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.

Thursday, June 16, 2016

Behind enemy lines

She knocks on my door at 6 PM, far less distinctively than I thought she would. I haven't seen her in days, just him in his bone white linen pants and Paisley shirt, hiding those subtle glances behind a pair of shades from the early 70's.

She keeps her arms crossed in front of her while she speaks with her tenderly French accent. "Avy" she says (how does she know my name?), "we were wondering if you wanted to join us for dinner on Friday. We're making Moules". I know it's a trap but I'm walking straight in to it just to see what she's capable of doing to me.

She nods absently as if to add something to my confirmation but instead starts walking slowly back to their apartment. Just as I'm about to close the door behind me she turns around, a hint of a smile on her fairytale face and in her voice. "Oh, and we'd love it if you wore that underwear set, the pink one. It's so fucking adorable".