Lustful Memoirs
By: Gina - gina@basic-nstynct.com
Chapter Forty One"To my house." He replied, his tone indicating to me that he was now unsure of our destination. He paused, not another word dripped from his mouth as he put the Benz in park and turned toward me. Even though darkness surrounded us, filling the interior of the truck, I could see the concern and uncertainty mask his features.
"Is that okay?" The question was asked, timidly. "We could go somewhere else, but I have ice cream in the freezer. And I don’t know where else we could get ice cream tonight." If we had been on a first date and he was a normal guy riding me around in his daddy’s mid-life crisis truck after a trip to the go-kart track, his request could have been seen as a plea to get me in his bed while his parents were away. Which, if I was a normal girl, I would have declined with a knee firmly placed in a very sensitive area, a rejection he would not soon forget. But, he wasn’t a normal guy and I was far from a normal girl, and we weren’t in his daddy’s truck and we weren’t on our way back to his parent’s house. This was Justin, and I the girl hired to fulfill his every need. So the thought that he was taking me back to his house to seduce me was ludicrous, he wouldn’t have needed to go through the trouble. We could have gone back to Johnny’s, sequestered ourselves in his room and fucked our brains out. But, I knew that wasn’t what he wanted. I knew him better then that. He promised me ice cream, and he wanted to provide it. And his desire to go back to Johnny’s was as high as my own. So, he thought of the next best thing, his house. I looked at him, his bottom lip subconsciously pulled between his teeth as he patiently awaited my answer, the hope that he hadn’t offended me written legibly all over his face.
"Of course it’s okay," I replied, smiling. "I was just wondering. Before these little lights popped up on the side of the road, it seemed to me that you were taking me to some remote place in the forest where you could just have your way with me." My tone was flirting, playful, comfortable. He smiled, his mouth opening to reveal that perfect row of ivory teeth. Then he laughed, the sound resonating from deep within him echoing within the truck.
"Blake, believe me, if I wanted to take you to some deserted area to have my way with you I wouldn’t have needed to drive all the way out here." His tone continued the casual flirtatious manner, and eased my all too real anxiety, the anxiety I tried to hide, the anxiety of being invited into his house.
The rest of the five-minute drive passed in silence, I lost in my thoughts, trying without success to determine exactly how I felt about spending time at his house. I’d never been to a client’s house before and I was trying with every ounce of strength I could muster after the exhausting day to remind myself that tonight he was not a client, he was a friend and we were going to his house for ice cream. That was it, nothing more. Yet the gnawing feeling of doubt crept through me with each foot the vehicle lurched toward its final destination. Being inside someone’s home was an intimate invitation further pushing the employer/employee relationship aside. What did it matter anyway? I asked myself, demanding an answer. Tomorrow I would be leaving, he no longer my employer, I no longer the employed, by him or anyone else for that matter. I shuddered at the thought of returning to LA to nothing, no job and without the job the house would be gone and everything else too. Too much, going through my mind. Stop, I screamed. Not tonight, I could worry over all those things tomorrow, but not tonight. Tonight, Justin was my friend, I was his and we were going to eat ice cream. I pushed all nagging thoughts from my mind, trying to focus on something else, anything else. I thought about the coming evening, an evening spent in his home. My mind wandered, consumed by the thought of what his house would look like, how it would be decorated. Knowing that he was both years older and eons younger then his 19 years, I wondered what I would encounter. Would it be the typical bachelor pad, scarcely furnished, week old pizza molding in the refrigerator? Or perhaps, decorated in all the modern fashion, completely chosen by some impersonal interior designer with an unending expense account. I glanced at the man sitting beside me, and I knew that neither would be the case. This home would be his tranquil sanctuary, his escape from the hurried pace of his life. I anticipated dark wood furniture, deep warm earth tones, personal tokens and artifacts proudly displayed at every turn. And deep within the recesses of the house, the boy that existed inside of Justin would live, in the form video games, the basketball courts, and the assortment of many other toys, whatever may have captured his interest at that time. A vision passed before my eyes as I thought further about the décor of his house. I saw a sturdy, solid, thick, cherry wood table, a New Yorker magazine resting on one side, a GameBoy on the other, all of which was surrounded by candles. That was the Justin that I knew, strong and manly, soft and delicate, mature beyond his years, yet holding fast to his youthful enthusiasm. These thoughts occupied my mind and eased my nerves as we approached the house.
The truck lurched to a halt just outside a three-car garage. The darkness painted the rest of the house black, leaving its beauty a mystery for that evening. I glanced over at him just as he retrieved the garage door opener. Pushing a button, the door in front of us began to rise, sending creaking sounds echoing into the night air. He pulled the vehicle to its reserved spot, placed it in park and turned it off. I opened the door and pulled myself from the truck. The drive took longer then I realized as my muscles ached to be stretched after sitting idle for such a long period of time. I turned to find him watching me, his gaze shadowed, leaving me to wonder what was behind those intense blue eyes. I would not have a moment to ponder. He laced his fingers with mine and pulled me toward the small door that would lead to his house. On our way, we passed the cherry-red Benz, a white convertible BMW, and a white Jaguar.
"Nice toys," I commented, he certainly spared no expense on the things that he wanted.
"Only two of them are mine. The jag belongs to Britney, she leaves it here while she’s on tour."
"Britney," I stated, repeating his words, hoping my own didn’t sound choked.
"Yeah, she’s a friend of mine. Britney Spears, don’t tell me you’ve never heard of her. You know that stupid song, "Hit Me One More Time."
He started to sing the tune, eliciting a laugh from my lips.
"I’ve heard the song. Aren’t you guys dating? You really shouldn’t talk about your girlfriend’s music like that." There the question was asked, Johnny had said that some of the guys had girlfriends. It had not crossed my mind for an instant that Justin may be one of them.
"We aren’t dating, and she certainly isn’t my girlfriend. Why doesn’t anyone believe me?" He ended his sentence with a pout, his lower lip pulled down, touching his chin. I had to laugh at the face he made, he was so damn cute. "Besides, that song does not qualify as music in my book. Britney’s my friend, has been forever, I love the girl to death, but she and I dating would be a nightmare. We don’t agree on anything, especially her choice of clothing."
I was surprised about his candidness, and was that relief I felt that he and her were not an item, I’m sure that it was. But, as my mind pointed out, his denial of Britney as his girlfriend, did not confirm that he did not have one. The atmosphere surrounding us was friendly and opened, so, as he dropped my hand to unlock the door, I asked the further question.
"So, is there someone that occupies that special place in your heart?" As soon as the question was asked, I regretted it, I saw his dark blue eyes cloud over in an emotion I have no words to describe, but anger comes as close to it as my vocabulary can get. He pushed open the now unlocked door leading into the house, and entered, leaving me standing, watching his departing form. Taking a deep breath I followed him. The scent of cinnamon immediately entered my nostrils, the path before me cast in a warm glow, light filtering into the small path from recessed ceiling lights. I lead him down the hallway, grabbing his arm.
"Justin, I’m sorry, though I’m not sure for what. What’s wrong?" Confusion painted my features, I had no idea why the question affected him that way.
"What do you think of me, Blake? Tell me that." His voice was low, controlled, cold. "Do you honestly believe that if I had someone in my life, if I was involved with someone, if I loved someone, do you honestly believe that I would spend as much time with you as I do? I couldn’t do it, Blake. When I’m in love, I love, completely, overwhelmingly, nothing held back, nothing kept secret. But, no, I’m not in love. I thought I was twice. The first time, I wasn’t, I was naive and stupid, she ended up fucking my best friend and then blaming me for it. The second time, the feelings the girl held for me were squelched by the very rumors of which you speak, squelched by the distance I am forced to maintain, squelched by my adamant denial that she existed. So no there is no one special in my life, because the career that I love so much and sacrifice so much for demands that I be single. Every fucking girl that buys our album demands that I be single, management demands that I be single. Management demands that I not be seen in public with a female, how in the hell do you expect me to find someone under those types of demands. Why do you think that you are here? Because they don’t want me going out and finding someone on my own, too many risks, too many photo opportunities, too many chances that this whole thing known as Nsync would come crashing down. So what do they do, they hire someone for me to screw, they think that would satisfy me, keep me from going to clubs, keep me from bringing girls back to my hotel room. But you know what, I’ve never done those things, would never want to. So the thing they tried so desperately to avoid has happened. They wanted to prevent me from developing feelings for someone, to prevent me from caring for someone and wanting to be with them, when in the end they forced me into the arms of a person that made me care, made me want to spend time with them, made me feel capable of love again. Damn it, just made me feel. So, no, Blake, there isn’t a special someone in my life, there is only you."
I was held still by his words. I had no idea. His life to me was glitter and sparkling lights, smiling faces, and love. The bitterness in his words pierced my heart. I remained stoic, looking at him, trying to deny in my heart what his words were telling me. But they were all true, every one of them. I couldn’t deny it. I looked away from him, and in an instant I found his hands grasping my shoulders.
"Blake," his voice was whispered, hushed, halting as he thought of the words he wanted to say. Hadn’t he said enough already? I wanted to scream, I wanted to leave, but I couldn’t. He held me still, drew a deep breath, filling his lungs, expanding his chest. I kept my eyes on his shirt, tracing the letters emblazoned across his chest. "Blake, I’m sorry."
The apology heard in his voice was genuine, I knew it was frustration that had forced his earlier words. But I also knew that the walls erected between employer and employee stood firmly in place. As he had said, I was hired for him to screw and even though he had showed me tenderness and caring over the 24 hours that had passed prior, it was what any of them would have done for any employee that needed help. It was the way they were, they cared about the hired help, wanted them to feel needed and wanted. Justin’s sincerity and concern were nothing more then that, and strangely enough I felt a certain calm with that feeling, no need to continue to question my place in his world. It was crystal clear and I was back in control, back in the situation that I was comfortable, he the "john", I the "prostitute". It didn’t matter that we were in his house, surrounded by the essence that was him. I was hired to do what he wanted and if eating ice cream in his kitchen was what he wanted, that’s what I would do. Every desire he had would be fulfilled right up until the time I walked down the runway, into the plane that would take me back to LA, and back to my real life.
"Justin, don’t fret, it’s okay." I kept my voice neutral, meeting his eyes. He glanced away, his lower lip caught between his teeth, he dropped his arms.
"How about that ice cream?" He stated, grasping my hand. I followed him, further into the hallway, a spiraling staircase laid out in front of us, holding the invitation to the upstairs. The wrought metal bars that acted as the banister were shaped in a floral pattern. We made a right into what I assumed could be called the family room. A large fireplace spread over one wall, glass created another, leaving a view to the darkness outside. A grand piano was situated near the windows, a few sheets of paper scattered across the top of the instrument. The room was decorated in a variety of white, black and gray. Pictures adorned the only other wall. Pictures, that I was actually surprised to find. A hint as to the person he had been, a glimmer into the person he was. Pictures of him as a baby, the curls of his hair framing his face even then. Pictures of him throughout his school years. The school pictures abruptly ended, replaced by pictures of him with Mickey Mouse Ears, early pictures of Nsync. My how they have changed. Ending with more recent pictures, the most notable, Justin kneeling beside two young boys, all with the same mischievous smile. I wondered who the boys were. As if sensing my questions, a voice behind me began to speak.
"My mother arranged the pictures on that wall. Helps to keep me grounded. To recognize where I have come from to see where I am. The last picture was taken three weeks ago. My brothers were here visiting. As many fans that scream my name at as many concerts and appearances we do, no sound is sweeter then hearing those two little boys yell my name the minute they see me." He paused, his eyes reflecting, remembering, I would have sworn that a single tear held still in the corner of his right eye, threatening to fall before he blinked it away. "My mother has run out of room on that wall, she’s searching for another one. Most of the Nsync pictures are downstairs or in the gallery. I’ll give you a grand tour later, for now, can we finally eat that ice cream I’ve been promising you?"
I smiled, and nodded. He turned, retreating from the family room to enter the kitchen, which while far removed from the leather couches situated in front of the fire place, was actually a part of the large room, a center island the only separation between the cooking space and the living area. I situated myself on a stool by the kitchen island and observed him, our surroundings. The kitchen was well equipped, and much to my amazement, Justin seemed right at home in the middle of the stainless steel appliances and the dark wood cabinets. Every muscle in his body was relaxed, he was in his element, the kitchen suited him. Looking around him as he retrieved bowls and spoons, I could see colorful drawings decorating the doors of the refrigerator. I was to learn later that the artists of the colorful paintings were his brothers. Each time they came to visit, they would draw him pictures of home in Tennessee, of his family, of anything that suited them, tokens of his other home. And the pictures would remain until his brothers returned again to redecorate.
The room was the essence of him, as was the rest of the house. After finishing our ice cream sundaes that he prepared, we toured the house. We journeyed through the massive abode, and I was to learn that not only was the house immaculately decorated but that he was responsible for most of the decor. He loved the house, it showed in the way that he presented it, it showed in the comfortable way he appeared in each room. The house was essentially him, a metaphor for everything he was. Each room represented another aspect of his personality. The tenderness found in the kitchen and family rooms. The game room offered a glance to the little boy still held deep within him. His shoe closet displayed his sneaker fetish, many pairs still held their tags, never having been worn. The state of the art studio, which he was sad to point out, he had never had the chance to use yet, showed the music embedded in him. The gallery was filled with pictures of him with his four brothers, as he referred to the other members of Nsync, and award after award, showing his hard work, determination and the recognition of that. The home theater showed his love for movies, both current thrillers and the classics, an internal smile formed within me as I noticed that the classic Casablanca sat on top of the VCR. His masculinity was shown in the workout room, and the conflicting vanity shown in the guestroom he converted into a closet. Racks after racks of clothes, belts, hats, enough cloth to clothe a small village. The most amazing space to me was the office. Signs of the charity he founded clung to the walls and as he spoke of it, I could see how closely it clung to his heart. One glance into his eyes showed how personally attached to the cause he was. This was unlike any typical celebrity thing, done for the status, done for the betterment of his name. No, this charity was founded and funded with only one motive and that was his deep belief in the cause. The home was luxurious, as was he, the home was multifaceted, as was he, the home was warm, as was he, the home was him, and he was it.
The tour ended and I found myself standing in the most personal place in his house, his bedroom. The room engulfed him, a little piece of the rest of the house settling to rest in the large room. The room was decorated in warm earth tones, not a source of artificial light to be found, instead strategically placed candles lit the room offering only enough light to guide. A fireplace separated the sitting area from the sleeping chamber, most of which was taken up by the large sleigh bed that stretched from one wall. It was large enough that several adults could find restful slumber. He was quick to explain that at one time he had a smaller bed, however when his brothers visited they preferred to sleep with him and not in their own rooms. After several nights of getting hit by flailing arms, kicked by moving legs and thrown out of the bed by the self proclaimed bed hogs, he did the only thing he could, he bought a bigger bed. The size now large enough that all three could sleep comfortably. Although his explanation was valid and believable, I couldn’t help but regard the bed both nervously and enviously. How many people other then his brothers had shared that bed? Although I had no right to feel jealous or hate any of those women, I did. Because they shared a place with him that I never could. To be invited into his bed simply because he liked them, simply because he wanted to be with them, simply because he desired them. No, that I would never feel, because each time I thought about sharing a bed with him, I was reminded of what I was and what had brought him and I together. The night’s resolve of pushing those emotions at bay, at keeping the employer/employee relationship in tact, at fulfilling his every desire, ended with one glance at his bed. And the world around me crumbled. The inner walls shook with the force of an earthquake and the newly added mortar quickly loosened sending every protective barrier around me crashing down. Until that was all I could do, fall to the floor, paths of wet tears running down my face, pooling on my chin, dropping to the floor below. I pulled my knees to my chest, my arms wrapping around them, as I cried. The hurt, the pain, the dreams that would never come true, the little girl that grew up way too fast, all of it poured from me, the fury of a flooded river. I had been lost in my own downward spiral, when I felt him touch me. He seared my skin, I needed to get away from him, from everything he made me feel, from the things he made me want. Mostly, I wanted him, mostly I couldn’t have him, mostly, I had to run. It was the only defense I still had to exert. I pulled from him, rising from the floor, the plethora of tears still coming, yet through my blurred vision I left the room and ran, down the hall where we had just shared a laugh, down the steps where he had steadied me moments before when I tripped. Through the gallery, where he had just explained the importance of every single award and plaque hung there. My unsteady hand grasped the cold metal knob of his front door, when I felt him standing behind me. His body close, his heat penetrating my clothing. His hands on either side of my head, resting on the door in front of me, keeping it shut.