Chapter Seven: Last Night on Earth

(2188 words)

My hands wrapped closely around his shoulders, hooking lightly around the back of his pale, pale neck as my mouth crashed upon his. He made a delicious moaning sound before kissing back, his lips soft and addicting on mine.

My heart pounded in my chest, adrenaline soaring through my veins at unprecedented speeds. His heart beat just as hard against me, beating now in sync with mine. Tré pulled me into him, pressing us flush against each other.

Heat encircled us as he pushed me onto his bed, the force of the impact sending the diary flying to the floor with a soft thunk on the thick carpet. Tré fell on top of me, his warm weight pinning me down. His breath pooled on my face as his kissed trailed up my cheek and he steered me so that we were vertical on his bed.

“So… tell me, Tré,” I panted, “you’ve… have you ever been… been bottom? I nsex, y‘know?”

“N-no,” he spluttered out, less of fear and more of lust. “I’ve not really… had much sex, really.”

“Well,” I whisper asked, “how would you feel about it?”

“Oh… yes… yes, please.”

“Fucking awesome.”

I looked up at Tré, at his heaving chest, his lust filled eyes, and his all too noticeable hard on. He collapsed next to me, allowing me to take off his tee shirt and throw it to the floor. Tré started to strip me, as well, taking every detail of my body just as I took in all of his. Clothing lay at the foot of the bed, falling off the corner of it, and some on the floor in heaps. Soon enough, we pressed together again, warm and slightly sticky skin against skin.

My eyeliner was definitely about to be smeared. And I really did not give a shit.

Our tongues twisted around one another as we shared this passionate embrace. Our hands touched anything in reach. Sweat danced in our eyes and glistened over our skin, quickly being absorbed and staining the sheets.

“You ready?” I whispered, biting the stiff cartilage of the tip of his ear then carefully around the small silver hoop in his lobe.

“Yeah.” Tré’s voice was slightly hoarse.

We were two very horny teenage guys in love, and I knew then that we were ready for this, especially once I asked and he confirmed. We were as ready as we’d ever be, and as ready as we would be for the rest of our lives together.

“D’you have lube.” I had to ask. I mean, we couldn’t continue without it.

“No.”

“Vaseline?” Second best, I guessed.

“Yeah. On the dresser.”

I climbed carefully out of our embrace, grabbing the small squarish ovalish pale tan container of Vaseline from Tré’s dresser. I popped the top open, and dipped my fingers in, scooping a liberal amount over my fingertips. Just as carefully, I lay back down next to Tré and instructed him to roll over.

Carefully, very carefully so as not to hurt my boyfriend, I prepped him, making sure everything would be perfect and as painless as possible.

And in short and sweet and fast glimpses of movements and sweat and love, it was over. Entangled in the other’s arms, we each rode out our orgasms, crying out and moaning, singing hormone driven eulogies of the other.

“I love you, Tré. You’re… you’re fucking perfect.”

I lay my head on the pillow, breathing in the smell of sex. A few quiet tears rose to my eyes and spilled over my cheeks. I’d been touched through this, even more than the drunken or high sex back when I was with Whatsername.

And people say that drunk sex is the best. Bastards and liars, all of ‘em.

I opened my heavy eyes and looked at Tré, whose greenish blueish teal eyes were glassy and distant. I reached over and wrapped an arm around him.

“I love you,” he whispered. My tears flowed more readily now.

“Tré… Tré… I love you so much, Tré. Christian. I love you, Christian.”

“I love you, too, Gloria.”

Tiredly, he kissed me on the cheek and we both fell asleep, satisfied and in love with the person that we fell asleep next to.

*

I pensively sat on my bed, my eyes red and puffy from crying so much. From crying of nostalgia, love, and just the bond that formed between Tré and I as we had sex for the very first time. I think now, that I knew then, that we were committed to each other now.

I hadn’t felt so much all at once since… definitely since Whatsername had broken up with me over letterbomb.

I still had the damn letterbomb, Whatsername’s name permanently scratched out, all my images of him burned to the ground, ashes buried deep beneath the Earth in the City.

And I was glad for that, too. It was hard enough seeing him, but not knowing his name. I hated how I could still picture that pretty face of his, the kohl lined blackish brown eyes, the pale pink lips, the tumbling black ringlets around his pale face.

I missed him -- or, the memory of him. I didn’t want to love him anymore. We weren’t meant for each other, quite obviously.

Our relationship was just a lesson in the world. We were only 15 then, anyway.

And then I sat there, 18, Gloria, and back in love.

I guess it was weird to go from the Jesus of Suburbia to Saint Jimmy to --

My old-ass, Class of Thirteen sponsored cell phone buzzed on my old desk, playing a pattern I recognized as Tré’s text message ringtone thing. I grabbed the phone quickly and flipped it open, looking at the “You Have One New Text Message” note with glee. Hitting “Read,” I looked it over.

Hey Billie. How r u?

I smiled at my phone. Tré was so cute…

Im fine. U? I texted back. Before hitting send, I added something. Love u, Tré.

Good. Love u 2, Gloria, he replied. I snickered a bit -- he was just so damn adorable sometimes. I could just imagine the look on his face as he texted me, the way his tongue would stick gut out the corner of his mouth, how he would quickly type his message to me and reread the message I’d just sent him.

He was the most damn adorable man on earth sometimes.

Damn, Tré, u r awesome.

What makes u say tht?

Becuz u r so damn cute when u txt.

LOL! I bet u r, 2.

U bet I am? Y rnt u sure of it?

Good question…

I laughed quietly and flopped onto my bed, checking the time.

Eleven thirty six post meridian. So I had quite some time, now that school was out and it was summer.

So how do u feel bout the war specifically?

I sighed again, rolling onto my back and looking up at the ceiling, tired energy pulsing through my veins as I anxiously awaited Tré’s reply.

My cell phone buzzed and I looked away from the ceiling, brining the arm that held my phone in it up to my face and readying my fingers. The soft glow of my cell phone’s screen was obscured by a wall of text.

Its bullshit. All it’s being used 4 is money. It annoys me to no end. U? he said.

Im Gloria, bitch, anti war enthusiast and the 1 who wants peace. :P

I laughed at my reply, allowing my hand to drop down next to me, waiting for Tré to recover from his inevitable laughing attack and reply with a --

There it went. The buzzy little pattern of buzzing. A new text message from Tré, of course, and some more conversation to continue on with.

Oh so Im a bitch now am I? I laughed as I read this.

Hella. But u r my bitch, kay? No one else! I laughed again as I sent my reply.

Ah. Sneaky little possessive jealous bf, r u?

U just wait. U will love it.

I like the sound of that, lol.

Oh, I bet u do. I fucking bet u do.

I could not wait to see Tré again. Hopefully, it would be soon enough as I’d started the beginnings of planning a Class of Thirteen riot… soon enough.

I was getting so fucking sick of being only second best to Whatsername. I was going to stop being such a pacifist and find my old obsession with hand grenades soon enough. We were going to light a fire this time if we had to. We would stop screaming for a difference, we’d burn it into the very Earth beneath out feet itself.

And by all hell, we were ready to wreak complete and utter havoc on the establishment. Or, as I liked to call it, Starfuckers Incorporated, fucking the world over one person at a time. The star part was added because it always started with the media and in Hollywood, a beautiful little process called Californication.

My thoughts were interrupted as my phone buzzed once again, signifying a new text message from Tré.

Hahaha. Can’t wait 2 c u again, even tho we were just together a few hrs ago!

Same here. I wanna make love w u again.

U r amazing, BJ.

BJ? What the fuck?

I laughed at our conversation. I think it may have been the same as any other pair of horny teenagers anywhere, but all the others would be, and almost definitely were, nowhere near as insane or political as ours was.

I sighed and our nonsensical conversations went on and on, teases hidden in or between political messages, sexy little love notes and assurances of sex and romance the next time we would see each other. I smiled and laughed at what both of us said, our weird little jokes and nick names. It was so sweet and simple that we could be texting about missing each other, despite having sex less than twenty four hours before our conversation.

Eventually, Tré just stopped replying to my messages. Sleep wore heavy on my eyes like a dark cloak as I looked up at my clock and checked the time.

Five oh five, ante meridian. 5:05 in the freaking morning. Tré and I had managed to talk over damn text messaging for nearly six hours straight.

I closed my eyes and fell asleep. Then, I dreamed of the death of my old mentality, the death and funeral of the Saint Jimmy.

I saw the old me, the me as I was at 16, the me as St. Jimmy putting a gun to his temple, my/his lifeless body falling into the water and staining it all red.

I saw Whatsername tear up the letterbomb, his makeup streaming down his face and leaving black marks on the bare carpet below his bare feet. I could hear him blaming himself for my death.

Then I saw the funeral itself. Whatsername was in the front row, head bowed over and a lacy black veil obscuring his blurred face. Black tears dripped down onto the simple black dress that my ex-boyfriend wore, the dress that blurred and melded with the obsidian tiled floors. My incorporeal feet slipped and slid against them as I walked toward what I assumed to be my casket. Past the minister, who wore and army hat with the cross etched into it. I looked down at the black box, seeing The Saint Jimmy carved into its side. I looked into the clear top, seeing a bloodied, younger version of me.

The world went fuzzy and white at the edges, like carefully torn paper. The entire scene slowly sharpened and brightened, looking like an over exposed picture of a demented funeral. The onyx glass beneath my feet half crumbled and half melted, sucking me deep into its depths.

I awoke in a cold sweat, quickly feeling my forehead for any bullet wounds or blood. Nothing.

Before falling asleep again, I texted Tré. I just wrote him a quick message.

If I lose everything in the fire, I’m sending all my love to you… if I lose everything in the fire… did I ever make it through?

He’d get it at the next meeting before the riot. I was sure of it. Though I was sure that he wouldn’t get the second line. Almost sure, anyway.

Shutting down my cell phone, I crawled under the covers in only my boxers and promptly fell asleep.

This time, I dreamed of sex and drugs, of riots and of Whatsername. Of the Class of Thirteen and of the Underbelly. Of Novacaine and Opal. I dreamed of a world where I was normal, having the minority opinion but not screwed up. I dreamed of the letterbomb, and of fires soaring throughout cities and churches.

It was no less demented than seeing the death of St. Jimmy, but I slept much better now.

When I awoke again at four in the afternoon, I still hadn’t received a text back from Tré.