"He's doing that for you." Lo teased as we watched him do that hot guy stretch thing on stage. You know, the one where it looks like they're using both hands to scratch an itch right below their shoulder blades? Arms over their heads, elbows pointed up towards the sky, one hand keeping the other arm in place; you know the one. The action revealed a hint of his stomach right above his waistline. I swear he even glanced at me at some point while he did it. The sight induced lip biting, and provided further material to my spank bank. I pictured him in that very same pose, except horizontal. His back against my bed frame with legs outstretched, outlining a path for me to crawl. His most sensitive body part was my destination, and my duty while visiting? Worship. Of the oral kind…
We were off and having a drink, sitting at games 7. Mazen was gathering up his equipment and I couldn't help but watch. I'd never been in a position to be able to just sit and stare at him…the sight, plus the liquor, was giving me life.
I laughed and said, "fuck off."
But inside, I hoped that what she said might actually be true. Since he began doing open mic night every Monday night, in between serving tables, we sometimes exchanged looks. I admit that my gaze strayed to him, more often than his to mine. But, still, at times I caught him looking. Each time it fueled the fire of my fantasies, each time I looked at him felt like the first time. The rare moments our eyes would actually meet topped it all though. When his gaze locked with mine…it wasn't prison, but instead, surroundings I would die to be trapped in. Hot white desire branded me like an iron, and I prayed he couldn't tell.
Things are a bit different now. I got rid of my god awful purple hair. Hunter and I broke up, and the turmoil caused me to lose some weight. I wasn't eating because he was still manipulating me. Simultaneously begging for me back and keeping his options open. I didn't want to be alone in our home, so I kept picking up shifts. The constant moving around was melting the pounds away. Not that I hadn't already lost a bunch of weight before I started, but now I was actually starting to think I looked pretty damn good. The fact that I could fit a size small, blew my mind daily.
In general, I never wanted to serve him. I made it clear to the coworkers I became close with that my nerves were too intense. Due to him being the most beautiful man to me, I was a nervous fucking wreck whenever I was the subject of his intense eye contact. I almost always got away with never having to talk to him, and the few times I had to, I said as few words as possible. As to not give my desire away. Most of the time was in the morning, he'd come in to set up the stage and to eat breakfast. Jeanette mostly took care of him, but occasionally I'd have to offer him a refill or run his food.
It was all of my years of experience serving people that made it possible to somewhat pretend his presence didn't affect me.
Thank something for that. Beyond grateful that I hold the ability.
Although, I made an absolute fucking fool of myself more times than I care to admit. The worst instance was when he was on stage, his strong build in motion as he set up his equipment. I had to run his breakfast, scrambled eggs with diced ham and a few slices of bacon. I was caught in the trance that was him, not realizing I had started to tilt the plate as I walked towards him. The bacon slid off and I muttered, "shit," as I kept walking like nothing had happened.
I picked up this habit when I first started serving. If you don't absolutely have to stop what you are already doing to do something else, don't. Just recover and push the remedy to whatever issue arises to the front of the queue of shit to do in your head.
Give Mazen his plate.
Grab bacon off the floor on the way back to the kitchen.
Get more bacon from the kitchen.
Bring bacon to Mazen.
My internal voice narrates everything I do at work. I feel as if it keeps me organized and efficient.
Or maybe I'm just a little crazy…
I set his plate down at his spot at games 8, and declared as shamelessly as I could muster that I'd be right back with his bacon. Clad with a huge shit eating grin of course.
He smiled at me with something I couldn't quite place and said, "okay." Something like humor laced through his words…at least I hoped it was humor.
When I returned with the bacon I was more nervous than before because the tension had time to fester. This was one of the first times I realized how much sexual tension existed between the two of us. I could be making it up in my head, but I was smart and intuitive. My gut told me he felt the tension too. It wasn't something you could ignore.
He accepted the bacon, and said, "just like it never happened." With a sexy smirk.
I wondered as I walked away if he was just trying to make me feel better, or if he was toying with me.
I briefly lost myself in thoughts of bacon and Mazen—what a delicious combo—until my mind snapped itself back into reality.
Lo and I played pull tabs and bullshitted for a while, before she had to go home. Ashley was bartending, and Mazen wasn't yet done. I felt like he was packing rather slowly, and our gazes kept meeting more often than normal. The hatred for my ex and the liquor in me hatched a plan. Don't go home, approach him, be friendly.
"You want your tab?" Ashley asked me as she poured a drink. She noticed I was lingering by the bar.
I paused. Debating a little more.
"No, I'm gonna nut up and ask him to play darts." I decided.
Her face lit up. "Oh shit, do it!!"
"I'm gonna need a white tea and a shot of Tito's, sprite back." The nerves threatened to surface through the light haze of one drink.
She made quick work of it and I downed the shot equally as fast.
"Here goes nothing." I smiled at her in anxiety, grabbed my drink and felt the burn slick through my body as I walked up to him.
Thank something for Tito's handmade vodka. My nerves were effectively squelched.
He peered at me curiously.
Forget the world. Breathe. Aim. Fucking shoot.
"You down to lose in some darts when you're done?" I got out, trying my best not to sound too hopeful.
Act casual. Stop fidgeting. You're just being friendly.
His eyebrows rose a little. Surprised, maybe?
"Yeah, sure." Followed by a little smirk.
Fuck that smirk is really hot.
Wait. Did he just say yes? I genuinely thought he'd turn me down. It was getting kind of late for normal people. I assumed he'd use the time as a convenient excuse to refuse my invitation.
"Cool! I'll be back." I set my drink down and quickly walked back towards the bar. Why'd I say cool like a 6th grader? Ugh. Where is your game? I swear you used to be able to chat up any hot guy that crossed your path! Get. It. Together.
I needed to spray myself and get a quick pep talk before I actually attempted to converse with the walking sex god, himself.
"BITCH!" I exclaimed as I grabbed my bag from the server room and began rifling through it to find my perfume.
When she walked over I panicked, "fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I'm freaking out. He actually said yes! What should I do? What the fuck do I talk about? Holy shit I'm still nervous." I admitted, despite all of my prior liquid courage.
She laughed, humor danced in her eyes. "Calm down! You got this! Just be yourself."
Who am I? I thought inwardly.
No time to contemplate a question that would take years to answer, if an answer even exists.
I swallowed a gulp of air. "Okay."
Game face.
We sat at games 7 and I pulled out my phone to put music on the jukebox. I nervously rambled about how cool open mic night was, I just wished there was more of a variety of music offered besides acoustic alternative. I begrudgingly admitted I could sing a little myself, but was unwilling to work past my stage fright. Also, I couldn't hit very many high notes. My range was very limited, thus unimpressive.
"I assume you're a rock kind of guy." I said as I wracked my brain for something to talk about.
He gave me a face that said, duh. "Yep."
"I like rock too, I like some classic 70's/80's stuff like Steppenwolf and Free." I looked at him to see if my knowledge of this music impressed him.
In my mind I listed off so many other bands. The Strokes, Joan Jett and the Blackhearts, Aerosmith, The Beatles, Black Sabbath…Chiodos, System of a Down, Slipknot, Pierce the Veil, Silverstein, Underoath. I should have spoken them aloud.
I was a scene kid all through junior high and my mother was white. Not just normal white, Wisconsin white. While my dad was black…Georgia black. I grew up on country, classic rock, metal, punk, alternative, new wave, indie, pop, r&b, rap, hip hop, blues, and just about every other kind of music there is, besides classical. If I voiced the vast musical library in my mind, I probably would have impressed him.
I was also stuck seeing him as one of the Rick's from Def Leppard circa 1980-something, so I thought he'd be pleased with influences from the prior decade.
He looked inquisitive. "I'm not sure who Free is."
"Yes you do! You know that one song, All Right Now?" I mused.
"No?" He looked confused.
I sang the opening melody. Just the building "Oo-oO-ooh!" part.
"Oh. Yeah, that actually does sound familiar. And I heard that high note." He smiled, something in his eyes I couldn't quite place.
I blushed. Looked away. Picked a few songs, including All Right Now by Free, and started getting darts going. The shots and drinks were starting to catch up with me, and I felt pretty drunk. The game of darts was close due to my intoxication, if I was sober or tunnel focused on adderall, it would have been over much quicker. I still ended up winning.
I expected him to head out pretty fast after the game was over. But when I said I was going to grab a few more pull tabs, he was seated at the table when I returned. I smiled to myself, thinking, "Is somebody interested in little ole' me?"
The conversation flowed pretty effortlessly between the two of us. It was so odd. He made me more nervous than any man I have ever met. His energy, his aura, and most of all, his intense soul searching like gaze was the most intimidating combination of attributes I have ever experienced within a single being. It was strange, new, and uncomfortable. His mind, however, was like picking up with one of my oldest friends, exactly where we last left off.
For example, my best friends Blake and Christal. We were like sisters from ages 12-23. Spent damn near everyday together, I even lived with Blake for a year. However, the deeper we grew into adulthood, the further our paths lead us from each other. Before I knew it, months flew by where we didn't speak, didn't even text. Blake moved to New Mexico with her military husband, while Christal moved an hour up north with her future one. So spending time together was few and far between. We all had our own lives, own jobs, and our own routines. Sadly, our routines no longer involved each other.
However, when tragedy struck, we were always the first people we went to. When Christal came down here to visit, and when I visited Blake in New Mexico, it was like being a kid again. Everything was the same. No awkward moments, no feelings of "who is this person?" Our bond was so deeply ingrained, no amount of time apart could change the effortless communication and closeness we spent most of our lives building. These were my people forever. Reuniting would always feel like coming home.
This is exactly the way talking to Mazen felt like. Like we were childhood best friends who had temporarily lost touch, but we were still an integral part of who made us who we were today. So talking with each other was as easy as breathing. As non awkward as social situations come.
Obviously, this wasn't the case. We were strangers, calling us acquaintances even seemed too generous despite me being employed by his parents. So why did talking to him feel as comfortable as playing guitar hero with Chris, in my childhood home?
Just like with my best friends, our surface conversation quickly turned deep. He asked the questions that got us there. This was another strange anomaly I wasn't accustomed to. Men in general, but especially new men in my life, never really cared about the things he seemed to easily get out of me. At some point, I told him how much I liked his mom, and that she reminded me of a combination of my own late mother and her best friend Terri. I didn't explain the loss, because I was very much still grieving and it didn't feel like an appropriate bar conversation. I think he picked up on that and didn't ask for any details. Like he knew that if I wanted to share, I would, and he wouldn't ask something that made me uncomfortable. Instead, we moved our conversation around it. Before I knew it, I was telling him about my toxic on and off relationship. All the cheating was currently the topic of conversation.
"I used to be a cheater." He admitted, with something like not quite shame, but close, in his eyes. "Relationships with women didn't hold the greatest significance in my life, so it was easy to sleep with whoever I wanted."
I didn't really know what to say. It pained me to realize that he might be like almost every other man I've met. However, the thought of sleeping with him caused hope to strike me like a freight train. It must have shown in my face, because he added, "I've never cheated on Miley." His gaze pinned me. The eye contact was brief, but intense and searching. What is he looking for?
"Good." Was all I got out. I couldn't help but think he was letting me know I didn't have a chance with him. That he was enjoying the conversation, but conversation would be all that was shared between us. I meant what I had said, it was good he'd never cheated on her. It showed that his longest relationship, deepest bond, was something sacred to him. It proved he wasn't like almost every other guy I've known--shallow and immature. Although, the apparent fact that I'd never gain the privilege of feeling his body inside mine, absolutely sucked unwashed, smelly balls. Not that I thought I'd ever have a chance at anything more than a hug anyway. It still sucks. Simultaneously soured, and intensified, my dirty little fantasies at the same time.
He was, afterall, my strongest fixation because he was unattainable.
It's hard for the mind to stay laser focused on a person you can actually have. If it wasn't, the divorce rate would be significantly lower.
So why did a part of me feel as if I could have him, despite this?
Or, rather, that I should have him?
Like I was owed another chance at romancing my long lost first love?
Why did I feel like he had already been mine before, and was dancing around the idea of coming home?
The meeting of minds ended when I wanted to smoke a cigarette. He showed me his big brown van, with a perfect paint job and a surprisingly nice set of wheels. It had retro accents, fitting for an 80s rock/sex god to drive.
He explained that he also had a newer Camaro, but that this was his mode for moving music equipment. He was both a hot young dude driving a dope ass band van, and an established, handsome mature man sporting an expensive ride. Why'd he have to exceed every single fucking expectation imaginable? It was as frustrating as it was desirable.
When he opened the back, I briefly lost myself in the idea of driving off somewhere and fucking him in it.
"You could totally put a bed and some Christmas lights back here." I mentioned involuntarily. Why did I say that? Keep your fantasies to yourself, bitch.
"I actually have before." He admitted. Were his thoughts mirroring mine? Would he enjoy fucking me in the back of his van? Little fractals of light dancing across my skin, as our bodies create the beat they glimmer to…
I said something unmemorable in return. I was too distracted by visions of the windows fogged up by the breath of our synergistic moans.
We had a little more unmemorable conversation as I took a few drags off my cigarette. He eventually closed the doors and said, "I gotta go."
"Yeah, I should get out of here too. Thanks for hanging out, it was fun." I smiled and opened my arms for a hug. I wanted to touch him in some way. I figured a friendly goodbye hug was all I could possibly garner from this dreadfully sexy man.
He hugged me with no hesitation. It was brief, but it was all encompassing. I felt sparks shoot back and forth between his body and mine. He smelled so good, the feeling of being home overtook my entire being. I had to stop myself from running my hands all over the parts I had access to.
It was over way too soon. I wanted to pull him back aggressively, angered that he took the crazy feelings away from me. Insulted that he removed his body from mine.
He gazed at me, while I was dazed by him.
"Bye." Was all he said.
"Bye." I breathed in return.
He turned and left me, and it felt like that's where our strange connection would remain.
I left the odd feelings outside the entrance to pull tabs, and hurried off to my car to drive back home to my shitty life. Where I knew Hunter was waiting.
Did I mention we were broken up?
Well the truth was, I was not yet strong enough to completely cut him off.
Trauma bonds were some of the hardest to break. He happened to be the cause of some of the worst trauma I've experienced, aside from losing mom.
Our bond was not yet severed. Although, the resentment was there. The hate was building. I just needed to hate him more than I loved him in order to be set free. That would be the sword needed to slice the sickening bond to pieces. Decapitate the flesh eating zombie that was my connection to Hunter.
"Either that, or someone else rescues me with the promise of love and safety." I thought with a snort.
Nobody has ever saved me. I save myself. I am my one and only knight in shining armor.
I don't expect this, one of the hardest things I'll have to defeat, to be any fucking different.
"No. I am fully on my own with this one." Was my final thought as I drove away.