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Extremity	By : mao Category: S through Z > Velvet Goldmine Views: 1632 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Velvet Goldmine, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Extremity
- 1
Title: Extremity
Author: mao
Disclaimer: Velvet Goldmine belongs to Michael Stipe, Todd Haynes,
and a lot of other people, most notably not me. I'm just a poor
college student not trying to make any money from this, and if you
sue me, all you'll get is some soda bottles.
Author's Notes: See if you can figure out who this is about. It's
central to the story.
Warnings: Mentions of sexuality, drug use, language.
***
He's extreme. His hips are carved alabaster, his shoulders jutting
porcelain. His hair, red as a sunset, shimmering in the lights from
the neon sign across the street. His eyes, the way they bore into you
as you try not to look at him. His quick, flickering movements as he
dries himself after his shower, shaking his head and sending droplets
of water flying across the room. One of them hits you and you glance
away from watching him in the mirror, looking down at the plush
carpeting on the floor. In the silver of the mirror, his eyes have
lost their liquidity and seem hard as stone in the mirror.
You hate yourself for it. For the condom, used and rolled down and
stuffed under some papers in the trash. For the fame, the groupies,
the drugs, the sex you can't turn down. It's so much; so extreme.
You've always loved to be extreme.
You hate yourself for the way your skin becomes flushed, heated as
he meets your eyes in the mirror. The way you look away quickly, not
wanting to see the way he looks at you with contempt, as if you were
just another starry-eyed groupie, enjoying a sick shag with their
glamorous idol, fallen from a glittering heaven. The way you can't
find a place to put your eyes, as if this wasn't your hotel room but
his. But you know it as well as he does - everything is his when he's
around.
You hate yourself for the way you tighten the band around your arm
and inject the liquid, slipping the needle easily beneath the skin
and into the vein, gently, slowly pushing down the plunger and
releasing the only solace you have. And then, you hate yourself for
the way you cut yourself a line of coke, take the straw, and snort it
up easily, like medicine.
You hate the way you meet his eyes again in the mirror as he does
up his tight pants. For the way he glares at you, and you turn your
eyes, avert them from him to yourself - to the dyed blonde hair, the
heavy eyeliner, the smudged makeup. You hate the way you look. You
hate the way you allow yourself to be used.
He pulls his shirt on and you look at him, slowly taking in the
shape of the body that ten minutes earlwas was screaming your name,
if not from its mouth, from every pore, screaming, howling, moaning
in ecstasy he wouldn't admit. You know if you ask him, he still won't
admit it, and you hate yourself for that. He leans over you to fix
his hair, focused only on himself in the mirror, not seeing you as
you try not to watch him, try not to watch yourself, try nottouctouch
him, try not to lift your nose to catch his delicate scent. You smell
it anyway, without moving your head - his own signature, personal
smell - like lillies, hyacinth, vanilla, and cinnamon rolled
together.
You turn away, but you can see the grin come across his face, that
extreme smile of rage. Of how much he hates you. How he uses you for
his own sick pleasure, his own perverted manner of keeping you. It
might be over, if not for the occasional fuck. Even with everything
else, you might leave him if not for the sex. But he still comes to
you sometimes.
Sometimes, he's weeping, telling you he's sorry and he can't live
without you. That he loves you and he wants you and only you and
he'll give up all the others if he can just keep you. Then he makes
love to you, sweetly, holding you like a doll. Sometimes, he's angry
and his face is contorted and red with rage. He hits you, hard
backhands against the cheek, punches on the back and arms and kicks
elsewhere. Then he fucks you up the ass, hard, screaming at you. In
the morning, you feel ripped and hurt but still deeply satisfied on
another level. Sometimes, he's drunk and cheerful like he used to be,
and he takes you in an alley, kissing your neck and whispering sweet
nothings in your ears, things he forgets by the next day but you will
remember for weeks, months to come.
When he comes to you, he's always an extreme. A few times, he's
been so skagged out he can't get it up, and you tuck him in and sleep
with your arms wrapped around him, pretending everything's still ok.
When he came tonight, it was in contempt. You'd told him earlier
you were leaving, and he'd told you to go to your room and wait.
"Fifteen minutes," you'd said, and he'd smirked.
When he came to you, he took you hard and fast and you climaxed
several times and were left breathless, lying against the pillows,
drained, like a girl who's no longer a virgin. You lay there, your
makeup smudged by sweat and running down your face, your brain
swirling in delirious ecstasy, as he headed off to shower. You smoked
a cigarette, lying back, confused and uncertain. You want to talk to
him, but he never talks anymore. He barely looks at you, and you hate
that too.
You hate how when he came back, you bit your lip and didn't say a
word as he began dressing, just sat back to watch and avert your
eyes. He hasn't said a single word to you since the fifteen minute
warning. Just the same, he knows you won't be leaving, and you hate
yourself for that, too. For the spineless, gutless way you wait
between shags, wait for him to come to you, to treat you well, to
remind you of why you love him. To reasses you, like he might toss
you out if you aren't good enough.
You've wondered why he keeps you around like this. You know he
must know that you can't seem to leave - and he must know why. But he
still doesn't ever let on what his reasons are. He doesn't even speak
to you most of the time. Doesn't treat you like a human being, but
like a toy. And yet you stay. And yet he always knows when to come to
keep you there.
Sometimes, you suspect that he doesn't know why he keeps you
there. You're a good lay, you know, but there used to be more there
than that. You remember the way he loved you once, would have done
anything for you. And now there's nothing but wondering and hate.
Most of all though, you hate that he won't be coming bacnighnight.
He might not come back tomorrow, either, or the next night. He might
come back sometime, or he might not. You never know. You're never
certain who he's with when he's not with you, only that you agreed to
be open. You don't ask, because part of you is afraid of the answer.
You hate yourself for always letting him come back in.
He's at the door and you meet his eyes in the mirror. "Be ready
for the press conference," is all he says. You nod, then speak, your
tongue running away with you, your brain screaming at you to stop,
now, please.
"Wait?"
"What is it?" His tone is of an extremely busy, important adult
being waylaid by a needy, curious child they feel is faw below them.
Your voice wavers - you hate it when he speaks to you that way, as if
you were stupid, or slow.
"Do you still love me?" You force yourself to watch him, but
there's no reaction in his face. He's still as stone. Still like he
has no opinion.
Still extreme as he says in that tone of annoyance, "Of course,
Mandy." And then he's gone.
***
More author's notes: So I like Mandy. So sue me.
No, not really.
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Extremity