(I Can Turn You) Inside Out
Remix of Outstanding by Oro.
You call her an alien, a freak.
You are derisive and she, proud; she never seems to feel the insults, words like water bouncing off her skin, flesh-toned armor against your cutting tongue.
And you want to hurt her, want to fuck her, want to take back what she's taken from you--No. From Dana. Never from you. You never admit -- not to Dana, not to Abbey, not to Lisa, and not even to yourself -- that you want Casey.
(tall and beautiful, milk-fed Midwestern boy, everything you're not and never will be, graces you with his presence, his friendship. Not right to want more, want him, his body next to yours, moving over yours, skin on skin and sweat-soaked sheets and jerking off with his name on your lips. Not yours. Never yours.)
You are angry on Dana's behalf only, the way a good brother would be. All your life you've tried to be a good brother, and you've never, ever succeeded, seeing Sam in every face, every set of disappointed eyes and hearing your father's voice saying, you're not good enough, you never were, I wish you'd never been born, I wish you'd died instead of Sam.
You and your father barely speak anymore, but that's what he means every time he speaks to you, even when all he says is, "Hello, Dan." and "Goodbye, Dan."
You're backed into a corner and you want to hit, want to hurt, want her to hurt the way she's hurt you. You know she's sleeping with the new guy, the guy who has your brother's name, the guy who's trying to take Dana's job, maybe put you all out of work. She slept with Gordon, slept with Casey, she takes and takes and you take nothing at all, have nothing left to give these days but hurt. You want to share the blame, share the pain, and she's an easy target. She stands out from the crowd, tall and proud and fucking perfect with her red lips and her long legs and her beautiful skin.
And you see, for the first time, the bruises on her skin, the hunted look in her eyes when you snark at her. Her skin is fair, soft, perfect and you wonder what would if feel like under your hands, your lips.
In this age of safer sex, they say you sleep with everyone your partner's ever slept with, and everyone they've ever slept with, and you wonder, as you brush past her in the corridor, if anything of Casey lingers on that skin, if fucking Sally is a way to--
(fuck Casey)
(stop thinking about fucking Casey)
make the noise inside your head quiet down.
The next time she rushes by you, you push her up against the wall, your fingers wrapped around her wrists. You hope you leave bruises, proof that you've touched her.
(proof you exist, can affect the outside world, are not just a ghost passing through where a man used to be, or maybe never was)
She looks down at you, mouth curved in a derisive smirk. "See something you like?" she says, but her eyes are tired and won't meet yours.
You drop her wrists as if they burn
(heat and longing and pain and god, you want to fuck her, hurt her, hurt Casey for fucking her and not you)
disgusted at the way your body responds. "No."
But later, after your show and before hers, you pull her into the supply closet and lock it from the inside. She leans back against the wall, knows exactly what to do, has done this a hundred times or more, maybe in this very closet, with Gordon, Casey, Sam (not your Sam, no).
You push her skirt up, see bruises on her legs, proof of everyone who's been there before. You unbutton her blouse and push it down her arms -- more bruises there, a rainbow of pain written on her body. You nip and suck at her neck and breasts, making your own marks, adding to her collection.
Dan Rydell was here.
She unzips your trousers and her fingers are long and cool and skilled as she rolls a condom onto your cock.
(god knows where she's been, you want to be where she's been)
You tell yourself she wants it too, and maybe she does, or maybe she's just trying to fuck Casey through you. Maybe neither of you wants it, you both just want Casey and this is as close as you can get. For all your successes, in the end, you're both second-best, she to Dana, you to Casey, and so you fuck each other when you can't fuck them.
Or something.
You're not thinking so well now, which is the whole point, to stop thinking for five goddamn minutes.
And maybe it's just sex and it doesn't have to mean more than your cock in her cunt.
You don't kiss. You bury your face in the crook of her neck as she wraps those long, strong legs around you. You push aside the crotch of her panties and slide inside her, digging your fingers into the firm flesh of her ass beneath the delicate silk, sweating and grunting as you thrust into her wet heat.
She tangles one hand in your hair and pulls until it hurts; she rakes those perfectly manicured nails down your back underneath your shirt. You're not the only one leaving marks, and that's even better, that's proof again, proof that won't fade for days and after, at home, you'll look at those narrow scabs in the mirror and try to pick at them so they'll scar, be a permanent reminder.
She clenches around you and you don't care if it's real or if she's faking; you come hard, hips bucking jerkily.
When you're done, you slip out of her, already burning with shame and anger. You are startled to see the same emotions on her face in this rare unguarded moment. You have gotten under her skin as surely as she's gotten under yours, and that's a triumph of sorts.
She lowers her legs, smoothes down her skirt and buttons her blouse. She leans close and whispers, "I've had better" in your ear before she walks away, letting the closet door slam shut behind her before you can respond
(can't think, thank god, for once you've stopped thinking, but was it better with Casey? Of course it was better with Casey. Will you ever find out what it's like with Casey?)
and you wonder what the hell you're going to do with the used condom.