Disclaimer: This story is meant to be a work of fiction, based on a (rather traumatizing) dream. It is not intended to imply any gayness on the part of Miley Cyrus, nor to imply that the author, though gay, actually WANTS to have relations with Miley Cyrus.
Taryn Wood is a big gay lesbo, AND wants to have relations with Miley Cyrus, but does not exist, so this is perfectly acceptable.
Enjoy.
The Other Side Of Me As hallucinated by Cirrus Kain
Apparently the holidays allowed for some downtime, even for internationally recognized teen pop stars. Miley appeared, always unannounced, almost daily following our initial conversation. Mainly she raged, like she had then, about her image, about her parents, about the industry. About being seventeen. But at times she just seemed to want company, perhaps a little more serious and sedate than her other age-appropriate friends. I didn't mind, nor did I mind that during her visits I barely spoke at all. I had endured months of friend trying to get me to "talk", and trying to cheer me up, and inevitably abandoning me in frustration when I refused to do either. Miley's perky chatter was a welcome change. Her supply of energy was both endless and infectious. I went rapidly from sleeping out most days to wanting to actually DO things again.
"It sounds terrible," she told me once, "because I really do believe in God, and I do feel blessed for everything I have... but mostly when I talk about God, it comes straight from management. Or Billy Ray. It's a sound bite for parents, so they can feel good about buyin' my stuff for their kids. I'm a good person, and I am because I want to be. I'm a strong person because I want to be. And everything I have... I wanted it, and I worked for it. I'm a girl and I'm from Tennessee, so I guess I'm supposed to be humble, but shouldn't I be able to at least take a little credit for all this? Like, I should just be able to be proud, you know?"
I was proud, and the more she talked the more impressed I was by her, and the further away my depression seemed to be slipping.
The second week of December Miley showed up, to my surprise, at the front door, clutching a bag of groceries.
"I'm making dinner!" she stated, squeezing her tiny self past me into the foyer and heading for the kitchen.
I followed. This seemed to be the nature of our relationship. "And what exactly, pray tell, might you be cooking, O vegetarian who eateth no vegetable?"
She ignored the jab at her ridiculous eating habits. "Mac and cheese," she replied in all seriousness.
"Ah. I had forgotten about that particular super food."
It was obvious very quickly, however, that she was referring to REAL macaroni and cheese, the kind that involved actual pasta, actual cheese, and actual cooking procedures, none of which I was very familiar with. Miley talked while she cooked. No great shock there; she talked while she did everything, but for the first time I found responses being required of me. Thus far she had asked me next to nothing about myself, now, suddenly, she wanted to know it all. Where I had grown up, my family, how I ended up in LA, my brief career. She also looked me in the eye over dinner, another thing she rarely did.
So I told her about growing up in Jersey. The guidos, I said, weren't nearly as guidish when I was a kid. After high school I had gotten a job working tech support for a fairly obscure web hosting company, and somehow, despite my parents' grubbing, saved up the cash to get set up in California. I glossed over a lot of my relationship with them, and over relationships in general, for though my stint as a hermit was really only recent and I had in fact had several, there was still one thing I just wasn't sure how to say. Personally, I don't feel like it's any real secret to anyone looking at me; I keep my dirty blonde hair above my shoulders, I wear t-shirts and men's jeans. Men's shoes. Boxers, that I know show when I bend over. I've always been skinny, naturally, and that means no tits, no curves to speak of really. I've been called my share of "sir" and "dude" and "bro". But how do you tell a seventeen year old straight girl, even one who isn't as religious as her publicist says she is, flat out that she's been keeping company with a bona fide, no take-backs-in-the-morning lesbian? It was a bridge I wanted to cross, for the sake of honesty and the value I placed on our newfound friendship, but had no idea how.
"I wanna go swimming," Miley said when we had finished. "Come swimming with me?"
"The water's probably freezing you know."
"Nah, I snuck up earlier and turned the heat on. Come on."
"Someday," I said, pushing back from the table, "I'm going to get that fence fixed, and then where will you be?"
"In a tattoo parlor with Billy Ray, which I'm very grateful to have avoided so far, so please don't take that away from me." She peeled off her top as she approached the back door and threw it at me. "Hurry up and change, dork. And don't forget the towels."
She left the door wide open, and left her jeans in a pile a few feet outside of it. As I closed it, it occurred to me vaguely, in the back of my mind, that a half-naked teenager in my pool couldn't be anything other than trouble.
I grabbed towels from the hall cabinet closest to my bedroom and ducked inside the master suite, tossing Miley's shirt on my bed. I didn't bother with the light, changing quickly by whatever fought through the cracks in the vertical blinds into board shorts and a black bikini top. Self-consciously I ran my hands down my pale midsection. After spending so long doing almost nothing at all I was more than just skinny, I was bones, and I had lost all my muscle tone. I wrapped one of the massive pink beach towels around myself before drawing the blinds and stepping out the French doors that conveniently connected my room to the patio. Steam was rising off the surface of the water and Miley was in it, waiting for me.
"That's a big damn towel." Most of my beach towels were two-person; the one I wore trailed behind me.
"But they're so convenient when you need a dress for the red carpet."
She giggled, and I, feeling more at ease, ditched both towels on a deck chair and slid into the pool. It was deliciously bath-warm, and I made the mistake of closing my eyes, to savor it for a full thirty seconds before being grabbed and mercilessly dunked under.
"You're... a whore..." I choked when I was allowed to breathe again.
"Slow reaction time. Must be old age," she teased.
"Yeah well. Don't ship me off the home just yet kid." I tore through the water towards her at full speed, and our relaxing post-dinner swim became a flailing, shrieking, and somewhat epic battle for dominion over the universe.
She was perched on my back, pinning my arms to my sides in a bear hug, when she leaned close to my ear and grunted through her teeth, "Give up yet?"
I responded by twisting one of my arms free and unceremoniously reached back and untying her top. Miley squeaked and let go immediately, and I made my way to opposite edge of the pool, and waited. A moment later she said, indignantly, "You can turn around now."
I Grouchoed my eyebrows at her when I did. "Are your boobs once more restrained for the safety of the public? I was just being a gentleman, darlin', it's not anything I haven't seen before. You know that `Miley Cyrus nip slip' is like the first thing that comes up on Google?"
"So you've Googled me? And gross. That means creepy old guys have been pawing at themselves over my wardrobe malfunction."
"Would it make you feel any better if I said that young hot guys have probably been pawing at themselves over it too?" I shrugged.
"No."
"Yeah, that wouldn't make me feel better either." I hesitated before speaking again, but something in my head said `go for it'. "But I'm gay so..."
"I think I am too."
Not the reaction I was expecting.
Wait, what?
And she crossed the water, all at once it seemed, and I remember not knowing whose heart I was hearing. And her full, insanely soft lips were on mine. And her fingers found my face on both sides. And I couldn't have moved if I had wanted to. And I didn't want to. All of a sudden I was aware of her body, as slender and shapeless as my own, but still the smooth yielding flesh of a young woman against me, and not just then, in that moment, but in the memory of every innocent touch as well. The first time she'd hugged me, a few days after Thanksgiving, had I always been able to recall her scent? Had I even really been aware of it when it happened? Wrestling only minutes before, I wasn't thinking then about how small she felt in my arms, or how well she fit there, or how warm her skin was. But it occurred to me, powerfully, as Miley's tongue swept across my mouth.
I tried, just once, to pull away, to take a step back, but she mumbled against my lips and captured them again, and all my fight was gone.
Please direct questions, comments, bullshit, etc to: blackcoyoterising@hotmail.com.