Updated to fix some minor typos.
I can't hate him enough. I hate him for being gone, I hate him for staying on my mind. I hate him for making me hate everything, even sex. And that one's a cosmic fucking joke, because Ian is the only thought that gets me hard, but the idea of letting any man besides him fuck me is worse than no sex at all. I try once, and it's a humiliating disaster. Full-on panic attack halfway through. It wasn't because I felt like I was being unfaithful or anything. Gallagher left my ass, I get that. It was because of my biggest reason for hating him: knowing we're over isn't enough. I can't stop feeling like his man. I can't stand to let another guy have me the way he did.
So now when I really, really need to get off with an actual person, I'm stuck with one of half a dozen cum dumpster girls around the neighborhood. I figure if all they want is cock and all I want is to shoot my load somewhere other than my own hand, everyone wins. Winning. Right. Fuck off, Milkovich. And it's not like I look down on the thirsty bitches, either. Clearly I'm no better. So I fuck 'em and try to forget what it felt like to be loved. It'll fade eventually, I tell myself.
God, I fucking HATE him!
I'm actually relieved when I find out how Svetlana and the other girls are getting ripped off at Sasha's place. I coulda just insisted my wife quit, but I go ahead and incite a walk-out. All the girls quit. Running whores gives me something to focus on. Something practical that doesn't piss me off or make me feel like shit. It's small dose of sanity (or what passes for sanity in southside).
Things start to feel normal again. Or at least routine. Then I get the worst fucking news ever. Lip and Deb found their brother working at some queer bar in boystown. That's all they know is where he works, but it's enough. They'll keep going back for him until they convince him to come home, I just know it. Only a matter of time. Which means it's also a matter of time until I run into him somewhere. Fuck. If I could afford to move? Hello, Alaska.
I'm honestly worried I'll kill the motherfucker on sight. Then what would I tell the judge? 'Your honor, I was obsessed with his cock for years, then he left me.' ? Shit. Shit, shit, shit!
I'm taking a shit when Mandy busts in on me. Okay, I know manners aren't a big thing in this house but REALLY?!
"Douchebag, go find your boyfriend."
I tell her to get the fuck out and close the door, but apparently she thinks this is the perfect time for her to tell me Ian's not texting her back.
"What the fuck are you talking about?" I know she knows somethingabout us, but I never chose to tell her a goddamn thing, so the topic is staying off limits as far as I'm concerned. Nosy bitch can go ahead and fuck right off.
"Don't play dumb with me," She says it with this sneer on her face like I'm the world's biggest jackass. "Ian! Y'know you're the reason that he left. So go find him."
I tell her it's not my fucking problem. I would launch into a whole speech about how it's a bad idea for me to go find Gallagher on account of wanting to strangle the guy, but I'm on the goddamn toilet, so the sooner I can end this conversation, the better. She basically orders me to make it my problem, swipes my fucking cigarette, and leaves. Doesn't even close the door behind her. Bitch.
I tell myself I'm gonna finish my business, forget the conversation ever happened, and get on with running my whores. Maybe sell a few of my guns. Or pick out a nice house to rob just for giggles. Anything but go looking for Gallagher's AWOL ass.
So of course five hours later I'm roaming boystown with a fake police badge and a picture of him looking for the right club. Whoever names these places should be punched in the dick, I think as I'm searching. There's Sparkle, The Sweet Package, Manray, Rainbow City, Woody's, Hot Rocks, The Meatlocker, Perfect Eight . . . Fucking Christ, why not just throw all your cards on the table and go with Cocks 'R Us? In an alternate universe where I own a gaybar, I cut to the chase.
After an aggravating conversation with the bitchiest bearded fag in Chicago, I find out where Gallagher's at. The Fairytale. Seriously? Punched. In. The. Dick.
When I get there, it's depressing as fuck. The guy I remember wouldn't be caught dead in the outfit they've got him wearing. All he's missing is a pair of tits. Am I the only gay dude who actually wants men to look like MEN?! He's going by the name Curtis, and I gotta throw down $25 bucks just to have a conversation. Sorry, did I say 'throw down'? I meant tuck into the waistband of his super dignified uniform.
It's pretty clear right off the bat that he's high as shit. Glazed expression, flat tone. Not a good thing, obviously, but as far as me being able to stay calm and talk to him like a grown up instead of chewing him ten new assholes? It sorta helps that he looks and acts nothing like the Ian Gallagher I fell for. I can stay rational. Say what I need to say, and not get distracted by the urge to curse him out. It's a little sad that I can't even enjoy him touching me again, given the . . . I'm just gonna guess 9,000 or so hours I've spent dreaming about his hands on me. Even at my angriest, I'd have given anything to have my Ian doing this. Straddling me, stroking my arms, touching my chest. But this coked out alien dude? Hard pass. I just need to talk some sense into him.
He's too high to reason with so it doesn't work, not even when I mention his family. I might as well be talking to a stranger. My 'turn' is over when the song ends, and off he goes to grind on some other random creep. Lotta old dudes in here, I notice.I am less and less thrilled with this place by the second, and I walked in unimpressed.
You don't wanna listen? Fuck you then, I think as I leave and head down the street. Adios, Dancing Queen! But Goddamnit, even coked-out alien Gallagher apparently owns my stupid ass. I'm too worried to leave him like this. He's not safe around all those perverts. I turn around and loiter near the door hoping to catch him when he leaves.
Nope. I think when I catch sight of the handsy creep steering him out the door. The gross piece of shit starts licking Ian-actually licking him when I move in. Not tonight, Grandpa! Nothing about him says 'I'm a fighter,' so I chase him off no problem. I feel sorry for the next poor kid he date rapes, but that kid isn't my responsibility. Ian is.
He leaves you, makes no attempt to contact you for months, treats you like just another customer at the club, and you STILL can't resist the urge to take care of him? I really can't. When it comes to Gallagher I've been helpless since the day he threatened me with that stupid tire iron. So yeah. Whatever it takes to protect him, I'll do it.
Unconditional love kinda fucking sucks.
