"You know what?" He asks, exiting the bathroom, wearing only a large, soft, cream-white towel round his waist. "I hadn't really thought of this: Do you realize we'll be eachother's husbands ?"
I force my eyes to meet his and stay there. When what he's said finally connects, I chortle.
"No we won't," I answer, sitting on the edge of the bed pulling on a shirt. "Let's not kid ourselves – I'll be the wife, and ecstatically so."
He laughs.
"I don't think so …" He whispers. "Not with that mouth."
"You're the one with the foul mouth, my dear!"
He then gives me a look to make me shiver.
"That's not what I meant."
He approaches.
"What," I ask, "you imagine the little wife can't give a good healthy blowjob?"
He blinks. He speaks to me suddenly in that rough throat.
"It's like I once told you- in my opinion, you gotta have a cock to really know how to suck one ... the way you know how."
I gulp. A tingle radiates up my spine. My voice is unsteady.
"Much as it pains me to say this, Curt … we're managed to dance around this topic today, but I don't think further discussion is … adviseable."
He looks at me … and jesus christ if I'm not bathed, instantly, in the clear blue light of desire … here in the total privacy of our bedroom, with warm, romantic breezes, curtains softly billowing … My god it feels like five torturous minutes as he continues to look without uttering a word … his eyes are steady, silent, during which he approaches and raises a hand to my face, eyes trained the whole time on my mouth.
He says nothing.
Oh god.
My brain is swimming.
I don't know what is happening, what to do.
He's seemingly oblivious to the torment and confusion he's causing in me, too busy analyzing my lips as if he's never seen them before … running a slow, soft thumb over them, exploring and smoothing over the tiny ridges, like he's hunting for a trap door.
I gulp. I whisper.
"W-what are you doing?"
He ignores me.
My lids flutter. My heart bangs.
"Curt …"
He continues.
Don't toy with my me like this, I want to scream, when I'm vulnerable and needy …
He speaks finally, in a low voice.
"It's hard not to think of you ... in that room ... with all those guys," he says, eyes flicking briefly up to mine, "down on your knees."
Oh fuck. I freeze solid. I can't breathe.
"Just the thought of it - what you must have done, what I know you can do with this mouth - it made me hard in the shower just now …"
Oh sweet christ. He's not gonna present me with an image such as this ?
"You didn't …?" I manage to eke out.
"No," he says, eyes dropping back to my mouth. "Turned on the cold, right quick." His voice returns to normal. "No need to worry." He pecks me quickly on the forehead. He grins. "I'm still a virgin."
He turns to head back to the bathroom.
Every ounce of my body - the volume of which has just been turned up to a million - is banging. I wipe a sliver of drool from the corner of my lips. I look down. My trousers have tented.
I look up.
"You are a cruel, and awful man, Curt Wild."
He stops before he reaches the door.
"Huh?"
"What do you mean, 'huh'? What the hell was that all about?"
"What all about?"
"'What all about?!' Curt, did you not notice that you just disappeared for a full minute into Sexland?"
"Oh. Well, I just … I guess I just ... got stuck on your lips for a minute. Sorry."
"Sorry? I'm hard as a bloody fucking board, now!"
He glances down.
His face falls.
"Wow. I didn't mean for that to happen. Honest."
I snap.
"How the hell am I supposed to go to church, now?"
He sighs. He shrugs.
"Cold shower."
"What is it called in the States? Cruel and unusual punishment."
"Brian, I'm sorry. I just … I got a little carried away."
He looks mildly hurt, and genuinely embarrassed - as if he's done something wrong - which he hasn't. Instantly, I feel guilty.
"It's ... it's okay. It's okay. Forget it. I'll … get over it. It was a terrible tease, but I'll live. Just don't do it again, please."
He's flustered.
"I won't. It's just … it's proven once again that we have to stay away from the smut talk. It's not safe."
"No. It's not. And … okay, it's partly my fault- I made you tell me your dream even though it involved …" I look up. "What clinical thing did you call it?"
"Oral sex."
"Right."
There is a pause, after which … we burst out laughing. The tension eases. He approaches, reaches out a hand, and I take it.
"I'll make it up to you."
I grin.
"I don't want you to make it up to me, I want you to take it out on me - on our wedding night, full force - every ounce of this horrid built up sexual frustration."
He chuckles.
"Okay. If you insist."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
We kiss. We head upstairs and get ready.
It's a gorgeous day out, if a tad warmer than usual. Despite my words and best intentions, as the minutes pass I can feel myself tensing over the knowledge that we are heading directly for a morning and an afternoon with beautiful young Angelina.
Unless of course, we're lucky and she's home sick with a terrible flu …
Okay. Stop it. I really am going to try to be better about this, aren't I? I mean, do I have any choice ? She's Maria and Manuel's daughter, and if we're going to be living here, on the island, we will undoubtedly encounter her from time to time, or perhaps even a lot. She'll certainly be at our wedding. And she really does seem like a sweet girl. Who can blame her for an innocent crush ?
Just as I'm feeling better, my brain does this to me: Provides me with an instant full color flash of her and Curt's slow dance that night, and those perky young nipples poking through her blouse.
Goddamit!
"Huh? What's wrong?"
Shit. I said it out loud.
"Um, nothing. I think … I think I, ah, forgot the … window cleaner."
"No you didn't- you packed it in the back like 10 seconds ago."
"Oh."
We travel onward.
Okay, think. Deal with it. Once, again, what is the best way to handle your fears? Face them, right? So let's do it- let's have it out, right now.
Right. Soon as I see her, I'll punch her in the face.
No.
The best way to get past these fears is indeed to confront them, and in this case, that means merely imagining them. Easy! So go ahead. What are my worst imaginings when it comes to the young blonde thing?
Okay, the very worst? How about … Curt ravishing her, ripping at her clothes and throwing her down on the bed.
OUCH!
And … how about this? He's so overcome with desire and lust that he's biting into her soft, perfect flesh … nipple, neck, shoulder, thigh, everywhere. She, meanwhile, shrieks and squeels beneath him, in delight and mirth.
Okay, just torture yourself, why fucking don't you.
Well, but … Of course she would squeel, of course she would … she's young, undoubtedly a virgin, and would certainly never have been anywhere near a storm like this, let alone directly in the middle of it. She's in fact, as I see her, slightly in shock, or at least, completely carried away by what is Curt, in his natural state … the swift moving current, lost in himself, thrusting and thrashing her about in his uncareful, unquiet manner … and it is just a bit shocking to her. It can't help but be. She can look, but she won't see it, the man she's falling in love with. I know, because I know. You can see it in his eyes that he's not there, in these moments, that it's not him. He's gone, exactly the place he goes each time he throws himself around on stage; overtaken, with no choice in the matter- he simply must get this out.
When it's over, when he's come so hard and so thoroughly that his arteries ache and his lungs are parched, she rests beneath him, confused, slightly bruised, a little frightened. It wasn't supposed to be like this, was it? Why did no one prepare her? Raging and powerful and scary as any storm at sea, and now … this calm, as if all that just occurred, didn't.
The sex will be like this between them- immediate, harsh, spectacular, transportive, it couldn't help but be … but outside of the bedroom, as he realizes he is falling in love with her … yes, I am going to picture this … it will linger in him, this fear, this paranoia and unease, until one day the dam finally bursts and he will blurt it to her, the truth, exactly what it is that he's about, how wide and endless are his needs …
Here I am, here is me: broken, damaged, the embodiment of a nightmare; tell me now if it's too much. And she, being young and innocent, a child really, will recoil, I tell myself, will even disbelieve him. It is too much, these unthinkable stories of rape and addiction and selling one's body, let alone molestation, electric shock … suicide? I mean, come on. She will immediately see that she has taken on far more than she can handle.
Her struggles, her panic, will be exactly what he fears. The color in her eyes will fade. Try as she might to hide it, he will see this, and it will crush him, for he knows it's too much, he knows he's too much. He knows this well.
The problem being, of course, that it's the dividing line that he needs, that he must have, that you, in your nurturing, in your nonjudgemental acceptance of absolutely everything that he is, must embody for him, must be … or the whole deal is off.
As I ride behind him, clutching his back, I proudly acknowledge it: This is what I've signed up for, kit and kaboodle. What the Angelinas of the world, I tell myself, the pretty young babelets, wouldn't ever, and furthermore ... can't.
The choice for Curt, were he to pursue her, would be to live the lie, to pretend that he really is like anyone else walking this earth, that he isn't about these unthinkable horrors, that the jagged, angry scars aren't still oozing. The salve is in your love, in the saliva that you run, yourself, without hesitation, directly over the wounds; it's in your refusal to blink, to look away, in disgust, in revulsion, in pain. There is no bargaining. If you can't handle it, you have no business being with him.
The warm breeze blows through my hair. I feel ten feet tall. I smile - I'm beaming.
This is all aside, of course, from the very simple fact that Curt is, after all, a virgin … one on schedule to be gently, lovingly and fiercely deflowered … made whole … bit by bit … not seven little days from today … something he wants - needs - almost more than he wants to live …
Do you understand ?
Can you understand?
There is simply no future amongst such things for little Angelina.
At the church, we park the bike and dismount. The building is as breathtakingly sweet and quaint as I recall, though a tad older and more worn. I'm pleased to see that the front doors are wide open, as are the stained glass windows, which tilt outward. How nice, I think, that the sad little building is getting some love, some air.
I unload our sandwiches and Curt carries the window cleaner and paper towels. We smile a mile wide at eachother. It need not be said, what we're both thinking.
Next time we're here, we're getting married.
We walk in the door to quite a commotion. Manuel is bent, spraying and wiping down pews, Maria is vacuuming, David and Juan washing windows, Bella cleaning the alter, complete with the oversized, wide-eyed Jesus looming over her shoulder.
A quick look round finds, (I admit that my heart leaps), no Angelina.
Maria shrieks, shuts off the vacuum and runs to us, wraps her arms round us both and kisses each cheek.
"Here they are!" she shouts, laughing. "Our beautiful wedding boys!"
Manuel approaches and hugs us as well, as does David, while the others simply wave from their stations.
"How does it look?" She asks.
"Um … wow," Curt offers, looking around. "Fantastic. Even smells nice."
"It was complete cobwebs and dust when we first saw it!" I add. "I hope you left some for us."
"Oh, there's still plenty to do," she gestures, "We haven't gotten to this whole area yet, or anywhere near from here down."
"We can't thank you enough for volunteering your family, Maria. It's so extraordinarily kind of you. We really do appreciate it."
"Oh, good lord, Brian, it's our pleasure. Nothing like a wedding to get the juices flowing!" She turns and shouts over her shoulder. "It will be good practice for you David."
"Mama, give me some time!" he laughs.
"You should see his boyfriend," she whispers, "gorgeous."
We laugh.
"Let me take that from you, Brian," she says, reaching for the sandwiches. "There's a small fridge out back."
"Oh thank you."
"Angelina's putting things away for us."
My face freezes.
"Oh."
Manuel approaches.
"You have chosen a lovely old, place, no? At first I admit I thought you had lost your minds, but it is quite beautiful."
"Yes, it is. Perfect."
We look at eachother and smile.
At this moment, past Curt's shoulder, Angelina enters. She really does have an immediate impact on a room, being in possession of the sort of beauty that I would term as both uncommon and electrifying, even with her hair pinned back as it is, librarian-style. And today, to boot, there is this complication: it's a warm out, and warmer in here, and she's taken to wearing shorts … and a bloody tanktop. Impossible, then, not to notice those long, shapely, tawny young legs, the slender dainty waist, the pleasing size of her bosom over which you can just make out the hint of a pale pink brassiere.
Pink bra … pink bra… ? Oh! Angela- Curt's old girlfriend. Angela … Angelina. How odd. How uncomfortable.
She approaches, grinning, gushing, and as she moves closer, visibly blushing.
"Hi," she offers, shyly.
Curt nods.
"Hi."
I force a smile.
"Hello … thanks so much for helping out."
"Oh, I'm so pleased I could."
Maria enters.
"Angie darling, I need you over here."
"Yes, mama," she says, and turns.
My, and if she doesn't possess the cutest, tightest bloody little tush.
I force myself not to look at Curt- I won't have him feeling I'm spying on him, watching his eyes.
Maria calls to us.
"Boys, there's rags over here and cleaner and all that."
We approach.
"Oh, by the way, Angelina would like to ask you a favor, Curt."
I slump. What on earth could she want ? What does she mean, a favor ?
"Okay," Curt replies, hesitant.
Angelina speaks softly, haltingly, looking down.
"Um, I-I just … my school paper. I'm studying journalism, it's my, um, my major, I think you call it … and I wondered if …" She stumbles, flustered.
Her mother quickly fills it in for us.
"She'd like to interview you, for her paper. It's a school project and would help her with her class."
The girl's eyes haven't left the floor. I almost feel for her.
"Just," she says quietly, "I mean, maybe about your new album … maybe. If you have time. If it's alright with you, I mean."
Curt glances at me quickly. It's not like we can say no, and again, I may be annoyed, but I'm absolutely determined to be better about this …
"Um, okay", he says finally.
"Sounds great," I add. "It would be his first interview for the album, right Curt?"
"Oh, ya. By a longshot."
"Wow," she gushes. "I had no idea. I, um ... I brought my tape recorder. I hope that's alright."
"Sure," he says, a word that is supposed to be spoken more robustly than this. "Um, you won't mention the wedding or anything, right?"
Her face falls.
"Oh no, I wouldn't think of it. I'm sure you want your privacy."
"Don't mind Curt," I quickly add, and turn to grab a sponge out of a bucket. "He's a little paranoid about the news getting out."
"Oh," Manuel offers. "You have my word- the baker, the jeweler, are all trustworthy and sworn to secrecy, and the florist doesn't know it is a wedding between two men."
Laughter.
"Manny darling, she's very opened minded. I'm sure she'd approve."
A few hours later, after the place is deemed spick and span, we all retire for lunch, sitting round the church's front stoop, discussing the arrangements of flowers, the order of the ceremony, other weddings that family members have attended, etc.
"It's going to be beautiful," Maria assures us, nodding. She looks at David and runs a hand up into his hair. "I can't wait for your wedding, darling."
"Mama, we've only just met!" he laughs.
"Or yours," she says, pointing at Angelina.
"I don't think that will happen for a long time."
"Why not? You're all grown up. You just haven't met the right boy." She grins at us. "My daughter wants lots of kids."
Terrific. Fabulous.
"Mama, please."
"And not many men these days do, so …"
I shift in my seat, and stand, speaking quickly.
"Should we maybe get that interview out of the way, er, I mean …"
"Okay," Angelina responds, and dashes happily inside for her tape recorder.
Curt immediately reaches for his pack of smokes.
"We'll finish up inside," Manuel says, and the family follows.
I sigh. I lay a hand on his shoulder.
"You okay about this?"
"No, but what can I do?"
"It's alright. It's quite a sweet idea- her little school project. I think her teacher's mind might be blown, however."
"Her teacher won't know me from dick, Brian."
"Well, her friends, anyway."
"I think that's what this is about, more than her class."
"Oh, well what difference does it make? Any press is good press, my dear, even in a little college newspaper, and here we are giving an exclusive to the daughter of a friend, so …"
"Who has a crush."
I look off, and try to sound convincing.
"So what."
Angelina returns. I'm suddenly not sure what I should do. Sit by? Leave them to it ? Um … no.
Come on you idiot! Trust, remember? Husband, remember?
I point to the door.
"Maybe I'll just …"
"No, Brian. Stay- you're producing the fucking alb–" He throws a hand to his mouth and looks at her. "Sorry."
She laughs.
"It's okay. I go to school in Madrid, it's a big city, so I hear all kinds of language …"
"I'll stay," I offer. "I've never seen Curt interviewed."
"Oh, well, this will just be …"
She positions the clunky machine on her lap and unravels her notebook which is filled with scribblings that turn out to be questions. Not half bad ones, either, showing just how much time and thought she's put into this.
"Um," she begins, "just to start, can I maybe ask about some of your influences, some of your favorite singers growing up, things like that?" She looks down again. "If that's okay."
"Sure, ya … um, well … huh, okay, well … I guess the earliest thing I can remember being into as a kid was maybe like old records my parents had, Nat King Cole, Scott Joplin ragtime, y'know, big band and old blues compilations and shit … oh, sorry."
She smiles.
"It's okay. I'll take that part out."
We laugh.
"And then, um … well Brian and I are seriously into this guy Leadbelly, from like the teens and twenties. He was an early 12-string wizz, like a genius on the 12 string guitar, and a great, great singer." He looks at her. "Your readers should go buy his records."
She smiles.
"I'll put that in there."
