As the child of wealthy socialites who would have been better suited to remaining childless, I quickly recognize the signs of being ignored. I recognize them and know precisely how to handle them – by being annoying. Fortunately for me and unfortunately for him, I have almost twenty-five years of experience of being annoying, so not to blow my own horn or anything, but I’m kind of an expert in the art of irritating the shit out of people.
I watch him closely. Every time his eyes glaze over, I ask him a question. The more inane the better. I ask him question after question.
“Have you seenThe Flight Attendantbefore?” I don’t wait for a response. “I think she did it. She’s the murderer. I call it.” I pause while he starts to formulate a response but cut him off before he starts talking. “Do you think she did it? If she didn’t do it, who did?” He tries to start talking again but I beat him to it again, “Why’s that guy alive? I thought he was dead?”
For clarity, I’ve seen the show before and had no problem whatsoever understanding the plot. He hasn’t seen it and gratifyingly, with my constant interruptions, seems to be having a degree of trouble following it.
As soon as he starts paying attention to the show, I ask him for something. Water, fruit juice, a hot drink, a snack, a pair of socks, you name it; if I can think of it, I ask for it. My only requirement is that he’s made himself comfortable seconds before I ask for it.
The downside of all the water and drinks I consume is that I have to pee a lot. Initially, that makes me nervous, but once it occurs to me that it’s simply another way to get him up off his backside, I stop minding so much. A couple of times, I drag him to the bathroom with me, only to announce “false alarm” cheerfully.
Even the times I do need to go aren’t that bad once I see he’s steadfastly refusing to look.
Homophobe, maybe?
Oooh, target acquired–if he has a pathetic little fear of gays, he’s about to be scared shitless by the excess of gayness in me.
When I take a leak, I watch him in the mirror over the handbasin. He doesn’t look. He keeps his eyes steadfastly on his feet. Still, to unnerve him, when I get my dick out I push my sweatpants down a little. Not enough to be obvious, just enough to show my crack. Just enough to freak a homophobic asshole out.
By ten PM he seems to have had all the fun he can handle for the day.
“Bedtime,” he announces.
I consider arguing, but I’ve been annoying non-stop since midmorning and I admit, I’m worn out from the effort. He seems impatient as he watches me get ready for bed, so I complain heartily about the lack of floss and take an unnaturally long time cleaning my teeth.
By the time I’m ready for bed, his jaw is clenched so tightly, he looks like he could crack a walnut between his teeth. I’m quietly pleased. It might not seem like much, but I consider it a victory. I get into bed and to my displeasure, he cuffs my left hand to the headboard.
“What are you doing?” I demand.
“I’m going to get some sleep. I’ll uncuff you when I wake up.”
I’m not happy but I know I’m in no position to resist. He has a good seventy pounds on me and at best, I’m a lover not a fighter. I’m positive the same can’t be said for him. I decide not to give him the pleasure of seeing me upset. I watch as he takes off his socks, boots and T-shirt. His body is rock hard. His skin is olive and he has a thick mat of dark hair on his chest. He’s annoyingly defined. As soon as he’s made his bed on the sofa and pulled the blanket up over himself, I ask him to bring me a glass of water with ice. He bangs it down on the side table, causing a little splash.
I have no doubt whatsoever my plan to get to him is taking shape nicely.
*
Despite the sense of victory I felt before I fell asleep, my subconscious appears to be bothered by having my freedom stripped away from me. I wake up in the night drenched in sweat, panting and thrashing. I feel like I can’t breathe. Having one hand bound has ignited a dark, overwhelming panic in me.
“What’s wrong,” he asks from the sofa.
“I c-can’t breathe,” I splutter. The more I say it and the more I think about it, the more it seems impossible to breathe with one arm restrained above my head. “I can’t breathe!”
He stumbles over to me.
“Uncuff me, Asshole. I’m serious. I need my arm down. I can’t breathe.”
“Jesus,” he mutters, but to his credit he unlocks the cuff.
I sit bolt upright and massage my wrist. Being upright helps a little, but I’m still shaky. “Fucking idiot,” I say. “You can’t expect someone to sleep like that.”
He sighs deeply and tells me to move up. I’m horrified but too taken aback to argue. Obviously, I don’t move either.
“Do you want your arm up or down?” he asks pointedly. I can tell he’s not exactly thrilled to be awake and dealing with me in the night.
“Down,” I admit.
He takes my arm and cuffs it roughly. He clicks the other cuff onto his wrist. “Move. Up.”
