Information: Isn't there something fascinating about emo kids? Nah? Well, most of you probably don't even know that emo derived from punk. Who does know? It's not even important to the story! Shit it. I don't know where my characters personality ends and where my own starts. Maybe there is no line?! The title is NOT supposed to be ”No Love Story” kthnxbye XD I might be cliché, but c'mon, THAT cliché? Yes, I'm aware of the changes in the tense, they're intentional also. I don't know what I'm ranting about. Let's get on with this thing.

Realism. Need I say more? I'm a big fan of naturalism and romanticism.

No Love's Story

I'm just a subculture whore who likes everything that has had to do with punk sometime in history. I'd do anything to be cool, though I'll probably never admit to it. I like how the girls look at me and want me. I like to feel superior because I'm aware of my looks. Yeah, I'm just a self-centered bitch of an emo kid, who knows he's not unique in it, but does it anyway, who wants to cut his wrists so badly but never manages to gather the courage. I'm afraid of pain. Any kind of pain.

He was like a broken record in a player, repeating the last part of the song over and over. Like an unfinished book that you read again and again to predict the ending and yet it tells you nothing. Yeah, he got stuck in your head. You simply couldn't understand him even though he let you think you could. Above all that, he was cute.

It was a slow process. He was a ghost in school; the one you see everywhere but never speak to. There is something about him that draws attention, but at the same time you don't go speak to watch him from a distance, follow him with your eyes as he picks his books out of the locker, as he walks the corridors, as he sometimes eats...wait now, the ghost never eats lunch. The ghost is never seen at the cafeteria.

The teachers never call his name. In fact, no one ever calls out to him. But you watch him, you follow him with your eyes. Perhaps you can't muster up the courage, or maybe you feel that there is nothing to say. Whatever it is, the ghost is never spoken to.

The creepiest thing of all is: I sometimes felt him watching me.

Okay, okay, enough of this bullshit. Let's get to the story already. The story starts...well it starts in the school but that's not where the action starts, see? I always fast-forward Die Hard to where the action starts.

I hate that movie.

Thing is, there was a party. There always is a party, isn't there?

Place: Party at unknown girl's place. Probably a friend of friend of friend of my friend's cousin's godmother. I don't really care.

Music: Techno-shit with bass high enough to ease the neighbour's efforts in bed.

Mood: Drunk, happy, half-dead.

Subject: This is a competition and I have to make out with as many people as possible to win.

It's all going well, I'm on top with fifteen people on my list. My eyes are half-closed and a stupid grin is playing on my lips as I scratch my ruined hairdo absently and stumble across someone on the floor. I touch her back gently and mumble a sorry as she vomits.I wrinkle my nose; it's a good party.

Problem is, I'm almost peeing my expensive fake-ripped skin-tight stone-washed black toilet is out of the question. There isn't just one couple doing the roller-coaster in there. If I want to go downstairs, I have to face the vomit-girl again. I resort to a bedroom window. The room is light pink and purple with fairies on the curtains. Excruciatingly cute. I take a furry pink tiara from the bed and put it on my head as I wobble my way to the window and pull it up. A cold winter breeze hits against me and sends my hair flying like in a music video from the 80s. My black and white striped shirt is too tight to move though.

Now, take the pretty thing out, there you go. Twinkle, twinkle, little star...and the window falls down.

Next thing you know, the vomit-girl is giving you CPR. Mouth-to-mouth. Vomit-to-mouth. Vomit-to-beer. Green-to-blue. Cold makes my lips blue. Isn't that cute? Oh, and cutely enough, that's also our eye-colors! Isn't that cute? (Notice that I'm being sarcastic to my brother here. He's gay. For real.)

My hand unconsciously grabs a pink starry wand from the bed and points it in vomit-girls face. Our eyes are big as plates as we stare at each other and her stench drives me crazy. I've never felt more eager to get out of a situation like this before.

See? There is a problem with today's youth nowadays. The problem is often referred to them having an abnormally big sexual appetite. In my opinion, the problem is that people see it as a problem though. Or rather, in olden times, youngsters fucked and no one said anything about it. But the problem I was facing in that situation had absolutely nothing to do with this subject. My problem with my situation was...I forgot.

To get back to the story, I'm lying under vomit-girl with an aching penis that she's embracing with her thighs gently, her face a mere inch from mine and the muscles in my face tensing in an ugly manner. Now, God might close a window on your dick, but he also makes vomit-girls fall asleep.

I push her off me with difficulty, my arms feel weak. After sitting up and looking at her in a daze, I get up and stumble out of the room and down the stairs, my legs feel wobbly and are not doing what I want at all. They decide to sit down on a random ragged, red couch and my arms gladly accept a horny youth who straddles me and vacuums my lips with his. Interesting experience. No, it isn't my first time kissing a guy. (I'm in a kissing competition, what do you think?!) But it's definitely the hottest. The way he tilts his head to the side and mushes my hair with his sweaty palms, the way the tip of his pinky fingers slightly touch my neck and he steadily grinds himself against me...let's not go down there, let's just say, I melt and run down that couch.

His unruly light brown hair hangs into my face and I don't really know what to do, and before I can bring up some of my ultra-kissing skills he's broken the kiss and we both pant into each other's faces. He looks bewildered, staring emptily at me with his black-rimmed hazel and green eyes, not knowing what to do next.

You can't blame me for using the opportunity here.

I grab his face and press his swollen, dark lips back on mine, forcing my tongue into his mouth and feeling him respond. He sinks into me, his breathing getting heavier and...do I have to go into the details? I was getting so horny that I can't even remember much of what happened next, just that my hand traveled under his shirt and scratched his back as he squirmed against me and kissed back more intensely, occasionally grabbing my lips with his teeth before licking them soothingly and proceeding to kiss. The soft and warm feeling of his tongue lingers on the skin of the back of my ear as he eagerly licks it, his breath sending shivers down my spine.

At least my lips weren't blue anymore. Or so I thought. Next thing I remember is standing outside in the cold with my scarf choking me, a cigarette between my freezing fingers and his fingers entangled with my other hand.

“Shit!” he swore, his body quaking as he walked with fast and short steps, dragging me along. “Hurry! It's so fucking cold. I think I'm gonna die. I hope your bed is warm.” His voice quivered.

Well...that's quite much how it all started. And that night, I had a ghost in my bed, stuck in my head, repeating himself over and over again; like a broken record, like an unfinished book.

The clothes came off with the speed of lightning. It was painful to feel the wet jean's legs under my bare feet, and the clothes themselves weren't doing much good besides spreading the scent of cold and cigarette in the air about us. It felt like my nose was shrinking and I saw the gentle hue of blood on his tender cheeks. He had the kind of thin cheeks that you can pull and pull until he looks like Joker from Batman and tries to composedly say “ouch” without much success and then grabs for your hands but you wrestle him down with only your elbows and he gives up because your knee is just between his legs on the bed. He's horny; frozen and horny. And I want to warm myself and him under the blanket first before we do anything. For the second round I plan to inaugurate the new big and cozy, purple bathroom rug mom bought two days ago.

Wait a second. This isn't the $5 bucks movie you rented from the porn department of your video store last week and thought you were oh so secretive when you hid it under your jacket instead of having it in a plastic bag like the rest of the Earth's population. No, this is me and him, shivering under the thin blanket and wiring our feet about each other's as our cold hands run over our goose bumpy skin and the hair on our bodies stands en garde. My teeth were chattering and I was hungry but too lazy to do anything about it.

It felt like I was becoming warm, yet I couldn't stop moving. He whined under his breath for every movement. We moved around non-stop until we found a comfortable position to lie in, me with my face buried in his neck and him with his leg over my waist and his fingers playing with my hair. It was warm now. I softly pushed my finger pads against his ribs and kissed his nipple, in trance by the rough skin over the contour of his ribs. The light of the forgotten night lamp cast a peculiarly gentle yellow shade on it. I watched it with one eye and closed the one that was pressed against his chest.

He smelled of winter and green apples. White apples, I thought. I forgot the bathroom carpet and his dick and fell asleep.

It must've been early morning when I woke up. It was still dark outside but I heard the crows singing their morning song. He was curled up against me and his cold hands and feet sent shivers throughout my body. A groan escaped my throat and I tried to open my eyes but they hurt; I'd forgotten to take out my contacts. I pulled out my victimized arm from under his body and rose on my elbow, yawning before I got up and climbed over him to the floor. My room wasn't warm enough and the nightstand lamp was still on, spreading a light invisible in the dawn's strong white carpet. I switched it off, stumbled to the bathroom and got out the lens kit from behind the mirror; where it shouldn't be because of the flourishing bacteria culture in the bathroom. For some reason, no matter how drunk, tired or lazy one is, it's always possible to take out contacts.

I stared at my bloodshot eyes in the mirror and thought to myself that I look like the dude from Hellraiser. Cool. I turned on the warm water and held my hands under it, my body relaxing along with my hands and my toes playing with each other in satisfaction. The water splashed and made a big stain on my skull adorned pink shorts. I took them off and threw them on the purple bathroom carpet. Too sleepy to care. Too horny to care. All that my testosterone-ridden body was thinking about was to snuggle up to his body and grind against him until he woke up and raped me, but my consciousness had forgotten that he was sleeping in my bed, so my body got it's will through. Surprisingly enough, the boy didn't move an eyelid. I was bored!

I sat up and let my toes play xylophone on his ribs. He twitched and wrinkled his nose before turning around, curling up and pushing his back towards me. I felt like waking him up by shoving my face into his and screaming “BOO!”, but I didn't have a clear history of his family's heart conditions, unfortunately. He seemed to be the easy-to-scare type. He had a nervous and insecure way about him; twitchy fingers and shaky voice, rapid eye movements, huggable despite his bony frame that dug graves in my flesh.

I wrapped my hand about his neck and buried my face in it, kissed it and breathed at it, stealing his warmth and smell. It seemed to tickle him. He moved without waking up and laid on his back. I straddled him, continuing my kittenish game with his body and enjoying his occasional movements. It was over too fast; he woke up, his hazel-green orbs blinking a few times and staring widely at me before he rubbed them and whined. I kissed the back of his ear tenderly. His hair was oily but weightless against the pillow. It had a certain quality to it, like doll-hair; lifeless and lustreless, yet too soft and crisp. There was a trail of it on my beloved grey pillow.

“G'mor...” he grunted and turned around under me, mincing my penis with his bony hips. I jumped out of his way and let him fall off the bed, predicting that it would make him clear in the head.

It made him fall asleep again.

I moaned and crawled to the edge of the bed to look down at his curled up figure; he had his feet under the bed. I feared that the monster under the bed would eat him, so to save his life, I shook him and woke him up before grabbing his muscleless arms and dragging him up to his feet.

“Good morning to you too!” I beamed at him. He smiled back, still drunk.

“Was I...bed?” He started collecting his clothes off the floor.

“What?” My eyebrows danced over my brow.

“Was I good in bed?” He looked at me where he was bent over a pair of Wire-jeans, trying to put them on. He sure had the gleam in his eye and a charming smile.

“Oh, yes, very good. Very, very good,” I assured him, pulling out a tiger dotted t-shirt out of my drawer and...realizing I was wearing absolutely nothing. What the heck, we were both guys. I completed the outfit with a pair of black shorts. Thing is, I hadn't lied to him. He WAS good in bed! Except that it was his sleeping skills.

I have to confess something. When I'd first seen him, I had thought of having sex with him. Not having sex in that sense, but rather how pretty his face would be when he sucked me off in the school's bathroom stalls. When we made out, I was just surprised to discover it was him, yet I didn't actually believe it. But when I saw him that morning standing there drunk with an awful hangover, his eyeliner smudged all over his pale face, his hair mushed and his blood pressure on zero, something in me changed. He wasn't just a ghost anymore or the pretty face in front of my dick. He was a ghostly thin figure in my room, lighted by the dawning sun and lovely to kiss. His apple scent intoxicated me. I wasn't in love with him or anything, I wasn't even close. I didn't feel much for him at all, but yet I wanted him more than anything. And there was something I knew about him. Perhaps I was the only one who knew it too.

I knew his secret.