Bob

The white flag, my recent rash of fever-dreams and Bob. That's what's on my mind right now. I sit in this barstool, which is too hard for my ass, nursing a scotch, and making myself as unattractive as possible to the men around me.

Bob. What a fucking stupid name for the boy I'm in love with. Nathaniel, Emery, Lucas, Hayden – the boys of my pre-pubescent reveries – made up, perfectly constructed, idyllic testaments to beauty, refinement, class, intelligence and romanticism. I was so determined at age ten that I would fall in love with one of these boys. They were invariably English or otherwise European; they had exotic accents and bizarre back-histories, ancestors killed tragically in World War One or Two, a family of aristocrats or – wilder – royalty. Nathaniel, Emery, Lucas or Hayden… And yet, it's Bob.

Bob. Tennessee born, raised, idealized. Salt of the Earth. Worst of all, optimistic. The boy I love is optimistic. Love is a stupid word for it. It's infatuation. Only infatuation. But, when you're as emotionless as I, you can forgive a tizzy or two over feelings. Involuntary, uncontrollable ones, at least. Pot-smoking, adorable, sensitive. Bob. Do I love him? Christ, I hope not.

In my sleep, my lips burn from his kiss. In my sleep, as our mouths touch, a bucket of blood is spilt onto us… It washes over us, and we stand there, completely crimson, smiling, laughing, astonished. Of course, I know the real Bob would not react like this. But I alter him in my mind constantly – change around details, build on his character.

Oh, he's such a pretty canvas to work with, truly. Brown eyed, brown haired brown-noser. Straight, pretty teeth revealed in nice enough smile. A man's body – broad wrists, shoulders. These are things I notice and appreciate. Pink lips. A very adorable grin, I cannot stress that enough. I didn't even consider him until the smile. Argh, devastation, internal and eternal, at the sight of that smile. I cannot help it, nor control it.

Oh, Bob. Bob, oh, Bob, oh Bob.

Bob.

In dreams, he kisses up the trail of femur bone exposed by lack of nourishment, to the centre, and he opens me up. To be flowery about it, my rose opens, blooms, unfurls, etc. Hickies trail from middle to knee. There is no blushing, nor shame. No, the real Bob wouldn't go for that.

I asked him once, lunch time, fag in hand slow-burning to a butt, "You a virgin?"

He didn't even blink; he's so used to my vulgarity (lacquered, naturally, appallingly, with the veneer of lust); Tennessee twang and all, "No. I don't want to manipulate a fuck out of a girl. I want my first time to be special."

I don't. Oh, Bob, have your first time with me. I can't offer you romance, but I can offer you an orgasm – a wet spot to grind the ache off.

Bob, naked; perfect boy-child, pale, sloping physique… Muscles. Scars. Tattoos. No, real Bob has none of that. He's afraid of needles and, especially, pain.

What could become of Bob and me? No idea.

"You're dark and psychotic, but I love it," he said, gnawing an apple for lunch, "It's sweet. You're sweet."

Tracing my face; inciting goosebumps (I hide them, pull down my sleeves); my eyes closed, arrested to the feel of finger-pads working over my unworthy skin.

Fuck. I close my eyes; skull the whiskey.

This is what my life has deteriorated to: Idolatry for a boy named Bob.

But the thing is, see, Bob didn't love me.
It's such bullshit. Disney perverted my view of the real life.
Taught me nothing of practicality.