FicWad

Once again: I do not pretend to know the personalities, thoughts, or intentions of the men I am writing about. I am only using the idea of them- or people who look like them and ironically have their names- to fulfill my own silly fantasies. No harm intended

TWO

Since the incident in the school- or really, the music annex- I had slowly begun to sober from what I could now identify as an adrenaline high. My thoughts seemed to simmer; I no longer felt sudden rushes of excitement or happiness from the experience; now I only felt guilt.

Why had I let him get to me? It wasn’t as if I was gasping for him, he didn’t wear me down over some long period; it was only two fucking weeks! This made me question, obviously, how much power he had over me. Was it possible for someone to even gain so much control, so naturally? And was it him, or me? Was I asking for it? Did I let off some animalistic pheromone that screamed at every attractive man with peculiar tendencies to come fuck me? I didn’t think that was the case, of course, but it was worth the consideration. Because I didn’t even remember seeing the man more than twice before it happened and that was just abnormal; and it made my job, which should, in ever case be absolutely innocent, seem dirtier and more primal than a gay strip club. To me, at least, speaking as the victim here- if I can even call myself something so guiltless.

And for another thing, while on the subject of clubbing, I am, frankly, sick of being fucked with. I mean, the first time having rampant, spontaneous sex in inappropriate places was fun; but by now all I really seemed to want was a proper relationship.

A year ago, if someone had told me that I would, in the near future, be thinking about settling down and having a meaningful relationship, I would have laughed at them and possibly told them to fuck off. Of course, my dick was running the show then. Now I had a job (a job with children, no less), bills, a flat and a mortgage: I had responsibility. I didn’t have time to go out and get drunk or pick up guys at the bar, and sitting at home with the TV and a bottle of wine with piles of marking to do while Terje- my supposed best friend- and our old gang went out on the town getting laid, was getting quite tiresome. It was lonely. It was pitiful and a thousand other adjectives that I did not wish to name, and I was definitely, without a doubt, sick of it.

It was also, obviously, what Janove Ottesen seemed to want instead of me.

I hadn’t seen the man since that Thursday night. I waited: in my classroom, in the staff room, and I even went to the annex itself (despite the squelching feeling in my stomach as I approached the door), but no one answered. It’s fine if he doesn’t want me, and he may not even want his clothes back; but, I had thought childishly, he still had my jacket, and that was where I lost my perfectly manufactured patience.

It wasn’t just any old jacket, you see, it was my favourite jacket; I’d had it for five years and not only did it still fit, but it also looked brand spankin’ new. I had taken perfect care of it, as if it were my own child, and now I wanted it back: now dammit.

But as I said, he seemed to be avoiding me. Which was unfair in any case. Who jumped who here? He was the one who wanted me so damn badly, he was the one who played with my morals; he was the one who won the war. The war I was seriously beginning to regret; hot sex or no, I wasn’t going to be played and then thrown out like some disposable camera. I wasn’t out of film yet; and even though my conscious told me not to be so vain, I had the distinct urge to tell him so. I wanted to look into his dark, wicked eyes, square my shoulders, and demand what was so wrong with me that he wouldn’t give me a chance.

Wait… no, that wasn’t right. I didn’t want to do that, did I? Then again, maybe I did. The bare truth of it is, he was attractive and I liked him, or at least the girly, emotional part of my brain did (the nonsensical part); and not only that, but he had a stable job, and- from what I could tell- a good relationship with his students.

This may be a good time to say that at the moment I am in my house. It’s a flat, really, not very large: one bedroom, one bathroom, and a small inconvenient kitchen. It’s Sunday (the one directly after the Thursday “it” happened) and I am sitting on my couch, comfortable, but alone, drinking red wine and watching really bad television, which is why I had it on mute. A pile of marking is on my lap where I’m curled with a blanket and the pen in my hand is clamped tight and ready to snap from the pressure; all because of these pestering, irritating thoughts, and a single one that keeps coming to mind: was I really considering pursuing the man?

We had sex- fantastic, hazardous, and caught-red-handed sex- and the next day he didn’t even have the balls to see if I was okay. I know that by the time I left I was joking and laughing about the whole thing, promising further actions at a later date; but as I’ve said, I was on a high. Besides, it’s not as if it would be unreasonably difficult. All he had to do was walk into the school (at which he worked) and knock on my door. Simple? Apparently not.

I downed the rest of my wine, which shone crimson and tempting, filling my glass almost entirely. The burn tickled my stomach and felt as though it trickled through my chest: funny feeling, wine. But it gave you confidence, that’s for sure. I almost felt better already. I could go on all night.

See, this is what makes me so mad about men: all they think about is their cock. Not that I acted any different only a few days ago, but at least I had the dignity to beat myself up for it. Janove apparently had no such dignity, himself.

I sighed. How do I end up with these bastards?

And that’s when the door rang.

Fuck. Probably Terje here to gloat about some trick he scored at Peter’s party the other night. That, or he wanted to talk about cheese. Sometimes you just didn’t know with that man.

I stumbled to the door, ignoring the kids’ papers that fell in a heap as I got to my feet, and retched it open, nearly toppling over. So, I was a little bit tipsier than I originally thought. Oops.

I let my focus centre on the figure in the doorway.

Terje: speak of the devil.

I must have said that out loud because he laughed and barged in, swinging a bag protectively out of my reach.

I turned, “yeah, just make yourself at home. Don’t mind me.” The door shut with a slight bang.

Terje was in the kitchen, I heard glasses clink and I automatically knew what he’d brought with him. Not that I couldn’t have guessed already.

“Wait! Wait, my glass is in the living room!” I shuffled at a fast pace, letting my socks slide statically over the wood, and fetched my glass for him.

“Drinking already?” He gave me a smirk, sloshing a decent amount of red into the clear glass.

“I’m a teacher, Terje, when am I not drinking?”

He laughed, “Come on, you’re job’s not that bad. You love kids.”

“I love them when they’re quiet. But they’re six. They’re never quiet.” I downed my glass in one go (the second time that evening) and clenched my eyes shut, rubbing my free hand over my face.

“Man, what’s up with you? Here, give me that…” He took my glass and- so I presumed, as I still had my hand over my face, rubbing soothingly at my eyes- poured me another grand serving.

I groaned and leaned on the counter, twisting the neck of my wineglass so it turned on the spot. At that moment I felt like how the wine probably felt: drunk, far too young, with a slight taste berries and a hint of earth. That comment probably said even more.

After a moment’s hesitation on whether or not to share my little pet shop of horrors with my old friend, I deflated and let it all out in one straight word.

“Kuksuger.”

“Hey, watch it, I’m one of those,” Terje joked. I could hear him right next to me, so he must have been leaning on the counter now too.

I resisted the urge to laugh hysterically. “He jumped me at work.” This gained a strange, gloomy reaction from me.

From Terje, however, I felt a slap on my back and I yelped, sitting up and glaring at the strawberry-blonde grinning at me like an idiot.

“Hey! Why didn’t you say? And why the attitude? You’ve always wanted to fuck in a school.”

“It’s a fantasy, Terje! Fantasies don’t happen. This is my work we’re talking about here; I could lose my job.” I had abandoned my wine to fully direct my exasperation towards my friend, but now realized that I desperately needed it. I chugged most of it down, wiping away the excess that escaped my mouth. Then a thought struck me and I turned to him, “Why are you here anyway? It’s a Sunday.”

“I know it’s a Sunday.” What’s with men and being so fucking vague? It was getting really frustrating; my whole life was frustrating, actually- at the moment, at least.

“So…” I prompted with a little wave, hoping this would clue the blonde to my lack of tolerance tonight.

“Nu-uh, you first; I wanna hear all about the guy who put my wittle Geir-bear in tatters.” His mocking face made me hit him; unfortunately my coordination was as drunk as I was and I was unable to accomplish this without fumbling and nearly tossing my wine. The man escaped the kitchen without so much as a tap and left to engorge himself on his wine in a comfier location. I glared and followed suit.

When I sat down, I very nearly spilled on myself. Again. I hardly even moved, yet the whole show went on without a snitch.

Terje seemed to take pleasure in my troubles as he watched from the other end of the short couch.

“Happens all the time,” I muttered, more to myself than him.

“Okay, enough of the dramatics! I wanna hear gossip.” He snuggled into the cushions, wine cupped in both hands, the most gleeful and childish expression on his face. He reminded me of one of my students, then, but I decided not to tell him and let the slowly growing desire to spill my guts consume me.

Huffing, laying back, I told him absolutely everything; every last detail of the last two weeks, starting and finishing with Ottesen. When I stopped talking, Terje looked baffled and more than a little amused.

“He met you twice, jumped you, gave you the kinkiest sex in your life- well… second to that one time with the belts and shit, but whatever- and you’re complaining that he didn’t call you after?”

Okay, now was mad, and just slightly embarrassed. Why is it that I share my sex-life with my best friend again? I couldn’t think of a reason. “It was sex Terje! We had sex. That deserves some reclog- recog…recognish…” I screwed up my face, stupid word. “We work together. That’s not fair.” That last point was much easier to get across.

“When’s life been fair?” He sipped at his wine, still with that mystified expression on his small face. “And another thing: you love him?” This statement was said with something far more akin to disbelief, a single eyebrow arched, his head tilted.

“No! I said I… I thought I did- but I don’t! I don’t even know him. That’s just fucking stupid.”

“But you said that-“

“Yes. I said I loved him, but what I meant was I loved the sex.” Clarification wasn’t working, and it somehow was even eluding me. Why did I even say that, again? Oh right, I’m a fucking idiot.

“Oh Geir-Bear, you’re such a hopeless romantic.” That sounded almost fond, but not quite. I thought I heard a little mockery in there somewhere, but my wine-addled brain was definitely not in full working order.

“So what do I do?” I really was at a loss; and if Terje couldn’t help me, well, that wouldn’t be much of a surprise, but I was willing to try anything at this point.

The blonde lifted his chest in an exaggerated sigh, huffing out with pointed scepticism. “Well…”

“Yes…?”

“Fuck him-“

“WHAT?” My features enlarged.

“Fuck him: as in don’t bother.” Oh. “I mean, it’s only been a few days. Do you really think he’d call you back that soon?” I opened my mouth to answer, but he cut me off. “But besides your melodramatics, if I were to give you any advice, I’d say fuck him. If he doesn’t call you back or talk to you, or whatever, just leave it, get on with your life. He’s not the end of the world: he’s just some jerk who took advantage of your easily-seduced self-“

“Hey!”

“-And is therefore expend… expen-endable. Yeah.” He nodded in conclusion.

I thought about it. He had a point (shockingly); I didn’t need this kind of crap in my life. I’ll forgive and forget. No one seemed to know, besides the fifth grade girl, so what’s the damage? Forgive and forget. Yes, I think I’ve done it already.

“Thanks, Terje,” I nudged him affectionately with my foot: nothing like good friends, a bottle of wine, and a worry off you chest. Life, it seemed, was good.

-

Monday morning nothing happened that should be noted, even my own subconscious mind. I was a zombie, or at least I acted like one, as my flesh was certainly the same as I had left it Sunday night, and the world seemed to fly by, much like the bad muted sitcoms from before.

The kids were surprisingly quiet (probably catching my waves of ill ease, as kids do), Betty was off sick, and I managed to take her lead and weasel my way out of my afternoon blocks: I called the office, requested a sub, stating I was feeling violently sick, and was out of the brick building by noon. Which was good, because I had forgotten to bring Aspirin in my lunch and my head felt as though it was going to split.

Luckily (as luck as hangovers got these days) my pounding brain, my worming stomach, and my endless supply of insults towards myself kept me busy from any thoughts of the Music Teacher of his whereabouts; that is, until I reached the Pharmacy, came out of aisle five and I saw him standing directly in my way of the exit. There was no way I was going out there.

Turning on my heel, perhaps a little sporadically, I ducked into the Pregnancy aisle. Unfortunately I wasn’t expecting to run head on into another customer and we both bounced backward. I was able to keep my balance, sadly, she wasn’t.

The woman toppled over, yelping in the process and I lunged forwards- ignoring the throbbing effect the collision set off in my head- like some sort of spring. I immediately sought her hand, my other at work pulling back my curls in anxiety.

“I am so, SO sorry. I had no idea you were here, I- I… Charlotte?” No way. “Charlotte Borgen?”

Looking a little disoriented, the brown haired woman I had only just identified as an old high school friend didn’t seem to recognize me until I stammered out my name. At that point, she struggled to her feet, beaming, and squeezed me until I saw stars. She meant well, but it hurt.

I laughed, blinking, “How are you?”

“How are you? I didn’t even recognise you!” She countered, pulling back, eyes shining. She was radiant, almost glowing.

“No, you first.” I had to know: “What are you doing in here?”

She didn’t say anything, but she gave a meaningful shrug with a twist of a flail and my suspicions were answered.

“No.”

“I think so.”

“Really?”

“Uhuh.”

“That’s fantastic.” I hugged her again. It was just like old times. Except before it was without the baby; the baby was definitely new. I pulled back again. “I’m so happy for you.”

She bubbled up, her red painted lips giving her a porcelain doll effect… that is, if porcelain dolls had noses as big as hers, but the comparison still stood: she looked fragile and genuinely elated.

“So am I.” Of course, I thought. “How about you, now? What are you doing in the big bad world? Not as scared of it as you used to be, I hope.” She shoved my arm lightly, hardly moving me at all. I rolled my eyes theatrically.

“Teacher…”

“Oh dear.”

“Still gay…”

“Oh my.”

“Still single.”

“I see.”

She seemed to have grinned wider and wider after each clause; her mouth barely fit on her face. I forgot how much she enjoyed this sort of thing, but upon remembrance, I knew exactly where this was going.

I hollowed, my hands rising in defence, “Oh no.” I could even see her gums she was smiling so wide. I repeated the word “no” too many times to count and then: “Do you remember the Percy Fiasco? Final year, Lower Secondary; you massacred my idea of dating for the next three years. THREE YEARS, I’m telling you.” I got a bit too loud on that last note; I cued myself to lower my voice. “No. Way.”

“Come on, Geir-Bear,” Oh right, that’s where that nickname came from; I forgot about that… “Please let me do it? I’ll make it right this time. This one’s really, really nice. You’ll get along great!”

“We’ve just bumped into each other after… how many years? And the first thing you seriously want to do is set me up with some guy?” I crossed my arms, squeezing the bottle of Aspirin I had managed to keep hold of during the crash, reminding myself of my still pounding head. I couldn’t help but smile through the pain, though, and sighed. “Just like old times, huh?”

“So… is that a ‘yes’?” She was so fidgety. Always was the bouncy one.

“Call it a gift for your possible good news: Happy potential pregnancy.” I ignored the stupidity of that sentence and accepted her business card after she giddily wrote down her home number on the back.

“Call me, alright? I’ll give you a time and a place for the date, and we can set something up for ourselves. Have coffee or whatever, yeah?”

I nodded, and said my goodbyes, explaining I had more shopping to do. Though really I was still vaguely aware that Ottesen could still be out there. She smiled that red-lipped smile, reached down to retrieve her forgotten pregnancy test and walked with determination to the checkout. I watched her go from the secrecy of my hiding spot, nothing better to do until I was sure it was clear.

The thought that I was being set up on a blind date, that I even needed the help, was a bit depressing. But Charlotte was always so indomitable when it came to other people love lives; she couldn’t not get involved, and in her prospective state, I couldn’t say no. Besides, I wasn’t getting anywhere on my own, so why not?

I was cut off from my stream of thought just then. No. No way: it wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be possible. I was momentarily struck blind by the pure shock of Charlotte’s exit; linked arms with the man I was avoiding, she strutted out the door and off down the street.

Why did everything always happen to me?

-

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, or perhaps if I should scream or mould in a corner for a month.

I sat in a cosy and vivid café near my home (one I went to often enough), sipping the gayest drink, I’ll admit, anyone has ever had the guts to invent. Let’s just say it was actually pink, foamy, and was the epitome of “sugar and spice, and everything nice.” But it made me feel better, so I ignored the goading faces around me and focused on my current predicament, which, sadly, was making my still-woozy head to spin like a fucking merry-go round: lights, infuriatingly cheerful music, and all.

There were just too many thoughts and questions occupying my head, but the single question that arose the strongest was of their- meaning Ottesen and Charlotte’s- relationship, as this would be the key to it all. Or at least this was my theory.

As they are not siblings- I know this for sure- and assuming that family in any other way did not connect them, here was my reasoning:

If, by chance, they are together- as in, a couple- then all I would really need to worry about is how I would tell her that her boyfriend/husband cheated on her with me. Since this sounds ridiculous, even to me, I might get off with a little yelling towards him and possible forgiveness coming my way.

However, if they aren’t together- which seemed regretfully more likely- and he was that “really, really nice” guy she intended for me, then… well, I was screwed then, wasn’t I?

I groaned, leaning on the table, wishing I were small enough to fit in my coffee cup and drown. Huh. At least my suicidal thoughts were silly enough to disregard as utter crap. Must mean I’m not as far gone as I thought I was. Fantastic.

“Hey, Geir, you okay?” I felt a large, feminine hand on my shoulder and I lurched up to see Sara, the waitress I had gotten to know quite well over the years, leaning in with concern etched into her features, short cut curls (much tighter than my own) amplifying the expression.

“I will be if you’ve got anymore of the pink stuff.” I pointed into my empty cup, save for a small hoard of foam sitting in its base.

“Sure…” She didn’t look too convinced, but left it at that, returning a few minutes later with another full cup. “Right, I don’t mean to, you know, get in your business, but you look really upset.”

My lips twitched at her sweetly feeble Norwegian; North Americans always had such terrible accents. In response to the smile inching onto my face, she frowned a bit and I felt, just for almost laughing at her brave pronunciation, that I should let her know at least the basics. You never know who could help with these things; in the movies it seemed to be unpredictable, at any rate.

I motioned for her to sit down, not questioning whether or not it was her break- I assumed she wouldn’t just slack at work, given what I have seen of her before today- and she did.

“So, I got with this guy,” I transferred the conversation to English, for her sake. “It was bad- well, actually, it was really good, but in a bad place, you know? He didn’t see me after and I was told to just leave it, so I did. But now I’ve seen an old friend- from school days- and she wants to… set me up, is that the expression?” She hesitated, and then nodded, a bit unsure. “But I see them together when she walked away from out meet. Now, I don’t know what to do.” I sighed, leaning back with the steaming drink.

She also sat back, considering the brief story. “Yeah, that’s a bit beyond me, actually. But, well, are they together?” I shrugged and shook my head in a sign that I didn’t know. “Okay, so… you think he’s going to be the blind date?” I rock my head back and forth in a broad ‘could be.’ “Well, do you like this guy?”

That question threw me off. I hadn’t really taken into account my own feelings when mulling over everything before. In fact, I didn’t think I even knew the answer. There hadn’t really been enough time. It was all moving so fast; too fast for my rational thoughts and emotions to catch up anyhow. By the time I decided on one thing, another was thrown in my face along with twenty others. I was overwhelmed.

“I… don’t know.” I sipped my drink.

“That sounded like a yes.” She grinned, like she was enjoying toiling with my love affaires.

The drink warmed my stomach, and her attention wasn’t doing half bad either, and I felt as though, since the moment I saw Ottesen and Charlotte walk out together, that I could finally relax a little and let logic draw even with the others in my little bag of traits and emotions.

I smiled thinly, “Well he didn’t really give me a chance to know him. It was very fast. Mostly he made me annoyed.”

I flashed back momentarily to our first real conversation in the staff room. Yes, the feeling was most certainly annoyance with a hint of disconcertion, and maybe a little bit of lust. Okay, a lot of lust, but who’s really keeping track?

“So would it be that bad if you got to know him more? If he was your date, I mean.”

She had a point. She really did.

I grinned. “No, it really wouldn’t.” There was a pause where all we did was smile, but then she got up and explained she had to get back to work.

I thanked her, sincerely meaning every word, and sat back to stew in my newly found calm, sipping my exceedingly gay drink and preparing myself for whatever was to come.

No, I thought to myself in conclusion, it wouldn’t be bad at all.