You Make Me Feel Like A Whore
by Cody

I take your word like it was gospel.
I'm so eager to please.
Yhea, I like it when you talk to me.


Itís fucking ridiculous, because heís a goddamn boy and youíre a man, and it should be him hanging on your every word, not the other way around. You try and fail to be anything but fascinated when he waxes philosophical, anything but penitent when he reproves you, anything but contented when you make him laugh.

But at least you recognize how ridiculous it is, which is something, right? At least youíre not deluding yourself; you can admit that youíre wrapped around his little finger. A spineless, awed lapdog.

And you realize that heís not really all that you think he is. Itís just some deficiency of your vision that sees him as infallible. You know that he is self-centered, arrogant, imperfect. You know that he bitches until he gets his way, revels in his wealth and attributes, gossips and lies and isnít above throwing his name around. But all this you know in some muted corner of your mind, and it doesnít change your view. You find him only more faultless for his faults, more captivating for his tedium.

"Hey, where the fuck is my toothbrush?" There he is: freshly-woken and pissy in a faded, oversized t-shirt that almost touches the hem of his boxers, eyes squinted in sleepiness and glare.

"How the fuck should we know?" Chris chucks an M&M at him. It hits his forehead and his face screws into a pout before the little green candy even reaches the floor. He looks at you, and your eyebrows shoot up in innocence. You feel absurdly guilty, like itís your fault that Justin always loses shit and Chris is a jackass. Or maybe like you should keep track of Justinís things and make sure Chris doesnít throw shit at him. Finally, he sighs and storms off towards his bunk to look for a spare toothbrush. You stay frozen for a while, wondering if heís going to be in a good mood once heís more awake, or if heís going to be difficult all day. Toss of the coin, really.

You go on eating your bagel, and by the time youíre done heís back, dressed for the day and singing "Come on, Eileen" under his breath. He pours himself a bowl of cereal and slides in next to you at the booth. Chris leaves to get dressed and Justin calls him an asshole and throws a Cheerio after him. It hits him on the back of the neck, but Chris just wipes it off and keeps walking. When the bus reaches the venue, theyíll run off together to race around on their motorcycles or gang up to annoy people. Thatís how things go with them.

"Look at that." He points with his spoon to the bag of M&Ms Chris left behind, candies spilling out onto the tabletop. "What a pig." He nudges the bag until it falls onto the booth seat, sending chocolates pattering across the floor. "Heíll have fun picking that up." He grins conspiratorially at you, and you grin back, of course. He shovels a heaping spoonful of cereal into his mouth and says, "We should throw him on the Dork Bus," Which is the clever name Chris made up for Lance and Joeyís bus, this bus being the Cool Bus. "Itíd be more fun with just us."

And you know heís just messing around, but you say, "Yhea, it would," and duck your head so he canít see how pleased you are by his words. Because itís just fucking ridiculous.


It feels so good inside your shadow (It's the place I need to be).
Yhea, you know I need to climb you like a tree.
There is this place inside where all the good things die,
Sometimes I feel like a whore.


The piercing screams, masses of bodies squirming in almost vicious desperation for just one glance, one touch, one second of your attention. You know their want, because you want, too. So you try to smile for and wave to and look at and sign your name for as many of them as you can. They all look the same to you, despite race or age or attractiveness, they all look like fans. You donít really see them, and they donít really see you. Sometimes you meet fans in small numbers, get a chance to talk to them a little, and itís then that you try to convey with your eyes that you can relate to their want, that you feel it, too. Sometimes you think they get your message; sometimes you know they donít.

There are times with fans, or during interviews, or with the guys, or when youíre alone, that you find the words on the tip of your tongue: "Iím a fan, too". Always, they come to you when youíre with him.

Running towards the buses now, a security guardís hand on your back guiding you a step faster than your stride so you stumble a little as you go. Then youíre safely aboard the bus, and you wander into the lounge to find him sitting in the middle of the sofa, legs spread wide and arms resting along the back. He doesnít move to make room; he never does that for people heís comfortable with; he just lets them squash in where they can, so you do.

Your thighs are touching, and he bumps yours amiably. "Crazy bitches." He doesnít like the fans. He loves for them to love him, but he loves to scorn them, too. You think he must be like that because he canít relate to them as you can. He doesnít know what it is to want. "They waited out there all night just to see me for two minutes," he laughs, and you do, too. But your laughter is forced, because you donít really blame them. Waiting for him isnít so implausible to you. You donít think anything of him saying "me" instead of "us", either. Joey and Chris get mad when he does that, but you donít. Because itís true: the world loves him best and thatís okay. Thatís how it should be; thatís how you like it.

"Canít believe they waited outside in this weather," you say, because itís damn near sweltering. Lance said that three people passed out and had to be taken away in an ambulance.

"I know, right?" He looks straight at you, eyes glinting. He strips off his shirt slowly, tosses it at you, presses one hand against his abdomen and gives you a deliberate smirk. You know and he knows and he says, "Hot, huh?"

This is where you make some cutting remark, some condescending joke. This is where you wipe that look off his face and make him feel stupid for thinking you want him. This is where you do anything but look away and prove without a doubt that not only do you want him but that you know heís fucking with you and itís still working. Your eyes skip towards the television, which isnít even on, and heís laughing softly. He touches your shoulder so you look at him, then scoots lower, spreads his legs wider, an obvious invitation to admire him. He has the remote, and he turns on the TV and starts surfing through the channels, his lips curved into a tiny, knowing smile. You give in and study him, because why even pretend? You wish you could hate him, or at least not feel grateful.


I hate the way I am around you (I'm so nervous and weird)
Sometimes I feel like I'm breathing underwater.
You treat me like I am on fire, like I'm something to eat.
You make me hate what I see when I see me.


When he comes to you, you don't know what it means. Maybe it means nothing; you're aware of that. All there is for you to do is lose yourself in him and try not to be too hopeful or thankful or too busy trying to memorize him to enjoy it.

You never know when it's coming, when he's coming. Are these encounters arbitrary or do they follow some elusive pattern? You wish you knew if there is something you do that prompts his visits, so you could do it often, always.

Usually it happens late at night: he shows up smiling, and your blood boils through your veins, your pulse stutters helplessly. But it can happen anytime. Not when you least expect it, because you never expect and you always expect it.

Youíre staying at Britneyís house in Kentwood because you have a concert in New Orleans tomorrow and her mother insisted. Britneyís away on tour but her parents and her little sister are home. Joey and Lance opted for a hotel room on Bourbon Street, which surprised no one. Chris stayed here because he has a soft spot for Jamie Lynn. Heís got lots of little sisters and he misses them. You donít talk to Jamie Lynn much because sheís nothing like Heather and too much like Britney for your taste. Sheís got huge crushes on you and Justin, which is cute and all, except that sheís forever pulling on your arms to come see this toy or come play this game until you kind of want to tell her to get lost.

Britneyís family is freakishly sitcom-wholesome. They put their napkins in their laps when they eat and hold hands when they pray. Jamie Lynn goes to bed at exactly 9 pm without having to be told. The parents turn in at 10:30. You all go into the den to watch TV, but Chris finds a Baywatch marathon and you have a copy of Fierce Invalids Home From Hot Climates waiting for you in your designated guest room, so you head upstairs.

Fourteen minutes after youíve found a comfortable spot amid too many throw pillows, the paperback is plucked from your grasp and tossed to the floor, and thereís a hand on your mouth and a mouth on your neck. 'God, in her fucking house.' you think, and want to laugh, because itís so wrong and that just makes it better. Heís tasting your nipples and youíre tugging at his shirt and nothing matters. You know that when you wake up in the morning heíll probably be gone and that this is disrespectful to Britney and her family and even to yourself but Who cares? Not any piece of you; every inch is too busy trying to press against and get inside Justin and Justinís hands and Justinís mouth. You want to get within him; you crush closer but itís not enough; even skin is a barrier that must be broken. This is raw and you canít ever be quiet like this, and heís trying to muffle you with his hands and lips and heís laughing into your moans, and you both sound wild and languid.

You reach above your head and drag a pillow over your face because you know youíre being loud and now heís too far gone to hush you. The end comes rolling over you, a tidal wave of light and heat and ecstasy, and you buck into it, scratching a hand down the side of his neck. He curses and shudders and goes limp atop you, panting heavily in your ear. You shift together, settling with you pulled up alongside him, your lips finding a spot on his throat where his heartbeat throbs. You feel the tiny jump of his pulse: lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub.

You wake up when he pulls away from you, blinking to adjust to the brightness of morning. ďHey,Ē he says, pulling on his pants. You just blink at him. ďYou smell those biscuits and bacon?Ē He reaches down and spanks you, ďCome on, get up. Letís eat while itís hot.Ē

You want to be casual, show him that you donít care either. You want to smile at him and roll out of bed and throw on your clothes and go downstairs like itís nothing. But, as usual, your mind goes blank and your mouth goes dry. He puts a hand to your cheek now, and the concern in his eyes makes you feel like crying, which is just so ludicrous you can hardly stand it. ďYou okay?Ē he says, and you bite your lip and nod, holding back fucking tears, for godís sake. His hand pulls away a little and comes back for a light, playful slap. He smiles, and you smile back, because you always smile back.

And then youíre alone, and you look at the sheets and see theyíre stained, and wonder what Mrs. Spears is going to think when she sees that. You go to the bathroom to brush your teeth, and you give the mirror an innocent face, and then a shocked one, pretending youíre Mrs. Spears finding the soiled sheets. 'Sheís gonna think I was jacking off.' And you know itís funny, but you donít laugh.


Yhea, I dream of the day when I learn how to make you pay.
Someday I'll teach you to beg;
Someday, someday.
Yes, I live for the day when I can hear you say:
You make me feel like a whore.


Idle thoughts, daydreams, wishes. Different versions of a coveted reality. A world in which Justin is the hungry one. Youíre together; in love, maybe. Yes, in love. But Justin is still the one asking, wanting, needing. Heís subject to your whims, and you go to him when you want him and leave him when you donít.

And then a part of you whispers that youíd never not want him.

Well, then, if you ever felt like leaving, if one of you was to leave, it would be you. Youíd have him eager in the palm of your hand. And youíd hold him, and taste him, and then leave him crying and alone.

But you hate it when he cries.

So, youíd keep him close. Still, his eyes would follow you everywhere, and whenever he dreamed, heíd dream of you. Heíd never stop telling you how much he loved you, heíd thank you just for letting him breath the same air as you, for condescending to exist near him. You laugh.

ďWhatís so funny?Ē

You thoughts derail at the question, you hadnít noticed him come into the dressing room. Youíre in front of a mirror spraying glitter into your hair, heís leaning against the back of the couch. You put down the can, shrugging. ďNothing. Just thinking.Ē

Heís coming up behind you now, and you watch your reflections as he slips his hands around your waist and pulls you back against him. ďAbout me?Ē The words fall sultry and mischievous on curve of neck and shoulder.

Cue sardonic riposte, time to pull away and put him in his place with a patronizing smile. Here is the perfect opportunity to begin the turning of the tables. Just look him in the eye and tell himÖ

You lean into the circle of his arms, feel them pull tighter, and your eyes close as his lips meet your skin. Someday, youíll have him where you want him. For now, ďOf course.Ē


Yes, I dream of the time when I can make you mine
(Maybe then I'll feel half alive, more alive, so alive).
There is this place inside where all the good things die.
You make me feel like a whore.


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