Mew’s Meow

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~And that, friends, is how to make a quick sausage and potato feast. Don’t burn your fingers!~

I sighed and logged out of the blog. “Mew’s Meows” was my pathetic attempt at opening up to people. My therapist had suggested it, telling me that the anonymity of the ‘net might make me spill my guts since obviously his sessions weren’t helping. I’d grudgingly agreed to make a go of a blog, in return for a promise of a waiting prescription every month. I’d named the blog “Mew’s Meows” because I didn’t want my whole name (Bartholomew) associated with what I was writing. Truth be told, I also liked the alliteration of it. It had been helping, I was ashamed to admit. The bouts of depression came less often now that I could safely let it all out. I still had occasional dark days that nothing could make better, and sometimes I blogged about them and others I didn’t.

I pushed back from the desk and took out my med box. I kept my pain killers and my mood elevators locked up in a non-descript case to keep people from seeing them. Not that anyone had been anywhere near enough me to see them. I haven’t had guests over since I moved into my apartment two years ago. I cradled the pills in my hand and went to the bathroom to slurp some water from the tap. I didn’t look in the mirror. It would be a sure fire way to ruin my day. I knew what I’d see anyway. The long red scar that bisects my left cheek, trailing through my eyebrow and up into my hair. The patch where the scar ran was white while the rest of my hair is dark brown. My eye is intact, but a different color than the right. One brown, one blue.

The accident was years old, but the wounds still seemed new to me. I popped the pills in my mouth and sighed, waiting for the release. My left arm is scarred, as is the chest muscle on that side. A fire had started after the car had slammed into the bridge. I had made it out of the back seat but not before my jacket caught and melted into my skin. I’d lain in the snow and watched the car, and my family, burn while I tore the baseball jacket away from my pain wracked arm. The blood from my face and head stung mercilessly and I’d passed out.

When I woke up in the hospital, there was no one. I drifted in and out of a pain-fogged and medication-dulled haze for days until a young looking doctor had wakened me and delivered the news that I was an only child to dead parents. The pain and depression had started that day. The therapy had started years later and the blog shortly after that. I sighed again and left the bathroom. I’d tried to avoid seeing myself and instead relived my nightmare. It was going to be one of those days.


~I got myself down again yesterday. I am still in a funk. So no recipes today. You’ll all forgive me though right? Instead, let me tell you what I did to try to get out of my funk. I watched The Princess Bride again. The Man In Black/Wesley gets me so hot usually that I can’t be in a bad mood. It didn’t work. So I watched put in my “I’m going to be sad today” line up. I have movie lists for my moods. Doesn’t everyone? I watched Bed of Roses and Untamed Heart, both Christian Slater films, both guaranteed to make me cry. I always come out of it wishing I had a man like that. But I don’t. And I cry more. Usually that’s all it takes to get back out of a slump. I cry myself into and out of it. Is that confessing too much on a blog?~

I genuinely do love Christian Slater movies. He genuinely does make me hot. He was my first celebrity crush when I was a teen. He was the first gay crush I ever had. I smiled wistfully at the memories of spending days talking to my posters, imagining that I would find someone who looked just like him. Glancing at the clock, I realized I had to get moving. I was late for my job as a handy man at a local church. They had asked me to fix their roof, among other things, and I had promised I would get started today. The blog would have to wait, as would the half-erection I was now sporting from thinking about my crush.


I drove the few miles to the small white church building that had hired me. I was surprised to see more than a few cars in the lot. Despite the heat, I pulled a hoodie from my back seat, determined to hide myself if there were too many people about. I didn’t want any piteous looks from them as they watched me toil. I knew they couldn’t help it, but I also knew that the mood I’d been in the last few days would make me see their quick glances and double-takes harder than I should. I went around back to get the ladder set up so I could go up and survey the roof.

I froze. Sitting between me and the small shed where the ladder was stored was a large group of teens arranged in a semicircle around someone. They were facing away from me, but the object of their attention was not. My mouth hung open. He was beautiful. I was close enough to see his honey-gold eyes, glittering from behind waves of blonde hair that fell astray from gaziantep bayan eskort a pony tail at the nape of his neck. He had high cheekbones and a strong jaw with a hint of stubble. He cradled an acoustic guitar on his lap and was strumming softly.

I was enthralled. When he started to sing, just as softly, my heart contracted. He sounded like silk – smooth and soft and touchable. The group in front of him joined in the chorus and the spell was broken. Stumbling away, my back hit the wall of the church. He looked up at the small yelp I made and smiled. Perfect teeth, crooked grin and a glint in his eye. He made a small head nod, asking me to join the semi-circle but I couldn’t. I couldn’t make myself sit that close to those kids. Instead I pulled the hoodie on and edged around the gathering to hurriedly collect the ladder.


~I’m not kidding readers. He. Was. Gorgeous. His eyes are how I imagine Jesus’ eyes to be. Bright and clear and kind. He smiles like he loves everyone. And he can sing. I have a new little crush I think. My own personal Jesus (I smirked at the unintentional allusion to a song from my high school days) and I wish he were really mine. But those are thoughts for another day. Good night.~

My dreams were sweet, thinking of those eyes and that smile. I didn’t even have the urge to pleasure myself to his image… I just thought of how special he must make his loved ones feel. Of how he could make me feel if we were in an alternate universe, if I were unscarred and undamaged.

The next few days the blog took on a worshipful tone. I waxed poetic on every moment that contained him. My P.J. as I started calling him on the blog. Every time I posted my movie plans or dinner recipe, or anything else, I imagined what it would be like to be sharing that moment with him.

The church was helping me out more than they knew when they asked if I could do more than repair the roof and I was pleased to take on any task the Pastor would give me, if only so I could see P.J. again.

The first time we spoke, I almost died on the spot. I was in the small back room, washing paintbrushes clean after a day of staining the woodwork in the offices. It was hot and stale in the small room. Thinking I had the place to myself, I took my long-sleeved t-shirt off. I was absently scrubbing paint from my nails when I heard footsteps behind me. Tensing, I continued to pick at the paint, hoping whoever it was would go away. I didn’t want to explain. I didn’t want to see pity. I just wanted to get out of this stuffy little room. Right now.

“What the hell happened?”

Slowly turning, I hung my head. I knew that voice. P.J. I never wanted him to see me like this – as me. I wanted to stay in my fantasy world where I could pretend I was perfect and our meeting would be like heat lightning and magnets all in one.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” I reached for my shirt and pulled it on, not caring that I had just soaked it. I turned the tap off and tossed the brushes in the bucket. My voice was gruff and I went into defense mode.

“Wow, oh, hey man. I’m sorry. I was just surprised to find anyone still here. Didn’t mean to be rude.” He was blocking the door. Making a snap decision, I tried to brush past him. God, he smells so good I thought as I ducked under his arm. Like soap and spring and warmth. My breath hitched. As soon as I got past him, I fled. By the time I got home, I was shaking like a leaf and holding back tears.

~ So why am I so upset readers? I don’t want to talk about it. But he smelled so good, and I just ran away. Think I am a chicken if you like, but I don’t give a fuck.~

It was one of the few times I’d sworn on the blog and it felt hollow. I did give a fuck. I was ashamed on so many levels that it threatened to pull me into the depths.

~I’m going to go make some comfort food – peanut butter and raspberry jelly sandwiches in case you wondered. I might watch The Princess Bride again and eat my sandwich and day dream about P.J.~


It took hours of debate and a long, sleepless Saturday night to decide that I would go back on Monday to finish the work I had started. I’d just have to avoid P.J. which should be easy on a weekday. I pulled up in my battered Dodge Neon, and finding the parking lot empty, left my long sleeves in the front seat. It was hotter than it had been the last few days and I was grateful to not have to hide today.

Hours later, I had peeled off my shirt entirely and was sweating from exertion. Today’s task had been moving and repairing pews. I sat in one and looked around. The sanctuary was beautiful and I had a pang. I hadn’t been religious since my parents and sister died. I hadn’t been to church since I was eighteen and now at twenty-six I just didn’t feel the same as I had then. Sighing, I folded my arms on the pew ahead of me and laid my head on them.

“It’s ok you know.”

Yipping in surprise, I bolted upright.

“It’s ok that you’re scarred. It doesn’t make you less of a person.” The warmth in that voice was something I’d never thought I’d hear.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” my default answer came to my lips before I even turned to face him.

“I’m Cat. Catcher, actually, but, well, I hate that name.” He smiled that crooked smile that melts me to my toes.

“Bart.” My voice was brusque again. “Actually, Bartholomew, but I hate that. I hate being associated with a bratty ten year old on tv too, but –” breaking off, I realized that I was babbling.

“Nice to meet you.” He extended his hand. He was slightly taller than me, just as muscled, and he had callouses from more than guitar playing. As we shook, his gaze swept the room. “Looks like they’ve really put you to work, haven’t they?”

I nodded dumbly. Cat. My personal Jesus’ name was Cat.

“Pay well at least?” Noticing he was looking everywhere but at me, I started to get scared and angry again.

“Does it matter? No one, not even you can look at me, so you’ll pay me well and let me get on with it.” My face reddened. I was on the defensive now, ready for my heart to break and my fantasies to be dashed when Cat responded.

“I thought you didn’t want me to look, so I didn’t. Put your shirt on and we can just talk, alright?” Taking the shirt he offered, I slipped it on and wished reflexively for the hoodie that I could hide in. I would have rather died of heat stroke than talked to Cat at that moment, but now that he was looking at me again, I found myself staring at his eyes. Intense flashes of images bolted through my head. Those eyes, staring from inches away into mine as he held me. His soft lips moaning from what I did to him. It was gone in a second and I blushed, hoping he hadn’t read anything in my posture, in my eyes.

“Well, Bart, what do you do for fun?” It was inane and meant to be non-threatening but I reacted like a wounded animal.

“Work. I don’t go out much and I don’t have any friends.” Cursing internally I wondered why the hell I told him that.

“That sucks. Must be lonely.”

I nodded yes. “It’s not that I don’t want friends, it’s just that they don’t want me.” My heart stopped as I heard what I said. Fuck. He’s trying to be friendly and all I can think of is his naked body. I’m alternating between babbling idiot and jerk and I just want to bury my face in his neck and sniff.

The lopsided grin came out again as he used his hands to smooth back that long hair. “So be a musician!” At my sideways look he said, “hey, works for me. I never had friends until I learned to play guitar. Now I can’t keep track of the people who want to hang out.” He was teasing but it made a ghost of a smile cross my face.

“And who would teach me? No one wants to be close to me for too long – afraid that whatever damaged me would damage them.”

“I’ll teach you if you want. We can have lessons after work for the day. I just kind of hang around anyway. Not much to do when you have no job and still live life like you’re 25 instead of 30.”

“You’re 30 and don’t work?” Surprised edged my voice as I said, “What are you doing here all the time?”

“This and that. I’m mostly working as a chaperone right now. Can’t have all those teens out of school and in the streets can we? So I basically baby sit.” He shrugged and I couldn’t help but notice the way his shirt clung to his arms and chest.

“Ok.” I don’t know what possessed me to say it, but I suddenly wanted nothing more than to spend my every waking minute with Cat.

“Ok what?”

“I’ll take lessons from you.”


~It’s been a month of lessons and I’m actually getting the hang of it readers. P.J. says I’ve got a knack. (I refused to call him Cat online. It was such a distinctive name when paired with my awestruck descriptions that anyone could figure out who I was talking about if they knew him. They’d figure out it was me, and my life would be over) And when he corrects my finger placement, the feeling of his warm hands on mine makes me butter. I’ve had more wet dreams these last few weeks than I ever had in my life, and they all center around P.J.~

Logging out, I flopped into my bed. I thought of his touch and his smell, and found myself getting hard. Shimmying out of my pants, I stroked my eight inch dick, imagining his lips around it. It was the first time I purposefully imagined sex with him. I pictured his erection straining against his pants, waiting for me to release it. My body was so tense and so pent up from decades of celibacy that I didn’t get far into the fantasy before I blew my load. Falling asleep with a smile was surprisingly easy for a change.


It was true. Lessons had become my reason to get up in the morning. My reason to keep working at all the small and mindless tasks that I could find just to have a job to do at that church.

And then it came crashing down. It was mid-July now and there were fewer and fewer teens to be guided into wholesome activities. I finished with the electrical outlet I was puttering with and put the tools away, eager to get to the small office that had been commandeered as our lesson room.

Cat was subdued when he came in a few minutes later. “Bad news Bart. We’re going to have to cancel lessons after this. I’ve got to be moving on to a different job. A real job. I need to start being a grown up.”

My heart crumbled. I’d fallen head over heels, completely and utterly in love with him this last month and hearing him tell me he was leaving damn near killed me on the spot. “Oh.” I couldn’t manage more.

“I thought today I would play for you instead of teaching. I’ve written a few things and I’d like you to be the first to tell me what you think.”

I couldn’t have played a note if he begged me, so I nodded dumbly again and sat on the floor where we usually sat. He pulled his guitar out of the case and, cross-legged in front of me, he started to sing. The silk voice wrapped around me and I listened intently.

“Like heat lightning, dancing through the clouds. A promise of more, of things to be. It’s hidden in your eyes, and I wish you’d let me see…” I almost cried. I knew what he was singing about. He was begging someone to let him in. I could imagine her. She’d be tall and vivacious. She’d be bubbly and beautiful and would be perfect for him. I barely heard the rest, I was so sick inside. This was the death knell of my fantasies. What good were fantasies if I would forever hear these words and get a picture them instead of us.

“Very nice.” Woodenly, I lurched to my feet. “Beautiful. You should sing for her. She’ll fall all over you.” I stumbled out, heartbroken and feeling uglier than ever before.


~They say not to mix painkillers and alcohol. Why do they say that? Because it’s dangerous. But what if the danger isn’t the point? What if you suddenly had your world pulled from under your feet again? I’d say that gives one a good reason to mix painkillers and alcohol. Kill the pain, wash away the cold. Good bye guys.~

It was dramatic, but I was drunk and didn’t care. I’d gotten home and taken a hard look at myself. Mismatched, disfigured, heartbroken and depressed. The mirror had cut my fist when I shattered it, but I figured I was taking painkillers anyway, so what the hell. I brought the bottle of tequila and the now-broken lock box to my bedroom and curled up under the covers. I didn’t think I needed a note, but I had to say goodbye to the blog. The readers. The readers I don’t even know exist. Pathetic. I talk to them and they don’t even exist. I’m just typing into space. The bottles emptied before I knew it and I closed my eyes.


“Dammit, breathe! Come on Mew! Come on!”

It was hard to pull up from the blackness. I didn’t want to, it was too hard and what was the point.

“Mew! MEW!” Soft lips pressed mine. Fucking hallucinations. Go away so I can go away already. There was urgency pressing against me. It was hard to keep sinking when someone was meowing at me. When did I get a cat? My body was leaden and my brain felt like I was thinking through a pillow. The kiss came again, as did pain against my chest. What the fuck? Spluttering, I suddenly came up from the depths. Rolling to my side I vomited uncontrollably. I collapsed and tried to relearn how to breathe.

“Mew! Oh thank god!”

I blacked out again, but it wasn’t the same sinking darkness that I’d felt before. This was different and I knew I’d come out of it.


The first thing I noticed when I woke up next was that I was cold. The second thing, that I was naked. Finally I figured out I was in the shower. How the fuck did I get here? And where’d that cat go? It was hazy and my head hurt. Why hadn’t I kept on dying? I was so close, what stopped me? The cat? I don’t have a cat. So who was meowing? I groaned, unable to figure it out.

“Shh… don’t say anything Mew.” Huddling into myself, I feared I was still hallucinating. A hand hit my shoulder and I flinched so hard I thought I might break. The water turned off and a towel fell around me. I’d been curled in the tub and couldn’t make my legs work. I couldn’t even make my head turn. Arms scooped me up like I was a child and I briefly fell into a haze again. Hi Dad. I’m sick. Will you tuck me in? It was surreal. Had I gone back in time? Was I now a child again, having my dad carry me to bed after coming home from school ill? I couldn’t tell. All I knew was that when the arms put me into my bed, I cried from being let go.

A weight settled next to me. “It’s ok Mew. I’m here. I’m not leaving.” The soothing stroke of a hand against my cheek calmed me and I slept again, wondering at the sensation of being touched. A child again. No scars and someone stroking my hair. I think I smiled as I fell again, this time into sleep.

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