Page 35 of Your Only Fan
Ezra
Ijump from tab to tab of all the sources Professor Rivera has given me and those I’ve found myself and try to focus on the task at hand.
I promised Rivera my paper tomorrow, and I’ve barely made any progress.
It’s been a busy week, what with screwing Cummings and the other men on my list and keeping up with the content on my page.
But if there’s one thing I don’t want to do, that’s to let Rivera down. So I’ve got to finish it. Tonight. I’m not going to sleep until it’s done.
Which means a pot of coffee is already brewing and my living room lights are on full. I can’t risk being lulled to sleep.
“Okay. Green Wing. Green Wing. What other shows are similar?”
I go through my favorite sitcoms in my head and try to find something, anything, that has the same sort of character archetypes that are reminiscent to the Italian theater style.
“Let’s see.Inbetweeners… no.Friday Night Dinner?Nah. Not archetypal enough.Chewing Gum?Maybe,” I hum to myself, my pen dancing between my two fingers.
No. It needs to be something… classic. Something that is typically British, typical British humor, typical slapstick comedy.
I put the pen down and walk over to my bookcase. I scan the DVDs I’ve collected over the years. Some are used, some brand new, most won’t play in American DVD players since they’ve been shipped straight from the UK, but I never bought them to use. Just to fill up my space with one of the things I love. I’ve got my online subscriptions to watch them.
Gimme Gimme Gimme?Nah. Not enough characters.
The Office?I don’t know it nearly well enough.
And then my eyes land on the black box set holding the three seasons—or series as the Brits like to call them—of the best thing that ever happened to TV in the early naughts.
Black Books.
Yes.
Boozy, rambunctious, uninhibited, unashamed fun with caricatures of people and the ultimate situation comedy.
And the best part? I know it by heart.
I pull the box set from the bookshelf and set it up next to theGreen Wingbox set and get to work.
At about midnight, I get up to refill my coffee. It almost makes me sick drinking it—even smelling it—at this time of night, but I need it.
I fill up the cup and rub my eyes as I bring the rim to my lips when the images of him assault me.
CumJunkie. Cummings. The Anonymous Hookup. Whatever name he chooses to give me. I like calling him X. It’s somewhat less dirty. Although I don’t know why I care. It’s not like we’re dating. We’re just fucking. A lot.
We may only have been together four times, but by God, can this guy take it and make me horny for more.
There’s something about him. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but when I’m around him, I feel almost at ease.
Which is stupid because I can’t even look him in the eyes. For all I know, he’s an ugly motherfucker under that hood.
And yet, it doesn’t matter.
This guy… he treats me like a person. Not just a fuckboi. Not just a tool, and definitely not as a stepping stone.
I’ve been with my fair share of guys who want to be on camera and make a career out of what I do, and it’s an ugly affair, for sure.
But X, he’s kind.
He likes giving me massages and washing my body after a few rounds. And his cooking? Boy, is his cooking divine. Although he does love things on the spicy side, and I’m not exactly used to it.
