Fan Fiction - Krasobruslení - Drabbles
[...] I began that very night to read every discarded news magazine I could find in hopes of learning more about him. Within a week I'd accumulated such a stack of them in my room that Auntie gave me a look as if I'd lost my mind. I did find mention of him in a number of articles, but only in passing, and none told me the sorts of things I really wanted to know. Still, I went on picking up every magazine I found poking out of a trash basket, until one day I came upon a stack of old papers tied in a bundle behind one of the teahouses.
Arthur Golden - Memoirs of a Geisha
It would have been just another ordinary Saturday night. I would have made myself a drink, would have flipped through the channels for a while, disinterested as usual, then fall asleep on the sofa with mute images still flashing on the TV screen. It would have been a perfectly normal night... if something I saw on NBC that night hadn’t caught my eye.
He was probably the most stunning thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Dressed in velvet and covered in sequins, he dazzled me – but rather than the countless drops of sparkle on his costume, it was his presence that blew my mind. I couldn’t take my eyes off him as I followed his Olympic short program. Twenty minutes later, when Johnny Weir had long been replaced by others, his image was still floating through my head.
That night, I sat in front of my computer for hours and read every scrap of information I could find on the internet, browsed through countless picture galleries. I let my eyes feast at the marvels of his face and body, allowed my mind to spin dreams around what I learned about him. I continued with that, night by night, day by day, week by week.
None of the articles could tell me the things I really wanted to know, though, none held answers to questions that kept arising. I wanted to know Johnny, wanted to learn every little detail about him and his life – who he was, what he liked, where he went, with whom, who he hit on in bars... The more I thought about him, the more I craved. When did he get up? What did his bedroom look like? What coffee did he order at Starbucks? And, of course – What did he like in bed? What did his skin feel like? Where were the secret places that would make him moan if I touched them?
I sometimes wonder just how much different my life could be now had I not glimpsed Johnny Weir on TV that night in February. I would probably still have my job and my apartment, both of which I gave up and exchanged for a motel room in Newark and the chance to be closer to my object of desire. There wouldn’t be a file with my name on it and a restricting order inside in the local sheriff’s office. There wouldn’t be a door without a handle, the door that keeps me away from him and from the world now. I sometimes think about all this when I pace the limited space of my cell – one, two, three steps, there isn’t room enough for more.
But the thing that truly haunts me, the one question I ask myself every single day as I look at the recent photographs a prison mate had obtained and smuggled in for half of my daily cigarette ration, is how much of that fear in Johnny’s eyes would not be there if it hadn’t been for me.