Dressing was hit or miss. The days I wore dresses were the days I looked like I had thought about clothes. Actually, dresses were easy, one piece, no waistband, I looked put together. I found myself wearing more dresses than normal, just because of the ease of them. When I branched out and wore skirts or tried to put together an ensemble, I tended to look like a bag lady or a three year old learning how to dress. I ignored rules for blending patterns and colors. I clashed or I wore only black.
I missed an important deadline for the first time ever. Even when I had been seriously ill and missed a week of work, I hadn’t miss deadlines. I had completely forgotten to finish the illustration. I really didn’t care either. Adam was more upset with me because I just stared at him, a numb lump, as he confronted me over the missing work than he was over missing the deadline. I couldn’t bring myself to care. I had to work over the weekend to finish it for a late delivery on Monday. It had been a very quiet weekend. The last time I had to work overtime, Peter had hung out with me. He had kept my brain entertained. I turned in tear stained sketches, and a final digital file. Thank goodness it wasn’t a water color or colored pencil job. I would have ruined it.
“This is just a delayed reaction to breaking up with David. I’m convinced of it,” Holly said. “You didn’t see him with Jenny, did you? That must have been like reopening the wound.”
I never told her about Peter, so it was easier for her to continue thinking it was me missing David. Part of me really did want to correct her. I didn’t want her thinking David had affected me so profoundly. But, how would I explain that missing the living guy was no big deal, yet the phantom of someone I never met had disappeared from my life, and my body felt like it was being torn in half? He made promises to me he had not kept. I had trusted him, and he left me hanging. That hurt almost as bad as wondering if he realized how much I had fallen in love with him.
The tears finally dried, and I realized I had things to take care of. Johnny Urban hadn’t left me, Peter had. And the voice of Michelle was getting louder in my head. I called her the Michelle Muse. With no Peter around, she took on a very strong voice, and had opinions on how women needed to be portrayed.
Together, since it felt like she guided me, we worked on Michelle’s look. She wasn’t another Peter, who was a tangible voice in my head when he wasn’t in my dreams. No, Michelle was less actual voice and more an inkling of an idea that would grow and swell, and develop on its own. She was a hint, a whisper, a correction—a very opinionated correction.
The character sketch of Michelle Cole originally had her with large breasts, a tiny waist, and full round hips wearing form fitting, bellybutton revealing clothes. That’s not what she wanted, needed, or thought she would wear. Michelle Cole was a bad-ass, who just happened to be dealt a good set of genetics.
Hour glass figure, yes, but she wore practical clothes for her work with big cats. Her pants came with lots of pockets and were loose so she could move. I was originally inclined to create a look that fit the comic styles I grew up with, not realizing I was contributing to unintentional misogynistic over-sexualization of female characters. The Michelle Muse guided my hand away from all of that.
The final Michelle sketch wore cargo pants, sturdy work boots, and a T-shirt that hung loose, or was tucked in, and frequently had a riding crop tucked into her belt. Nothing skimmed, nothing pulled, and nothing was so tight to look like a seam was headed up her butt crack. And her T-shirts always had tigers on the front, always. Her hair was big and wild, and more uncontrollable than the big cats she worked with. She was still sexy as hell, but now, she was sexy and comfortable.
With my new muse, and the need to prove to myself, and to Peter that I could do it, I created a work schedule. As I began story boarding, I realized I needed help, and I just happened to know professionals in the field who could help me. I confessed to Holly that I had been writing, but the words weren’t working anymore, however, the pictures were, and now, I needed help producing a graphic novel.
One long evening over margaritas and nachos at the condo, she and Mike helped me to figure out a production schedule. We used a long roll of butcher paper and starting at the end with delivery day, we plotted backward, mapping out a timeline that took into account my ideal work schedule. Once that was complete, we opened a calendar, and working in the opposite direction, assigned dates to all the milestones that I needed to reach. We also mapped out exactly how many graphic novels it would take to complete the story I wanted to tell.
I stared at the blank page, my hand poised to draw. I knew what was about to start flowing from my fingers. I had the entire passage in my head. It had built momentum all day long. Actually, it felt like Michelle pestered me to produce. She was almost as loud of a voice in my head as Peter. Almost.
I didn’t even have to focus on it and the next thing I knew, I had a full blown scene in my head demanding to get out. The Michelle Muse made sure I saw things from the feminist perspective. She conveyed plot and action almost as prolifically as Peter did for Johnny. But, she focused more on the sentimental parts of the story, the emotional factors.
And she wanted me to tell the story of their wedding. This would take an entire edition to my series to tell. She tossed all kinds of pictures into my head about an ornate Catholic ceremony. She pretty much had tunnel vision the entire time, and could only see Johnny. To her, he looked like an angel, and she would have sworn a heavenly glow surrounded him. She could actually see his aura, and it radiated with love and happiness. Through the Michelle Muse’s eyes, I could see Johnny in a classic black tuxedo, starched white shirt, and a black bow tie. Nothing fancy, but he looked so beautiful and sexy—and he was hers.
Despite all the physical discomforts and stresses, she felt like she floated through the day. Her face hurt from all the smiling. Michelle breezed over the reception and was eager to get to the honeymoon. It wasn’t so much that Michelle was hot to get Johnny in bed, it was the importance of them being married, and all the emotion it conveyed.
I worked to get the ideas on paper, in a combination of words and pictures. I grabbed my good markers, and began color sketches of the interior of the church as I saw it through her eyes. There was wainscoting of redwood panels, and then tiles or frescos painted directly onto the walls of religious symbols. The ceiling arched high into peaked vaults. Lit candles glowed golden and warm. I clearly needed to do some research on the interiors of Mexican Catholic churches. The only one I could remember ever being in had left the impression of slate gray and blues, not red—but she insisted on red. Everything was red while she and Johnny wore black and white.
Next, I sketched out her wedding dress. Michelle hated the rustling noise her cumbersome gown made. She wondered how anyone felt like a princess in such a heavy monstrosity. The veil made her nose itch. These were all sensory inputs I could not draw. There would have to be lots of thought bubbles.
The wedding dress was lined up the back with a million tiny buttons. I made a side sketch to illustrate Johnny fumbling with and cursing all of the buttons trying to undress her.
I particularly loved the visual of Michelle in the foundation garments for her huge dress. Scaffolding, it perfectly described the crinoline with the combination of satin bands and tulle panels. It would look like a white construction zone. The satin merry widow I thought Michelle should wear hooked up the back, but the unhooking of a front closure corset would be sexier in drawings.
I wasn’t going to shy away from the gratuitous sex scenes for this, and I knew of at least one panel for their honeymoon story arc would have Michelle completely exposed. With a slight arch in her back, she would pose with her arms raised, enough to emphasize her breasts. Johnny would growl low in his throat before sucking a taut brown nipple into his mouth, and Michelle would purr “husband,” with satisfaction, threading her fingers through his hair.
I shook my hand, trying to get the cramp out. I flipped back through the pages. That felt good. I got the images out of my head and
onto paper. I was concerned that I wouldn’t convey Johnny’s level of frustration about the buttons down Michelle’s back. I made sure to note ‘really frustrated’ next to that sketch.
I nodded to myself, this worked. It didn’t suck. Well, at least, I thought it didn’t. I needed to take a break and massage some life into my hand before I tackled the actual sex scene. This had to be an emotional scene, not just sexy. They were husband and wife, this was the consummating deed, and it sealed the deal. It had to be emotional and really hot.
The new and improved Michelle character may have grown up a good Catholic girl, but she didn’t get where she was by not experiencing life. That was good—I didn’t want to deal with the whole virgin thing. The original character, she was too sweet to have not been one.
I got up and stretched. It felt like I had been hunched over that notebook for minutes and not hours, while it had actually been quite a few hours. When I tried to move, my body told me it had been in that position for days. I padded over to my bathroom, and then headed downstairs to find a snack. I expected Mike to be up watching TV. Everything downstairs was dark. Mike must have locked up early and headed to bed. Well, I had thought it was early until I saw the clock on the microwave. It was well after midnight.
I shook my head, and changed my plans regarding the snack. Even with a set work schedule, I was up way too late again. This was a bad habit forming that I did not want. I really couldn’t stay up late and expect to be able to function properly in the morning.
19
When the Peter Keith biopic came out, I watched it with Mike. Of course, it was released straight to cable. We both agreed that Liam James was a hottie, and had the potential to have a great career. I laughed when appropriate, and teared-up when appropriate. Clearly, John Lambert was not a fan of Michelle Cruz-Keith. At first, she was a sympathetic character. I even cheered for their relationship to make it. But, she was obviously painted as a bad guy when it came to enabling Peter’s access to the drugs and pushing him to continue working when he really needed to take time off to recover and get some physical therapy.
Even though I had given up on the original story we had been working on for something different after Peter disappeared, I made mental notes of things that were too similar, and things I needed to change because they were exactly the same. Occurrences that would be obvious to anyone involved in Peter’s life, that I should have no clue about being a complete stranger to him, needed changing.
After the movie was over, I excused myself. I went and took a shower. Not that I needed one, but I figured that would be the best way to drown the sounds of my sobs—watching his story hurt on a cellular level. I thought I had successfully gotten over him. I had not. I sat curled up on the shower floor until the water ran cold. I had known him. I really had, even if it had only been for a brief moment of time. He had been my lover and my friend—and he was gone. It was like he had died all over again.
I became angry and bitter after Peter disappeared without even saying goodbye. I’ve been ditched by friends before. It felt entirely too much like middle school—I’ll be your friend until I find someone else who I think is cooler and might actually get me invited to better parties.
Like Peter’s cheesy movies, his biography hit heavy rotation. The second time I watched it, I was alone, so I sat there and bawled the entire time. The third time, I almost broke the TV throwing the remote at it. The next time I saw that it was on, I grabbed a notebook and took notes. I had put entirely too much time into writing that story with and without his help. Peter be damned, I was going to keep working on it, and there were things that definitely needed changing, even with the help of Michelle Muse.
I was almost asleep, or maybe I was asleep, when I noticed Peter. I tried to roll over and ignore him. It had been a month since the initial broadcast of his biography.
I hurt and felt hollow, and tonight Peter chose to come back and sit at the foot of my bed like he had when all of this started so long ago. I must have been asleep, I could see him. He looked rough, haggard. I had no sympathy. Crying for a month straight did horrible things to one’s complexion. He had ruined mine, so he looked a little worse for wear. Welcome to the club.
I didn’t say anything. I was angry. I felt like railing against him, he infuriated me so much. He had hurt me so completely. I wanted to curl into a ball to get away from him, not let him near so he couldn’t hurt me anymore.
“I’m sorry, Gil,” he began. He ran a hand through his hair and looked over at me. His eyes were that big soft brown. I normally would have melted if he had looked at me like that before. This time, I stared back at him. “I got so carried away by the movie. I think it’s what I really needed.”
“I figured.” I tried to be as cold as possible.
“I’m not sure what’s going to happen now, but…” he hesitated.
“You won’t be coming here anymore,” I finished for him.
“No, I still want to come see you, it’s just, I won’t be able to work on the book with you anymore. The movie was what I was looking for. Everything feels different. I feel different. I was such an idiot, I really had no clue how much I was being missed.”
I huffed, blowing hard through my nose. “I told you about how much your fans missed you and you pouted about being unappreciated. You’re still an idiot. You have no intensions of helping me work on the idea of mine you said you’d help me with. You never did.” I raised my voice in a high mocking whine, “help me write the love story I deserve and I’ll help you with that comic book you want to do.” I dropped my voice back to normal. “Fuck you, Peter Keith. You used me. You manipulated me to help you, you interfered with my relationship, seduced me, made me fall in love with you, then when you were done with me, you left and ignored me.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” His voice raised in anger. “I watched over you when you were sick, and I came back when I realized how long it’s been. Time works differently for me, Gil, I didn’t realize I had be gone so long.”
“I don’t care. I clearly don’t mean as much to you as I had thought.” I tried not to raise my voice, but it dripped with poison. “Before, you had time to be with me every day. Now, I don’t even deserve a quick check in for a month. It started with days, then weeks, now months. You didn’t even bother to say goodbye, Peter. I had no idea what happened to you. And I have no way to contact you. For all I knew, you were no longer a ghost, you were gone-gone. It was like you died on me.”
“Don’t be like that, Gil.”
“Like what? A hurt, jilted lover? That’s what I am, aren’t I?”
“No, that’s not what you are. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was distracted by everything.”
I didn’t want to listen to him. He would sweet talk me back into whatever he wanted. He had that power over me. I was still in love with him, and it was working against me. It made it so he could hurt me. I didn’t want to hurt anymore.
“Go away, Peter.” Laying down, I wrapped the pillow around my head.
“I’ll be back, Gillian.”
“No, you won’t,” I said to the air. Peter was gone.
I didn’t need Peter. I had a schedule and deadlines, and the Michelle Muse. And she started nagging me about needing a proper kitchen and that they were going to have to remodel the one in their house. She kept me distracted from having to deal with my emotions over this whole Peter being gone thing, so she got what she wanted.
Without much focus, I gave into the Michelle kitchen urge. I wrote notes and sketched consistently for hours. I had a complete story arc that helped to define Michelle’s role in Johnny’s life. Michelle Cole baked when she needed to think through a problem. Johnny might have to fight the bad guys, but Michelle baked her way to a conclusion, and she wanted a complete kitchen overhaul.
They lived in a nice house, but it was dated, built in the nineteen-sixties. The kitchen had seen a pretty big renovation in the nineteen-eighties but it didn’t suit her needs. Michelle liked to bake, her h
usband was an up and coming action star and shape-shifting, secret vigilante. She deserved a renovated kitchen.
We didn’t change the shape of the kitchen or even the general layout, but we did knock out a wall to create a pass through/counter island. Updating the range ate up some of the existing counter space. I did a little internet search and found the best one for her sense of style and her culinary wants. I selected a Bertazzoni gas range. That thing had six burners, a built in griddle, and double ovens. What appealed to me most was that it wasn’t stainless, it came in red enamel with stainless steel accents.
Michelle may have wanted a new kitchen, but I was the designer. And I wanted to draw that range. The second I saw it, I knew it was on my personal wish list. All other appliances were updated, counter tops and cabinets replaced. I even added a touch-less faucet
At first, I thought they really needed to buy a new house, but the Michelle Muse convinced me they were not financially ready for that. Yes, Johnny was poised for a major career break-through, but he wasn’t there, yet. Besides, this home was far enough out of the city she could take care of big cats at home, if needed.
It felt odd having a conversation through a storyline. I worked it all out on my own, but it truly felt as if I had someone to bounce ideas off of. But not like I was talking to a real person. Maybe there was some energy force that was the Michelle Muse because this didn’t exactly feel like it was happening all on my own.
20
Weeks passed. It could have been months for all I cared. Peter was gone, something I didn’t want to admit. Half the time, I made myself too busy to worry about anything, the other half, I pined for him. I missed him and I couldn’t tell anyone. Hell, I barely admitted it to myself. I channeled all my energy into my work, and my project.
Dead Sexy: Second Endings 1 Page 17
