What I Have

Copyright 2002 Marlene Taylor


Warning: This story contains descriptions of sex. If you are offended by this, or under 18, turn back now.

Disclaimer: This original work of amateur fiction is based on the TV series "The Monkees" which (as far as I know) is owned by Rhino. This not-for-profit piece of fan fiction is not intended to infringe on that ownership. The author's copyright extends only to the original material in this work.

What I have is the man, and his money. Fame and fortune; cars and houses; night and day with him. This year I turned thirty. I am half his age.

A handsome man when I met him, not so handsome anymore. Grey hair. Too heavy. He looks tired. His voice has grown softer and rougher: he hasn't tried to sing in years. I doubt he still can. Perhaps he is afraid to find out.

Impossibly charming back then. The day after we were first introduced, at a party, he called me to tell me that he couldn't take his eyes off me the whole time, that the moment he met me he wanted me as much as anything he'd ever wanted in his life. He made sure we were seen together, his pride and delight so obvious in the way he held me close ­ at movie openings, celebrity parties, ultra-hot musical performances so private they were public. And alone together, telling me secrets, listening, really *listening* to me. He always brought me roses: costly, perfect.

I was dazzled. How could I resist him, when he gazed at me in the sunshine, brown eyes sparkling as he raised my fingertips to his red lips?

I slid easily into his life, as if there had always been a me-shaped void by his side. He wanted me to be part of everything, so that I could share his joy and delight in music. He wrote songs to me, about me. Everyone said it was like he'd had his batteries recharged, that he was better than ever now. And even as he drew from me for inspiration, I became the guardian of his world, his insulated, isolated world.

It happened slowly, this withdrawal, till we were seeing his friends only once in a while, and mine not at all, unless I got away by myself, which was hardly possible, because there was always something for which he needed me.

Not that he'd ever admit it. He needs me and he knows it, and he hates to need anything.

He comes to me in the night, passionate: he was always full of passion in bed. He fucks me and fucks me and I come and come, swept away by his intense, focused attention. His hands, still strong, all over me, in me, his wet warm mouth on my breasts, my belly, my cunt; I love to have his big hard cock inside me, thrusting and twisting. When he makes love to me I am the center of his universe. I am his everything.

And then he can ignore me for days at a time.

So much I didn't know when we met, things no one would tell me. Wives #1 and #2 could have told me, but he kept them as far away as possible. Not that I would have believed them, anyway. Not then.

His temper, hair trigger sometimes. How tight he can be with his millions. The way he rewrites history. I've heard him tell the story of how he was arrested when he was 16 ­ heard it twenty times, and it's always different, every time. I don't believe anything he tells me about his past, anymore.

He yells when he's pissed, long and loud. He used to throw things ­ books, dishes, the telephone ­ once even at me when I dared to make a suggestion on a song he was writing. We fight and he yells at me, drowning me with words; he fights with his business partners, his old bandmates, and he yells and yells till I run to the farthest corner of the house and hide. I put my fingers in my ears to stop the sound of his voice.

So much anger in him, still. Angry old man. Anger over things that happened before I was born. I think if he ever stopped being angry he would die.

He doesn't sleep much now, and every day he sees the dawn over the desert. And then he will come to me and lie next to me, wrapped around me, his breath warm on my neck, and we will tell each other the dreams of the night before. The smell of coffee and fresh bread winds up the stairs from the kitchen below. When he looks into my eyes he looks into my soul, seeing the hurts and the empty spaces there, and by the simply act of naming them he heals me. There is the sound of our breathing, and the sound of the sunrise.

He kisses me and tells me that he will never ever leave me.

He holds my hand in his: I look at the grey hairs on his arm: he says he could not live without me now.

What I have is him. And he is my heart.

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