The story of a lonesome ol'Jerome

*Gwyn’s POV*

I was sitting in my car, in the parking lot of the 7-11 nearby my house. Well, my apartment. I went through what I remembered happening, after the concert, with Andy, over and over in my mind. I had made some mistakes before, but that took the absolute fucking cake.

Generally speaking, I had a very strong tendency to be right. Everyone would say that about themselves, but with me it happened to be true. I kind of had a thing about it. I didn't have to apologize very often because of it.

But just now, I had really, really fucked up. I had let my profound self-hatred poison an interaction that had been authentic, honest, and just really awesome. Something genuine. I could see now that it had been completely ridiculous to accuse Andy of any of that shit. Fuck!

I had met a man that I really admired, that I thought was a true artist, not to mention a man that, (and I shared this with no one), I thought about all the time when I wanked. Like some proverbial knight in shining armor (well, more like very tight pants), Andy had somehow been involved in extricating me from a sticky situation. He had cleaned me up, we had some great conversation, and then he had asked me to come to bed with him, of all people! He hadn’t needed to do any of that, be so nice, and he most definitely hadn’t been required to plow me afterwards!

I frowned. How had I responded to all that? Well, I had accepted eagerly, and then, when Andy treated me tenderly and with kindness, even asked to see me again, I had insinuated that his taste was so bad he had to be drunk, high, or under manipulation by others. Oh, and I called him a whore. Twice.

I sighed as I walked into the store. A set of small bells tinkled dully, and I heard an electronic storewide chime. *ding-dong* I walked up to the counter and waited. I could almost feel my mother's disappointment weighing heavily on me already. I suppressed the urge to have a tic, and my skin crawled for a moment.

A larger man with a mustache nodded to me cordially, coming over from restocking single cans of Hamm's in a refrigerator. "What can I do for you ma'am?"

I pointed behind him. "May I please have two packs of American Spirit lights, the yellow ones, a pack of Marlboro gold 100s, and a red lighter?"

Notes