Q:these have been so great to read! How about (groupie?) matthew and rock guitarist or vocalist arthur.
He’s all black leather and smoky eyes on stage, mike stand locked by his knee, between his thighs, as he leans forward, mouth curling over the lyrics to the ballad. Arthur Kirkland doesn’t sing ballads often, but when he does the ring of his voice is enough to send most people to their feet.
Matthew, at one of the tables, right in the center of two bright green eyes, calmly fiddles with the umbrella bombing in his drink. He smiles, just a little wider, the final notes of the song hanging in the air.
Girls and boys, all lovely in tight jeans and thread bracelets, crowd the stage as the band ambles off. Matthew remembers when he was that age, when he first started showing up at Arthur’s concerts, when Arthur was just starting out, before the record deal. When Arthur’s first public singing event was drunk karaoke.
Matthew heads to the bathroom, but he’s grabbed by the band manager, brought to the dressing room.
Matthew greets the other band members with a faint smile. Arthur, sprawled in the center of a couch, holds out his hand as Matthew approaches, pulling the blond into his hap, one broad hand coming to rest on his lower back.
"Wasn’t expecting to see my favorite groupie tonight. I remember a certain someone telling me he had an essay."
"Surprise." Matthew says easily, straddling Arthur. "I lied."
"And if you found me with one of those eager kids?"
"I’d sleep with your drummer."
Antonio waves cheerfully and Arthur, scowl only a little serious, dragging Matthew down for a kiss.
Sometimes you need to remind yourself that you were the one who carried you through the heartache. You are the one who sits with the cold body on the shower floor, and picks it up. You are the one who feeds it, who clothes it, who tucks it into bed, and you should be proud of that. Having the strength to take care of yourself when everyone around you is trying to bleed you dry, that is the strongest thing in the universe.
i like how all those dudes are ‘wahh prof. sycamore is SEXUALIZED to SELL TO WOMEN!!’ and its like prof. sycamore aint even sexualized like all he is is an attractive modestly dressed dude like women gamers gotta deal with battle bikinis and watermelon sized titties and these dudes cryin about a fella with nice hair and a cute smile like lmao get on my level
sO my friend’s dog died and she lives in new york city and so she had to take it to the vet by the subway and she put the dead dog in the suitcase on the subway and it was a pretty big dog and some dude saw that she was struggling with the suitcase so he asked if she needed help with it and he said do you mind me asking what’s in it and she didnt want to say a dead dog so shE SAID IT WAS A BUNCH OF LAPTOPS SO HE TOOK THE SUITCASE AND RAN AND I JUST
This actually did happen to a real person, and the real person was me. I had gone to catch a train. This was April 1976, in Cambridge, U.K. I was a bit early for the train. I’d gotten the time of the train wrong.
I went to get myself a newspaper to do the crossword, and a cup of coffee and a packet of cookies. I went and sat at a table.
I want you to picture the scene. It’s very important that you get this very clear in your mind.
Here’s the table, newspaper, cup of coffee, packet of cookies. There’s a guy sitting opposite me, perfectly ordinary-looking guy wearing a business suit, carrying a briefcase.
It didn’t look like he was going to do anything weird. What he did was this: he suddenly leaned across, picked up the packet of cookies, tore it open, took one out, and ate it.
Now this, I have to say, is the sort of thing the British are very bad at dealing with. There’s nothing in our background, upbringing, or education that teaches you how to deal with someone who in broad daylight has just stolen your cookies.
You know what would happen if this had been South Central Los Angeles. There would have very quickly been gunfire, helicopters coming in, CNN, you know… But in the end, I did what any red-blooded Englishman would do: I ignored it. And I stared at the newspaper, took a sip of coffee, tried to do a clue in the newspaper, couldn’t do anything, and thought, what am I going to do?
In the end I thought, nothing for it, I’ll just have to go for it, and I tried very hard not to notice the fact that the packet was already mysteriously opened. I took out a cookie for myself. I thought, that settled him. But it hadn’t because a moment or two later he did it again. He took another cookie.
Having not mentioned it the first time, it was somehow even harder to raise the subject the second time around. “Excuse me, I couldn’t help but notice …” I mean, it doesn’t really work.
We went through the whole packet like this. When I say the whole packet, I mean there were only about eight cookies, but it felt like a lifetime. He took one, I took one, he took one, I took one. Finally, when we got to the end, he stood up and walked away.
Well, we exchanged meaningful looks, then he walked away, and I breathed a sigh of relief and sat back. A moment or two later the train was coming in, so I tossed back the rest of my coffee, stood up, picked up the newspaper, and underneath the newspaper were my cookies.
The thing I like particularly about this story is the sensation that somewhere in England there has been wandering around for the last quarter-century a perfectly ordinary guy who’s had the same exact story, only he doesn’t have the punch line.