work in another finger, watching as you come unhinged and turn into a creature of total pleasure. Finally you beg for me, beg for me to fuck you, to stop teasing.
I obey your command, and slide my cock into your fiery heat. You are still so tight, muscles clench like a vise over me, but I love this, I love you. Pain still dots your features, but you are a masochist, you like that. The whips and chains are in the closet because I didn�t think it would be appropriate for your birthday to beat you bloody. Not that you wouldn�t have liked it. Your legs surround me and you kiss me hungrily, nibbling on my lips, trying to get me to thrust. I like these moments when we are entwined and there is nothing between us, where neither of us is in control, and lust hasn�t carried us away. But my body snaps before my mind, and it drives for the greatest pleasure in the least amount of time. You howl for more, so unshy about begging and expressing your appreciation when you�re in bed, so clammed up out of it. I moan your name, you groan mine, it makes a symphony of love and hate all in one. You hate me for what I make you do, I hate you for making me do it. The act is the one thing we love equally.
I orgasm first, then you. We lie there for a few more minutes, breathing heavily and exploring each other�s bodies, then curl up side by side. Enter sleep with our arms around each other. �Happy Birthday Jay.� I whisper before sleep drags me off.