Wendy's first interaction with Fairys
Wendy made out with the poster on Tink’s wall for hours again today. Some standard pretty boy wanna be badass with more direction in his little toe then I’ve got in the entirety of my body. Inked up and blowing out smoke, wife-beater clad, she was mesmerized as he pretended to play piano in black and white while a cigarette fell from his lips. “Peter I’m better at dealing with fictional characters” she says, and I wonder what that means for me. I make her tell me a story as the drugs I hid from her set in and she obliges because she knows I suck at listening unless the plot is admittedly contrived. What she doesn’t know is I’m perfectly aware her fictional wanderings hold more truth then she’ll ever cop to. Besides, the bulge in my pants needs to find some way to tire itself into submission, and I’m pretty sure asking her to touch it and moan in my ear wont come off so well considering it took two hours to convince her I wouldn’t try and play bump in the nigh if she’d trust me and stay.
“I met a fairy once in the city” she says. “On accident really, my parents had a meeting in down town, and I later found out that the clashings of color on Market were pride. The parade just seemed like carnival to me at 12. But my mother hid my eyes with her long manicured fingers and shoal that reeked of Channel number 5. Like a kid playing peek-a-boo with a horror flick, the hiding only hade me want to see. I watched a boy that looked more like a girl then I could ever be with beautiful muscles that nothing with ovaries could ever so naturally pull off dance in circles with wings and little else. Everyone ogled him and grabbed at his nearly naked body and he soaked up the attention like he might disappear as soon as we stopped looking. I’m sure everyone wondered how he found the audacity to be such a ham. So arrogant, so flamboyant, such a queen, such a ham they thought. But all I could wonder was who didn’t let the fairy boy dance before today? No one does anything that furiously without rebellion in the back of his mind. No one pushes that hard unless they’ve been told it’s impossible. He was more real to me then anyone I’d ever seen up until that moment, but so many people will never even believe he exists.”
I whispered back that there’s a very thin line between empathy and projection. She didn’t hear me, and it’s for the best. I nod and pretended to fall asleep so she would do the same. I like to let her believe she can cure my insomnia. Types like her need to believe they are successful at mothering assholes like me, it keeps them from leaving, and it keeps me from growing up.
“I met a fairy once in the city” she says. “On accident really, my parents had a meeting in down town, and I later found out that the clashings of color on Market were pride. The parade just seemed like carnival to me at 12. But my mother hid my eyes with her long manicured fingers and shoal that reeked of Channel number 5. Like a kid playing peek-a-boo with a horror flick, the hiding only hade me want to see. I watched a boy that looked more like a girl then I could ever be with beautiful muscles that nothing with ovaries could ever so naturally pull off dance in circles with wings and little else. Everyone ogled him and grabbed at his nearly naked body and he soaked up the attention like he might disappear as soon as we stopped looking. I’m sure everyone wondered how he found the audacity to be such a ham. So arrogant, so flamboyant, such a queen, such a ham they thought. But all I could wonder was who didn’t let the fairy boy dance before today? No one does anything that furiously without rebellion in the back of his mind. No one pushes that hard unless they’ve been told it’s impossible. He was more real to me then anyone I’d ever seen up until that moment, but so many people will never even believe he exists.”
I whispered back that there’s a very thin line between empathy and projection. She didn’t hear me, and it’s for the best. I nod and pretended to fall asleep so she would do the same. I like to let her believe she can cure my insomnia. Types like her need to believe they are successful at mothering assholes like me, it keeps them from leaving, and it keeps me from growing up.