Chapter One ~ These Days
These Days
I had a lover
It's so hard to risk another these days
Now if I seem to be afraid
To live the life I have made in song
Well it's just that I've been losing so long
I'll keep on moving
Things are bound to be improving these days
One of these days...
Ask any marathoner: it’s not the run that’s lonely - it’s the rampaging case of the post-race blues that comes afterward.
It’s my own damn fault. I could have called the car service, but a 100-mile week seemed like a great idea at the time. And it was.
Because most of the time the journey matters more than the destination.
Of course, for the rest of my life, Cia-Cia will remind me - and all our friends, family and pretty much everyone she meets - that I walked 100 miles to get fucked. Works as an epitaph, too.
Note to self: outlive her.
It must be what? Three in the morning? Grab my watch off the nightstand and my stomach rolls at the time on the display: 2:05. I’m exhausted and my legs feel like anvils, but I’m wired and dangerously awake, trapped in my thoughts.
Snap the light on, adjust my eyes to the surroundings and feel like I’m stuck in some Vegas-style imitation of a country gentleman’s abode. Dark woods, dark walls, very expensive furnishings that look like Liberace threw up in a hunting lodge. Should’ve chosen another room after the greeter showed me around...
Okay, so showing me around is more aptly put as reamed and sucked me, which on one hand is a delightful thought, and on the other, profoundly depressing. God, do I know plenty of people who would love to be met at the door of a resort by a cheery, hot, and willing sexual accomplice - myself among them - but at this hour, alone in this huge display of conspicuous consumption, I wish it hadn’t been me.
Fine. So I didn’t have the common sense to put the brakes on, check out the menu and the digs, make my own choice. Chalk it up to runner’s delirium.
Doesn’t matter. My eyes are wide open, and the brakes have been applied and locked.
Now I need a bell.
Nothing I’d rather do more at this moment than ring for Jeeves or Wooster or who-the-fuck-ever to appear at my door with a tray of food. If I recall from my "hey, how are you let's fuck" tour, the kitchen is blessedly close to this room and apparently larger than a soundstage at Paramount.
Yeah, it’s gotta be food. Perfect distraction for the sad night train thoughts and a suitable antidote for the blues.
Yank on some sweats and head out into the dim hallway, aim myself to the light at the end of the passageway like a dead man trotting because it’s so goddamn still. Not a creature stirring. Either that or I’m in some frigging unused wing of this place, which is as likely as anything.
Get to the end, turn into a doorway. Fingers fumble along ridged tile, trip over switches and flood the room in yellowy light. What I see makes my mouth water, and honest-to-Christ if my dick doesn’t jump a little.
If Martha Stewart ever has a love child with Emeril it will be conceived in this room. There should be a sign: Caution All Cooks: Sudden Hard-ons May Interfere with Appliance Operation. Ovens, plural. Sub-zeros, plural. Sinks, multiple. And that door over there? Bet it’s the pantry.
Good bet. As big as the bedroom, and shelves stocked with everything imaginable. Smelling like wheat flour and onionskin and potatoes, jars and cans and fibrous sacks and another goddamn sink and I am a happy, happy man. Run my fingers over the jars of preserved fruit and boxes of salt, and feel a little less lost.
Maybe I’ll just yank the blankets off the bed in my room and bring them in here, roll up and pass out amongst the dry goods.
I just might-but after I whip up a little something to stop this growling in my gut. Something to make me feel a little closer to home.
I had a lover
It's so hard to risk another these days
Now if I seem to be afraid
To live the life I have made in song
Well it's just that I've been losing so long
I'll keep on moving
Things are bound to be improving these days
One of these days...
Ask any marathoner: it’s not the run that’s lonely - it’s the rampaging case of the post-race blues that comes afterward.
It’s my own damn fault. I could have called the car service, but a 100-mile week seemed like a great idea at the time. And it was.
Because most of the time the journey matters more than the destination.
Of course, for the rest of my life, Cia-Cia will remind me - and all our friends, family and pretty much everyone she meets - that I walked 100 miles to get fucked. Works as an epitaph, too.
Note to self: outlive her.
It must be what? Three in the morning? Grab my watch off the nightstand and my stomach rolls at the time on the display: 2:05. I’m exhausted and my legs feel like anvils, but I’m wired and dangerously awake, trapped in my thoughts.
Snap the light on, adjust my eyes to the surroundings and feel like I’m stuck in some Vegas-style imitation of a country gentleman’s abode. Dark woods, dark walls, very expensive furnishings that look like Liberace threw up in a hunting lodge. Should’ve chosen another room after the greeter showed me around...
Okay, so showing me around is more aptly put as reamed and sucked me, which on one hand is a delightful thought, and on the other, profoundly depressing. God, do I know plenty of people who would love to be met at the door of a resort by a cheery, hot, and willing sexual accomplice - myself among them - but at this hour, alone in this huge display of conspicuous consumption, I wish it hadn’t been me.
Fine. So I didn’t have the common sense to put the brakes on, check out the menu and the digs, make my own choice. Chalk it up to runner’s delirium.
Doesn’t matter. My eyes are wide open, and the brakes have been applied and locked.
Now I need a bell.
Nothing I’d rather do more at this moment than ring for Jeeves or Wooster or who-the-fuck-ever to appear at my door with a tray of food. If I recall from my "hey, how are you let's fuck" tour, the kitchen is blessedly close to this room and apparently larger than a soundstage at Paramount.
Yeah, it’s gotta be food. Perfect distraction for the sad night train thoughts and a suitable antidote for the blues.
Yank on some sweats and head out into the dim hallway, aim myself to the light at the end of the passageway like a dead man trotting because it’s so goddamn still. Not a creature stirring. Either that or I’m in some frigging unused wing of this place, which is as likely as anything.
Get to the end, turn into a doorway. Fingers fumble along ridged tile, trip over switches and flood the room in yellowy light. What I see makes my mouth water, and honest-to-Christ if my dick doesn’t jump a little.
If Martha Stewart ever has a love child with Emeril it will be conceived in this room. There should be a sign: Caution All Cooks: Sudden Hard-ons May Interfere with Appliance Operation. Ovens, plural. Sub-zeros, plural. Sinks, multiple. And that door over there? Bet it’s the pantry.
Good bet. As big as the bedroom, and shelves stocked with everything imaginable. Smelling like wheat flour and onionskin and potatoes, jars and cans and fibrous sacks and another goddamn sink and I am a happy, happy man. Run my fingers over the jars of preserved fruit and boxes of salt, and feel a little less lost.
Maybe I’ll just yank the blankets off the bed in my room and bring them in here, roll up and pass out amongst the dry goods.
I just might-but after I whip up a little something to stop this growling in my gut. Something to make me feel a little closer to home.