You go to school for 12 years, maybe 13 depending on where you live. They teach you how to solve the quadratic equation, and how to bake a cake, but unfortunately, they never taught us anything about how to get rid of a southern boy who won’t leave your bed. And they sure as hell never taught me how to control my hormones.
He had grown on me more than I ever thought he could; he even made illicit drugs look sexy, and that was no easy task in my mind. But w still told no one, and hardly even spoke. I didn’t want anyone to know that I was slumming with the company addict. What would people say? I would lose all credibility.
We traveled separately, had separate dressing rooms, and were never seen together outside of our hotel rooms, where we moved together in perfect fluid motions, and our screams flowed freely. But it did was it had to. We gout our sexual frustrations out, and he got to pick the brain of the champ.
I had to wonder though, what was going through his head? What made him do all those terrible things to his body? Why would anyone want chemicals coursing through their bloodstream, and what made him think his life was worth so little? I had watched him once, putting his thumb to his nose and sniffing that poison into his sinuses, and his imminent offer scared me. I didn’t do drugs; never had, and never wanted to. He still had so much to learn, and so did I. I didn’t know how to talk to him about it without seeming like I was judging. I didn’t want to judge. But maybe I already had.
When he got drafted to Smackdown! I was pleased. Not pleased to see the distress in his face when he found out, mirrored again when he told me, but pleased that maybe I wouldn’t be so attached to him when he wasn’t around. It meant lots of time apart, and I thought maybe he would just lose interest in what I was doing.
He did, but once he was gone, I was moody and I may have actually missed the poor bastard. I went to see him once, but seeing him in the same room at Triple H made me angry. I wanted him to be mine all of a sudden, and that frustrated me. At that time, other people could have him, and I didn’t like that situation.
Lesson 1: You don’t want it, until you can’t have it.
And I wanted it badly. Don’t ask me when it happened, when I fell for his terrible dancing, his terrible hairstyles, and his phenomenal body, but it happened. I would lay in bed at night, alone, and think of his light Vanilla scent that had invaded my world. I started trying to initiate conversations, and even learned how to text message to try and stay in touch. He was more than pleased to talk, and I was more than pleased to listen. Sober this time, his voice was so beautiful, and its lilt would drift me off to sleep every night. I was like a ten year old kid again, and I loved it. I thought about seeing him more often than not, and I had no idea what was happening to me.
The unthinkable had thrice taken place in his life, causing him a lot of uncertainty about his future. He’d shown up at my hotel room, with about ten bags from various different mall stores, and slumped down on my couch without a word. His skin was etched with exhaustion and anger, but still refused to speak. Maybe that was when it happened. When he came to me without barriers, maybe I managed to let mine fall.
Lesson 2: It’s always easier to trust when the other person does it first.
He told me about his house mysteriously burning down, and luckily he hadn’t been at home. But his beautiful dog had been, and had perished in the blaze. His eyes glistened with tears and I wanted to touch him, but didn’t know how. My arms felt too big and crushing against his tiny body, and I didn’t want him to feel smothered. He then told me that he’d come clean with his fiancée, about his infidelity, and she left. He felt like he had no one to count on. So he came to me.
I took some time off; made some lame excuse about another lame movie, and took care of him. I made him breakfast in bed, went for walks in the park, and made sure his mind was in a cool place. Most of the time though, he just sat, scribbling in his book with a blank look on his face and his eyebrows furrowed. I didn’t want anything to happen to him, nothing that could be more unthinkable that what had already gone on. It broke my heart to see, and maybe that was when it happened. When he bared it all, I fell in love.
It was weeks before he would even let me kiss his soft lips. When I finally did, I placed my strong arms around his frail body, and tried to make him feel safe. I ran my hands through his hair, and rubbed the back of his neck as our kisses deepened and became more heated. It was a two-hour process, slowly peeling off all our articles of clothing in a way that didn’t seem sexually frustrated, but rather sensual.
When he did finally make love, laying on the hotel bed, wrapped in a quilt that I always brought with me from home, it was a far cry from what we had started with. It was the first time in months that I felt myself really caring about how it felt, and whether he was okay. It was the first time I looked at him and felt something inside. I wanted to love my life, and maybe I even wanted to love him.
Lesson 3: maybe caring wasn’t so terrible after all.