Page 36 of Your Only Fan
Granted, he’s not Rivera. But he’s a nice guy.
In fact, if he didn’t have his mask on all the time, I might even consider him a friend, but I can’t. Although, maybe it’s that exact mask that makes our time together so special.
I don’t know, and I probably won’t ever find out the answer to that.
But he’s good company and a good lay, and since my fans want more of him and us together, I guess he’ll be a constant in my life for a little while longer.
I return to my paper and get back to work trying to link the dots between the two shows and making a real effort to get X out of my mind.
And I’m successful, for the most part. It helps that I put my phone on silent so I’m distraction free.
I break again around two. My coffee pot is empty and my eyes are aching for some rest, but I’m not finished yet. Close, but not there yet.
I pull out the big guns and get an espresso pouring, and with that done, I walk back to my laptop and check my Facebook account.
It’s the only private account I have across social media and very few people know my nickname on there, and that’s exactly how I like it.
I check updates from my friends and family and even come across Freddy and Harry’s post about their official moving in.
They look adorable together. They complement each other so perfectly. Even their height difference makes them fit into each other’s arms like a puzzle.
I’m not jealous. I’m not jealous at all.
Seeing how happy they are, how much love they exude, has me searching for the name I’ve searched so much for so long that it’s always at the top of my suggested search results.
Isaac Rivera.
I may not be his friend, but the man has quite a lot of his profile open since he’s a director and an artist himself.
I open his profile picture and gaze at his beautiful eyes through the glasses. I get lost in them as I so often do. I know it’s pathetic, but it’s like my heart fills up with emotion and passion just having those irises look back at me.
The next picture on his profile is my favorite.
It’s from one of his shows and quite an old picture, but he’s naked, and his face and body painted red. He’s looking at the side of the camera, and he’s making a roaring expression. War-paint is the name of the production, and every time I go through the pictures, I wish I could watch him in it. But I don’t think he does much acting anymore.
The more photos I go through, the more it hurts. It hurts that I can’t have him, and it hurts that he won’t notice me.
But what hurts the most is that I’m such a loser, harboring feelings for a man I can’t, won’t ever have.
I need to move on with my life. I need to get over my crush.
Maybe it’s time I transferred to another college. Maybe I need to move somewhere else. New Harlow is a great place, but perhaps I could find another pocket in this country to live my life.
L.A. maybe? Or Provincetown? Or maybe even Mayberry Holm.
Whatever it is, I need to get a grip on my life. I’m a porn star, for creep’s sake. I sleep with a revolving door of men. How can I still be obsessed with my teacher?
The thought of moving circles around my head as I finish my paper and when I prep myself for bed. Despite all the coffees, I feel exhausted, and the moment I hit my mattress, I know that it won’t be long before I fall asleep.
But even in my sleep, the thought of moving and putting a distance between Rivera and me is prevalent. It haunts me. My heart is resisting the notion.
But sometimes, I’ve got to act with my head.
