Mostly life brought him a lot of option B’s.
“-And like she calls me fat, not even directly of course because that bitch has no balls and like she’s the one to talk. I bet she can’t shove that fat ass of hers into my jeans. She’d wish!”
Chatterbox owh chatterbox. In a way he used Tamika in the same way she used him. It wasn’t a kind word, a mean and nasty word but the truth. He smoked and fixed her up with cigarettes. She chattered and kept his mind from wondering and digging up more dirt.
Chattering she fluttered from topic to topic, completely absorbed in her personal teenage drama show. Like a little sparrow searching for a next meal she hipped around him, pleading for cigarettes instead of breadcrumbs. And he was happy to present because she kept his hours at school bearable, the hours they skipped together, the shitty conversations during class. She didn’t stand out unless at parties, she was scared of the social status and she couldn’t say no, yet she saw that as an advantage.
Yesterday her best friend called her a slut, she told him that while they hung out at the backside of the tribune like they always did during PE. She didn’t seem to mind the insult, saw it as an advantage like it took a lot of skill to lure a guy into sleeping with you. There was the same lack of sense in her action and conversation as it had been with Nikkie.
He liked Tamika, only differently.
After a minuscule pause only passing by because she needed to take a last huff and puff from her cigarette. He still questioned if she smoked over her lungs or quiet halfway, but he didn’t ask that would be rude. And when you use somebody you shouldn’t be rude, unless their trying to screw you over big time.
“So why did you get your nose and lip pierced?” She asked suddenly drawing full focus to his face, to the two tiny rings in particular. “Like, I don’t mean it in a bad way, just not a lot of guys have their face pierced.”
Owh boy did she caught him off guard. His heart seemed to be hanging above a shark tank and some evil doctor Genius was ready to push the red button that would unleash the hungry creatures of the sea. Right now he had option A and an option B. Either he would beg and bitch to get free, or he could fry the doc with laze beam, liar liar.
Because the truth would be, I got my face pierced up because you suck way more cock if you got some metal in your face, mouth in particular. Some men just happen think its way more attractive to fuck an underaged kid that got something ‘special’. Did I mention, giving a blowjob with a fucking ring through your lip gives way more tips? It’s like Happy hour for freaks and gully how much they love to pull and tug when they crush your face and make you make out.
That would be his option A, his moment of blunt unflattering courage. Because you don’t kiss and tell with someone unknown to the streets. You don’t socialize with none-walkers, with people who had a right to look up to the sky and think what a wonderful world.
He wondered if she could stand looking him in the face like that if she only knew, only a little. Not even the worst of the worst, but just be aware of any of the average nights he’d lived. One that didn’t include puking your entire stomach down to the floor, or how asphalt tasted when your teeth scrap all over it after being mugged for twenty bucks.
He wondered how she would look at him when he told her about that time he got busted by two undercover cops during his final round on the street. He wondered her face would morphed from obnoxious to disgusted if he told her the cops left him with two options, either he had to go to jail or he’d suck them off in the alley behind Queen Street. He had no interest in jail so option B it had been.
Mostly life brought him a lot of option B’s.
“Guess I just felt like doing something stupid.” He finally said when her stare became uncomfortable, her blue eyes a little too penetrating. Like she tried to read his face, see something in his eyes she hadn’t seen before. Searching for information, clues and background. He wasn’t going to give any of that to her, she was afraid of the social status. He was afraid to be exposed in every single way.
“Stupid huh?” She said, probably labeling that as a clue, bring pieces together and… honestly he didn’t know what she would do with the information. “I bet you did a lot of stupid things, like no offence but you’re in foster care.”
And so the news spread around, Frank the Foster Fuck making it national. He wondered how she’d found out, he knew the source. It must have been Chrissy-boy, because he sure as hell never spook about being a foster fuck unless it needed to be mentioned. He huffed rewinding her last line in his head. No offence but you’re in foster care. How come no offence always appeared overly offensive?
“What did you do to get into foster care?”
Okay, now she did cross a line which meant he was forced to be blunt and harsh. Because the moment someone starts nibbling on your secrets their never full and content until you gave every little piece of the cracks and crackers.
With his cigarette firmly pressed between his lips he rolled up his sleeve. His skin revealed a hideous part of his secrets, but like the white marks of cigarette burns they where shallow. Tainting yes, but possible to look at. Sometimes he rather watched the ugly circles of scarred tissue then watch his face in the mirror.
“My mom thinks I’m the son of the devil, let’s just say she struggled raising me. I got taken away when I was six, so it wasn’t like I had a lot of time to do something really stupid back then. I did do a lot of stupid things when I was in foster care though, ‘cause you learn the best from the master.”
Her mouth snapped from a frozen ‘o’ into a tight line and his face was no longer her main focus. A little part of him was shitting for a moment, an unrealistic frightened part. Like a little boy telling his mom he did not eat any cookies while his face was covered with crumbs and chocolate. In this pretty picture he was a sixteen year old lying about the simple fact that most of the scars on his wrist where made by himself, well his cigarettes. And there was just a twinkie-dinkie little part of him that feared that she would have some amazing set of mindreading power and figure him out.
But no, she was busy enough staring at the scars and he didn’t think her brains included such amazing kind of set.
“Jesus… wooh, that’s just…” Her mouth didn’t come further than that and turned back into an ‘o’. “I’m sorry.”
Auw, she kicked him right into his balls and face as he went down. And then fucking kicked his ribs apart and made her black painted fingernails dig into his skin until they reached ribs and how his blood spattered when she ribbed his heart out. Okay, basically she killed his pride but if it would be able to actually murder someone’s pride it must be a little like see above.
Nobody should feel sorry for a foster fuck.
He could feel her curiosity burn into his wrist. That’s the weird fuck with people, they are shocked and horrified when you cough up something wrong and dirty. But they do want more, owh yes they do want more dirty little details. Because that’s how people work, misery, in particular someone else’s misery is hot topic. Yet it is thrilling and entertaining like watching a dog fight. You’re disgusted yet secretly cheering for the underdog. She had more questions, just scared because of social etiquettes to ask.
So he did her the favor of spilling and coughing up a little more misery, because she wanted to use him and he needed to use her to get through school and have a chattering bird to feed some old crumbs. It gave him a good feeling without actually trying to be a hero, because that would make him feel like such a fake.
“I think I’ve been in twenty-three different foster homes. Could be a few more or less after a while you stop counting because it feels pointless and endless. You’re going to get kicked from one place to another anyway, doesn’t matter if you give it a number or not.” It’s weird that in about five years you don’t consider naming your foster family by their names or even last names, eventually they become numbers because that’s all you are. And why grant someone else with more than that you have?
“I’ve done a lot of stupid things in my life.” And that was an understatement.
Tamika the chattering bird was all quiet now, maybe ready to fly off to someone easier to chatter with. There must be a whole bunch of guys who’d love to have a chatter hour during school with her. She didn’t look like anything special, a little bleak with her dark taste of clothes. But he was sure her slutty point of view would make up for that, hell most boys wouldn’t be trading her cigarettes for chattering company. They would be getting a better way of companionship, with her hips pressed into the truck of that tree. Or in the back of their cars, her mascara slowly smudging on her eyelids and her panties down her ankles. He wondered how a girl her age could be so dumb.
“But I’m all on the right track now.” He finally continued because there was a neon lighted sign on her forehead saying awkwardness. “I’m back at school, I’m behaving alright, I’m not pissing off my foster family and I got my special little after school and Sunday project, I’m on my best behavior.”
Yes, a tiny but owh so painful little voice sneered in the back of his head, best behavior. You’re jerking guys off in a back alley, bought pot, trade cancer sticks for conversation and got your Sunday morning ass covered by a faggot. Real good behavior sonny-boy, really.
He grew silence, fumbled his packaged out of his schoolbag and handed Tamika another cigarette. A peace offer, a trade for some mindless conversation of a teenage drama queen. Some details about a normal teenage life, something humble and funny to talk about. But he pretty much blew that off the calendar for today.
She refused to look at him when he lighted hers. The lack of eye contact suddenly made it feel like a bag of bricks got dumped into the back of his throat and he had trouble swallowing that rock hard fact. Eventually he would use the pile of stones to reinforce the thick twenty feet high wall better known as Fort Frank. It doesn’t matter, he always told himself, it doesn’t matter they don’t want you around, you’re just too different. Too fucked up to match up.
Seeping in his sea of self-pity he’d taken his focus off Tamika and blew smoke circles into the air. When he was younger and extremely high he once wondered if there would be any Air Indians up in the air. And if they where, what kind of secret message they would find in his circles.
He should have taken more notice of Tamika because her pause of silence had ended and developed into humbled chunks of sobs and tears, another way to smear your mascara all over your face.
“Are you ok?” He asked which in his books was just a little less worse then I’m sorry. Plus it was very obvious that she wasn’t ok and would probably burst into a heavy heaves of crying if he didn’t somehow put a stop to it. “Where are you crying about?” He wasn’t sure if it was the question or the semi angry way he asked, but it was a tear jerker. Her body clung against his, he was a short-ass motherfucker so her head easy reached the crane of his neck and before he knew it he was back padding her and ignoring the body fluids soaking into the hem of his shirt.
Of course he wasn’t a complete freak if it came to personal space, he wasn’t always edgy and uptight if other people touched him. He could do fine during gym if there was no other way out of it, he could shake hands and he could suck an entire stranger if he was completely out of cash or options. But crying damsel in despair, not really his special dish. He could feel her small breast press against his chest and the way her breath heaved in and out against the delicate skin of his neck made him want to pull her in more.
He hadn’t had any of that special kind of contact with anyone for a long time. The things he did to get a fix, get high/drunk or to survive never counted as something pleasurable. Let out something special, it was a brain-shut action you did without any thoughts before, during or after. It was just oral or sex, or both, sometimes with smooth touches, hot kisses and moans. But it never meant anything, just the outcome. Money, drugs, booze, freedom anything to keep on living and keep life livable.
“T’s ok, It’s ok, shhh.” He cooed and let his face rest against her head, her hair smelled great and it was so soft. She felt fragile in his hands and that was something else, he wasn’t used to holding something delicate and soft. He’d been in quote on quote relationships and in nearly all if not every single one, he’d been the loser. The weaker one, the sad little pup that did crave any glimpse of love and kindness. So this felt amazing for once.
She wiggled with her arms, hands where doing something he couldn’t see and he really didn’t care because she didn’t seem ready to pull away yet and the warmth of her chest, face and breast where still all around him, making him consider if chattering was all he really wanted. Her hand grabbed his and her fingernails dug deep into his skin, so deep it had to leave those little half-moon marks under it. But he really didn’t give a damn right now and just played along, muttering comforting stupid verbs.
Her hand and his hand reached her wrist and the moment his fingertips brushed over little bumps on her skin he pushed her back with one hand and yanked her arm closer.
“Why the fuck are you cutting yourself?” His question sounded as sharp as his voice because he really couldn’t believe this shit.
“I do a lot of stupid things.” She spat more to herself then to Frank, mascara now really running loose. She didn’t look so average anymore, still not anything special but realistic and soft. “You must think I’m pathetic.”
He lied again, because yes he did believe she was pathetic. Because she had more shots at life then he’d had. Question was, how many more because although she talked a lot she hardly talked about her life. Just the things she did, where she went to during the weekends, but not a lot of personal information. Or maybe he was a bad listener, that could be it too.
There were many things he should have said that moment, because she had that gaze of expectancy. Just some kind words saying it would be alright, his fucking moment as knight in shining armor. But how fake would that be, him preaching about the value of life and how to respect your body, after all ‘it’s your temple’. In a perfect world they would kiss right now and fall in love and be able to see another shiny day filled with cliché moment and rainbow shitting unicorns.
Too bad life wasn’t a movie and love would never come that easy. And so he picked up his schoolbag, gave her one last cigarette and walked away. Just like that, without having the decency to say goodbye. He couldn’t because he felt his lunch twitching and turning in his stomach and if he didn’t keep a steady pass without looking around he would puke right over the sideline of the football field.
I wrote this about a week ago and a lot of good things happened which made it impossible for me to update. I went to Korn, I passed my driver’s license, heard MCR and Adam Lambert are going to tour in Holland. In a nutshell this week is amazingly awesome for me, kundo’s for awesome!
Back to story, I extremely love this chapter. It feels the way I want/picture Frank to feel. With metaphors and sarcasm, like a safety blanket to make all the big bad appear a little less hard and real. Yes this is the way I love to write and I’m just very glad with this chapter, shows a little more of my precious little underdog and the people surrounding his personal spectacle.
I hope you enjoyed it too and if it’s possible leave something for me in the doggybag, that would make this week even more A.