Cherry Lipstick
Come alive on the driver's side
So close I taste your breath
Your lips go dry, but they're sweet inside
Wine must go right to your head
It'd be easy if you get mad
But three fingers point back to you
We could stay here
Stay out all night
No one will know, us and the moonlight
Kiss me with your cherry lipstick
Never wash you off my face
Hit me, I can take your cheap shots
Leave you with the love we made
-Jimmy Eat World, "Night Drive"
This isn't the first time I've found him like this. In a drunken stupor, possibly high, wearing a wig of blonde curls that tumble down his back, a slinky black dress on, heels that make my ankles hurt to look at. It's been happening more and more often. His lips are red, mascara darkening his thick eyelashes, his jaw shaven completely clean.
He makes a beautiful woman.
Even if he can barely walk, a combination of the alcohol and the sky-high pumps.
He's dancing around like an idiot, and I know if he were sober he'd hate the fool he was making of himself. I make my way over to the dance floor of the club, moving to the beat, sidling up to him. I slip my arms around him from behind, and he pulls away at first, shoving me back.
"Who the fuck..." he trails off when he notices me, his scowl turning into a smile "oh, Andy, hi." He slips his arms around my neck, dancing with me. We must look ridiculous, he's already three inches taller than me, and the heels add an extra three. He's practically bent at the waist just to reach me.
"Having a good time?" I ask, slipping my hands to his waist. I know it won't do any good to scold him, not when he's in this state of mind. It's best to pull him away from the smoke and the darkness and the music by seducing him, luring him away with promises of other things. Mysterious things. Sensual things.
It's the only way to save him from himself.
"Better now that you're here, Andy," he says, leaning closer to me, running his tongue over his lower lip, smearing the red gloss that had been artfully applied earlier in the evening. I know what's coming next. I know that within the next hour he'll hate me.
It's better than being terrified of him going home with someone else. Someone who could hurt him. Someone who wouldn't be discreet. Someone who would go off and tell the media that their favorite Baby Penguin was a cross dresser, an alcoholic, a drug addict. I'd rather him hate me, especially since by morning he'd have forgotten it all, too busy vomiting and complaining of a splitting migraine and another hangover from hell.
I walk us slowly towards a darker corner of the room, slipping my hands to his hips, swaying against him, keeping a seductive grin on my face the whole time, despite the frustration in my head. I'm so tired of seeing him like this. I want to make it better, but I don't know how. I have to take every night as it comes. I have to keep doing this, following him out, luring him away with me, seducing him into a compromising position, then pushing him away. It's the only way to prevent things from getting worse.
He's buying it. His hands are threading their way through my hair, and he's staring at my mouth. I know the kiss is coming. The kiss that always tastes of lipstick and alcohol. Tonight the lipstick is cherry flavored. The alcohol is wine. It's hard to not get caught up in it, not get caught up in him. His kisses are always heated. Passionate, fueled by desire and recklessness and narcotics. If I let go, he can drug me with the fever of it. I know from experience. There have been nights this ended with the two of us in a tangle of sheets and limbs, an even bigger mess when he wakes up in the morning next to me, freaking out because he let me touch him.
I can't ever see that look of disgust in his eyes again. It hurts too fucking much.
So I do this. I let him kiss me for a while; I let him fall for me again. Then I lure him away. "Want to go somewhere more private?" I murmur against his lips, my voice deceivingly erotic.
"Sounds perfect," he replies, his lips curling into a devilish grin. His lipstick is smeared now, and I can't bear to leave him like that. I cradle his face, rubbing my thumb along the edges of his lips, wiping off the excess color, smiling faintly.
"Let's go."
We make our way to my car, his fingers entwined with mine. He's really plastered tonight; he keeps bumping into me, giggling with every misstep. He eventually gives up on the shoes, carrying them in one hand, the other arm slipping around my shoulders. We make it to the car, and I open his door for him, but not before he pulls me against him for another deep, passionate kiss.
I'm never going to be able to taste cherries again without thinking of him.
I fire the car up, heading nowhere in particular, just away from the club, away from the life that calls to him when he's so far out of it like he is tonight. It won't be long now. We'll get somewhere dark. I'll park the car. He'll start kissing me. I'll push him away. He'll start hating me. He'll hit me a few times. He'll tell me to take him home. I've almost got it down to an art.
I drive to an overlook, a place we've been before. He smiles when I park the car, turning off the headlights, leaving the heater on. We won't be here long, there's no point in both of us freezing our asses off.
He leans over, kissing my cheek, and whispers in my ear, "So we're alone now, Andy..."
I wish, just once, that I could speak to him. Rationally. Tell him to stop this. Tell him I want to help him. Tell him I love him. But when he's like this he would just get angry. If I were to tell him when he's sober, he would freak out because he's so certain he's straight. So I have to keep up this charade; I have to keep playing this stupid fucking role.
"We are alone..." I repeat, allowing him to shift over, moving my seat back, rubbing his hands over my chest. I slip one arm around him, pulling him to me. If this isn't going to last, I should at least enjoy some of it.
The feel of his hands all over me is amazing. The way his body presses against mine in the dark. His lips, now void of any makeup, meshing with my own, his tongue begging entry into my mouth. The taste of cherry is still there, mixed with wine and a flavor that is uniquely his. His wig has fallen off by now, the straps of the dress having slipped over his shoulders. This is Kris. My Kris. For a split second I'm not saving him, I'm not acting. I'm just holding him. I'm kissing him. Savoring the feel and smell and taste of him.
But I have to pull myself out of that. I can't let my emotions run away with me. I have to face the stark reality of things. I have to stop this, unless I want him running from me in the morning. Better to face drunken hatred than sober disgust.
I pull away, my hands at his chest, gasping softly for breath. I can't look at him. It makes it too hard to keep my resolve. "Wait, we can't..."
He moans faintly, though it sounds more like a purr. His hands slip up to my neck, massaging gently, and he kisses me again. "Why not, Andy? We both want it..."
This is always the hardest part, because I have to lie. I have to tell him the exact opposite of what I'm really thinking. "No... I don't want you like this..."
His eyes narrow, the smile fading from his lips. "Well what the fuck are we doing here, then?"
"I changed my mind, I'm sorry..."
"Oh, that's fucking nice. Take me away, lead me on, then fucking turn into a prude. Really great of you, Andy. Fucking cock tease," he mutters, shoving away from me, punching me in the chest. "Take me back to the fucking club."
"No."
"No? Why the fuck not?"
I bite my lip, hating every last bit of this, but knowing its necessary. "Because your wig is messed up...your lipstick is gone. You have to go home and make yourself beautiful again."
"Then fucking take me home."
I sigh softly, shaking my head. Now I just have to get him to stay home. Which means more fighting. "Fine."
I drive him to his place, taking the roundabout way, hoping the excessive alcohol and the late hour will make him sleepy. By the time I finally pull up to his driveway, its after 1:30 in the morning. I follow him up the walk to his door, slipping an arm around his waist when his balance totters. He pushes at me, but I refuse to let him go, and he elbows me, grumbling. "Fucking stop touching me, asshole."
"Shut up, Kris, I'm making sure you get in okay."
"I don't fucking need your supervision, Chiodo, you can fucking leave now," he says as he pushes the door open. He left it unlocked, again. I take a quick glance around, making sure nothing is missing, and then follow him to his bedroom.
"Where the fuck is my makeup?" he mutters, glancing back at me. "And why the fuck are you still here? Get the hell out."
I'm not leaving until I'm positive we're the only ones here. And not until he's passed out in bed. He shoves me again, getting more frustrated by the minute. "I don't fucking want you here. You're a fucking tease and a bastard. Get out of my fucking house."
I force a glare, pushing him back. I hate to do this, I do, but it's the only way to get this night to end. If I leave now, he'll just go back out. He shakes his head, turning on his heel in a huff, reaching into his dresser drawer for a flask. I don't know what's in it, but he winces after taking a drink. "Dumb fucker, you've taken too damn many pucks to the head."
His voice is starting to slur, his movements even more clumsy. He tries to reapply his lipstick, but it's next to impossible, and soon the red gloss is lining his mouth. "Fuck," he grumbles, reaching for a tissue to wipe it off. "Stupid fucking lipstick."
It won't be long now, I can see the telltale signs. He's tripping over nothing when he walks; he's apparently forgotten I'm in the room. He's finished whatever was in the flask, and he's given up on fixing his makeup. Mascara is rubbed under his eyes; his dress is wrinkled and bunched.
He's a mess.
I hate to see him like this. I want to just pull him into my arms and shake some sense into him. But I have to just observe. Now that he's started ignoring me, he's talking to himself. He's not really making any sense, just mumbling quietly. He walks out of the room, going to get more from the bar. He takes a bottle out, vodka, I think, and takes a long drink. He slumps against the couch, not noticing me where I stand, leaning against the archway from the hallway to the living room.
After a few minutes the bottle drops to the floor. He's passed out cold, his breathing level, his body limp. I grab the vodka, dabbing up whatever spilled out. I sigh softly, raking a hand through my hair, looking at him. I grab a blanket and pull it over him, setting an empty garbage can next to the couch, knowing he'll need it in the morning.
I slip out the front door, making sure it's locked, and walk back to my car, tears in my eyes. Another night of trying to save him from himself. Just as pointless as the last, because I know it'll happen again. And in the morning he won't remember kissing me. He won't remember fighting with me either. He won't remember any of it. He'll never know that I'm trying to help him. I take a deep breath, turning the key in the ignition, the engine coming to life. As I pull away from his house, I wipe the tears from my eyes and run my tongue over my lip, which I've nearly bitten raw.
And I can still taste him. Just like cherries.
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