“Just call me Wes—and I know. It’s cool. Drive safe and have a nice night.”
“Eighty bucks! That’s more than I’ve made all week.” She turns away, then pauses and looks back at me. “Hey, um. Can I tell people I met you?”
I laugh. “Yeah, that’s the point of the selfie, right? Just don’t tell them where to find me.” I realize the blunder in my plan, then—she has my actual, personal phone number. She recognizes this at the same moment, judging by the sudden widening of her eyes, and the surreptitious glance at her phone, still in her hand. “Yeah, um, could you…delete that call? Please?”
She grins at me. “Awww. I was gonna text you obsessively until you have to change your number.”
“I wish that was funnier than it actually is, but some people would.”
She goes into her calls and deletes it. “Party pooper.”
“I know, right? Privacy. Such a bizarre concept!”
She waves at me and walks away, only turning to look back at me once, as I head back into the room.
Jo is still sound asleep…probably a good thing.
I’ve never understood the signing boobs thing, personally. Even a Sharpie will wash off, eventually. And, sure, you may like me or have a crush on me, but….do you really want me just randomly groping you while I write my name on you? Really? It’s not like I’m inviting you back to my hotel for lecherous debauchery. I just don’t get it. A hat, a shirt, a hoodie—I’ve signed phones and phone cases, glasses cases, backpacks, money, receipts, envelopes, anything and everything. After the first time a woman—a beautiful and remarkably well-endowed one—whipped her breast out in public, handed me a marker, and asked me to sign her, I understood how bizarre and awkward it is. For one thing, skin doesn’t sign very well. At all. I had just done my first and only global tour, I was eighteen, and she was gorgeous…so yeah, I signed her. But I’ve had the sense, after that, to never repeat it. It’s just inviting trouble, if nothing else. But yet still, I get that request all the time. And it’s weird every time.
I guess in this moment, I’m just glad I don’t have to explain it to Jo.
Thinking about boobs and Jolene in the same breath leads me to thinking about last night.
That’s something I’ll never forget. She’s intensely sensitive, responsive to every least touch. Eager, and bold—I wasn’t expecting that.
She really is beautiful. The more time I spend with her, the less I see the evidence of illness and the more I see just her. The beauty of her soul shines out through her eyes, through her very pores. I get why she’s self-conscious, but I hope as we spend more time together, she’ll learn to see herself how I see her—remarkably beautiful.
I have to clamp down on the line of thinking, though, because the truth is, I do want her. I want more of her. Lust burns in me for her.
There’s a war, though. Because today reminds me that she is sick. Should I be careful? She’d hate it, I think, if I was to try and slow things down or stop her because I’m worried about her. She wants to live, to enjoy her life and everything in it, while she can. And that means enjoying her body, something she’s rarely been able to do. And I can provide that. So I will.
Gladly.
I also have to fight to hold back, to go slow, to give her time to process and understand how she feels, what she wants. I have to allow her the space to develop free agency over her body and her sexuality. And it has to be in her time, whether that’s fast or slow; I can’t rush her, no matter what I want, and I also can’t hold her back.
It’s a privilege to be the one here with her, to do these incredible, pleasurable things with such a remarkable person.
I watch her sleep while I eat. Wonder at my fortune: to know such a talented, remarkable, beautiful, tough person, a woman who’s been through hell her whole life, who can still laugh and smile and tell jokes and see beauty in the world and explore herself and take chances and take risks and still seek to find herself, despite being face-to-face with her own mortality.
Today was hard.
Helplessness is brutally difficult.
The next two days are more of the same. I extend our stay in the room day by day, and we watch TV constantly: daytime talk shows, soap operas, reruns of old shows and movies. She rests. Sleeps fitfully an hour or two here and there, sometimes a little more. She’s utterly stoic. Uncomplaining.
She barely eats. Too nauseated, she says, and if she did eat, she’d just bring it back up. Trust her, she says. She’s an old pro at this game.
At one point I’m certain she’s running a fever, but she waves off my concern—
“I’ll let you know if there’s something out of the ordinary,” she tells me. “So far, this is all standard operating procedure. Nothing to worry about…other than, you know…the fact that it means I’m dying.” She wiggles a few fingers at me, a weak attempt at a dismissive wave. “Not right now, so don’t panic. You’ll know when.” A frown. “I think.”
I don’t quite laugh—a part of me recognizes the observable fact of the humor, that it is, in a dark, cynical, morbid way, actually pretty funny. I sniff, roll my eyes, shake my head. I can’t manage a real laugh or a real smile for this, though. It’s too hard.
Morning of the third day in the hotel, she’s able to sit up on her own again, and looks a bit less pale, wan, and drawn.
“Okay, I’m ready to eat something,” she says. “What do we got?”
This is an exit ramp chain hotel, and not even a suite. No mini-fridge, much less a kitchenette. “Um, options are limited. I have day-old pizza leftovers that have been sitting out. Some beef sticks. Some sparkling water cans. Some protein bars.”
She frowns. “What have you been eating while I’ve been sick, Wes?”
I smile at her. “Don’t worry about me. I think there’s a sit-down place nearby. It’s just past open, so it should be pretty empty. With a hat, hood, and sunglasses, I should be okay.”
“Won’t the celebrity disguise just attract more attention?”
I grin. “To a degree, yes. But it makes it harder to say for sure that it’s really, actually me, instead of someone who maybe just looks like me. Plus, I’ve got this scruff going on, which works in my favor.”
I haven’t shaved in almost a week, which translates to near-beard scruff, whereas I’m usually clean-shaven for public appearances.
She reaches out and touches my jawline. “I like it.” She examines me, searching my face. “You haven’t eaten almost at all, have you?”
I see no point in lying to her. “The pizza, day before yesterday. Some beef sticks. But I’m good, I swear I am.”
She doesn’t look happy. “Wes, we talked about this. I need you to take care of yourself. Starving yourself just because I can’t eat makes no sense, and doesn’t help me or you.”
I cup her cheeks in my hands, as gently as I can. “I know my body and my limitations, Jo. I promise you, I won’t put myself at risk. I’m not starving myself. The last thing you need to worry about is me. Okay?”
She shakes her head, but it’s with a small smile. “But what if I want to worry about you?”