Beautiful Losers (Modern Erotic Classics)

by Remittance Girl

  ‘You’re not leaving!’ called Sebastian running down the stairs. He’d changed into his usual pair of cotton jogging pants, but wore nothing else. Reaching the bottom, he looked angry. His hands settled on his hips. ‘You’re not going anywhere.’

  ‘I am, actually. You guys have shit to sort out.’ I managed to lace my boots up halfway. They’d stay on and that was good enough. Just breathe slowly, and deeply, I told myself. ‘And you need to sort them out in private.’

  That evening the week before, in the taxi on the way to Jean’s apartment, I’d thought: This is going to fuck up our friendship royally. Now I was just so desperately angry that I hadn’t truly believed it myself. As I made for the hall, Sebastian whipped out a hand and caught my arm.

  ‘Shira? Come on. Jean didn’t mean it. He said it came out wrong.’

  I reared around and glared. ‘I’m trying very hard to keep my feelings to myself. Understand?’

  ‘Then let’s just sit down and . . .’

  ‘Get your fucking hand off me, now. NOW!’ I barked.

  Sebastian flinched and released his grip. I grabbed my jacket off the hallstand and pulled it on. It was no later than seven, I guessed. I could walk down to the cross-street and catch a bus. A cab would have been preferable, but I couldn’t bear the idea of waiting for one.

  The air that hit my face as I pulled the front door open was biting cold. I hesitated, feeling sick about my outburst. Sebastian wasn’t the target of my anger. I was pissed with myself, bewildered by Jean, and still inwardly cringing about the very compromising intimacy I’d just experienced with Sebastian. Which is why it was just too easy to take it all out on him. But he didn’t deserve it. My inhibitions, my hang-ups, my fears – my shit.

  But still, I didn’t have the spine to turn around and look in his face. I stared out into the frosty night instead. ‘I apologize, Sebastian. I don’t mean to be a bitch. I didn’t mean to shout at you that way, but I’m hanging by a thread right now.’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ he said, keeping his distance.

  By the time I got to the bottom step, the cold night rushed into my lungs with a thousand sharp, icy knives and I clenched my jaw and keened. The tears were flooding down my face, almost blinding me. The street lamps cut through them, turning the night cubist. I only had to get out onto the street. That’s all. Then I could find a hedge somewhere and have a good cry, get it over with, and go home.

  ‘Shira, wait!’ yelled Sebastian. ‘Let me get something on my feet. I’ll walk you.’

  He was swearing, but I didn’t – couldn’t – look back because the gate was near and, once I was out it, the world would reset to normal. I wouldn’t be the person I had been in there, with them. The clock would rewind and it would be as if none of this had ever happened.

  The gate creaked as I swung it open and turned onto the sidewalk. Now, with the hedge for protection, I began to sob and walk, focusing on the ground, as if the whole of existence might be measured in those long paving stones. I crossed one, then another, then another, not caring that I was weeping or making noise about it. Some people cry quietly, but I can’t.

  That’s why I heard nothing until Sebastian tackled me. He grabbed me from behind, his arms wrapping around me. ‘Stop!’

  I screeched and fought the embrace. ‘Let me fucking go! You asshole,’ I sobbed. ‘Please, please, please! I need to go home. I need to be alone. Please.’

  He plucked me off my feet like it was the simplest thing in the world. The way cartoon cats scoop up fleeing cartoon mice. They hold them there, suspended, while their little running feet go all blurry.

  ‘I knew this would happen. I knew we would hurt each other. Oh God! I just fucking knew it!’ I cried, choking out the words.

  A little, wizened old woman, walking something that looked like a furry rat, approached us from the opposite direction. She stopped at the far edge of a circle of street light.

  ‘Are you all right? Miss?’ she said nervously. ‘Is this young man bothering you?’

  I froze, blinked and, to my disgust, heard Sebastian giggle. ‘Uh, no.’ I took a deep, hiccupping breath. ‘We’re . . . I’m okay. Thanks.’

  ‘Are you sure, dear?’ She narrowed her eyes, looking past me to Sebastian with deep suspicion. ‘Young man? You put that young woman down at once! And where on earth are your shoes?’

  I cast my gaze downwards. My feet were still inches off the ground, my hands in mid-claw against Sebastian’s forearms and noticed, for the first time, that his feet were bare. He lowered me to the ground and let me go. Against my back, I could feel him laughing soundlessly, burying his face in my hair and snickering.

  ‘We’re fine. Promise.’ I wiped my face with my hand and shrugged. ‘Just, you know . . .’

  The woman made a clucking sound with her tongue. ‘Come on, Freddie dear,’ she said in a singsong voice and sauntered by us with her rat-dog. As she gained some distance, I heard her talking to her pet. ‘Lovers’ quarrels, Freddie. Thank God we’re past all that crap.’

  Sebastian spun me around, his hands firmly on my shoulders: he was still trying not to laugh. ‘You almost got me arrested for assault!’

  But it wasn’t funny. Laughter doesn’t always make things better. ‘That night after dinner, I knew,’ I said. ‘I knew everything would change.’

  His cold hand cupped my cheek and he ran a thumb cross my skin. ‘You were right, then. Everything did change. And now we’re all just going to have to figure out how to live with it. Because it’s changed for good.’

  ‘Maybe if I just stayed away for a while, things would calm down and go back to normal.’

  He was wearing nothing under the leather jacket; he must have been freezing. ‘No it wouldn’t. It’s never going to go back to normal, Shira.’ Taking me into his arms, pulling me against his chest, I shuffled, careful to not to step on his bare toes.

  ‘Come back and talk to Jean. He’s in hysterics and I doubt that tying him up and calling him a whore is going to help this time. He’s so ashamed. And if you just walk out, he’s never going to forgive himself.’

  ‘Okay,’ I muttered into his chest. His skin smelled of sweat, and Jean, and perhaps me. ‘Okay.’

  We walked back to his house, hand in hand. ‘Aren’t your feet freezing?’

  ‘Honestly? They’ve gone numb. Feels like I’m walking on stumps.’

  Jean sat huddled halfway up the stairs, elbows on his knees, hands folded together. As we walked in, he began to cry. I climbed the stairs and sat beside him. Unsure of what to say, I leaned my head on his shoulder and waited.

  Sebastian stood at the bottom, arms draped over the newel post, watching us. For all his games – the slapping and the pinching and the hot things on skin – I sensed that he wasn’t all that comfortable with real pain. Not that he was a coward – he kept the vigil. He didn’t harrumph and walk off like a lot of men I have known or didn’t pretend like it wasn’t happening. But he kept his distance, as if this sort of pain was something he knew about pretty intimately, and didn’t like.

  When the crying waned, I said, ‘Let’s go have some tea.’ It was inane, I know, but my mother’s English and, in my family, tea was just what you did after a good cry.

  When Jean stood up, I caught a glimpse of his face, red and tearstained. I must have looked exactly the same to him, when he’d walked in on us earlier. Well, he wasn’t naked, or impaled on someone’s cock, or . . . other stuff, but he looked a mess.

  We sat at the breakfast counter in the kitchen and Sebastian made us blueberry tea because, he said, it was more effective than plain tea – alcohol being a key ingredient.

  After holding the warm cup in his hands for a while, Jean took a sip, and then another. ‘I’m so disgusted with myself. I can’t believe I said that to you. I’m so sorry.’

  It looked like he was going to start crying again, and that would probably kick me off again as well, so I clumsily prodded his hand. ‘Drink some more tea.’

  He nodded, look
ing down into the cup, and took another sip.

  ‘Maybe you were right, Jean. Maybe it isn’t any of my business.’

  ‘That’s not fair, Shira. People are either in or they’re out. It is your business, as much as it’s anyone’s.’ He glanced at me, then across the counter at Sebastian.

  ‘It’s probably all my fault anyway. I shouldn’t have been talking about it behind your back,’ he said to Jean.

  ‘No! This is stupid,’ I interjected. ‘People talk about the people they love – that’s normal. They talk about their feelings. I know it sounds hippy-trippy, but it’s true. It’s human. Can we just, for a moment, stop pretending we’re all so bored and jaded and act like humans? At least with each other?’

  Both Jean and Sebastian raised the same eyebrow at the very same moment. The synchronicity was a tad creepy. I pondered the prickliness of all these competing sensibilities for a bit. Eyeing Sebastian, I said, ‘Can you give us a little time in private?’

  He shrugged, but slid off the stool. ‘I want you both to note that I’m leaving my own kitchen. Really – take note! This is me,’ he said, edging out the doorway, ‘leaving my own fucking kitchen.’

  When he was gone, I lay my hand over Jean’s and stroked it. ‘I know what I said upset you. I certainly didn’t have any business being casual about it. It’s not casual to you. I get that.’

  ‘No, it’s not.’ Jean gazed into his teacup.

  ‘Okay, but I need to know. I need to know because – look at me, please. I’m not in the cup.’

  His expression was wary.

  ‘I love you. Do you love me? I mean, in whatever way you can?’

  Jean frowned; his beautifully plucked brows drew together. ‘You know I do, Shira. More than anyone else in the world.’

  ‘Then I need to know, Jean. Because Sebastian fucking adores you. Why won’t you let him?’

  A little huff broke from his throat, and his eyes slid away from mine. ‘Well, for one thing, honey, he’s hung like a horse. I do not want that monster up my ass.’

  I took hold of Jean’s chin and made him look at me. ‘Bullshit, Jean. Don’t go all clubby and camp on me. He’s not that big. Bodies accommodate. I love you dearly, so please don’t just brush this off with a lie.’

  He stared down into his cup again. ‘Does it actually matter, Shira? He’s got you now if he absolutely must have a hole to stick his dick in. What does it matter?’

  I cocked my head and looked at Jean, unable to hide my confusion. ‘What the hell does that have to do with anything?’

  But even as the words came out of my mouth, my stomach lurched in strange sort of physical prescience, and then a terrible, chill fear began to climb its way up my spine. As it did, jagged pieces of puzzle slotted into place in my mind. I didn’t want it to be true. It was grotesque.

  I licked at my lips. They’d gone bone dry along with the interior of my mouth. I didn’t want to think what I was thinking. And perhaps I was wrong anyway. It might be something much simpler. Filling my lungs, I nodded to myself, urging myself to ask the question.

  ‘Jean? Are you jealous? Is that what it is? Because that I could understand, completely.’

  Jaw set, he tilted his head back and looked me straight in the eye. ‘I’m not jealous, Shira.’

  The worst of it was I believed him. I put my hand up to my mouth. ‘So,’ I whispered, picking my words carefully. ‘I’m your . . . what? Your . . . proxy?’ Even as I finished the sentence I had to force myself to keep my eyes on his face. I didn’t want to see his reaction.

  And he gave me none. He said nothing.

  ‘Oh, Jean. That’s . . .’ I shook my head and breathed again. A quiet, choking anger welled up. I felt lost. Suffocated and somehow totally alone. ‘That’s not okay, Jean. It’s not. You used me. You fucking . . .’

  Jean looked stricken. ‘Shira, I . . .’ He shook his head.

  ‘. . . pimped me to your boyfriend?’ Now I had said it, the rage threatened to burst out every seam I had. ‘You fucking needed to offer him a hole and – what? Oh, look! Shira has a hole! She’ll do!’

  Jean’s words, when they came, erupted in a flood. ‘I can’t, Shira. I just can’t let him. I can’t let anyone. Oh God! You can’t understand how much it frightens me. How sick it makes me feel inside. No one is going there. No one is going to take me like that, use me like that. Never, never again!’

  Staring at him, I whispered it. ‘Again?’

  ‘Never.’ Jean looked into my eyes. ‘Never again.’

  ‘When?’ I whispered.

  His attention was back on the dregs of tea in his cup. ‘When I was – oh, I don’t remember – twelve, maybe?’

  All the rage that had built up suddenly felt like it had nowhere to go. It curdled in my stomach. I wanted to vomit.

  ‘Christ, Jean! God, why didn’t you tell me? Why haven’t you told him?’

  Face crumbling, Jean shook his head again. ‘I don’t want to be damaged any more. I don’t want you or him to see me as some fucking broken thing.’

  I reached out to touch him, hesitated, thinking of just how much someone’s touch had betrayed him, and then swore at myself. I slipped off my stool and wrapped my arms around him, tight. ‘You’re not broken,’ I whispered. ‘You’re the most beautiful person in the world. How could you be broken?’

  His arms crept around my back and he buried his face in my neck and wept. Rocking him, rubbing his back, I let him. When he went quiet, I pulled back and kissed his wet cheek. ‘Jean, you have to tell him. If you love him, you have to. Sebastian thinks it’s him, and that’s not fair.’

  Jean sighed and, looking up at the ceiling, brushed the tears from under his eyes. ‘Oh God. And what if I do? We’re right back in the same old place. Except that now you’ll leave, and he’ll have no one to fuck.’

  Cupping his chin in my hand, I made him look at me. I thought the words out before I said them, because it was important to say them right. ‘I understand that when people have been abused, it changes the way they see the world and other people. And someone used you in the wrong way, Jean. I get that. But that doesn’t mean it is okay for you to use me. Understand?’

  He gave me an awful, pained smile, and tried to nod, but I knew he didn’t get it.

  ‘Jean, I love you. I want you to be happy. But I’m not going to be the cunt you don’t have. Not for Sebastian. Not for anyone. You need to work this out with him. Without me. And give him a little more credit, for fuck’s sake. He’s oversexed, but he’s not stupid.’

  ‘He’ll leave me. I know it.’

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t think it’s an either–or thing with him. I don’t think he’s fucking me because he can’t fuck you. He’s messed up in his own way, but not that way.’

  ‘Do you know where I met Sebastian? Did I ever tell you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He was fucking a total stranger in the park.’

  ‘That sounds about right. And? What’s your point?’

  ‘That’s Sebastian. He’s never going to change. If he can’t get what he wants one place, he’ll find it somewhere else.’

  I shrugged. ‘Maybe that’s not true any more.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he’s not there now.’

  ‘That’s only because you’re with us.’

  It wasn’t a completely unfathomable possibility, but the more I thought about it, the more I doubted it was true. I bit my lip, considering the alternative. ‘I think you’re wrong. I don’t think fucking boys up the ass is, in fact, what gets Sebastian off. If it did, then I wouldn’t work as a proxy, would I? Come on, Jean. It’s not the same thing, and you know it!’

  He looked away, thinking. ‘Then what is it?’

  ‘I think it’s trust. He gets off on trust. Think about it: all those ways he puts us into positions that are designed to prove we trust him. He wants to be trusted. He equates it with being loved. Why else all the bondage, all the games, all the power crap he pulls?’
/>   It was clear from Jean’s expression that he was mulling over my explanation.

  I took a big breath. ‘Look, I don’t think he cares much about your ass, Jean. I think he wants to know you trust him enough to let him have it.’

  ‘So where does that leave us?’

  ‘Well, for a start, you need to tell him why it’s so difficult for you. He needs to know what happened.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then you need to give Sebastian your trust.’

  ‘And my ass.’

  ‘Well.’ I nodded. ‘Eventually. But not just for him, Jean. For you. Because if you can’t get past this, then the motherfucker who screwed you up so long ago – well, he’s still at it, isn’t he?’

  Jean kissed me. ‘Thank you, Shira. You’re right. I do, at least, have to tell him.’

  I smiled and brushed my fingers through the fucked-up make-up running down his cheeks. His mascara was all over them, and mine couldn’t have looked any better. ‘I so love you, you know that?’

  Smirking, Jean stroked my hair, pushing the limp strands of it off my forehead. ‘So will you let me have your ass?’

  ‘Jean, seriously! Do you even really want it? It’s only an ass.’ I shrugged. ‘I’ll admit I’m a bit squeamish about it but – you know what? I can get over that. If you really want it, it’s yours.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN:

  OUTSIDE

  Jean told Sebastian. Sitting on the carpet, in front of a roaring fire he’d had built while Jean and I had been busy having our tête-à-tête. I suggested it might be better if they had their discussion in private, but Jean staunchly refused to allow me to go. I’d have preferred not to hear the details. They were going to haunt me for the rest of my life.

  For a time, the three of us sat in silence, watching the flames dance. It took a while for Sebastian to get up the courage to touch Jean and it was easy to understand his hesitation. I’d felt the same way. But I also knew that isolation was the very last thing Jean needed.

  ‘You’re not him,’ I said to Sebastian, referring to Jean’s sick fuck of a teacher – the one who’d so hideously abused a little boy’s trust and admiration, and had done it with such total disregard for the years of misery he’d initiated. ‘You’re someone else. Jean knows that.’