Pancakes and Insomnia
Title: Pancakes and Insomnia
Author: marjohn666valo
Summary: Fight Club style. Insomniac nights with a craving for pancakes and annoying the hell out of one American Skater; Bam comes back into Ville’s life after three months and Ville ponders about what happened before and after The Apology. And why he failed at ‘keeping love out of it.’
Rating: R, for cussing and a brief mention of sex
Author’s Note: just thought to give this apology thing a try. I have never written in this style before, so please forgive any shortcomings on my part. Oh, and this story is very weird, I admit ;)
There’s a killer in me that wants out.
Bam tells me to shut my trap, rolls to his side and starts snoring aloud. It’s two in the morning and Bam has never liked jetlags. I run my finger over his bare back; it’s tan and warm. Like a pancake. I press my nose to his back and sniff his skin. Damn, it smells good.
Bam , can I lick your back?
Bam elbows me in the chest and moves further away from me; there’s enough space on the bed for him to be able to do so. “Go to sleep Valo,” he groans, “and stop pestering me.”
I roll on my back and stare at the ceiling. I can’t sleep in absolute darkness so I always keep the lamp on the nightstand on. Bam always gets a kick out of teasing me about this fact.
“You’re such a fucking child, Ville. Now you’re gonna tell me there’s a monster in your closet, too?”
But I’m not afraid of the dark. I just can’t focus and count the sheep when I can’t see the ceiling.
One sheep, two sheep, three sheep…
It’s not the same anymore. We rarely see each other and when we do, Bam’s always complaining about one thing or another. Once I asked Bam, ‘Bam, what happened to us?’ he said, ‘we just grew up; grew old. Grew tired of each other. Nothing happened; not really.’
Four sheep, five sheep, six sheep…
Ever since that night. I apologized. And not just once. And in front of my fans no less. I was hoping they would get the whole embarrassing thing on their cameras because I knew Bam was no longer there to see me making an ass out of myself. I called Bam up and told him to type ‘Ville apologizing to Bam’ in YouTube’s search box and watch the first video that comes up. I can’t do apologies directly; come to think of it, I can’t do a lot of things directly.
Seven sheep, eight sheep…
Bam never told me if he watched that blasted video. But I think he had. He didn’t answer my calls for three whole months after that. And now he’s back. With his bare back to me, which smells like pancakes. Mmm…
Nine sheep…
“Valo, count those fucking sheep in your head. I’m trying to get some sleep here, you prick.”
But if I can’t count them aloud, I won’t fall sleep.
Bam grunts and smacks me in the face with his pillow.
“Fine, then. I sleep on the coach.”
He walks out of the door, like a child several sizes too small for his frame, for his clothes and his dignity, and I feel a little bad for him. But not too bad, since I know he won’t be sleeping on the coach. No need for that; I have plenty of guest rooms, and one of them is officially Bam’s.
Ten sheep, one sheep, two sheep, three sheep…
I hate it when it reaches after ten. Sounds like a waste of breath. It’s much easier to count from one to ten. After all, the whole idea is for me to fall sleep.
I reach for my sleeping pills on the nightstand and gulp down three of them and wash the bitter taste down my throat with the glass of water I always keep there. Just in case. Counting sheep is bloody boring. I need something with instant effect tonight.
I clutch Bam’s pillow to my chest and squeeze my eyes shut, as if trying to trap the sleep behind my closed lids.
The pillow smells like Bam. Like pancakes. Perhaps I make pancakes for breakfast. Bam hates pancakes. He likes strawberry jam on a toast coated with a thick layer of butter. I’m out of strawberry jams. Guess he just has to do with the pancakes.
Damn, looks like this night will never end.
XXX
I didn’t make pancakes, after all. Just a cup of coffee as usual, minus the cigarette. The coffee tastes better without the cigarette, I tell Bam. To which he just rolls his eyes and absent-mindedly sips his own coffee.
And it’ll taste even better if you put some sugar in it.
Bam, do you want some sugar?
Groggily he says no and keeps his eyes focused on the cigarette burn on the coffee table. There are lots of those, here and there; the cigarette burns I mean. Sometimes I would do it on purpose. Putting my cigarettes out on my furniture. Made it more personal, so to speak. Mige said it was a bad impression of me. That was why I found it so fitting.
I’m sorry we’re out of strawberry jam today.
Bam looks at me with his brows raised high, his cup of coffee secured between his hands.
You like strawberry jam, don’t you?
Bam sighs and runs one of his hands through his hair. It’s longer than usual, and perhaps a little curlier. He always wanted to let his hair grow past his shoulder but he never had the patience for it. Plus, he wouldn’t look good with long hair, anyway. That’s what he’d tell me.
“That was fucking years ago.” He’s upset. Perhaps even mad. I put my cup on my knee and circle its rim with my finger and try not to breathe too hard, lest these crippled walls and ceiling cave in on me.
Why are you so upset, Bam?
I think you should be happy that you’re not the one with insomnia. Insomnia is a bitch. Counting sheep no longer works. I had three sleeping pills last night and still couldn’t sleep. I was afraid to take more. But now that I think of it, slipping into a permanent sleep sounds like a far better alternative than never sleeping at all. But Mige would be mad at me if I let something like that happen. I wonder if Bam would, too.
“Just forget it, Ville. I need to get out.”
He pushes his chair back with one hand and practically runs off. I like to think he’s headed for the bathroom but you don’t need your car keys if you’re going to empty your bladder in the adjoining bathroom. But of course, there’s no saying with Bam.
Bam, don’t leave. I promise I won’t talk about strawberry jam if you don’t like it.
We can instead talk about whores, divorces, pancakes and global warming, if you’re interested; over one afternoon coffee, while birds are chirping outside and the TV is buzzing in the background. Pointless, so very pointless.
Bam swears aloud (and I have a reason to believe at me) before he lets the door slam shut behind him. I wince at the sound. Bam doesn’t know many places in Helsinki. In fact, there’s only one place he would rather be right now and he doesn’t need his car key for that. I hope he won’t end up getting himself lost any more than he already is.
XXX
Where have you been?
It’s 1 in the morning and I know I have dark bags under my eyes and that my shirt is wrinkled all over, the beautiful results of having waited for that jackass to come home. Bam pushes me out of his way, however, and sprawls on the couch. I didn’t smell alcohol on him. Instead, there was the smell of leather and woman perfume on his skin.
“Don’t you fucking start, Valo.”
He threatens, or at least attempts to. His shirt is missing two buttons and he has a purplish bruise alongside his neck. I point this out to him.
Have you been in a fight?
He groans and glares up at me. “Do you have cigarettes on you?”
I quit. Remember?
“Why would you quit? I need a fucking cigarette right now.”
I kneel next to the couch and my fingers brush along his thigh. He eyes me suspiciously and I can read in his eyes that my touch is not welcomed. I miss the old days when our roles were reversed, and I can’t help but wonder if this reversal is a poor attempt at cosmic irony.
I can give you a massage, I say seductively, but feeling dead inside.
Bam looks pained. Like I had just run him through with my words, or my mere presence. Or perhaps he has just caught on my deadness and his removing my hand from his crotch is just his way of showing me he’s not that much into necrophilia.
“Would you stop annoying me if I give you the fucking answer?”
He asks, voice unsteady, eyes unfocused, breathing labored. Like he regrets ever saying those words, or just regrets every fucking thing about his life and his choices, but there’s no backing now. I may be dead, but I sure as hell know how to haunt.
I say yes, because I know what the answer is going be and Bam admitting it aloud gives me the reason to stop. You can run in circles for so long before you’re sick.
“Ok. She did. She was the one who left. Happy now?”
Happy?
Bam, do you know how to make pancakes?
Because honestly, I don’t. I may look good with an electric guitar slung over my chest, but in a kitchen apron, a blinding yellow with little flowers all over it, I look downright ridiculous. Or at least, that’s what Bam has told me. But I have a suspicion that it’s not the apron itself that makes me look ridiculous but those little flowers and especially the color yellow. Perhaps in a black one with the words ‘Black Sabbath’ written in the middle, I look cool.
We’ll make them together; I know you hate pancakes, but I’m hoping you’ll be curious enough to know how our cooking tastes like.
He’s so upset now I know he yearns to pull his hair out; or mine; judging by the look he’s giving me, the latter would have been more preferable but less practical seeing as my hair is too short to grasp. He grabs my wrist instead, so hard that it brings tears to my eyes and stops the blood circulation in my hand. I think of my fingers falling off, one by one, on the floor. Perhaps one of them falls into Bam’s lap. His dark jeans are spotless around his crotch, but I like to imagine cum stains on it. At least this way, I know that it had been a quick handjob and a very messy one at that, too. Bam loves it when things get messy.
“I told you. I told you it was her. Not me. Why don’t you fucking stop bothering me?”
But perhaps, I would have been better off not knowing.
I’m sorry.
But this is not like that apology that night. This is not the one I made in L.A. This one is hollow and doesn’t mean anything. Bam lets go of my wrist and I resist the urge to rub the pain away. Or the tears. As long as I don’t touch them, they don’t exist.
I feel like reaching out and touching Bam, if only to make sure that he exists. But as the tears vaporize on my skin, so does Bam’s presence on my consciousness.
Guess he’s gonna sleep in his own room tonight.
XXX
After his sixth visit to Helsinki, Bam decided to buy himself a car. I don’t know much about cars; they’re all evil. But Bam’s a Jaguar convertible with its top never folded down. Not that there’s anything wrong with the car. It’s just that Bam always comes here during autumn or winter and “driving in Helsinki in a convertible with its top folded down is pure madness”. At least, it’s not purple. Not that I have anything against purple per se. Bam’s obsession with anything other than me pisses me off. And these days, I have been constantly pissed off. If it’s not purple, it’s a car. If it’s not a car, it’s a fucking celebrity. If it’s not a celebrity, it’s a food. Seems like every day, Bam finds something new to be obsessed with. I’m old news now. Crumpled and thrown into the bin, with a half eaten apple and a Snickers wrapper as company.
And Bam’s convertible smells like leather. And when I buckle myself in, I smell woman perfume, too. I turn my head to look at the backseat. Not very big, but big enough to have a rowdy sex in it. You can even get completely naked in there and spend a whole hour fumbling and cupping and sucking and humping, with no one on the street even noticing. Bam looks at me looking at the backseat and I hear him swallow.
“She was just…there.”
He doesn’t mean the backseat, even though that would have been accurate enough. By there, he probably means ‘out of nowhere’, ‘in my way’, ‘I couldn’t just ignore her’, ‘it was destiny’, ‘I had no say in it’, et cetera. Might as well say she just forced the door open and then forced herself on me. What the fuck ever. I nod and turn away, sinking into the comfortable leather seat. I need a cigarette to go with my perfect nonchalant expression but I only find gums in my jeans pocket. This will do. It tastes like strawberry. I offer Bam one, to be polite. He declines. But not very politely. He knocks my hand away and the gums go flying out of their rectangular pack. Some fall into my lap; like blue fingers falling off a hand. But these gums are white. And taste like strawberry. Bam suddenly brakes and if it wasn’t for the seatbelt, I would have been thrown out of the windshield.
“We’ll do it.”
First he looks at me, and then at the backseat.
Right now?
I look around. We‘re on an almost deserted street, not so far from home, and Bam has parked his car under a shimmering lamppost. It makes me wonder if Bam has been thinking about this all along and our trip to the convenience store was just an excuse to get me into the car.
“I have a condom.”
Well, that confirms it; either that, or he has been saving it for another woman who just happens to be there next time he goes out for a ride, and yes, pun intended.
Just…whatever.
If he wants to treat me like a whore, I’m all for it.
XXX
The leather burns against my bare back and I wonder why I always get the bottom. Well, it didn’t used to be always. At first, it was me on top, because Bam was too clumsy with cocks and anuses and I really didn’t trust myself in his fumbling hands. Then, all of a sudden, Bam said he wanted to top for a change. I let him, because by then, it wasn’t a matter of trust anymore; it was love, even if I hate to admit it. But no amount of hatred can conceal the truth that I, Ville Hermanni Fucking Valo, was in love with Brandon Cole Fucking Margera.
What a hilarious tragedy. Ha fucking ha.
Bam, slow down.
Tonight, he’s being very aggressive. His cock, wrapped in a chocolate flavored condom, slams hard against my opening and before I can catch my breath, slides all the way in. In the haze of it all, I remember that I have forgotten to bring my inhaler with me, and an asthma attack during a rowdy sex would be the most embarrassing thing ever happened to me.
“But I’m coming.”
His voice is rough; like his hands on my shoulders, fingers marking my skin with blunt nails. Like the way he fucks me, right into the leather backseat; like his love that he pushes in me with each grumpy thrust and takes it back before I can even comprehend it. For a moment, I toy with the idea to let Bam come in his own way, but it’s getting harder and harder to breathe and if one of us must end up being embarrassed, I’d rather it not be me.
I push Bam away, hard, and practically send him flying backward. His cock, engorged and about to explode, leaves my opening quicker than I could handle and we both hiss at the same time; with Bam having hit his head against the window.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
His voice is loud; too loud for my liking. I push myself up and lean against the door, trying to catch my breath. But it’s not working. I need fresh air and this whole damn car smells of leather and heady woman perfume.
And perhaps, a little bit of unsatisfied love, too.
The first time we, Bam and I, had sex, or rather, almost had sex, Seppo had walked in on us. ‘Just keep love out of it.’ That’s what he said after Bam had left. I found the whole concept of falling in love with someone like Bam absurd. I told this to Seppo. He shook his head and told me, ‘you’ll never know what you got yourself into until it’s too late.’
I had a feeling he was talking from experience, so I didn’t argue. And yet, I thought I knew what I was doing.
“Just keep love out of it.” Seppo had said before leaving the dressing room.
I look at Bam now, at his tan chest and those matching tattoos and his upset, frustrated face and try to remember where we have gone wrong.
We weren’t supposed to fall in love, and this… is not supposed to be love.
XXX
Our biggest fight, and now that I reflect on it, it all sounds ridiculous. Too much drama for naught. It’s ridiculous and Bam was right. I had no claim on him. If he wants to fuck half of the girls’ population in L.A., I should not interfere. I’m not his mom, and even April has no right to interfere with Bam’s sex life. He’s old enough to handle every aspect of his fucked-up life all on his own fucked-up self. And we should not fuck with him. I would tell him, ‘It’s alright, go ahead, enter their lives, I’m not jealous because we never met. We got close once in New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never touched. [2]’ And Bam would look at me like I had gone insane. Perhaps I have. Nothing I say makes any sense to either of us anymore.
And I remember I screamed at him and threw something at his head. Oh the joy of that. He dodged of course, but that’s beside the point. I wanted to know why he kept fucking random chicks behind my back and he told me we’re no longer a thing (if we had ever been one in the first place) so I better shut it. So I did. Almost.
When he left, I only had one more question to ask him. A question that the answer of which could put a full stop to our run-on sentence for good. And for three months after that night, I left the same message on his voicemail:
Who wanted the divorce? You or Missy?
I thought it’d make a difference. No, I hoped that it would. It didn’t. Back to square one. 1000 more squares to go. And by the time I reach the last square (if I’m ever gonna reach it) I don’t think I’ll be in the mood to care for the prize either way; too old, too bored. That’s the price we pay when we gamble with Time.
“I think I’d better go home.”
We’re sprawled on the sofa on one snowy afternoon and this time I’m on top, with the black leather under Bam’s T shirt-clad back. I have my nose against his neck and every now and then take a deep breath. He smells of pancake so badly that I can almost taste the sweetness on the tip of my tongue. But when I swallow, my mouth tastes as bitter as my sleeping pills.
Bam’s not home; he is here, but here’s not his home. And no amount of love on my part has ever been able to make him feel at home.
That day Seppo had warned me, ‘just keep love out of it.’ And I had nodded like I knew what I was doing, like an idiot, an overconfident fool. But now I just wish he had also told me how. If there is any way to escape love at all.
XXX
I stand where Bam is and try to look at myself from his perspective.
My backpack is heavy on my shoulders. I have pulled my beanie over my brows. My large, lined eyes are cast downward. I’m smoking with an air of composure around my tall, black figure, but in the rush of the crowd that is walking past me without even noticing me, I’m lost. The hand that is holding the cigarette is shaking. And the more I look at myself, the less I resemble myself. This is not me. This is Bam. And I’m looking at Bam. And this is Bam, minus the backpack, the beanie, the eyeliner, the cigarette. Bam with only a suitcase at his feet and a cellphone in his hand.
Who am I kidding? He is the one who’s about to leave, not me, never me. And this time, it seems like there won’t be any coming back. I feel like an overgrown loser; a big balloon head on a stick with black ink smudges for eyes. Push a needle in and see how I go BOOM in a nanosecond.
Bam, where have we gone so wrong?
“You can…keep the car.” Bam tells me as he pockets his cellphone and drops the key in my hand.
I can’t drive it.
“I know. That’s why I’m leaving it with you. I want to see it in one piece the next time I fly to Finlandia.”
Only, there won’t be a next time. I know this. He knows this. Hell, everyone knows it. And yet, Bam won’t admit it.
There’s a killer in me that wants out. I just need to find myself another victim that is neither Bam nor me.
And then I think of the car; Bam’s Jaguar convertible with its backseat that smells of leather and woman perfume. And for a moment, I see myself back there, naked and sweaty, humping into a whore with badly dyed hair and slacking breasts. Perhaps her eyes are a faded green and there’s a crooked winged heartagram tattoo under her navel that has run all over her taunt skin like the black tears of a demon. She wraps her skinny legs around my waist and calls me Bam. Perhaps, as I thrust into her like a caveman, I’ll call her Ville. And we will be happy, in one nanosecond that we both go BOOM in the leather backseat of Bam’s Jag. And perhaps then, I will understand why I failed to keep love out of it.
XXX
The End
[1] A line from ‘An Almost Made up Poem’ by Charles Bukowski
Author: marjohn666valo
Summary: Fight Club style. Insomniac nights with a craving for pancakes and annoying the hell out of one American Skater; Bam comes back into Ville’s life after three months and Ville ponders about what happened before and after The Apology. And why he failed at ‘keeping love out of it.’
Rating: R, for cussing and a brief mention of sex
Author’s Note: just thought to give this apology thing a try. I have never written in this style before, so please forgive any shortcomings on my part. Oh, and this story is very weird, I admit ;)
There’s a killer in me that wants out.
Bam tells me to shut my trap, rolls to his side and starts snoring aloud. It’s two in the morning and Bam has never liked jetlags. I run my finger over his bare back; it’s tan and warm. Like a pancake. I press my nose to his back and sniff his skin. Damn, it smells good.
Bam , can I lick your back?
Bam elbows me in the chest and moves further away from me; there’s enough space on the bed for him to be able to do so. “Go to sleep Valo,” he groans, “and stop pestering me.”
I roll on my back and stare at the ceiling. I can’t sleep in absolute darkness so I always keep the lamp on the nightstand on. Bam always gets a kick out of teasing me about this fact.
“You’re such a fucking child, Ville. Now you’re gonna tell me there’s a monster in your closet, too?”
But I’m not afraid of the dark. I just can’t focus and count the sheep when I can’t see the ceiling.
One sheep, two sheep, three sheep…
It’s not the same anymore. We rarely see each other and when we do, Bam’s always complaining about one thing or another. Once I asked Bam, ‘Bam, what happened to us?’ he said, ‘we just grew up; grew old. Grew tired of each other. Nothing happened; not really.’
Four sheep, five sheep, six sheep…
Ever since that night. I apologized. And not just once. And in front of my fans no less. I was hoping they would get the whole embarrassing thing on their cameras because I knew Bam was no longer there to see me making an ass out of myself. I called Bam up and told him to type ‘Ville apologizing to Bam’ in YouTube’s search box and watch the first video that comes up. I can’t do apologies directly; come to think of it, I can’t do a lot of things directly.
Seven sheep, eight sheep…
Bam never told me if he watched that blasted video. But I think he had. He didn’t answer my calls for three whole months after that. And now he’s back. With his bare back to me, which smells like pancakes. Mmm…
Nine sheep…
“Valo, count those fucking sheep in your head. I’m trying to get some sleep here, you prick.”
But if I can’t count them aloud, I won’t fall sleep.
Bam grunts and smacks me in the face with his pillow.
“Fine, then. I sleep on the coach.”
He walks out of the door, like a child several sizes too small for his frame, for his clothes and his dignity, and I feel a little bad for him. But not too bad, since I know he won’t be sleeping on the coach. No need for that; I have plenty of guest rooms, and one of them is officially Bam’s.
Ten sheep, one sheep, two sheep, three sheep…
I hate it when it reaches after ten. Sounds like a waste of breath. It’s much easier to count from one to ten. After all, the whole idea is for me to fall sleep.
I reach for my sleeping pills on the nightstand and gulp down three of them and wash the bitter taste down my throat with the glass of water I always keep there. Just in case. Counting sheep is bloody boring. I need something with instant effect tonight.
I clutch Bam’s pillow to my chest and squeeze my eyes shut, as if trying to trap the sleep behind my closed lids.
The pillow smells like Bam. Like pancakes. Perhaps I make pancakes for breakfast. Bam hates pancakes. He likes strawberry jam on a toast coated with a thick layer of butter. I’m out of strawberry jams. Guess he just has to do with the pancakes.
Damn, looks like this night will never end.
XXX
I didn’t make pancakes, after all. Just a cup of coffee as usual, minus the cigarette. The coffee tastes better without the cigarette, I tell Bam. To which he just rolls his eyes and absent-mindedly sips his own coffee.
And it’ll taste even better if you put some sugar in it.
Bam, do you want some sugar?
Groggily he says no and keeps his eyes focused on the cigarette burn on the coffee table. There are lots of those, here and there; the cigarette burns I mean. Sometimes I would do it on purpose. Putting my cigarettes out on my furniture. Made it more personal, so to speak. Mige said it was a bad impression of me. That was why I found it so fitting.
I’m sorry we’re out of strawberry jam today.
Bam looks at me with his brows raised high, his cup of coffee secured between his hands.
You like strawberry jam, don’t you?
Bam sighs and runs one of his hands through his hair. It’s longer than usual, and perhaps a little curlier. He always wanted to let his hair grow past his shoulder but he never had the patience for it. Plus, he wouldn’t look good with long hair, anyway. That’s what he’d tell me.
“That was fucking years ago.” He’s upset. Perhaps even mad. I put my cup on my knee and circle its rim with my finger and try not to breathe too hard, lest these crippled walls and ceiling cave in on me.
Why are you so upset, Bam?
I think you should be happy that you’re not the one with insomnia. Insomnia is a bitch. Counting sheep no longer works. I had three sleeping pills last night and still couldn’t sleep. I was afraid to take more. But now that I think of it, slipping into a permanent sleep sounds like a far better alternative than never sleeping at all. But Mige would be mad at me if I let something like that happen. I wonder if Bam would, too.
“Just forget it, Ville. I need to get out.”
He pushes his chair back with one hand and practically runs off. I like to think he’s headed for the bathroom but you don’t need your car keys if you’re going to empty your bladder in the adjoining bathroom. But of course, there’s no saying with Bam.
Bam, don’t leave. I promise I won’t talk about strawberry jam if you don’t like it.
We can instead talk about whores, divorces, pancakes and global warming, if you’re interested; over one afternoon coffee, while birds are chirping outside and the TV is buzzing in the background. Pointless, so very pointless.
Bam swears aloud (and I have a reason to believe at me) before he lets the door slam shut behind him. I wince at the sound. Bam doesn’t know many places in Helsinki. In fact, there’s only one place he would rather be right now and he doesn’t need his car key for that. I hope he won’t end up getting himself lost any more than he already is.
XXX
Where have you been?
It’s 1 in the morning and I know I have dark bags under my eyes and that my shirt is wrinkled all over, the beautiful results of having waited for that jackass to come home. Bam pushes me out of his way, however, and sprawls on the couch. I didn’t smell alcohol on him. Instead, there was the smell of leather and woman perfume on his skin.
“Don’t you fucking start, Valo.”
He threatens, or at least attempts to. His shirt is missing two buttons and he has a purplish bruise alongside his neck. I point this out to him.
Have you been in a fight?
He groans and glares up at me. “Do you have cigarettes on you?”
I quit. Remember?
“Why would you quit? I need a fucking cigarette right now.”
I kneel next to the couch and my fingers brush along his thigh. He eyes me suspiciously and I can read in his eyes that my touch is not welcomed. I miss the old days when our roles were reversed, and I can’t help but wonder if this reversal is a poor attempt at cosmic irony.
I can give you a massage, I say seductively, but feeling dead inside.
Bam looks pained. Like I had just run him through with my words, or my mere presence. Or perhaps he has just caught on my deadness and his removing my hand from his crotch is just his way of showing me he’s not that much into necrophilia.
“Would you stop annoying me if I give you the fucking answer?”
He asks, voice unsteady, eyes unfocused, breathing labored. Like he regrets ever saying those words, or just regrets every fucking thing about his life and his choices, but there’s no backing now. I may be dead, but I sure as hell know how to haunt.
I say yes, because I know what the answer is going be and Bam admitting it aloud gives me the reason to stop. You can run in circles for so long before you’re sick.
“Ok. She did. She was the one who left. Happy now?”
Happy?
Bam, do you know how to make pancakes?
Because honestly, I don’t. I may look good with an electric guitar slung over my chest, but in a kitchen apron, a blinding yellow with little flowers all over it, I look downright ridiculous. Or at least, that’s what Bam has told me. But I have a suspicion that it’s not the apron itself that makes me look ridiculous but those little flowers and especially the color yellow. Perhaps in a black one with the words ‘Black Sabbath’ written in the middle, I look cool.
We’ll make them together; I know you hate pancakes, but I’m hoping you’ll be curious enough to know how our cooking tastes like.
He’s so upset now I know he yearns to pull his hair out; or mine; judging by the look he’s giving me, the latter would have been more preferable but less practical seeing as my hair is too short to grasp. He grabs my wrist instead, so hard that it brings tears to my eyes and stops the blood circulation in my hand. I think of my fingers falling off, one by one, on the floor. Perhaps one of them falls into Bam’s lap. His dark jeans are spotless around his crotch, but I like to imagine cum stains on it. At least this way, I know that it had been a quick handjob and a very messy one at that, too. Bam loves it when things get messy.
“I told you. I told you it was her. Not me. Why don’t you fucking stop bothering me?”
But perhaps, I would have been better off not knowing.
I’m sorry.
But this is not like that apology that night. This is not the one I made in L.A. This one is hollow and doesn’t mean anything. Bam lets go of my wrist and I resist the urge to rub the pain away. Or the tears. As long as I don’t touch them, they don’t exist.
I feel like reaching out and touching Bam, if only to make sure that he exists. But as the tears vaporize on my skin, so does Bam’s presence on my consciousness.
Guess he’s gonna sleep in his own room tonight.
XXX
After his sixth visit to Helsinki, Bam decided to buy himself a car. I don’t know much about cars; they’re all evil. But Bam’s a Jaguar convertible with its top never folded down. Not that there’s anything wrong with the car. It’s just that Bam always comes here during autumn or winter and “driving in Helsinki in a convertible with its top folded down is pure madness”. At least, it’s not purple. Not that I have anything against purple per se. Bam’s obsession with anything other than me pisses me off. And these days, I have been constantly pissed off. If it’s not purple, it’s a car. If it’s not a car, it’s a fucking celebrity. If it’s not a celebrity, it’s a food. Seems like every day, Bam finds something new to be obsessed with. I’m old news now. Crumpled and thrown into the bin, with a half eaten apple and a Snickers wrapper as company.
And Bam’s convertible smells like leather. And when I buckle myself in, I smell woman perfume, too. I turn my head to look at the backseat. Not very big, but big enough to have a rowdy sex in it. You can even get completely naked in there and spend a whole hour fumbling and cupping and sucking and humping, with no one on the street even noticing. Bam looks at me looking at the backseat and I hear him swallow.
“She was just…there.”
He doesn’t mean the backseat, even though that would have been accurate enough. By there, he probably means ‘out of nowhere’, ‘in my way’, ‘I couldn’t just ignore her’, ‘it was destiny’, ‘I had no say in it’, et cetera. Might as well say she just forced the door open and then forced herself on me. What the fuck ever. I nod and turn away, sinking into the comfortable leather seat. I need a cigarette to go with my perfect nonchalant expression but I only find gums in my jeans pocket. This will do. It tastes like strawberry. I offer Bam one, to be polite. He declines. But not very politely. He knocks my hand away and the gums go flying out of their rectangular pack. Some fall into my lap; like blue fingers falling off a hand. But these gums are white. And taste like strawberry. Bam suddenly brakes and if it wasn’t for the seatbelt, I would have been thrown out of the windshield.
“We’ll do it.”
First he looks at me, and then at the backseat.
Right now?
I look around. We‘re on an almost deserted street, not so far from home, and Bam has parked his car under a shimmering lamppost. It makes me wonder if Bam has been thinking about this all along and our trip to the convenience store was just an excuse to get me into the car.
“I have a condom.”
Well, that confirms it; either that, or he has been saving it for another woman who just happens to be there next time he goes out for a ride, and yes, pun intended.
Just…whatever.
If he wants to treat me like a whore, I’m all for it.
XXX
The leather burns against my bare back and I wonder why I always get the bottom. Well, it didn’t used to be always. At first, it was me on top, because Bam was too clumsy with cocks and anuses and I really didn’t trust myself in his fumbling hands. Then, all of a sudden, Bam said he wanted to top for a change. I let him, because by then, it wasn’t a matter of trust anymore; it was love, even if I hate to admit it. But no amount of hatred can conceal the truth that I, Ville Hermanni Fucking Valo, was in love with Brandon Cole Fucking Margera.
What a hilarious tragedy. Ha fucking ha.
Bam, slow down.
Tonight, he’s being very aggressive. His cock, wrapped in a chocolate flavored condom, slams hard against my opening and before I can catch my breath, slides all the way in. In the haze of it all, I remember that I have forgotten to bring my inhaler with me, and an asthma attack during a rowdy sex would be the most embarrassing thing ever happened to me.
“But I’m coming.”
His voice is rough; like his hands on my shoulders, fingers marking my skin with blunt nails. Like the way he fucks me, right into the leather backseat; like his love that he pushes in me with each grumpy thrust and takes it back before I can even comprehend it. For a moment, I toy with the idea to let Bam come in his own way, but it’s getting harder and harder to breathe and if one of us must end up being embarrassed, I’d rather it not be me.
I push Bam away, hard, and practically send him flying backward. His cock, engorged and about to explode, leaves my opening quicker than I could handle and we both hiss at the same time; with Bam having hit his head against the window.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
His voice is loud; too loud for my liking. I push myself up and lean against the door, trying to catch my breath. But it’s not working. I need fresh air and this whole damn car smells of leather and heady woman perfume.
And perhaps, a little bit of unsatisfied love, too.
The first time we, Bam and I, had sex, or rather, almost had sex, Seppo had walked in on us. ‘Just keep love out of it.’ That’s what he said after Bam had left. I found the whole concept of falling in love with someone like Bam absurd. I told this to Seppo. He shook his head and told me, ‘you’ll never know what you got yourself into until it’s too late.’
I had a feeling he was talking from experience, so I didn’t argue. And yet, I thought I knew what I was doing.
“Just keep love out of it.” Seppo had said before leaving the dressing room.
I look at Bam now, at his tan chest and those matching tattoos and his upset, frustrated face and try to remember where we have gone wrong.
We weren’t supposed to fall in love, and this… is not supposed to be love.
XXX
Our biggest fight, and now that I reflect on it, it all sounds ridiculous. Too much drama for naught. It’s ridiculous and Bam was right. I had no claim on him. If he wants to fuck half of the girls’ population in L.A., I should not interfere. I’m not his mom, and even April has no right to interfere with Bam’s sex life. He’s old enough to handle every aspect of his fucked-up life all on his own fucked-up self. And we should not fuck with him. I would tell him, ‘It’s alright, go ahead, enter their lives, I’m not jealous because we never met. We got close once in New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never touched. [2]’ And Bam would look at me like I had gone insane. Perhaps I have. Nothing I say makes any sense to either of us anymore.
And I remember I screamed at him and threw something at his head. Oh the joy of that. He dodged of course, but that’s beside the point. I wanted to know why he kept fucking random chicks behind my back and he told me we’re no longer a thing (if we had ever been one in the first place) so I better shut it. So I did. Almost.
When he left, I only had one more question to ask him. A question that the answer of which could put a full stop to our run-on sentence for good. And for three months after that night, I left the same message on his voicemail:
Who wanted the divorce? You or Missy?
I thought it’d make a difference. No, I hoped that it would. It didn’t. Back to square one. 1000 more squares to go. And by the time I reach the last square (if I’m ever gonna reach it) I don’t think I’ll be in the mood to care for the prize either way; too old, too bored. That’s the price we pay when we gamble with Time.
“I think I’d better go home.”
We’re sprawled on the sofa on one snowy afternoon and this time I’m on top, with the black leather under Bam’s T shirt-clad back. I have my nose against his neck and every now and then take a deep breath. He smells of pancake so badly that I can almost taste the sweetness on the tip of my tongue. But when I swallow, my mouth tastes as bitter as my sleeping pills.
Bam’s not home; he is here, but here’s not his home. And no amount of love on my part has ever been able to make him feel at home.
That day Seppo had warned me, ‘just keep love out of it.’ And I had nodded like I knew what I was doing, like an idiot, an overconfident fool. But now I just wish he had also told me how. If there is any way to escape love at all.
XXX
I stand where Bam is and try to look at myself from his perspective.
My backpack is heavy on my shoulders. I have pulled my beanie over my brows. My large, lined eyes are cast downward. I’m smoking with an air of composure around my tall, black figure, but in the rush of the crowd that is walking past me without even noticing me, I’m lost. The hand that is holding the cigarette is shaking. And the more I look at myself, the less I resemble myself. This is not me. This is Bam. And I’m looking at Bam. And this is Bam, minus the backpack, the beanie, the eyeliner, the cigarette. Bam with only a suitcase at his feet and a cellphone in his hand.
Who am I kidding? He is the one who’s about to leave, not me, never me. And this time, it seems like there won’t be any coming back. I feel like an overgrown loser; a big balloon head on a stick with black ink smudges for eyes. Push a needle in and see how I go BOOM in a nanosecond.
Bam, where have we gone so wrong?
“You can…keep the car.” Bam tells me as he pockets his cellphone and drops the key in my hand.
I can’t drive it.
“I know. That’s why I’m leaving it with you. I want to see it in one piece the next time I fly to Finlandia.”
Only, there won’t be a next time. I know this. He knows this. Hell, everyone knows it. And yet, Bam won’t admit it.
There’s a killer in me that wants out. I just need to find myself another victim that is neither Bam nor me.
And then I think of the car; Bam’s Jaguar convertible with its backseat that smells of leather and woman perfume. And for a moment, I see myself back there, naked and sweaty, humping into a whore with badly dyed hair and slacking breasts. Perhaps her eyes are a faded green and there’s a crooked winged heartagram tattoo under her navel that has run all over her taunt skin like the black tears of a demon. She wraps her skinny legs around my waist and calls me Bam. Perhaps, as I thrust into her like a caveman, I’ll call her Ville. And we will be happy, in one nanosecond that we both go BOOM in the leather backseat of Bam’s Jag. And perhaps then, I will understand why I failed to keep love out of it.
XXX
The End
[1] A line from ‘An Almost Made up Poem’ by Charles Bukowski