Radio [3/9]
Author: inpurity
Title: Radio
Genre: AU
Rating : NC17 (overall) This chapter: R for language.
Pairing : Adam Lazzara/Jesse Lacey
Summary : You are 20 years old and live and study in NYC, you are an insomniac and you have a crush the size of Texas for a sharp tongued DJ. Your name is Adam Lazzara and you are about to meet the larger than life Jesse Lacey.
And your life will never be the same.
Dedication : to badaddiction because I had promised her a fic LONG time ago and to Lestat_Manson for being such an AMAZING writer and to cloaked_lace, forever my Adam.
Beta Credit (and my eternal gratitude, plus Adam wrapped in silk): to echoelf who nit picked, gave suggestions, corrected my atrocious grammar and make this chapter readable. (Plus she is so much more rad, than I will ever be)
Disclaimer :This is a work of fiction, not written for profit. I claim no connection with any member of TBS/BN, their families or friends. The events hereby narrated are absolutely false and are not meant to reflect the person's private life. No harm, misrepresentation, libel, malice or copyright infringement is intended. At no time is this meant to be construed as reality.
Tell me what you think.
Enjoy.
x-posted
XXX
This has been a week of boring lessons, $32 spent on cigarettes, too many hours awake and cold rain.
Gina (my non lesbian, very beautiful, desperately in love with my hair, roommate) dragged me to a couple of clubs and I hooked up with some random pretty boy with tight pants and a willingness to be defiled that rivalled mine and, boy, was that a turn off.
Ok he was hot, he was cute, he had the right clothes and soft, straight hair, and, man, he was fucking boring, I think I left him sucking face off with one of the barmen and walked home in the rain (because I was out of money, not because I felt emo and Breakfast at Tiffany like. Of course not. I am a man.), so now I have a fucking cold and my nose is all red and I’ve used an amount of tissues the equivalent of the Amazon rain forest (and no I haven’t been jacking off).
“Gina I am dying…”
“You are not dying you jackass, you just have a cold and a hurt ego. Grow up babe.”
I resent that, I am all grown up already, six foot two of all grown up Adam-ness, and
I am a (semi) responsible adult, and those types of insult are rather gratuitous.
“What’s up with you Missy, time of the month?”
“Why, you need a tampon?”
I throw her a snotty tissue, but she is fast (long Amazonian legs, perfect hips. Pity she has a vagina.) and ducks it easily. She sits beside me on our ratty, green couch (Oh so retro 70s. And fucking ugly, but still retro, hence, poor chic), and moves my hair off my face with her long, soft, fingers.
“Listen you moron, I live with you because you are funny and smart. This mopey act you have going just because a fucking asshole of a Dj stitched you up has to stop. NOW.”
“He has not stitched me up; I was just too tired to notice the signals! And my God, who are you Oprah? I am not mopey over him; I am disappointed by the reality that I have been jacking off to a totally gross looking guy! Jesus! The time wasted lying to my poor dick, the little fella deserves better…”
She tackles me on the floor and jabs at my bony (oh so scene and narrow) chest, with her pointy (fucking vicious French Manicure) fingers and I am cold and achy and she is a witch, because it’s clear that I am dying here and she is taking advantage. Doesn’t she know that “Man Flu” is deadly?
“Listen Adam, this is Gina ok? Not one of those moronic, little poseurs you hang out with. If this Jesse man is bothering you so much why don’t you go down the bloody station and tell him what you think about him? And then come back and make me a margarita because, really man, you have been a fucking dead weight the past week and I am not gonna let you get away with it anymore.”
I whine and she whacks me with a soft pillow, so I whine louder and roll away from her because I am too sick (and delicate, oh poor me…) to retaliate properly, and because she may have a point, but I am not gonna tell her, that’s for sure, she is already big headed as she is.
“I hate you woman! You’re kicking a man when he’s down!”
“Shut up you big wuss and go to bed, listen to your man, jack off a bit and then when you are feeling better and don’t look so hideous, go and tell him that you want his hot, perky ass!”
“I DON’T WANT HIS ASS!!! HE HAS A SAGGY ASS!” (That’s a lie…. His ass is rather nice actually. Damn fucking hormones)
“Whatever Scarlet, go to bed now”
And with that she saunters off the room (I taught her that. Before me she didn’t even know how to strut! I mean, girls nowadays! What are their mamas teaching them?) , leaving me with another night of sleepless ranting and a ten thousand word paper due in two days. Oh joy.
Since I met the ”asshole in disguise”, as I am fond of calling him now, I haven’t even listened to the radio, and you have no fucking idea how hard it has been.
I haven’t been without my faithful voices in a long, long time, and their absence has made my insomnia completely unbearable. The minutes had gone back to stretch and stretch, enveloping my awareness with long tendrils of fucking insanity.
I did it as a sort of personal revenge against his derision, but I ended up feeling even more fucking miserable! He is a bloody cunt, I swear! What was the point of taking the piss like that? Is Mr Lacey too high and mighty to actually accept the compliments (and shameless advances) of a tight assed, totally not bad looking, rather smart emo kid? (Modesty has no place in my vocabulary. Modesty is the gift of the mediocre, yeah I know. I am a self-assured fag. Hey, I had to fend for myself for a long time, now I don’t let anyone getting me down)
But anyhow, I can’t stop thinking about the fact that my fucking crush treated me like a moronic kid. I can’t stop thinking that he spent four hours pretending to be someone else and feeding me bullshit about his lives (both fictional and real).
I can’t stop thinking (about his stiff nipples in the warm café… ok that was the cough medicine ok? I don’t fantasise about Mr Jesse Lacey anymore! I mean he has curly hair! And a firm, round ass… See? I am too drugged up.) about the fact that I haven’t heard his voice in a week and I miss it.
Yeah. I fucking miss it. Despite the bullcrap and the sarcasm and the attitude, I miss that voice, I miss the echo of his sharp remarks in my head, I miss the laughter I had at the expenses of poor, unaware lambs slaughtered by Jesse’s wit, and I miss my nights spent on the verge of cumming on the sound of an adjective.
I miss Mr Sarky.
I miss him.
“Fuck.”
I lie on the bed and the covers are all crumpled under my too warm body, I dig under the pillow and find my faithful little radio with the snarled headphones tangled like Britney’s love life, and the missing volume knob. I debate about turning it on for about five seconds and at the same time I am already slipping the headphones in my ears. (Ok I have the willpower of a dead mouse. Sue me.)
“… Yeah I can see your point Tracy; of course that doesn’t make it right. Just let me spell it for you; just imagine the alphabet spaghetti you shovel down your throat at two am ok? Darling, you are fat because you overeat. Compensating for lack of love? Give us a fucking break ok? This whole nation is fucking psychoanalysing every single fart we take and if it doesn’t smell right is because we have some repressed issues. My ass. Listen doll, forget the glazed donuts and grab the celery, forget the couch and start running! I am not gonna tell you is alright and you will find someone that will love you for who you are. Because, for a start, you are holed up in your apartment, so hello? Nobody is gonna come and knock at your door, and second, you fucking hate yourself! I doubt someone will love you if you cannot even stomach who you are…”
And he keeps on ranting.
Talk about PC with Mr Lacey and he will tell you about the marvel of personal computers. He has no interest in being politically correct, he relishes in being as incorrect as he can and I cannot decide if I like it or not. And, okay, I’m lying through my teeth, because I fucking think he is brilliant. He’s caustic and abrupt and cynical and mean (and he has the cutest little dimples…) but he tells it as it is, no sugar coating and no condescendence and that’s why his deceit makes me so mad.
Why did he have to lie like that?
And why didn’t he try to get into my pants?
I keep replaying our conversation in my head, all the jabbering and sarcastic replies, all the innuendos and the heated debates, and I keep thinking about what he said and how he said it, and the more I do, the more I feel like a fool for having not noticed that he was talking and expressing himself like the man I’ve been listening to for two years.
How didn’t I see it?
Sure, he looked different from what I had imagined (and no, he doesn’t look better! The guy has C.U.R.L.Y. hair people. Please! I have taste.), and his voice was nothing like the one he has on air, but the mannerisms, the vocabulary, the intonations, the way he argued every single point I presented… I should have fucking known, only I was too intent in waiting for Mr Perfect Wet Dream and I decided that he could not possibly fit the bill (despite his luscious chest and doe-like eyes.).
Ok, so maybe it was partially my fault, but he kept up the façade all night. He acted the part of the spiteful sidekick when he is the bloody star, and he got his kicks off by trashing my life in every possible way, while rubbing his bloody knee on mine all fucking night. (Hey nobody, and I mean NOBODY, spend four hours, accidentally, rubbing their knee against the person sitting in front of them ok?)
“…so you think I was a fucking bastard for treating Tracy like that? Can I ask you how much do you weight?”
“That is none of your business…”
“Two hundred pounds? Three hundred?”
“How dare you…”
“Three hundred then. What is this? Fat solidarity? Go back to the gym and sort yourself out before you have a heart attack on air and you ruin my ratings.”
I listen to this man shredding those poor people to pieces (hey fat people have feelings, like us fags), and I cannot stop thinking how fucking smart he really is, how, underneath his coarse, fuck you attitude, there are opinions (questionable sure), ideas, and a sharp, sharp mind. (I admit it; I’m kind of turned on by intelligence. A smart mind gives me a boner. What can I say?)
I listen to him and all of a sudden I realise that I haven’t been really hearing his voice… I mean, let me rephrase it, I hear his voice of course, but it’s not the same one I used to jerk off, it’s not the one that is introducing the commercial, it’s the one that called me “pathetic scene kid”, it’s the one that ordered “mushrooms and cheese omelette”, it’s the one that has a detached, bored elegance, and that tends to become softer and softer around “R”s and “L”s (I just imagined him saying my last name and I DID NOT slip my hand into my boxers. I did not.).
Ok this new development in my personal soap opera is a bit disconcerting.
I’ve spent a week calling him a fucking cunt every other word, I’ve been feeling hurt and angry and disappointed and now here I am on the verge of another bout of masturbatory delight after having realised that his insulting, degrading (and yet oh-so-fucking-sexy) voice makes me hard…
I am a sick, sick boy.
“And you are back with the late night show on WRCK, this is Jesse Lacey…. “
I may be sick, but apparently lil’ Adam’s still healthy, and I’m starting to get a bit worked up. He’s discussing the pro and cons of the Atkins diet, and I’m running my long fingers on the length of my dick with the most delicious friction and his words are raspy like an expert, hot tongue and I suck in a long breath and he keeps ranting and I keep pumping (really, we are the perfect couple).
“… good so you’ve lost sixteen pounds, but you haven’t had an apple in three months.
You can have a pound of beef, but an orange is off limits. Ok… I see. And what do you use to brush your teeth? Paint stripper? You can have pork for breakfast, but no cereals…”
This is so good I can’t keep my eyes open.
“… your breath smells like a guinea pigs pen but you are thin, you fart like a warthog, but you can wear a size nine, your blood pressure will probably hit the roof in few months and you will suffer liver and kidney failures, but you will die thin… And dumb as a fucking post, but that was a condition you had prior the diet right...”
“Ah-a…. fuck…”
And here it is; a final insult and I cum all over my fucking hand.
My stomach ripples softly in the vestiges of another Lacey-induced orgasm, and I’m beginning to wonder if there is a cure for this obsession, because, honestly, this is bloody insane.
I clean myself as best as I can (still with my little radio faithfully delivering his voice to me) and I step out of the room to go and take a shower.
Yes, I am going back there.
I have to see him and try to figure it out if I can actually hate him enough to get rid of this obsession or if I have to try harder to make him fuck me into oblivion (I am going to wear my tightest jeans. Just in case.).
“Oh I see the post coital glow is back. Was it as good for him as it was for you?”
Gina is sprawled on the couch eating chocolate chip cookie ice cream by the gallon (I fucking hate her. I have to starve to have these hips) and I flip her off on my way to the bathroom.
“G.I. Gina I need to borrow your pink t-shirt…”
“Oh god what’s tonight? The “Let me tell you loud and clear, I am proud and I am queer” night?”
“Yes, I’m gonna march down to the radio station with a rainbow banner and blow kisses until he takes me away on the back of his little pony… Fuck you Gina, I need it. Can I borrow it?”
“As if I am going to stop you if I say no…”
“Precisely. You’re the best by the way. Pity you’re a woman.”
“Pity you’re a jackass. Go and have a wash and then go and pursue Mr. Hot as Fuck!”
I don’t know why I’m doing this. I really have no idea.
Of course, yes I have the hots for this man (despite his delirious fashion sense and horrific curly hair and the fact that he had lied to me and has an ego the size of Manhattan), but I have the hots for a lot of people, so why am I getting ready to go and possibly get humiliated again? Why am I making the sheer effort of washing my mane, and even blow-drying it, for someone that more than likely is going to tell me I look like an anorexic border collie? Why am I going to try and convince him that I am better than he thinks?
That there is something more than the skin deep surface of my tight clothes and homo-galore attitude?
I don’t know.
I just need to go there.
I just have to go.
“Oh Miz Scarlet you look so beautiful!”
“Fuck you Gina. Wish me luck, because tonight I’ll either score or go down for first degree murder.”
“Go and get him babe!”
I rush out and hail the first cab coming my way (this means another week on ramen, but, if everything goes well, maybe he’ll pay for another meal and I’ll end up rubbing more than a knee), I give the guy the address and strain my ears to hear Jesse’s voice over the Bangra music blaring from the speakers.
We arrive there twenty minutes before the end of the show and I sit myself in the same booth by the window we were in last week. I have the perfect view and I am not going to miss him.
I order black coffee and pretend to read my book about “A modern approach to cultural criticism” while he’s ranting his way to the final seconds of the show and then finally sends New York to bed with a last fuck off.
I check my reflection in the glinting (surprisingly clean) spoon, and I look hot! I’m all flushed and pretty and my red nose has been covered with some well-applied concealer.
I am ready to hunt you down Lacey.
He emerges from the revolving doors exactly five minutes later. Tonight he’s wearing a black leather jacket (think about the baby cows Adam… not about how good his shoulders look under the buttery soft jacket) and a pair of black slacks. He still has the messenger bag dangling from his left shoulder, but he is not wearing the beanie and his hair is not that bad (ok it’s not great, but I can work with that).
I sit back in the booth, feigning a totally controlled degree of coolness as he crosses the street, his eyes trained on the halo around my hair (man I know I am pretty. Swoon Jesse, swoon.).
He enters the diner with a dangerous stride and his eyes are even clearer and icier than I remembered; he greets the waitress with a polite familiarity and then sits right in front of me and I raise an eyebrow and smile.
“Hi Jesse…”
He takes off his jacket and he is wearing another perfectly ironed shirt, white as snow, and a pinstriped tie and his nipples are not erect, but I can almost see through the fabric, and his chest is just as yummy as I remember.
“Oh it’s the emo princess. Did it take you a week to figure it out? Wow you are bright, are you sure you are not blond?”
Calm down Adam; try to get fucked before you take his heart out with your teaspoon.
“No, it was your licence plate that gave you away zero zero twat.”
“So you can read! The book is not just a prop.”
Shall I throw my coffee at his immaculate shirt or keep trying to get that shirt of his chest?
“And so you can actually be honest instead to fuck around with people that were trying to be nice and show their appreciation!” (And to get a fuck as well, but I can keep this to myself for the time being).
“Appreciation? Oh gosh you are really here because you think I am great? How flattering! Can I sign your jeans? Or your copy of The Perks of Being a Wallflower?”
“Do you like that book too? I read it four times…”
“That book is a shitload of Mtv-ized, bite sized angst. Have you ever wondered why it’s written through letters? Because the writer had no fucking idea about how to articulate a consequential narration, so he gave the public exactly what they wanted; a literary version of “hits4U”. He filled it with clichés that he probably collected interviewing kids waiting for Chris Carabba to mew about broken hearts and then he mixed it all with the most stereotyped characters he could master, the troubled, gifted kid, the coveted gay, the coveted lesbian and so on and so forth… Ever tried to read a real book?”
Jesus Christ, did he even breathe in between?
“Oh nice rant but you are off the air doll, you don’t need to impress me or convert me.”
“Why? Are you already one of my acolytes? I thought you were here to show your appreciation, why don’t you go on and flatter my intelligence and compliment my wits?”
“Because you’re a conceited asshole that loves the sound of his own voice?”
“Ouch that hurt… I mean such a sharp tongue… And here I was thinking that you were just another pathetic emo fag.”
“Jesse darling I am THE emo fag for you.”
Ok as a plan of seduction is not really going down smoothly, but it’s one thing when I am in my room and his voice washes all over my body with a rabid, sensual fury and it’s a complete different matter when I am seated in front of him and not only he is completely obnoxious but he doesn’t even have the decency of straightening his hair or not wear pressed pants. I mean, I have to work hard to actually like this guy.
The same motherly waitress brings him the same cheese and mushrooms omelette (oh God he’s even a serial eater. That is really sad.) And then, to my surprise, she puts a slice of cheesecake in front of me.
“I didn’t order this.”
“I did. At least if you eat you can’t talk.”
The waitress, Edna I think (Edna IS the waitress’ name par excellence. Fact.), chuckles and walks away, and I smile at Jesse with my 100 watt smile of doom and Colgate sexiness, and he just shakes his head and digs into his food.
“Eat, you anorexic asshole.”
“Oh man, does a heart beat inside the dickhead? And the name is Adam. Adam Lazzara.”
Title: Radio
Genre: AU
Rating : NC17 (overall) This chapter: R for language.
Pairing : Adam Lazzara/Jesse Lacey
Summary : You are 20 years old and live and study in NYC, you are an insomniac and you have a crush the size of Texas for a sharp tongued DJ. Your name is Adam Lazzara and you are about to meet the larger than life Jesse Lacey.
And your life will never be the same.
Dedication : to badaddiction because I had promised her a fic LONG time ago and to Lestat_Manson for being such an AMAZING writer and to cloaked_lace, forever my Adam.
Beta Credit (and my eternal gratitude, plus Adam wrapped in silk): to echoelf who nit picked, gave suggestions, corrected my atrocious grammar and make this chapter readable. (Plus she is so much more rad, than I will ever be)
Disclaimer :This is a work of fiction, not written for profit. I claim no connection with any member of TBS/BN, their families or friends. The events hereby narrated are absolutely false and are not meant to reflect the person's private life. No harm, misrepresentation, libel, malice or copyright infringement is intended. At no time is this meant to be construed as reality.
Tell me what you think.
Enjoy.
x-posted
XXX
This has been a week of boring lessons, $32 spent on cigarettes, too many hours awake and cold rain.
Gina (my non lesbian, very beautiful, desperately in love with my hair, roommate) dragged me to a couple of clubs and I hooked up with some random pretty boy with tight pants and a willingness to be defiled that rivalled mine and, boy, was that a turn off.
Ok he was hot, he was cute, he had the right clothes and soft, straight hair, and, man, he was fucking boring, I think I left him sucking face off with one of the barmen and walked home in the rain (because I was out of money, not because I felt emo and Breakfast at Tiffany like. Of course not. I am a man.), so now I have a fucking cold and my nose is all red and I’ve used an amount of tissues the equivalent of the Amazon rain forest (and no I haven’t been jacking off).
“Gina I am dying…”
“You are not dying you jackass, you just have a cold and a hurt ego. Grow up babe.”
I resent that, I am all grown up already, six foot two of all grown up Adam-ness, and
I am a (semi) responsible adult, and those types of insult are rather gratuitous.
“What’s up with you Missy, time of the month?”
“Why, you need a tampon?”
I throw her a snotty tissue, but she is fast (long Amazonian legs, perfect hips. Pity she has a vagina.) and ducks it easily. She sits beside me on our ratty, green couch (Oh so retro 70s. And fucking ugly, but still retro, hence, poor chic), and moves my hair off my face with her long, soft, fingers.
“Listen you moron, I live with you because you are funny and smart. This mopey act you have going just because a fucking asshole of a Dj stitched you up has to stop. NOW.”
“He has not stitched me up; I was just too tired to notice the signals! And my God, who are you Oprah? I am not mopey over him; I am disappointed by the reality that I have been jacking off to a totally gross looking guy! Jesus! The time wasted lying to my poor dick, the little fella deserves better…”
She tackles me on the floor and jabs at my bony (oh so scene and narrow) chest, with her pointy (fucking vicious French Manicure) fingers and I am cold and achy and she is a witch, because it’s clear that I am dying here and she is taking advantage. Doesn’t she know that “Man Flu” is deadly?
“Listen Adam, this is Gina ok? Not one of those moronic, little poseurs you hang out with. If this Jesse man is bothering you so much why don’t you go down the bloody station and tell him what you think about him? And then come back and make me a margarita because, really man, you have been a fucking dead weight the past week and I am not gonna let you get away with it anymore.”
I whine and she whacks me with a soft pillow, so I whine louder and roll away from her because I am too sick (and delicate, oh poor me…) to retaliate properly, and because she may have a point, but I am not gonna tell her, that’s for sure, she is already big headed as she is.
“I hate you woman! You’re kicking a man when he’s down!”
“Shut up you big wuss and go to bed, listen to your man, jack off a bit and then when you are feeling better and don’t look so hideous, go and tell him that you want his hot, perky ass!”
“I DON’T WANT HIS ASS!!! HE HAS A SAGGY ASS!” (That’s a lie…. His ass is rather nice actually. Damn fucking hormones)
“Whatever Scarlet, go to bed now”
And with that she saunters off the room (I taught her that. Before me she didn’t even know how to strut! I mean, girls nowadays! What are their mamas teaching them?) , leaving me with another night of sleepless ranting and a ten thousand word paper due in two days. Oh joy.
Since I met the ”asshole in disguise”, as I am fond of calling him now, I haven’t even listened to the radio, and you have no fucking idea how hard it has been.
I haven’t been without my faithful voices in a long, long time, and their absence has made my insomnia completely unbearable. The minutes had gone back to stretch and stretch, enveloping my awareness with long tendrils of fucking insanity.
I did it as a sort of personal revenge against his derision, but I ended up feeling even more fucking miserable! He is a bloody cunt, I swear! What was the point of taking the piss like that? Is Mr Lacey too high and mighty to actually accept the compliments (and shameless advances) of a tight assed, totally not bad looking, rather smart emo kid? (Modesty has no place in my vocabulary. Modesty is the gift of the mediocre, yeah I know. I am a self-assured fag. Hey, I had to fend for myself for a long time, now I don’t let anyone getting me down)
But anyhow, I can’t stop thinking about the fact that my fucking crush treated me like a moronic kid. I can’t stop thinking that he spent four hours pretending to be someone else and feeding me bullshit about his lives (both fictional and real).
I can’t stop thinking (about his stiff nipples in the warm café… ok that was the cough medicine ok? I don’t fantasise about Mr Jesse Lacey anymore! I mean he has curly hair! And a firm, round ass… See? I am too drugged up.) about the fact that I haven’t heard his voice in a week and I miss it.
Yeah. I fucking miss it. Despite the bullcrap and the sarcasm and the attitude, I miss that voice, I miss the echo of his sharp remarks in my head, I miss the laughter I had at the expenses of poor, unaware lambs slaughtered by Jesse’s wit, and I miss my nights spent on the verge of cumming on the sound of an adjective.
I miss Mr Sarky.
I miss him.
“Fuck.”
I lie on the bed and the covers are all crumpled under my too warm body, I dig under the pillow and find my faithful little radio with the snarled headphones tangled like Britney’s love life, and the missing volume knob. I debate about turning it on for about five seconds and at the same time I am already slipping the headphones in my ears. (Ok I have the willpower of a dead mouse. Sue me.)
“… Yeah I can see your point Tracy; of course that doesn’t make it right. Just let me spell it for you; just imagine the alphabet spaghetti you shovel down your throat at two am ok? Darling, you are fat because you overeat. Compensating for lack of love? Give us a fucking break ok? This whole nation is fucking psychoanalysing every single fart we take and if it doesn’t smell right is because we have some repressed issues. My ass. Listen doll, forget the glazed donuts and grab the celery, forget the couch and start running! I am not gonna tell you is alright and you will find someone that will love you for who you are. Because, for a start, you are holed up in your apartment, so hello? Nobody is gonna come and knock at your door, and second, you fucking hate yourself! I doubt someone will love you if you cannot even stomach who you are…”
And he keeps on ranting.
Talk about PC with Mr Lacey and he will tell you about the marvel of personal computers. He has no interest in being politically correct, he relishes in being as incorrect as he can and I cannot decide if I like it or not. And, okay, I’m lying through my teeth, because I fucking think he is brilliant. He’s caustic and abrupt and cynical and mean (and he has the cutest little dimples…) but he tells it as it is, no sugar coating and no condescendence and that’s why his deceit makes me so mad.
Why did he have to lie like that?
And why didn’t he try to get into my pants?
I keep replaying our conversation in my head, all the jabbering and sarcastic replies, all the innuendos and the heated debates, and I keep thinking about what he said and how he said it, and the more I do, the more I feel like a fool for having not noticed that he was talking and expressing himself like the man I’ve been listening to for two years.
How didn’t I see it?
Sure, he looked different from what I had imagined (and no, he doesn’t look better! The guy has C.U.R.L.Y. hair people. Please! I have taste.), and his voice was nothing like the one he has on air, but the mannerisms, the vocabulary, the intonations, the way he argued every single point I presented… I should have fucking known, only I was too intent in waiting for Mr Perfect Wet Dream and I decided that he could not possibly fit the bill (despite his luscious chest and doe-like eyes.).
Ok, so maybe it was partially my fault, but he kept up the façade all night. He acted the part of the spiteful sidekick when he is the bloody star, and he got his kicks off by trashing my life in every possible way, while rubbing his bloody knee on mine all fucking night. (Hey nobody, and I mean NOBODY, spend four hours, accidentally, rubbing their knee against the person sitting in front of them ok?)
“…so you think I was a fucking bastard for treating Tracy like that? Can I ask you how much do you weight?”
“That is none of your business…”
“Two hundred pounds? Three hundred?”
“How dare you…”
“Three hundred then. What is this? Fat solidarity? Go back to the gym and sort yourself out before you have a heart attack on air and you ruin my ratings.”
I listen to this man shredding those poor people to pieces (hey fat people have feelings, like us fags), and I cannot stop thinking how fucking smart he really is, how, underneath his coarse, fuck you attitude, there are opinions (questionable sure), ideas, and a sharp, sharp mind. (I admit it; I’m kind of turned on by intelligence. A smart mind gives me a boner. What can I say?)
I listen to him and all of a sudden I realise that I haven’t been really hearing his voice… I mean, let me rephrase it, I hear his voice of course, but it’s not the same one I used to jerk off, it’s not the one that is introducing the commercial, it’s the one that called me “pathetic scene kid”, it’s the one that ordered “mushrooms and cheese omelette”, it’s the one that has a detached, bored elegance, and that tends to become softer and softer around “R”s and “L”s (I just imagined him saying my last name and I DID NOT slip my hand into my boxers. I did not.).
Ok this new development in my personal soap opera is a bit disconcerting.
I’ve spent a week calling him a fucking cunt every other word, I’ve been feeling hurt and angry and disappointed and now here I am on the verge of another bout of masturbatory delight after having realised that his insulting, degrading (and yet oh-so-fucking-sexy) voice makes me hard…
I am a sick, sick boy.
“And you are back with the late night show on WRCK, this is Jesse Lacey…. “
I may be sick, but apparently lil’ Adam’s still healthy, and I’m starting to get a bit worked up. He’s discussing the pro and cons of the Atkins diet, and I’m running my long fingers on the length of my dick with the most delicious friction and his words are raspy like an expert, hot tongue and I suck in a long breath and he keeps ranting and I keep pumping (really, we are the perfect couple).
“… good so you’ve lost sixteen pounds, but you haven’t had an apple in three months.
You can have a pound of beef, but an orange is off limits. Ok… I see. And what do you use to brush your teeth? Paint stripper? You can have pork for breakfast, but no cereals…”
This is so good I can’t keep my eyes open.
“… your breath smells like a guinea pigs pen but you are thin, you fart like a warthog, but you can wear a size nine, your blood pressure will probably hit the roof in few months and you will suffer liver and kidney failures, but you will die thin… And dumb as a fucking post, but that was a condition you had prior the diet right...”
“Ah-a…. fuck…”
And here it is; a final insult and I cum all over my fucking hand.
My stomach ripples softly in the vestiges of another Lacey-induced orgasm, and I’m beginning to wonder if there is a cure for this obsession, because, honestly, this is bloody insane.
I clean myself as best as I can (still with my little radio faithfully delivering his voice to me) and I step out of the room to go and take a shower.
Yes, I am going back there.
I have to see him and try to figure it out if I can actually hate him enough to get rid of this obsession or if I have to try harder to make him fuck me into oblivion (I am going to wear my tightest jeans. Just in case.).
“Oh I see the post coital glow is back. Was it as good for him as it was for you?”
Gina is sprawled on the couch eating chocolate chip cookie ice cream by the gallon (I fucking hate her. I have to starve to have these hips) and I flip her off on my way to the bathroom.
“G.I. Gina I need to borrow your pink t-shirt…”
“Oh god what’s tonight? The “Let me tell you loud and clear, I am proud and I am queer” night?”
“Yes, I’m gonna march down to the radio station with a rainbow banner and blow kisses until he takes me away on the back of his little pony… Fuck you Gina, I need it. Can I borrow it?”
“As if I am going to stop you if I say no…”
“Precisely. You’re the best by the way. Pity you’re a woman.”
“Pity you’re a jackass. Go and have a wash and then go and pursue Mr. Hot as Fuck!”
I don’t know why I’m doing this. I really have no idea.
Of course, yes I have the hots for this man (despite his delirious fashion sense and horrific curly hair and the fact that he had lied to me and has an ego the size of Manhattan), but I have the hots for a lot of people, so why am I getting ready to go and possibly get humiliated again? Why am I making the sheer effort of washing my mane, and even blow-drying it, for someone that more than likely is going to tell me I look like an anorexic border collie? Why am I going to try and convince him that I am better than he thinks?
That there is something more than the skin deep surface of my tight clothes and homo-galore attitude?
I don’t know.
I just need to go there.
I just have to go.
“Oh Miz Scarlet you look so beautiful!”
“Fuck you Gina. Wish me luck, because tonight I’ll either score or go down for first degree murder.”
“Go and get him babe!”
I rush out and hail the first cab coming my way (this means another week on ramen, but, if everything goes well, maybe he’ll pay for another meal and I’ll end up rubbing more than a knee), I give the guy the address and strain my ears to hear Jesse’s voice over the Bangra music blaring from the speakers.
We arrive there twenty minutes before the end of the show and I sit myself in the same booth by the window we were in last week. I have the perfect view and I am not going to miss him.
I order black coffee and pretend to read my book about “A modern approach to cultural criticism” while he’s ranting his way to the final seconds of the show and then finally sends New York to bed with a last fuck off.
I check my reflection in the glinting (surprisingly clean) spoon, and I look hot! I’m all flushed and pretty and my red nose has been covered with some well-applied concealer.
I am ready to hunt you down Lacey.
He emerges from the revolving doors exactly five minutes later. Tonight he’s wearing a black leather jacket (think about the baby cows Adam… not about how good his shoulders look under the buttery soft jacket) and a pair of black slacks. He still has the messenger bag dangling from his left shoulder, but he is not wearing the beanie and his hair is not that bad (ok it’s not great, but I can work with that).
I sit back in the booth, feigning a totally controlled degree of coolness as he crosses the street, his eyes trained on the halo around my hair (man I know I am pretty. Swoon Jesse, swoon.).
He enters the diner with a dangerous stride and his eyes are even clearer and icier than I remembered; he greets the waitress with a polite familiarity and then sits right in front of me and I raise an eyebrow and smile.
“Hi Jesse…”
He takes off his jacket and he is wearing another perfectly ironed shirt, white as snow, and a pinstriped tie and his nipples are not erect, but I can almost see through the fabric, and his chest is just as yummy as I remember.
“Oh it’s the emo princess. Did it take you a week to figure it out? Wow you are bright, are you sure you are not blond?”
Calm down Adam; try to get fucked before you take his heart out with your teaspoon.
“No, it was your licence plate that gave you away zero zero twat.”
“So you can read! The book is not just a prop.”
Shall I throw my coffee at his immaculate shirt or keep trying to get that shirt of his chest?
“And so you can actually be honest instead to fuck around with people that were trying to be nice and show their appreciation!” (And to get a fuck as well, but I can keep this to myself for the time being).
“Appreciation? Oh gosh you are really here because you think I am great? How flattering! Can I sign your jeans? Or your copy of The Perks of Being a Wallflower?”
“Do you like that book too? I read it four times…”
“That book is a shitload of Mtv-ized, bite sized angst. Have you ever wondered why it’s written through letters? Because the writer had no fucking idea about how to articulate a consequential narration, so he gave the public exactly what they wanted; a literary version of “hits4U”. He filled it with clichés that he probably collected interviewing kids waiting for Chris Carabba to mew about broken hearts and then he mixed it all with the most stereotyped characters he could master, the troubled, gifted kid, the coveted gay, the coveted lesbian and so on and so forth… Ever tried to read a real book?”
Jesus Christ, did he even breathe in between?
“Oh nice rant but you are off the air doll, you don’t need to impress me or convert me.”
“Why? Are you already one of my acolytes? I thought you were here to show your appreciation, why don’t you go on and flatter my intelligence and compliment my wits?”
“Because you’re a conceited asshole that loves the sound of his own voice?”
“Ouch that hurt… I mean such a sharp tongue… And here I was thinking that you were just another pathetic emo fag.”
“Jesse darling I am THE emo fag for you.”
Ok as a plan of seduction is not really going down smoothly, but it’s one thing when I am in my room and his voice washes all over my body with a rabid, sensual fury and it’s a complete different matter when I am seated in front of him and not only he is completely obnoxious but he doesn’t even have the decency of straightening his hair or not wear pressed pants. I mean, I have to work hard to actually like this guy.
The same motherly waitress brings him the same cheese and mushrooms omelette (oh God he’s even a serial eater. That is really sad.) And then, to my surprise, she puts a slice of cheesecake in front of me.
“I didn’t order this.”
“I did. At least if you eat you can’t talk.”
The waitress, Edna I think (Edna IS the waitress’ name par excellence. Fact.), chuckles and walks away, and I smile at Jesse with my 100 watt smile of doom and Colgate sexiness, and he just shakes his head and digs into his food.
“Eat, you anorexic asshole.”
“Oh man, does a heart beat inside the dickhead? And the name is Adam. Adam Lazzara.”