You've Been Flirting Againbymiserybusiness©
I really hated my boyfriend sometimes.
No really. I couldn't stand him. And the sad part was, he wasn't always like this. He was actually a normal—okay maybe not normal, but still—black kid, just like me.
Roy was one of those indie boys, having rejected the role of an annoying stereotype back in his inner city neighborhood. It was basically how we met, since we're both what others call 'indie.'
Now when I say indie, I'm not talking about those brothers in the city who slap a few pins on their acid wash denim jackets, stuff their heads into snap-back caps, rock vintage sneakers, listen to Odd Future and call themselves original. Oh no.
Roy was actually the epitome of an indie kid. I'm talking Urban Outfitters frequenting, vinyl record purchasing, concert loving, indie kid. My friends even thought our combined names—Roy and Roshanda—were fitting of our strong bond. We even had matching plugs.
So I thought a love like that would never die. This was true when we were in high school. Then we got to college and everything changed.
Both of our majors were at the same school, and I thought we'd stay tight while we attended college. I kept up my appearance—loose curls, my snake bite piercings, and plugs, combined with my wardrobe, most of which was from thrift stores or Urban Outfitters—and him? Roy just completely went left.
It was that damn frat.
Soon as he joined the school's step frat, his whole persona changed. The short afro—which I adored—became a fade. The plugs disappeared. He quit wearing jeans that fit. His musical tastes shifted. He'd traded Lykke Li, Manchester Orchestra, and Bon Iver for Waka Flocka, Wiz Khalifa, and Lil' B.
I would've been more comfortable if he listened to Drake.
Then his mannerisms went. Normally a bit more quiet and reserved, he got all loud and ignorant, trying as hard as he could to match the rowdy guys he hung around most of the time. It wasn't cute. It was stupid. Even my friends took notice.
It was getting more and more embarrassing to hang around him, and I began to feel like he resented me. The things we enjoyed together, he now hated.
Case in point: the school's musical showcase.
Every year, they put on this huge extravaganza, sort of like its personal Lollapalooza. This year, it was held indoors, and I was a bit pissed. Being loud was somewhat tolerable outside. Roy's ignorant ass was going to embarrass me, I knew it.
"Babe, how much longer do we have to walk around? That rapper is behind us," he complained, limply holding my hand while I weaved through the crowd at the school's Union building.
I rolled my eyes. I knew it wouldn't be long before he started complaining. "Can you just wait? I wanna look around a little longer," I explained. "Besides, I'm looking for the screamo bands."
Roy sucked his teeth and adjusted his baseball cap. "Shanda, I don't wanna hear that whiny white boy shit."
There it was. Two 'whiny white boys' were sitting down, but as soon as he said that, they looked at us, like we both said it.
"Stop it," I warned, turning around to glare at him. "You used to like it."
Roy groaned and continued following me through the crowd. I hated this. Roy used to be my best friend and now he was relegated to a really good fuck who just happened to not be a friend with benefits.
In fact, it sounded extremely shallow, but the sex was the only thing keeping me from fully leaving him. Roy was quite the accomplished lover. I knew it. He knew it.
The neighbors knew it. (Sorry, Rachel and Tiffany.)
Since all of our similarities were slowly diminishing, our entire relationship was now based on sex, which I hated. Sure, he could make my toes curl, but when the sex was over, I liked to talk about stuff—because I'm a girl—afterwards. I couldn't do that with him anymore. And I longed for it, but ever since he joined this stupid frat, he turned into every other black boy I ever met in high school—loud, rude, and one-dimensional.
Just as I was about to give in, because I'd seen most of the indie bands and rappers the school had to offer, this band started up in another room, and it sounded nice and doom-y.
"Ah! Come on," I grabbed Roy's hand and led him to the next room, where this raucous screamo band was just revving up.
"Shon-daaaa!" He whined, tired of me obviously dragging him places. I didn't care. He made me sit through this terrible performance of some wigger and his best friend chanting the same word a million times over an obvious basement beat. He could live through a few growls for a few minutes.
The band reminded me of Asking Alexandria. Even the lead singer looked like Ben Bruce, a hottie in my book. They shredded, headbanged, and growled. A mosh pit was threatening to form, and Roy yanked my arm, trying to get me to leave. I declined.
The lead singer, wearing just a white t-shirt, skinny black jeans, and Vans, took to the mic. But I wasn't listening to anything he was saying. I was staring at him.
Everything about him looked interesting. From his sweat-slicked brunette shag, to the spiderbite lip rings on the right side of his lip, to his left sleeve tattoo, a full work of art from wrist to shoulder.
"...And we thank you guys for coming to see us. Ok," he readjusted his guitar strap and plucked a pick from his mic stand. "This song is called 'Waiting for Death.'"
I watched him move. I watched him headbang. I watched all the sweat fall from his head to the floor. He was skinny, pale, and intense.
Just the way I liked them.
Roy kind of knew I had a white boy fetish before I met him, but it didn't stop me from going with him. However, with the way things were now, I wouldn't mind hopping on a white horse.
I wanted to hang around to at least get a name so I could look them up on Facebook and tell the lead singer I enjoyed his show. Something. He was so fine. He had the type of look that said, "I'm hardcore but I'm sort of indie too, you just gotta figure out how they blend." Everyone else in the band was hot in their own ways, but this guy had my attention.
As I elbowed people who kept bumping into me, desperate to restart a pit, I realized that my infatuation was futile. Knowing him, he had some girlfriend with blue hair who wore Creepers and had at least five facial piercings.
Definitely not me.
So while I waited on the sexy lead singer to finish screaming so he could tell us the name of the band again, and hopefully his name, I turned around to see if Roy was still around. Nope. He'd retreated to the back of the room, checking his phone like he always did.
That was another thing. All of a sudden, he's so into his Blackberry. He never checked his phone this much back in high school. In fact, if it wasn't a record player or his iPod, he didn't care for it.
"We are Shitty Pilots. I'm Chris. Our lovely drummer is Daniel," he paused and Daniel managed a creative drumroll, met with applause. "and we have Stephen on bass." He plucked his guitar a few times, and some more screams erupted. Though the room wasn't that packed, the crowd was sizeable.
I tried not to seem like I was staring at Chris for the longest, but when my eyes finally settled back on him, I couldn't help but notice his gorgeous blue eyes. He seemed so soulful. Like there was way more to him than an arm full of tats and damp brown hair.
"Okay, we're gonna do a cover next. How many of you guys are familiar with a band called Local Natives?"
My hand rose. I fucking loved Local Natives. And I didn't expect a screamo band to want to cover them. A few other people raised their hands, but mostly everyone was in the dark. Chris even warned us that the song was slow, but they'd do what they could. Then, he began the opening to "Airplanes," one of my favorites from their debut.
"I love it alllllllll, so much I caaaaaaaaall, I want you back!" He screamed, exciting the crowd who thought the song was all bark and no bite. I was fully engaged until somebody came up to me decided to drag me out of the room, fed up with me actually enjoying the damn show.
He really pissed me off. So I had to sit through two guys making fools of themselves, but I couldn't watch a few indie bands and Chris—I mean, his band—play great music?
"What the fuck, Roy!" I shook my curls over my shoulders and whipped away from him. I was tired of this shit.
He hunched his shoulders. "What? It's late, and if I hadn't pulled you out of there, we woulda still been up in there, listening that bullshit."
I folded my arms, a bit embarrassed that people were walking by, probably thinking all black couples argued like this.
"Roy, you're pissing me off. A lot. Ever since you joined that frat, you don't hang with me like you used to, you hate all the things we used to love, and you act different. Where's the boy I fell in love with back in high school? The one I used to joke with about how shitty the school was and how were A-squared?"
We used to joke about how we were awesomeness times two. Hence, A-squared.
Roy was silent. I brought this up a lot, but it didn't seem to mean anything because he never changed. He went silent again and was basically silent the whole time we walked back to my dorm. I didn't have a roommate, so Roy came and went as he pleased.
After a long day of squeezing through people and getting dirty, I stripped out of my American Apparel dress and my combat boots and headed for my shower. After I turned on the water, I thought about everything. Roy's treatment of me, the assload of homework that was due in just three days—fucking astronomy and physics—and of course, Chris.
It sounds so stupid, but upon first glance, I could tell that he was a special soul, and if I had just one conversation with him, and I got a great vibe from him, I was sure we could develop something.
Even if it was just a friendship.
As the hot water met all the nooks and crannies of my body, I heard the door open, and then I heard clothes drop to the floor. It was Roy, wanting some shower sex, as usual.
He sheepishly pushed the curtain aside, and kind of pleaded with his eyes if it was okay for him to enter.
I stepped aside, and he squeezed in. I kissed Roy's wonderfully full lips and stared into his eyes. He pushed me again the shower wall and locked me in, like I wasn't going anywhere. He loved doing that.
I could feel his hard cock grazing against my freshly trimmed pussy as we made out, his long tongue making circles around mine. He nibbled on my lips and grabbed a handful of my round ass with those large hands of his, making me giggle a bit.
Roy held onto a cheek with one hand, and held his dick with the other, stroking it slowly while we made out. Then he motioned for me to spread my legs and started caressing my pussy with his dick. I loved it when he teased me before he entered me.
Because his dick was pretty big—we maneuvered this before—I had to hop up a little bit in the tiny shower so he could get it all the way in. Think of a bicycle. I had to hop on the bicycle.
But the bicycle was a dick.
We started off slow at first, slow enough for him to rest his head on my tits and play with them, and enough for me to enjoy those slow, drawn out moans that he told me he loved when we first started sexing. Our different skin tones meshed. His a caramel mocha complexion, mine a darker chocolate. My nails dug into his back as his thrusts got faster, breathing heavier, temperature hotter.
"Oooh Roy, don't stop," I whispered, grabbing hold of his biceps, trying my hardest not to scream out. If I did, I'd catch hell from Rachel, who was always up at this hour studying. Those engineering majors.
Roy grabbed my hips and thrusted so hard I had to let out a scream. My feet weren't even touching the floor as he picked me up and plowed into me. I started stroking my clit to enhance the orgasm, that awesome mind-blowing orgasm that started from my toes, made my legs go numb, and made my body go limp, so much so that he had to catch me when it was all over.
We laughed because it was kind of awkward, then he carried me to the bed after drying me off. He did something we hadn't done in a while.
He was always bragging about my body and how it was so nice. So after showers, he'd rub oil all over me and kiss me all over as he did so. Roy took his sweet time, once again. First my legs, hands squeezing my thighs, then my flat stomach, my tits—he lingered there for a while—then my toned shoulders and arms, when he got to my face we just kissed for a good ten minutes.
Tonight was a good night to sleep naked. We got into my bed and cuddled. I was thinking, hey, maybe what I said had sunken in this time. Roy finally got the message.
He wrapped his arms around me and held me tight. Just as I was about to drift off to sleep, I whispered, "I love you, Roy."
I'm thinking I'd get the same response back. But did I? Nope.
Instead, he farted he real loud and didn't even say anything.
I turned around and faced him. "Really? Really."
He Kanye-shrugged. "Night, girl."
What a fucktard. How was I gonna deal with this man?
And just like that, my thoughts about Chris revved right back up.