Tuesday, October 11, 2016

Saint-Germain stories

Paris is slightly less of a whore than I remember. I spend most of my days half-dressed in bed with the Don't disturb sign hanging on the door knob 24/7, just in case. In the evenings I eat oysters and drink Chianti wines at La Coupole until the staff politely asks me to leave, hiding in plain sight from Henry. Every night I wait anxiously for him to show up from nowhere (because fear is, if nothing else, a feeling I still treasure), but he never does.

I sometimes fantasize about going to his apartment, to knock on his door and be invited in. He puts his hands around my neck and squeezes so hard I almost can't breathe. I pretend that it hurts me and he throws me down on his bed, rips the clothes off my body and fucks me without saying a single word. Afterwards we share a cigarette in the dim light from his kitchen lamp and he tells me that he loves the way I wear my hair now.

I was never the girl that dreamt about fairytale castles and pink princess dresses, in case you were wondering. The stories I wrote in school made my teachers call mother to emergency meetings more than once. She acted upset but on the way home always bought me candy and told me I was on my way to something truly great and beautiful.

Friday, September 23, 2016

Is this just fantasy?

My birthday somehow seemed like the perfect time to leave. I stayed up until I couldn't hear them fighting anymore and then for another hour just to make sure they were asleep. As soon as the house disappeared from the taxi's rear view mirror I began thinking of this entire summer as a dream or a fantasy at best. I've never in my life been so unsure of who and what I really am.

Since I left I've been hiding in Paris, far from Saint-Germain and Henry. I know I have to see him at least once before I go back to LA but I'm afraid of what he might do to me. I haven't seen him since I left him behind and I've ignored all his calls and text messages ever since. I've dreamt about him but never in a sexual way and it frightens me more than the surrealist nightmares I've been having since late July.

As always I'm stuck in between reality and a dream and I never know which state to prefer or wish for. Being fucked by the Frenchman made me feel alive but only for as long as it lasted. As soon as they left I was emptied of all momentary happiness like so many times before. Now I'm just wondering how the fuck I'm supposed to go on living like this.

Wednesday, August 24, 2016

Rive Gauche

I let him fuck me occasionally as long as I can pretend like his hands are someone else's or even my own. Also, he brings me opium in little brown paper bags and lets me smoke it in bed afterwards. She sits quietly on a chair in the corner of the room the whole time, watching, legs crossed, stripes of raven hair covering much of that pretty face of hers.

The past three months feel both like an instant and a lifetime, I can't decide which is better or worse. I promised myself I'd go back to LA in August but I seem unable to let go of anything these days. I've done it before, to everyone I ever loved, even the ones that ended up leaving me. Everyone except my father of course.

I'll have dinner on the balcony tonight, if you can call red wine and quail eggs dinner. He brought me those too, along with the opium, said I reminded him too much of Brideshead Revisited. It was the sweetest thing I've heard all summer. 

Thursday, July 28, 2016

Petit monstre

I'm slowly gathering my thoughts behind closed blinds and sheer curtains. They help me keep my bedroom cool so I can sleep through these melting summer nights. I wear too much clothes in bed and drink too many bottles of wine in the mornings, but it's the only way I have of staying sane (or something close to it).

I'm replaying dinner with the neighbors in my mind, how they looked at me when I came in, wondering if I wore that pink underwear set underneath my bone white halter neck dress like they asked me to. "He wants to fuck you" she said, "and I will let him as long as I can watch".

I have to go back home soon but the thought of LA and Silver Lake scares me more than the dark woods between the sea and the mountains along this innocent coastline. I haven't seen mother in years now, she calls me sometimes but I ignore her and the voicemails she records. I have a feeling she just wants me to tell her that everything will be just fine.

Monday, July 4, 2016

Hollywood youth

I've been writing and rewriting this post a million times but I'm struggling to find the right words (or any words at all). I've been anxious my whole life but this nagging feeling is something new. I'm afraid of the dark and the light, of shadows and sunshine. Of them and of myself.

I drink far too much thinking I'll be able to sleep but it doesn't work, not for more than an hour or two anyway. Instead I keep waking up unable to breathe, not knowing if it's night or day. I'd ask for help but I don't know what to tell them, other than to make it go away.

It might have been a dream but I think I talked to S and she told me to come back to LA. Maybe I have to, maybe it couldn't hurt, maybe it's what I'll eventually do as soon as I find a way out of this whirlwind.