Cecilia, you're breaking my heart

You're shaking my confidence daily

Oh, Cecilia, I'm down on my knees

I'm begging you please to come home

The spell's broken. He's gone. And I still want an answer to my question. Only now I’m pretty sure that I just got one. I turn on the water in the shower and stand there while it runs over me. It's a good ten minutes before I realize that I've washed my hair at least twice already. I lean against the tile, close my eyes and tell myself that he went out for take-out. There's no soap in the soap dish. Just condoms. That's fucking perfect. I leave the warmth of the shower to drip over to the medicine cabinet to get another bar. His pain meds are gone. They were here after dinner. Before we fucked. He hasn’t even taken that shit in months. He doesn’t need them. There are only seven pills left in there, which I know because I took one once after a particularly evil night of indulging and he went off on me. He has no more refills. Stay out of his shit. Queened out all over the place. Like it was oxy or something. But that was ages ago. And they’ve expired anyway. I slam it shut and refuse to look at my face in the mirror. Now or ever.

This is my last bar of soap.

The water cannot get hot enough tonight. I stand there and let it transport me somewhere else, anywhere else—a one way ticket to any-the-fuck-where else. But every time I get there, I end up buying a round trip ticket right back to where-the-fuck-I-am. Finally, I shut off the water, wanting to get out, dry off, and think about what to do. Only I can’t. I sink to the bottom of the shower and just stare at the hinge on the shower door. I feel like I felt when he was out with Cody, only much, much worse. Because at least then I knew he wanted to come back. Why did I take a shower? Now, I can’t even smell him anymore. He's been gone for an hour, tops.

I don’t want to walk back into the bedroom, but eventually I’ve done everything in the bathroom that I can do. My hair's dry. Every part of me looks good and smells good and feels smooth and is prepared to go Babylon, except that I'm naked. I have to go in there to get clothes. I open the sliding door and try not to even look at the bed or the wadded up pile of dark blue sheets in the corner. Or the shattered clock on the floor. I glance at my cell phone to see what time it is. He hasn’t called. He’s probably at Daphne’s or worse. I’ll go to Babylon, have a few drinks, enjoy the scenery. I don’t know what the fuck else to do. I shut the door to my loft and take the stairs. I can’t look at anything but my boots on the way down. Flight after flight. I’ll go back up. Leave him a note. Fuck it, that’s what cell phones are for. I push open the door of my building and the first thing I see is him. What the fuck?

He's leaning against my car. Smoking a cigarette. I don’t understand the expression on his face. Has he been standing there this whole time?

“Get in.” Get in? I can’t hide the relief on my face. I want to, but I can’t.

“Where've you been?” I sound like a nagging wife. I sound like Michael.

“Just get in.” I don’t like his tone.

“Shouldn’t you be over at Michael’s, reaming him out?” Why am I picking a fight with him?

“Been there, done that.” Oh, great. I'm going to hear about this. I acquiesce.

We get in my car and I watch him behind the wheel. His jaw's firm. He looks determined, like he looked those nights when he went out with the posse. I really don’t want him driving my car, especially since it's getting ready to start raining.

He throws the first punch.

“You took a shower.” Artists are observant.

“You took a hike.” I'm honest.

“You fucked me like a high school girl on prom night and then provoked me on purpose.” Sometimes observation is overrated.

“Not on purpose.” If he wants to play rough, I can play rough.

“You never do anything that isn’t on purpose, Brian. From the night you met me under that streetlight, everything you’ve done has been on purpose.”

“That isn’t true.” I swallow hard. That really isn’t true. I don’t think I can convince him of that right now, or myself, but that really isn’t true. He’s also stolen part of it …..

We ride in silence for a few minutes. I look out my window as the storefronts go by; my thoughts retreating into places they haven’t been in a long time. Some of them standing in front of St. James Academy the morning after our first night together, some of them with me as I regretfully walked alone into the hotel that night in my tux, some of them leaning against me as I leaned against him as he leaned against my jeep. I make them stop there. I always make them stop there. My mind's a thousand miles away. I don’t think I even realize that he's talking to me.

“Brian.”

“Brian.” I turn my face from the window, but I don’t face him completely. I don’t want him to see my face right now.

“You were right you know. About what you said earlier when we were in bed.”

“I was right about what? That you’re leaving?” I wish I knew where we were going. I wish I didn’t sound like an asshole.

“That, too. But that’s not what I mean. You were right when you said you thought you hurt me. You did.”

“I’m sorry. You should have stopped me.” Yeah, that’s good, it’s his fault.

“Don’t be obtuse, Brian.” I stop pretending that I don’t know what he means.

“Where are we going? Inspiration point?” I ask him this as he merges onto the freeway. He ignores my sarcasm.

“We’re just driving. Okay? I need to process.” He’s at the speed limit.

“And I’m here because…?” I'm having a hard time not driving, literally and figuratively.

“Because sometime in the next few hours some important shit's going to come out of my mouth, and I need you to be around when I say it. Hand me my bag. It’s in the back.”

I hand him his bag. He pulls out a small sketch pad, a pencil, and throws cds on the dashboard. I stuff the bag by my feet. I don’t even think I’ve been a passenger in my own car before. I watch him closely as he puts the sketch pad on his left leg and the pencil in his left hand. He’s not left handed.

I really don’t want to interrupt him at first because I think I recognize the state he’s in. It kind of looks like the same state I’m in when I’m in the back room and some nameless trick is sucking my dick. I can hover outside myself for a few minutes--if I’m lucky--if Michael doesn’t come interrupt me and break my flow. But unlike that, this seems dangerous.

“You’re going to draw, while you’re driving, with your left hand?” The fuck he is. Of all the deaths I’ve planned for myself, not one scenario plays out like this.

“I have to do this right now. It’s not drawing; it’s pre-drawing. And I’m ambi-dexterous. You know that.”

“Please don’t kill us tonight. And what the fuck's pre-drawing?”

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t?”

“I’ll give you two. First, if we die tonight, my will stands as it is, and you’ll get nothing. Two, I haven’t gotten around to asking Jesus for my eternal salvation. So, if we die tonight, you are I are in separate beds for all of eternity.” All of that's true.

“Yeah, well, the first one’s compelling. The second’s a given. You know what pre-writing is. Same thing. When there are a lot of ideas in my head, I have to do this. So I don’t lose them.” I’m afraid to look at that sketch pad right now. “Put on some music. Put that blue cd in. That one that Daphne made me.”

“What is it?”

“It’s just a mix.” I put it in, letting the music fill the void between us for a minute. I don’t even really pay attention to what it is. At this point, I think I’m just relieved that it’s not Highway to Hell. I light a cigarette and offer it to him. He declines. It’s not like he has a free hand to smoke it with anyway.

We ride in silence for a few more minutes. I continue to watch him. He watches the road. I think I’ve seen him like this before, maybe. He’s frustrated like when he got back from taking care of that Bewitched guy. Darren? But more focused. He looks at the road and then back at his sketch pad. A glance up. A glance down. Back and forth. Back and forth. He flips the page. I feel like I’m watching a movie. A movie I shouldn’t be watching. Like one of those indie films that they hype the shit out of but then they only release in NY and L.A. Fuck L.A. right now. I try paying attention to the music. Try to get comfortable in my seat.

You see 'em comin' at you every night

Strung on pretension they fall for you at first sight

That’s what I need right now. Fucking Billy Squier. Squire? Can’t remember. What is this shit we’re listening to? Now I want to know.

You know their business--you think it's a bore

They make you restless--it's nothin' you ain't seen before

“What the fuck are we listening to?”

You crave attention--you can never say "no"

Throw your affections anyway the wind blows

I grab the cd case off the dashboard and start to read the playlist—out loud. “Your’e So Vain, Heartache Tonight, Don’t Bring Me Down, Hungry Like the Wolf, Bad Reputation by Halfcocked? Is that a joke? Everybody Wants You. What is this crap? Songs in the key of Brian?”

You always make it--you're on top of the scene

You sell the copy like the cover of a magazine

“Maybe the song’s not about you Brian. Maybe it’s about me.”

Everybody knows you

Everybody snows you

Everybody needs you...leads you...bleeds you

That’s what I’m afraid of.

You got your glory--you paid for it all

You take your pension in loneliness and alcohol

Daphne made this my ass.

The more you understand, seems the more like you do

You never get away...everybody wants you

“Surely you’ve got something better than this in your bag of tricks Sunshine.”

He ignores me and speeds up. I start rummaging through the glove compartment, looking for my dictaphone. Okay. Ted’s dictaphone. I have this idea that I could offer it to him. That he could record his ideas on this instead of drawing and driving at the same time. It’s what I do in the car when I have campaign ideas in my head. I finally find it and a blank tape and offer it to him. A peace offering of sorts.

“Here. Why don’t you use this? You can record your ideas on this instead of writing them down. It’s voice activated. It’s safer.” I want you safe. “Here.”

“I don’t want that.”

“Will you at least give it a try?”

“I don’t want to. I don’t want to say my ideas out loud. My ideas aren’t oral. I don’t know if you can understand that, but they’re just not.”

“Well, what you’re doing isn’t safe. I think you should just try it and see. Just put it on the dash here--.”

“WOULD YOU PUT THAT FUCKING THING AWAY?!.” He finally looks at me. The dictaphone hits the front windshield, and all but shatters. Piece of shit.

I turn the music off and find the nerve to re-start the conversation after two exits.

“I guess we should talk.”

“You think?” Sarcasm.

“I shouldn’t have said what I said or how I said it.” A cloud passes over his face as I admit this to him. Apparently, I do apologies and regrets on special occasions. He looks straight ahead, but his words are anything but.

“Do you know what I felt like when you said that to me? When you asked me that like that? I felt like adog Brian. Like a fucking dog.”

I don’t understand, but I listen. I listen to him and the pounding rain. They're both getting more intense, as if competing for my attention.

“Have you ever given medicine to a dog, Brian? That’s the way you do things sometimes. You just come up to people that you know love you, give them what you think they need and then hold their mouths shut until they swallow it.”

Jesus Christ. I don’t say anything. He’s speeding up again. His hands aren’t drawing anymore. They are hardly driving. Mostly, they're gesturing wildly. I could have left the music on. You could hear him in L.A. right now.

“And you were wrong about what I needed. You know what I needed? I needed to tell you in my own way—in my own time that I was leaving. And you snatched it away from me. You won’t let me show you that I love you. You won’t let me even know that you have fucking cancer—that you are having a fucking testicle removed—and then you some how find out about my job offer and don’t even give me a fucking chance to tell you in my own way. What thefuck is wrong with you?”

I love you? Please stop this car.

“You think that I'm just some yo-yo fuck toy that you can yank around. Pull him close when you need him. Toss him back when you don’t. There are only so many times you can break someone’s heart, Brian. Only so many times. And then all the while, I’m thinking that you must not love me because you act like such a shit, but then I remember everything Brian. And, you know what? That’s the worst fucking thing of all. Because I want you to know that there isnothing worse than being in love with a man who fucks you like you’re the only man on the planet, when you know you’re not; rescues you in a hotel room after you’ve run away on his dime; shows up at your prom and lets everyone know that you are the most beautiful person in your entire school, in the entire world; then lets you set your own rules and then break them; pays for your fucking tuition even after you break up with him; waits for you while you date other people, dance on a bar, and get revenge on your worst enemies; and then lets you use him as the subject for your fucking motion picture that you’re going to have to leave him to make…. There's nothing worse than that Brian. Nothing. Oh god--"

He's right. There's nothing worse than that. His head collapses on top of his arms which are hugging the steering wheel. His sleeves soak up his tears. And this is because of me. Because of what I did or didn’t do or didn’t mean to do.

And I'm helpless again. I don’t know what to do or what to say. I watch the lines in the road go past and try to focus on them. I don’t wait very long because I can’t. We drive under a bridge, and the rain stops for a few seconds, the space we occupy getting eerily quiet. Finally, I just tell him the truth. It’s the only thing I have left.

“Justin, I think we should turn around.” We should turn around.

I put my hand over his hand on the steering wheel, and it's the first time that I feel like I even have the right to touch him since we've embarked on this journey tonight. He doesn’t push me away. I just want to hold him, to make all of this stop, to tell him that I didn’t mean for it to play out like this. I swear to God I didn’t mean for it to play out this way. But I just keep one hand over his on the wheel and another on his shoulder and comfort him the only way I can when he’s furious and sobbing and driving a corvette down a wet highway in the pouring rain at 85 mph in the middle of the night.

He wipes his face on his sleeve and calms down, and I feel like it’s safe to speak again.

“Can we stop somewhere, Justin? I really need to piss.” He laughs and actually smiles.

“There’s a rest stop a couple of miles up. I’ll stop there.”

************************************************************************************************

Finally, the rain's letting up. He gathers his composure, for the most part, and I watch as he pulls off the interstate and into the parking lot. There aren’t many people here tonight, just a few truckers and a random family or two. He kills the engine which makes everything suddenly very still between us, almost spooky. I glance at his face. He's in between places right now, unsure of his destination. His expression looks a lot like the one he wore the first night when I picked him up, only it’s sadder, not as optimistic. I look away. My expression is changing, too.

“Brian?” He isn’t loud anymore. I answer him, but I don’t look at him.

“What?” There's not much to look at out my window, but I’ll manage.

“We have to talk. I mean, I need to talk to you. I have a lot that I need to say. Before I leave and all.” I think he had more he wanted to say right then but couldn’t. And that was okay because I couldn’t either.

“We have time. For all that. We’ll do all that.” I open my car door to signal that I have reached my saturation point. He follows my lead. We start the walk up the sidewalk to the men’s room. He slides his hand in mine. I don’t pull away.

There’s nothing like fluorescent lighting, cleaning solution, and sub-zero temperatures to jar you back into reality. I let the stark environment sober me up a little, let my body feel the relief of an empty bladder. I wash my hands, shake them dry, and wait outside for Justin. There's an old tree that makes a great prop for me to lean against while I smoke and try not to think. I watch the men file in and out of the rest room. Slim pickings tonight. And ugly. He’s taking way too long. I kill my cigarette and go back in.

“Justin?”

“What?”

“Are you almost done?”

“I’ll be out in a minute.” His voice isn’t right.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.” I locate the stall next to the one he’s in and climb on the toilet so I can see into his. He’s not all right. “What are you doing?” He’s standing in there, leaning against the wall, his hands pulled into his sleeves, his face buried in his hands.

“Please get out of there, Brian.” I hop down. “Is there anyone else in here?” he asks me in a vulnerable voice he has that always melts me. I look around. Kick the stalls open. There's no one in here but us right now. I prop a maintenance sign outside the main door and kick it closed.

“No, just us. What’s wrong?” He hasn’t sounded like this since right after the bashing. He's kind of scaring me.

“I’m just kind of freaking out.”

“About what?” I lean against the outside of the stall door. This is absolutely the last place I thought I’d be tonight.

“About everything. I walked in here, in this bright light, and everything looks and feels different. I shouldn’t have said all those things to you. I just feel like a stupid faggot right now, okay? Can you just not make this any worse for me?”

Can I ever not make anything worse?

“You’re not a stupid faggot, Justin.” I listen to see if I could tell if my words mean anything. It's hard to tell. “I mean it. You’re not.” I need to get in there. I need to be with him, right now--not do this through the door of a bathroom stall.

“Yes, I am. And I think I said those things just to hurt you.”

“No, you didn’t. And besides, it’s okay. I can take it. You can say anything to me, okay?” I sigh. There are so many intimate things that Justin and I can do face to face, and there are some that we just can’t. The silver door is cold against my face. I resign myself to leaning against it with my eyes closed and just listening to him. It’s as close as I can get to him right now, so it'll just have to do. “You can say anything you want to say to me, anytime, anywhere, no matter what, okay? Let’s just get that straight.”

“Brian?”

“What?”

“I’m terrified to take this job. I’m afraid to go to L.A. I’m really, really scared to be out there by myself.”

Now we're getting to the bottom of this.

“You shouldn’t be afraid to go. You should be afraid to stay. Will you please come out of there now?”

“I can’t. I don’t want to. I’m really pissed at myself right now, and I don’t want you to see me like this.” He isn’t crying anymore. His voice is calmer. He's starting to sound like the Justin I recognize again. The one who is always trying to right every wrong, no matter whose wrong it is.

“I’ve seen you like everything. It’s a matter of national security that you come out of that stall in the next thirty seconds.” First I'm trapped in my own car, then I'm trapped in a men’s room because he's trapped himself in a stall. Fuck entrapment.

“Why?”

“Because I have something important to tell you Justin, and I don’t want to say it to a cold, crooked door on a bathroom stall in a smelly men’s room at a rest stop in the middle of nowhere in the freezing cold at 1:27 in the morning.”

A row of fluorescent lights dim over my head. I look up just as I hear the stall door click and feel it move.

He lets me in.

The door opens and he's leaning forward writing something on the bathroom wall. I lean in to look.

“What the fuck are you doing? Leaving your number?”

“No, yours.”

I look again at the wall, at the concentration in his hand. There are no numbers on the wall. Instead, there's a sketch of me—from the chest up. More of a caricature really.

“What the fuck?” This isn’t like anything he’s drawn of me lately. My shirt's open, my chest's open, and a heart is revealed—my heart, like a valentine.

“I’m almost done.”

My eyes roam over to the diamond shape construction sign that's connected to my heart. It reads: Pardon our mess. We’re remodeling.

He's right. That is my number.

I lean back against the side of the stall, and all of a sudden this doesn’t seem like such a bad place to be anymore. He puts his pencil behind his ear, and I think I’m going to cream my jeans just from watching him do that. He positions himself between my long legs and leans against me. I feel like a high school senior waiting for a bell to ring.

How can you feel nostalgic for something you never had? I think he can tell what I’m thinking because he remarks about the look on my face.

“You look like the cat that just ate the canary.” I’m trying not to, but he knows when I roll my lips in that he's doing something I can’t resist.

“You drive me crazy when you tuck your pencil behind your ear.” My eyebrow gets in on the act. I have no self-control.

“You mean like this?” He removes it and does it again, only this time his other hand is inside my jeans. He doesn’t play fair. Somebody somewhere must be playing Jack & Diane. I am such a sucker for John Mellencamp.

“Every time I would see you do that at the diner,” I pause for a second to remember it, to smile at him, “it would, um, delay my exit a little. If you know what I mean.” He does. My lips meet his cheek and the pencil meets the floor. It's served its purpose. I kiss his face, his ear, his lips and keep my hand on the back of his head. When I end the kiss, it's slow and soft and warm and a beginning and an ending all at the same time.

“You said there was something important you wanted to tell me. That’s the only reason I let you in here.”

“You made me forget. You put your hand in my pants.”

“Don’t change the subject.” His hand comes out of my pants, but slides under my shirt, which is almost as wonderful, depending on what mood I’m in. I guess I better do this before the bell rings. I lean my head forward so our foreheads are touching and close my eyes for a second. When I finally speak, my eyes are fixed on his.

“I want you to listen to me for a minute, okay?”

“Okay.” He settles against me.

“You said earlier that you feel like a stupid faggot.”

“Uh, huh.”

“You're not a stupid faggot.” I take a long breath and tighten my hold on him. “You are your own man. You have been your own man since the day I met you. And I don’t care if you sleep in my bed, or if you sleep with my dick up your ass, or yours up someone else’s, you are your own man. You are strong, you are smart, and you are beautiful, whether you are here with me or halfway around the world. And you deserve whatever good things come to you in life. Because no matter what happens, Justin, you make my life better. And I don’t want you to forget that.”

I'm silent for a moment because I want my words to sink in. I've never been more serious. I think it takes a minute for him to realize how serious I really am. I watch the very quiet words come out of his mouth.

“I won’t forget it. But you don’t have to do this, not now and not here.” The look of concern on his face almost wounds me. It's the same look he had when we met for the first time after the bashing. He cared so little for himself and worried more about me.

“I’m not done, Justin.”

“Okay.” It’s just a whisper.

“The other day you said that I couldn’t sell the loft because it was the first place we made love or something.”

“Yeah.”

“And I said that that wasn’t love. That I just gave you a rim job and fucked your brains out.”

“Right.”

“Yeah, well, that was then.” And I close my eyes and bury my nose in his hair and just inhale. He doesn’t say anything. He lets me just be, next to him like this, where I want to be, for as long as I want. Until finally my voice finds my lips, and my lips find his ear,

“And this is now.” And that is enough. And his eyes are bluer than I remember, and his lips want me more than they ever have, and this is probably the last time I will ever kiss anyone in a bathroom stall. I'm making sure that I never forget it.

***********************************************************************************************

We start to walk back to the car, but I pull him over to the tree by his jeans so I can kiss him again. I close my eyes as tight as I can, wrap him inside my jacket, and devour him. People are watching us. They think they know what they are seeing, but they don’t. Sometimes when I kiss him, it’s just never enough. Never, never enough.

“Hmmmm. Mmmmm. Brian. Brian....” He frees himself from my feast.

“What?”

“I want some gum.”

He wants gum. The kissing stops. We walk back to the car as I pat myself down, trying to figure out which pocket I put the gum in. I find it and offer him some, and he pops it in his mouth and picks up his pace. I focus on the scenery he offers me as we walk the long sidewalk back to the car.

“You weren’t planning on coming back to the loft tonight, Sunshine.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Those are your ‘fuck me’ jeans.” Actually, those are his topping jeans. The ones he wears when he's in the mood to be in charge. They are old, too tight, too faded. I love them.

“They are just the first ones I found, Brian. I was in a hurry.” He glances back over his shoulder to smile at me—to let me know that he wasn’t planning on fucking half of the back room tonight. “I’m not the one who goes out and fucks half of Pittsburgh when something's bothering me. That’s you, remember?”

He doesn’t have to rub it in.

“Yeah, well, you shouldn’t mock my dysfunctions, considering that you profit from them.” Score one for me.

“Ha. You cause mine.” He isn’t looking at me when he says this, but I see the regret in his body before it even plays on his face. He stops walking and turns around. I can’t even stomach the look in his eyes. It makes me nauseous.

“Brian, I didn’t mean that. I really didn’t.” Of course he didn’t. I’m not an idiot. I didn’t take it that way. I shake my head and gesture for him to keep going toward the car with my hand. He obliges me. When he gets to the car, he unlocks my door for me. No.

“Let me drive.” I reach for his hand, reach for the keys. He doesn’t let go.

“I want to drive, Brian.” He moves in between my body and the car, the door open. He raises his face to mine, his arms around my neck. He blocks me from doing anything but focusing on him. “Did you hear what I just said?”

“Yes, you want to drive.” I try to look at him without looking at him. It doesn’t really work.

“I said I didn’t mean that.” He watches my face for some sort of agreement from me, and I know he won’t move until he gets what he wants. I've taught him well.

“Okay.” I lean into his mouth and kiss him to let him know that I mean it. He closes my car door for me. I watch his lithe body walk around the stingray.

He starts the car, and we pull out of the parking lot and start our journey home. I'm lost in my thoughts for awhile, the exhaustion of the night winning out over everything else. I watch him drive. He's so different now than a couple of hours ago. No sketch pad, no anger, no yelling. He's almost serene. He is so fucking beautiful. I put my seat back a little and try to stretch out as much as a I can in this car.

“Penny for your thoughts?” he asks me with a quiet voice and a warm smile. He runs his hand down the side of my face and tucks my hair behind my ear. I need a haircut.

“I only take Visa, Mastercard, or American Express.”

“Figures. Just my luck. These jeans are so tight, they won’t even hold my wallet.”

“I was thinking about some shit I have to do at work tomorrow.” I don’t know why I lie to him.

“Try again.”

“You really want to know?”

“Yes, I really want to know.” He's definitive but uneager. I turn a little so I can see him better and tell him the truth.

“I was thinking about this thing that you do to me.”

“What thing?” He sort of laughs at me. “Make you hard as a rock when I wear these old levis?”

“No. It’s way worse than that.” I look off for a minute before I continue. He’s looking at me with a curious smile. “You make me miss something I never even had.”

I can't go into any more detail than this. And I’ve thought about it eight ways from Sunday. How being with him makes me nostalgic for football games, marching bands, bleachers, autumn—all that shit I never enjoyed when I had it because I couldn’t—because it was never mine to enjoy. How my presence at his prom that night guaranteed that all of his memories of those things are ruined forever, too. I'll never forgive myself for that. Never. The sadness sits on top of me like a rock. My thoughts are really expensive, but not nearly as expensive as my actions.

He's so nonchalant when he tucks his hand in mine and rubs his thumb absentmindedly over my fingers. He isn’t trying to break my train of thought or get me to emote or anything. He brings my hand to his face and presses his lips to the back of my hand. I move my gaze from the world flying by to him sitting still.

“You’re exhausted Brian. Just go to sleep. We’ll be home soon.” He smiles at me and releases my hand onto his thigh where I leave it for a few seconds. I don’t want to be separate from him right now. He turns up the heat a little and tilts the vent in my direction. I'm going to sell this car and buy a Hummer or something with a lot more fuck room. What’s the point of having a “fuck-me” car if you can’t fuck in it? Beats me.

“I should've fucked you back there, when I had the chance.”

“You can fuck me when we get home.”

That’s the most romantic thing anybody has ever said to me.

I slept all the way back.