⚠️ mentions of drugs/drug use/addiction. This is a chapter in which absolutely nothing happens, and I apologise for it ! ⚠️
'What's this? Isn't it a bit too big to be your peen?' I speak, brows still furrowed, pointing at the mysterious thing bulging in his pocket. And I can't hold back a giggle, when I realise that he's laughing behind a cloud of smoke because I've just called him out for being a small peepee owner. He's probably got a surprise for me in his pocket, and that surprise ain't his delicious man sausage. It's something else I can't figure out for the life of me, and I'm torn between being confused by his sudden urge for me to slide my hand into his pocket, and anticipating to find out what he's got in store for me. You know, Sean works in mysterious ways. There's that element of insanity and unpredictability in him that just drives me fucking insane... and when I say it, I mean it in the most positive way there is. He could make plans to take over the world with his evil, sarcastic charms, and you wouldn't be able to tell that he's plotting something. On top of that, he's shown me that he is a bit of a clumsy, adorable little romantic. And I love that part of him, because it doesn't come through 24/7. But when it comes through, it makes my heart happy like nothing else in the world. He loves to surprise me with special effects when I'm expecting it the least ... and now, instead of doing the normal, average sweet lovergirl who's eager to find out about his little surprise, I'm slandering him over his peepee scarcity. I'm telling him that the print of what's in his pocket is bigger than his dick print, when the thing is up and tenting in his ugly fucking shorts. And although I'm lying, clowning and cocking an attitude on him just for the fun of it, he's laughing his ass off at my sarcastic taunt. I've just made mr. Sarcasm personified laugh, his cheeks are plumping, he's showing me his perfectly even, orthodontically enhanced smile... and we would be kissing now, kissing like fucking silly teenage lovebirds, if I wasn't mad at him. But I'm mad at him. And the fact that we've having a laugh together is a huge step ahead for me already.
Hell... the jokes about his lack of inches never fail to crack us up. Not even when I'm mad at him and he's being hundred percent apologetic to me. I was today years old, when I realised that jokes about his lack of inches can be a perfect getaway for when things between us start to feel awkward. And I will use this new weapon in my arsenal in my favour, from tonight on.
'Just put your hand in there and ruin my dignity? Quick and pain free?' He urges me to, pointing at the oddly shaped, mysterious, bulging thing in his pocket. And I laugh, because all of a sudden, he's addressing me with the same voice you'd use to address your pet. Y'know, the cutesie tone that makes 'em pups go putty. I'm not a pup, I'm just a future pup doctor... but let me tell you, I'm putty for him nonetheless. The moment he litters the butt of his joint, puts my hand well above his bulging pocket and gives me the smooch face... I melt. And I hope he has a spoon, not for heroin cooking purposes, but because he's gonna have to pick me up from the floor if we keep this plaything going. Yes, I'm mad at him. But does the thing hold me back from loving him? Not really.
He talks about his dignity... but wanna talk about mine? I can't even stay mad at him, that he chases me like crazy and makes me feel almost sorry for the way I've handled him all night long. When we all know he's the only one who would legitimately have to feel sorry for the way he's handled me for days in a row. My dignity is in shambles, but his seems to be the closest to intact as it gets. And it wouldn't change, if I was to put my hand in his pocket and reveal his little surprise for me. Me? Cherry? Ruining the dignity of a six feet something tall guy who could commit murder and get away with it by clowning around? Me... Tori? Wannabe groupie from no man's land, ruining the dignity of a guy who plays the drums in a band that's blowing up big time, and who could have pretty much any chick in this club with a snap of a finger? No fucking way I could ever.
I stay humble about it, but according to him, I have what it takes to attempt to his alpha male dignity. Knowing our dynamics, I know there's an element of truth in his claim because I could ask him to swing from the rafters for me, and he'd do it... but he's being a little extra with his words, because that's how Sean is. Extra as fuck, kinda dramatic at times, and a man after my heart because I'm just like him... only in more naïve terms. He's always here for me, caring about me, chasing me even now that he could keep himself busy doing something else, if not someone else, and I want to trust him so bad. My hand is on the rather soft, mysterious, bulging thing in his pocket, he's grinning with anticipation and amusement, and he's now leaning in front of me. He looks like he is almost afraid to touch me, well aware that I'll snap at him if he does... but he does he, and his lips wander dangerously close to mine. So close that I can feel his breath against my lips, and I can clearly smell the strong odour of alcohol in his mouth. I leap back, confused as fuck and quite taken aback by his move. Like when we were playing poker yesterday in the tour bus, he was annihilating me with no mercy, and I wasn't understanding the rules of the game. But now it ain't cards... it's bodies. The confusion is greater, and so is the effort he's pulling on me.
He grins, and I whine. He rubs the back of my head with one hand, and kisses the corner of my mouth when he realises I ain't gonna push him away. In all of this, my hand is still on his crotch, and I don't know what to do with it. Sheesh, I don't even know what to do with him, and there's so many things I'd like to do with him right now. I want to trust him like I did before this shitshow. I need to kiss him, I don't mind the alcohol taste in his mouth at all. But I can't do it. Kissing him and making up would be the easiest fucking thing in the world... if he wasn't a born actor and I weren't fiercely proud.
I don't pull away from him, I don't have the strength to, and I don't feel too bad now that he's rubbing my cheeks and he's looking down on me like I'm the only surviving rose in the desert. Excuse me, I'm from the desert, and sometimes it really shows through. I was missing the desert before he stepped out there and crawled to me... now I just miss how beautifully unproblematic we used to be, before he abused my trust and upset me so much that I can kiss him no more. But he doesn't know it, he keeps saying that it was just a misunderstanding, not a prank, and I don't know whether I should trust him or be super careful and protective of myself. All I know is that he has no idea how much he's hurt me, and that's the reason why he's on a relentless spree to win me back. He rubs his lower lip against mine, and I feel an odd sensation of heat taking over my whole body. Head to toe, I'm a flame. I think I've blushed in the face, big time, because he's looking at me with a hint of mellow in his eyes, and he's muffling a laugh.
'Sean, fuck's sake, how much did you drink?' I speak the first thought that comes to my mind ... aka, the only thing I know as matter of fact, because he's smelling like strong alcohol, he's all red in the face, he's holding back a yawn or two, and he's struggling to keep his eyes open. I wouldn't say that he's drunk, he's far too put together and too reasonable to be. He isn't looking nor acting like he's tipsy... not even high, and he's just smoked a big fucking joint in front of my eyes. How does he down entire bottles of booze's worth and still manage to keep his act together, I don't know. It's another one of Sean's many mysteries I will never debunk. If I was to ever drink as much as he does, and I drink a lot myself... I'd fucking die of alcohol poisoning. His drinking is fucking scary sometimes, and this is one of these times. His mouth is closed, his lips are blandly on mine, we aren't even smooching, and I can clearly smell strong whiskey in his mouth, no matter what. I've had a few Negroni's and two lines of coke, and I'm by far the less reasonable one in this drug n'booze fuelled pair. I'm not drunk, just a little bit cathartic because of the cocaine in my system: the love of my life is literally in front of me, he wants to kiss me and hold me close to him, and I'm just looking at him with almost tears in my eyes because I don't want the same thing he wants. Or, at least, I don't want it tonight. My hand is still on his lap ... and I don't know why, but now I don't feel any curiosity to find out what kinda surprise he's trying to pull on me. I just want to go to my hotel room, paid with my pornstar paychecks, and sleep on everything. And cry a bit. Because in order to cry and not to do the tough as nails, hurt n proud about it, I gotta be out of his sight.
'For two. Maybe three... maybe four. Honda Four. Can we go back to that?' He answers, speaking his words right against my lips, and filling my nostrils with the intense aroma of all the motherfucking alcohol he's drank. He was looking humbled my my question, like he almost wanted to apologise for having drank too much... as if I were his mother and I left him unattended at the bar... but now he's smiling and doing the idiotic, sweet loverboy. Sarcastic sweet, I'd say. He's my last surviving brain cell, he's joking, I'm on the joke, and I know exactly what he means. He drank for two because I wasn't at the bar with him. At some point he was in company of a pretty brunette, but he was drinking on his own and addressing silly faces my way almost the entire time. He's drank for three 'cause we have a son, we've left him at the hotel, and our little family is the holy trinity of Seattle's nuisances. Three is the magic number. Four because... Honda Four. As in the bike outside of Cuntrell's place that has me looking for its owner, the mysterious, rumoured to be gay, elusive Sean, for almost two hours. I found him, he found me, we found each other, we spent all of that night kissing, laughing, smoking and drinking... and the rest is history. More like, it's the story of how I rode to Oakland to be with him for a few weeks. It's the story of how I got my heart broken by him in Denver just two days later. It's the story of him and I. And I don't want our story to end because of a dumb fucking prank. I've still got so many pages to write about us ! And although I know we'll never be together, I still want our story to have a happy ending.
His words are just a pile of bullshit, and I'm aware of it. Sure he's sorry for the way he's treated me, but he's making everything so damn hard for me, filling my ears with cryptic, extra as fuck sweet nothings and all. I wonder if he even means his words hundred percent, considering his amazing acting skills and the amount of alcohol in his system. But it's kinda sweet to realise that he'd go the length of sounding like a love dummy idiot for me. Whether he means what he says of no, that's what he's doing right now, I appreciate his effort a lot.
I frown, hand still above his crotch, getting a good feel of his surprise for me. He rubs his lower lip against mine, I gulp, and he laughs with gusto at my sudden shyness. My heart begins to beat in unison with the pattern of his laughter, because I'm a sick as fuck lovergirl and I love him that much. I can smell the alcohol in his mouth, decise and strong, sour and bitter, and I wanna taste it in my mouth so fucking bad... I want to taste him in so many ways... but I can't. We both know what we want, we want the same thing, only at a different pace ... and making him understand that I don't fucking want to kiss and make up on the spot may as well be the hardest thing I've ever had to do with a man. Slowing down steady man Sean is much harder than turning down a Inez and dumping a Shepherd. And it's in moments like this, that I understand that the nature of my feelings for him is almost scary.
I want him back. I want us to be the unproblematic couple of idiots that we've been all weekend long. He drank half of the bar, and he still knows what he wants. And out of all the things a rocker dude with a shitty temper, sarcastic charm for days, big dick energy (and not just energy), and a few drinking issues could want at 2:45AM at a night club... he wants me. Cherry. How fucking cute is that ? Very much. But the only hurdle to his steady rush to my heart is me.
'If you blush, you're my girl'. He speaks, with a huge, pearly white smile on his lips. I furrow my brows even more, and I keep wondering what the heck he means exactly ... until he grabs my hand by the wrist and slides it inside the pocket of his trousers. I gulp and swallow down my saliva, feeling all dry in the mouth and fluttery in the chest, when I can feel something buttery and soft under my palm. And my touch goes all delicate, to avoid disaster, when I reckon that it's the very same, little rose that he got for me two days ago. Yeah, the one he stole from only god knows where at the Marriott hotel in Oakland, as a form of very impromptu apology for having fucked my brains out on our first ever rendezvous. I left it on his hotel room desk, among a bunch of other possessions of mine, and apparently, before leaving for the night club, he decided to stuff it into his pocket to surprise me later. This is so mellow, so sweet and so unexpected that I don't even know what to say or what to do. I don't even know if he's real, or if he's just my romance novel fantasy lover of the week. All I know is that he's grinning, I'm blushing like it's the only thing I can do... and I think I'm his girl by all means. I blushed. I'm his girl. It's written all over my face, and I can't change it.
This guy? He has me wrapped all around his finger with no escape. He's the most unpredictable, yet biggest sweetheart ever, and being his girl, at least in his words, makes me feel almost proud of my status. I look at him, my hand in his pocket still, his deep brown eyes gazing straight into mine, accomplished smile on his lips ... and I see a man I love with every ounce of my being. He's beautiful, he really is, he's my beautiful Adonis man and I don't know when I've gotten lucky enough to be the target of his interest... but he's more beautiful inside than he is outside. Sometimes he clowns so hard that he may as well upset me, he doesn't think about stuff twice before taking action, and sometimes his ways are just thoughtless and immature. But he has a heart of gold, underneath it all: he has feelings and he speaks them out. Cryptically, but he does. He is a gentleman, and he doesn't mind doing acts of service for me. When he doesn't clown me, he treats me like I'm royalty. Or like I'm his girlfriend, I just don't know. He remembers each and every thing we've said and done over the last few weeks. Starting from the night we met, going on with the day I called him for the first time, all the way to the extra long talks we had on the phone before I headed to California to see him. And so do I. I will never forget the moment he handed me that rose, two days ago, and I froze because I wasn't expecting it at all. I will never forget the moment he stuck it into my hair, because he understood I was never going to grab it from his hands, and he did the man of initiative that he is. I will never forget the amazing, gentle lovemaking session that followed the rose incident. And I can't help but think I want a hundred more of 'em sweet, intimacy moments with him. I can't leave this tour tomorrow. I can't miss out on the only guy in the world who doesn't have to worry about making love to me, because I am already in love with him.
'I... I... fuck...'. I try to speak, but what I'd like to say remains stuck in my throat. More like, to be hundred percent honest, I stutter my way into a reply that doesn't make sense because I don't know what to say. For once in my life, I, girl of quick wit and just as quick comebacks, have no fucking clue what to say. I don't want to go down on history books as a cold hearted bitch, because I'm still mad at him and may as well push him off, but that wouldn't be fair on him. He's doing his best, I appreciate his efforts, and I can't stand indifferent. But at the same time, I don't even want to go down on history books as a sappy ass who's extremely easy to win back, and crawl back to him on the spot. My heart keeps telling me to send all the pride and the hurt to fuck and just make up with him, because that's what we both want. My mind is exhausted by this pushing and pulling game we're playing, but also knows that I can't trust him as much as I thought I could. So, I don't do nor say anything. I just let him stuff that little rose in the cleavage of the top I'm wearing, and I sigh with relief when he doesn't stick it into my hair instead. That, I wouldn't have been able to tolerate. It would've triggered so many memories of that morning of two days ago, when we woke up together for the first time ever... and I would never want to fuck myself up even more, by thinking about when we used to be the sweetest couple of idiots in the world.
I mumble a bunch of syllables that don't make sense, and I try to calm my inner awkwardness by looking down on the tip of the stilettos I'm wearing. I am not looking at Sean, but I know he's looking at me, and the inner awkwardness of mine doesn't calm one bit. I flat out gulp, when he lifts my head up by the chin, a very Sean thing of Sean to do, and he rests his forehead against mine. I blush even more, I blush so hard I can feel my cheeks near damn evaporate, but I don't do anything to put him back in his place. I think he's going to kiss me, the closeness between us is unmistakable and the setting is on point ... but he doesn't kiss me. He just laughs an inch away from my face, charming as only he can be, with his forehead still against mine, and his thick, warm, alcoholic breath against my lips. This is fucking sweet, not gonna lie. He is so fucking sweet, and his persistence is irresistible. In all of this, I ain't even touching him. My hands are on my hips, rigid and motionless. And I'm struggling to keep them like that, because all I'd like to do is brush back his hair and kiss his lips already. Until my fingers cramp and so does my jaw.
'Come inside. Let's get drunk and do something fucking dumb together'. He speaks, gently rubbing my reddened cheeks and amplifying the sensation of heat on my face. I mumble, guilty of digging his attentions more than I should be supposed to, 'cause I'm still mad at him ... but I let him do his thing because it's the only thing I can do tonight. I can't move. I can't think straight. I can't take initiative. I can't tell what I want from what I want to avoid, and it's fucking me up. His signals are fucking me up, too, but I bless him because he's finally acting like a man, not like a prankster. He's doing all of the chasing, the moving, the talking, the seeking... while I'm just taking everything in very passively.
Oh, to have the courage to hold his hand and rush into the club to raise some hell together... I'd fucking love to. We'd have a moment like we do whenever we're together, that's for sure. But I don't feel ready to sneak back under his arm and act like nothing happened between us. The more I look at him, all sorrowed and humbled, doing his best to win me back, the more I see the guy who asked me out on a date just because it was an inside joke with himself. The more I look at him, the more I see the guy who made me look like an idiot in front of people for his amusement. And no, that fucking fellatio thing wasn't a misunderstanding... it was a well made plan to humiliate a very silly me for no deeper end than fulfilling his evil clownery.
I have all rights to be mad at him and not to succumb to his romantic charms. I don't plan on staying mad at him forever, I could never work the nerve... I just want to sleep on what happened between us, and that's it. I want and need to get rid of all the shit in my system, and realise what the hell I want from him once I'm sober again. I'm just trying to protect myself, because I know he ain't gonna do it for me. He does the protective non boyfriend boyfriend all the time, standing up for me whenever someone dares to give me some shit, but he stabs me in the pride when I ain't looking, and it's fucking hurtful. I would've been made a fool of, again, tonight, if I didn't bust into his room and exposed all of his lies, pranks, and clowneries... ugh. I can't stop thinking about the way he's handled me, a poor girl who just wants to make her way to his clowny, clowny heart, and it's the definitive sign that I ain't ready to crawl back to him. For as much as I love him, I love my integrity and my pride more than I could ever love a man. Even a man after my heart, even the potential love of my life or the closest as it gets to that.
'I... I've sniffed... I ...'. I mumble, because mumbling is key tonight, and he looks down on me like he's alerted as fuck. He's alerted, but I'm just doing the cryptic because I have no fucking idea how to handle his invitation to go raise some hell in the club. His eyes meet mine, and although I have tears in my eyes and I'm sure he can tell it because he's smart as fuck, I don't look away. I savour the depth of his beautiful, soulful, little brown eyes, until he starts to look at me like he's almost scolding me. For what, though, I don't know. Because I haven't given into him and told him 'okay babe, let's sneak inside the club and surf on top of tables while we spill drinks all over and yell like the crazy fucking idiots that we are?' Or because I've sniffed cocaine with someone that wasn't him, and it bothers him?
'Cher, who the fuck gave you coke?' He asks, leaning well in front of me, and gently cupping my face between his palms. I'm standing in front of him, and although I'm wearing heels that make me six feet eleven tall, I feel the smallest I've ever felt in my life. Because I know who the fuck gave me coke, and I have vivid memories of how she touched me without my consent. Ewww.
But Sean doesn't know what was 'bout to happen in the toilet stall right next to his, and he will never know it 'cause Cherry said so. On his side, he doesn't look like he's bothered by the fact that I've sniffed cocaine with someone that wasn't him... he looks like he's bothered by the fact that I've sniffed with someone who purchases shitty cocaine and that's it. He's looking at me like my dad looked at me the first time he found a pack of cigarettes in my schoolbag. Almost disappointed, but not entirely surprised by the news.
'The girl in the restroom with me... I was saying... I don't think that drinking would be a good idea'. I answer, going back to his 'let's get drunk together' of not so long ago. I didn't tell him that I've sniffed because I am a dumb fucking ass who doesn't even know what's the topic being discussed. I told him that I've sniffed because I'm coked up, and even if I'm still staying sane through my high, I don't think that getting drunk after using would be a good idea. I am no saint, I mix and match everything I'm feeling at any given time, but I can still put a damper on my destructive behaviour when it becomes a little too much. I've had lots of beers, hashish, more beers, a few Negroni's, and two saucy lines of cocaine. Gerry calls me a dumb, exotic looking, (skinny/fat), sexually promiscuous, drug addict female ... the epitome of Sean's type, except that he digs brunettes and I'm a fiery redhead. But I promise I ain't an addict... I can keep my hands still on the handlebars when I know I've crossed the line, and a drug addict can't quite do the thing. Amirite ?
Okay, I ain't a drug addict, I'm a user for fun, but I'm desperately addicted to this guy over here. I'm addicted to him, his six feet something of handsome, chiselled ruggedness, his goofy personality, his dry, sarcastic sense of humour, and his gentleman-ish ways with me. And the fact that he's looking at me almost like he's relieved that I haven't snorted in company of another man... it makes me fall for him even more. Because he's a silly fucking ass, and he's probably forgotten that I like chicks too. But he's safe, I promise. For as long as he sticks around, I will only have eyes and love in my heart for him.
'Dance with me, then. Didn't you wanna dance?' He speaks, with a hint of a smile on his lips. And I feel all awkward, when he grabs my hand in his, and he does something that I've only seen in movie scenes: he holds it tight, he makes sure I give him a little spin, and once I've completed it, he looks at me like I'm the most beautiful fucking thing he's ever seen. What a fucking good actor he is... isn't he? He's probably pulling another one of his usual acts, but I won't complain because he looks quite genuine and I don't want to question him. Help. I can't say no to his invitation to dance ... but I gotta, one way or another. Dancing with Sean ? Tonight? No. I'd much rather dance with my broken heart, than with the man who broke it.
'Did I ?' I tease him, because I don't remember having ever told him that I wanted to dance. I haven't even met him on the dancefloor, because guy was too busy attempting to drink the bar dry to wiggle his saucy, little drummer bum to the sound of music like us other partying people. So, unless he's a clairvoyant and he knows that I always want to dance, and that he's the one whom I'd like to dance with all night long, he's just shooting his shot with me. So here I go, stonewalling him once again. I could've said yes and given into him, like I could've said no and dedusted our infamous, hilarious, neurotic no/ok inside joke. But I gave him the 'a question for a question' kinda treatment... to channel my confusion, and to procrastinate some time before I gotta painfully turn down his invitation to dance.
'Weren't you dancing with my brother?' He asks me, both brows furrowed and an amused grin on his lips. His lips... gaaahhh. I need to kiss him so bad, but the sole thought of kissing him gives me the tingling feeling in my stomach. My stomach is in a riot, but at the moment, so are my titties. He's playfully looking down on them, more like, at the space between them, and his gaze is flipping between my lovely B cups and the just as lovely red rose he's stuck on my tittie gap. I don't know what's that and why's that for ... but man, it cracks me up just as much as his comment about me dancing with his brother. Aka horny mr. Starr, aka the only man I've danced with all night long.
'In law?' I ask back, dry à la Kinney, looking back at him almost like I'm challenging him... but I'm just clowning, and he's laughing. He's just assumed I want to dance some more because I've danced quite a bit with his 'brother' and his catch of the hour... but before Starr and I took it to the dancefloor, we had a few drinks at the hotel bar, and we ended up talking about Sean's five year long relationship with his sister. Starr told me that Sean was this close to being his brother in law, now Sean is telling me that Mike is a brother to him... how could I possibly pass on this family joke? No fucking way I could've ever. And honestly, I'm glad that Sean found it funny. Because if he was to blast a joke on my past affair with Inez, or if he was to do the nosy and tell me he knows about my little romance with Shepherd, I'd cringe pretty hard.
'Almost. You've got the jokes tonight, are we sure you've sniffed?' He answers, brows furrowed because he's clowning too, yet he's doing his virtual best to look like he's serious. He's checking me out, his glance has fully moved to my small titties to my nose, like he's trying to find some evidence of my using in my nostrils. Y'know, leftover powder and all the good things. And we both laugh like we're almost in the most unproblematic terms, when he checks out for powder in my nose ring, he doesn't find anything, and he leaves a kiss of approval on the tip of my honker. I don't know if he's showing approval or if he's just complimenting me because I've sniffed and I'm still all put together ... but still, it's funny.
'Yes, we're sure. That's why I ain't pushing you 'way'. I bite him back, and he playfully pinches my cheek at my taunt. Classic Sean x Cherry... the slander, the puns, the cheek pinches, the endless bantering. We're only missing the random bites and the ass smacks to be the happy, unproblematic lovebirds that we were before I unveiled his fucking disgusting prank. I'm mad at him, part of me would like to kick him in the shin and put him in a lethal armbar, but it'd get him going and I want to avoid it at all costs. Also, the cocaine in my system is giving me the bravado to keep this exchange going on in peaceful terms. Because if I were hundred percent sober, I would've probably cracked all shits and left more or less around the time he stuck that little red rose in my tittie gap.
'I know I'm the reason you're mad. But are you really ... that mad?' He asks, and I frown when I realise that if he's really asking me this question, it's because he has no fucking clue how much he's hurt me. He thinks that he just joked a joke like another one, he thinks that I'm crazy for pushing him off or threatening him to do so, especially after his hundredth since apology... but it ain't exactly like that. I am not crazy. That fucking fellatio thing wasn't a joke like another one, it was a legitimate plan to humiliate me and offend my intelligence. Sean and I joke 24/7, nonstop, we crack a bunch of bad taste jokes, we blandly offend eachother, and we bite eachother back until either one of the two has enough of it and shuts the other's mouth with a big, big kiss... but this time, stuff is different. This thing has never been a joke, it's always been much more than just that. Everyone's heard me asking around for blowjobs thinking that I was asking for Italian food, everyone's had a laugh at my dumbassery ... especially Sean. Sean laughed his rear end off at my dumbassery, and he didn't do anything to make me fucking stop. He's asking me if I'm really that mad, leaning an inch away from me ... and I am. I bloody am, although I'm staying calm through it and calmness is never my forte. I nod at his question, as firmly as I can, and he sighs. His gaze instantly falls on my pierced navel, because I've made the big mistake of wearing a crop top... and I sigh too. Because I'm so mad I think he's checking me up between the legs to see how big my ladyboy cock is. Like the waiter and the owner of the restaurant of last night did.
Sometimes, being mad and being in love isn't a good combo.