It’s a good day when Yoshiki can look at his old pictures without wanting to rip his own guts out.
God, he hates it. He hates looking at it, at that stupid little faggot playing at being a woman, playing at something it could never be, the shape of its face so utterly mannish, even under the layers of makeup and those thigh-highs, Jesus fucking Christ, how could he have been so utterly fucking delusional to think that he even so much as had a chance of looking like anything other than another delusional faggot.
I think I should’ve been a woman. He was so pathetic, so fucking pathetic, he took his weird obsession with, his fetish for dresses and high-heels, and based his whole life around it!
“I think I’m like you.”
Hide shrugged. “Genderfucked?”
Yoshiki took a drag of
her
his cigarette. “No, not exactly.”
They
He fixed his gaze away from Hide’s eyes.
“How ‘not exactly’?”
“It’s less “I don’t want to be a man” and more “I want to be like a woman”. I’m not a transvestite or anything, I just…”
“Just what?” Hide turned to look at Yoshiki.
“I’d rather be anything than this.”
Hide was better. He was still a faggot, with his long hair and his shitty makeup and that whole I’m not a man, I’m not a man, I’m a goddamn astral hermaphrodite shtick, but he knew it was just a shtick, just a piece of performance art that he gave up when he got older, got a real job, and it was so, so utterly ridiculous. No one could take it seriously, the idea that he was a man and a woman and, what did he call it?
Ah, “everything and nothing at the same time.”
Yoshiki didn’t have that excuse. His fetish, his stupid, stupid fetish that younger him insisted on plastering everywhere was so damn faggoty , so blatantly-
He doesn’t let himself finish that thought. Well, it’s not like I have a problem with that kind of shit, I was just wrong. So fucking wrong, and now I can’t even look at myself in the mirror without puking. Fuck, I need to get laid. Or drink. Or something.
Yoshiki grabs his phone off of the nightstand, turning it over in his hand. Woman or man, woman or man? He pictured the image of a woman bending over him (busty, blonde, young, feminine and pretty with long eyelashes and red lipstick and a bright smile and heavy purple eyeshadow-)
He digs his fingernails into his palm. Not that. Fuck that.
Out of nowhere, his phone buzzes. Fuck! Yoshiki drops it on the floor. Bending over, he squints at the glowing screen.
Hide.
He feels like throwing up. Why the hell is he calling me now, after four fucking years? God, I hate that bitch. As if in contrast to his thoughts, a series of images come into his head unbidden- his ex bending over him, those long sinful legs wrapped up in leather boots with heels sharp enough to kill a man, long, soft hair framing his high cheekbones and bright eyes lined with colorful makeup, soft lips on his collarbone and sharp nails on his back as Hide fucked him against the wall pretty girl pretty girl you’re such a pretty girl
We weren’t even that compatible! We fought all the fucking time! Why does it hurt so much so much so much
and he wants to vomit out his guts, take them out and stab them on the wall
and Hide’s running his fingers through his hair with a smile and Yoshiki’s doing the same to
himherthem
, pink on
blonde
blond
and he’s stumbling his way into the kitchen at 3 am and opening the cabinet with shaking hands and he catches the sight of his face in the refrigerator door
and he’s sitting in front of the mirror of his old apartment, eyeshadow and blush and lipstick trying to cover up the planes of his face and the length of his eyelashes and the shape of his cheeks
and he’s sitting at the counter and his throat is burning as he grabs at his pant legs, searching for something and Hide’s voice is ringing in his ears pretty girl pretty girl pretty girl pretty girl over and over again-
In the last moment of clarity Yoshiki has for the rest of the night, he takes out his phone, his fingers sliding over the screen about three times before he manages to navigate to his texts. pretty girl pretty girl pretty girl rings in his head as he types out a hurried angry text to Hide.
He drops the phone before he can think twice about what he just sent, pretty girl pretty girl such a pretty girl we’re both pretty girls here (but you’re the prettiest) in a loop as he pours himself another glass.
On the floor, the phone buzzes once more. Yoshiki glances at it. Hide, Hide, fuck him, fuck him! He kicks it under the couch.
The phone doesn’t ring again for the rest of the night.