3. Eli

Eli

Our Cold Hands

S ometimes I wonder why I exist.

Like, what grand being decided to make me, me? And what kind of drugs were they on when they did it?

My brain is all noise. Screams, grunts, and gasps all collectively drown out logic and rational thinking. It’s why I stuff my nose with powder. I need it quiet for a while, you know? A lot of people don’t understand, and it’s not like I’m doing cocaine or meth. It’s Adderall, but people treat it like something it isn’t.

I’m using it to focus—that’s it.

Swiping my nose and sniffling loudly, I look at myself in the mirror. What the hell am I doing here? With him ?

The tour bus hits a bump, jostling me in the tiny bathroom. My elbow smacks into the wall, and I laugh. This is just like me. I’ll be confident that things are going differently. That my life is finally taking a turn in the right direction. And then, like I’ve been zapped from one place to another, I find myself in places like this. And with people like Leon. It wasn’t always that way, though, was it?

No.

I had something good there for a while. Something…magical, in all honesty. But like I do with everything, I fucked it all up. I like to think I did him a favor— Phoenix. I don’t know if we would’ve worked out long-term. We only lasted as long as we did because of the distance. With him in California and me in Illinois, it created that buffer to hide everything I never wanted him to know about. He’s a successful musician—his life is on the road. And I present to the world that I’m a sex worker whose entire career revolves around a camera.

When I got into this, I was young and dumb. Making easy money from whipping out my dick just seemed like the right move considering what my life was like. I’ve always been hypersexual, so that part was easy for me. And when I found out that the market for gay porn made me even more money, I jumped ship with speed. Hell, when I first started in the industry, I swore up and down I was straight. That delusional bubble burst pretty fast once I got into the nitty gritty, AKA having penetrative sex with men.

I don’t hate my job.

I’m well off financially, own my house, and am comfortable. I can travel often and meet new people. But as a kid, I always thought I was supposed to be a doctor or…a marine biologist. Something less vain, I guess. Someone important. And maybe even something that would keep me as far away from my parents’ footsteps as humanly possible.

Too late for second thoughts now. Too late for a lot of shit because of the way I have lived my life.

I think the worst part is that I’m unable to stop the trajectory of it. I don’t know how not to destroy everything I touch.

So yeah, Phoenix probably doesn’t realize it, but I did him a fucking favor. He'd be ruined if I let it keep going and opened up even a fraction more. I don’t want there ever to be a day when that happens.

Leaving the bathroom, I stroll over to Leon and scoot onto the bench beside him. He smiles at me, and the familiar static that only comes from snorting my prescription has me smiling back. All his band members are passed out, so I grab his jaw and pull him in for a wet kiss.

Not much lights me up anymore. So it’s not surprising that the kiss doesn’t do what I want, but I try anyway because I need to feel something—a sliver of sensation to stuff in the hollow place inside me. I like Leon in a superficial way. He’s sweet and pliable, and he likes to be told he’s a good boy and all that fun stuff. I have been as honest as I can be with him, too. You can’t count on an end game when you date me. It doesn’t matter for however long.

There is no end game with me.

All I’m good for is midnight kisses and tour bus delights.

“Let’s go to the bathroom,” he murmurs huskily.

B lurring out Leon’s face from the video, I scrutinize the angle at which I recorded our blowie session from the tour bus bathroom last night. He agreed to let me film us occasionally, but only pov shots. He’s got quite a few tattoos that would be easily identifiable from any other angle. I won’t be able to use the video because, in order to blur his face correctly, it takes half my dick out of the shot, so I groan and delete it. Truthfully, I'm over putting in this much effort for strangers on the internet.

Slamming my laptop shut, I fish out my cigarettes and light one up. I’m on a dingy little balcony outside the hotel room we’re staying at for the night. Leon is at the venue with his band and…the other ones. He all but begged me to go with them, but I’m not ready to face Phoenix yet.

I know how nervous he gets when he plays for large crowds. Headhunter—Leon’s band—is more well-known, so a big following of fans will be there. If I show up, it’ll fuck up Phoenix’s whole pre-show ritual.

Snorting to myself while I take a drag, I realize that even after all this time, I still know him so well. Like how he calls Helios his baby. Or how he prefers boxers over briefs because he likes his nuts to hang freely.

Leaning back in the chair, I watch the smoke billow up and into the air while more of him floods my head.

I bet Phoenix still misses that spot under his chin when he shaves. I used to call it his devil’s patch. I bet he is wearing his lucky socks tonight—the ones with pepperoni pizza slices all over them. I know for a fact he had Kelly clean up his side cut a few days ago because he always screws up the line when he does it himself.

I wonder if they’re going to play my song tonight. Sure, assuming it’s about me is vain, but I know it is. I know Phoenix. There’s no way in fuck that Jorge wrote a song that’s essentially a eulogy of our romantic relationship. It’s their most popular song, too.

Without thinking, I pull it up on my phone and hit play. Isolated sounds through the tiny speaker. If I hadn’t looked up the lyrics for myself, I wouldn’t have grasped the whole meaning of the song due to Jorge’s harsh vocals and growls.

The song starts slow, building in passion and angst until, eventually, it leads to a brutal breakdown and a bridge so powerful I can feel that pain deep in my chest.

I did that to him.

Every word, every emotion poured out into that song is because of me.

So, I turn off the song. Hating myself every day doesn’t fucking change things. I did what I did, and there’s no erasing of the past. I wouldn’t put it past Phoenix to throat-punch me when we eventually cross paths.

He is the type of person who will stay quiet, simmering in secret until it eventually comes to a roaring boil and spills over the edge. I deserve to deal with that scalding water. After all, I broke his heart and ghosted him. So, I would take that punch. I’d take whatever nasty shit he wants to say to me because it would all be right. I'm a horrible person. I’m a coward and a fuck up, and everything else, so I won't be showing my face tonight.

And worst of all, I don’t know what I will do when the time comes.