Tilly
The first time I had sex with Emerson Michaels was at a regional Burning Man an hour and a half outside of Philly. We were there to film on location, and I’d been tapped to be their on-site costumer and event liaison because I was the only crew member who’d been to Burning Man before.
Not that I remember much about it. I’d been on a road trip with friends when our van broke down in the middle of nowhere, and I was trying to hitchhike to the nearest town to get a tow truck. Next thing I knew, I was at Burning Man. Was another month before we got the van running again, but I learned how to use a sewing machine from the lady we rented a room from, and I got something like a real job out of it. Luck of the draw, I guess.
But that regional burn deep in the Appalachians? The second day of filming was rough. The Burners weren’t fully on board with us being there, and even the most supportive people had become unreliable after 36 straight hours of drug use. The heat was terrible. The cast kept sweating through their makeup. Everything took twice as long to do.
I took it in stride because I take everything in stride. I don’t know, I’ve always found that whether I roll with the tide or swim against it, the result is the same, and why take the hard path? So I was going to party that night regardless of what happened during filming, but I wasn’t the only one who hunted drugs down the second we’d wrapped for the night.
I was a painfully average-looking, admittedly pudgy, and slightly awkward seamstress, but on MDMA, I was a goddess. I can’t speak to what Emerson was on, but it apparently also made a goddess out of me. I ended up on his lap, riding his dick at a drum circle lit by the dying embers of a burning pony sculpture.
I genuinely didn’t think it would go anywhere other than potentially some stern warnings to never talk about it. I certainly didn’t expect an affair that lasted three years, four if you count this past year. Ovarian cancer did a good job of ending the sex side of things, but it still feels like an affair.
Particularly when he opens the door to the stupidly big suite for me at the Wilmington Winn Center the first day of AniCon weekend.
This room has a California king. There are also two sectional sofas laid out in a rectangle close enough together to make sure it’s clear theydon’tfold out. There’s a dining table for six, a balcony with French doors, and a walk-in closet.Everything in the bathroom is king-sized, with floor space suitable for ballroom dancing.
I’m speechless as I poke around. I might be angry, in fact. It’s actually offensive how many people I could fit in here. Hell, I could have sold it and commuted from my apartment five miles south, smack dab in the middle of the worst projects of Wilmington, but it’s a home I can afford. Instead, I’m going to be by myself this weekend in Emerson’s complimentary AniCon suite while he and his wife stay in the condo she insisted on, preferring to stay off-property.
I’m trying to turn my frown upside down when I notice the strange panel hooked into the wall of the shower. As a cat perpetually killed by curiosity, I can’t help but flip the latch. The panel descends slowly. Two legs drop down as the panel settles parallel to the floor, revealing a seat.
The shower has at least six mounted shower heads, but there’s also a wand on a hose.
There’s a railing next to the toilet.
All the doors are extra wide, and now that I think about it, any suite I’ve been in of this size would have had a private bedroom. This is an ADA suite. For someone disabled.
Emerson has raised eyebrows and a smirk on his face when he leans against the door frame. “I swear, you are the most ungrateful brat,” he drawls in the thick Texan accent he hides in public.
“Not ungrateful, just . . .” I gesture helplessly to the seat. “Someone else needs this more than I do.”
The way he says, “Tilly,” makes me feel like a child, but not in the way he wants me to feel like a child — because that’s his kink, and what he wants, I give him. No, I just feel dumb and naive.
He reaches for me, but not my waist. My head. Specifically, my hairline. He nudges two fingertips under the lace behind my ear, where it’s not glued. “You got out of chemo two months ago. You need this.”
“I’m fine.”
He slips his fingers back out from the lace, every bit as experienced as I am with wigs despite his lush blond hair and respectful of the effort it took to attach it to my mostly bald head. It’s been two months and so far, all I’ve gotten is a couple patches so short there isn’t even a curl to it. I wasn’t expecting enough growth for cornrows or anything, but I’d dreamt of having a short but cute natural fade, at least, for this weekend.
“And I am so thankful for that,” Emerson says with a voice and a glimmer in his eyes that tells me he truly does care for me. “But when they asked me about the room, we had no idea what was happening, and I wanted to be prepared for anything.Enjoy this.You deserve it.”
“Do I? What have I ever done—?” I start.Deserveis such a strong word. I don’t feel like I’ve done anything; life just happens to me, both the good and the bad. The car breaking down but ending up at Burning Man. The nightmarish film shoot, and now I’m having an affair with a celebrity. Getting cancer that tried its damnedest to kill me, but here I am.
But Emerson cuts me off with, “No, no, no,” and a swipe of the pad of his thumb over my thick bottom lip, dominating me as he always does when we’re alone together. “Whatever protest you’ve got brewing in there, you shut it right down. You are going to say, ‘Thank you, Em,’ and I am going to say, ‘You don’t need to thank me,’ and then I’m going to unpack your bags. That way, I can pick out which cosplay I want to see you in when you’re sitting front row at my panel tomorrowafternoon. So you’ll know that it’s taking everything in me not to drag you up on stage and stuff you under the table so you can suck me off while I’m answering fan questions.”
That sounds like a lot of fun, actually, but it doesn’t escape me that we haven’t had sex since my diagnosis. I’m not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, though, not when I can’t possibly cover my dad’s nursing home without his help, so I say, “Thank you, Em.”
He says, “You don’t need to thank me.”
And together, we unpack my suitcase and garment bags so he can pick out a costume for tomorrow.
It’s seven in the evening. I’m wearing the lewdest cosplay I’ve ever worn in my life, even though I’m sure plenty of women here would laugh at that description. I’m sitting on a half-wall that wraps around the bar area of the host hotel, watching as two marshmallow sprites duke it out over the rim of a fancy frozen drink.
And I realize I may have miscalculated.
When I say marshmallow sprites, I don’t mean a cosplay, and I don’t mean they’re sitting at a table leaning into each other, arguing, and just so happen to have a cocktail sitting between them. I mean actual sprites — but marshmallows — but sprites — sitting on the rim of that hurricane glass with tinier but equally marshmallowy gloves on their tiny hands, punching the marshmallow fluff out of each other.
I try to focus my eyes to see if I’m imagining this and it’s really just a silly garnish, but honestly, I might be looking at ice cubes in a regular margarita. Which means that when I decided to microdose, I probably calculated the dosage based on how much acid I used to take when I was looking to party.I’ve lost a ton of weight since then, thanks to the chemo, and now I’m just really stupidly high.
