"Thom Yorke, you are a fucking bastard."

Thom Yorke, you are a fucking bastard.


Well, maybe I am too, I don’t know. I mean, after all, you’re the one who finally had enough courage to try and make a move on me and I’m the one who pushed you away so roughly you nearly fell. The image of the sheer hurt on your face after I pushed you is stuck in my mind and will be haunting me forever.

But then again, it was only a few hours ago. And there you are already, flirting shamelessly with some girl, a girl Thom, really? Who the fuck are you trying to fool?

You’re putting up a whole show for me, and it’s not even a bad show, I must give you that. Watching you as you half smile at that girl, as you keep touching your lips when she speaks, as you lean closer to her with every sentence is quiet fascinating and I lean back, taking another sip from my drink.

You’ve been drinking, of course you have, you had to drink to bring yourself into this state, you had to drink so you could start pretending you’re actually interested in her, to forget about the insult of my rejection.

Why did I reject you then?

I know it sounds stupid, and you’re probably not even going to believe me, but I did it because I want you too much, because I’ve been wanting you for too long and because somewhere in my mind it just didn’t make any sense that you might want me back. So my instinct was to push you away and then it was too late, you were gone, didn’t even give me a chance to regret.

Now I’m sitting in this god forsaken club alone, watching the back of your skull as you whisper something into that girl's ear. She really doesn’t know what hit her, the poor thing, one moment she was just sitting there all by her self, having a drink, and the next- a half drunk rock star with red hair and an attitude is all over her, trying to win her as a comfort prize.

How far will you go, Thom? Will you kiss her, will you take her to the back and fuck her in some dark sticky corner? How long until your senses will be blurry enough that it wouldn’t even matter to you anymore whose lips you’re kissing?

Just like you were reading my thoughts I see you jump off your chair, emptying the remnants of your beer down your throat as you grab her hand and pull her along with you to a corridor at the back of the club, a little smile of victory on your face. You're looking at me, straight into my eyes with that smile and I know what you’re thinking.

He deserves it.

Maybe I do deserve it, I don’t know. Maybe you’re just an idiot. Either way, there we are, you’re with that girl and I’m here on this couch and I feel like I have to do something or I’ll explode so I jump up and follow you, whatever it is I’ll have to do, I’m going to stop this sick little game of yours right now.

I can see you now but you can’t see me. I freeze at my spot and watch you for a couple of moments before making my move. You're standing in a deserted dark loading area at the back of the club and you’re already at this girl, both of your hands in her hair and your lips at her neck while she starts pealing your leather jacket off your shoulders. I hear you moan and something inside me falls off and shutters into a million pieces and I can’t stand still anymore so I jump right in front of you and scream:

“Thom!” And I slap your stunned face before you have any chance of reacting. The girl shrieks and jumps away from you as you run a hand over your reddening cheek and I can almost appreciate the comic value of this scene.

The rage on your face is something that might return to me in my nightmares and I only have a second to admire it before you pin me against the wall, your hands gripping my shoulders and your forehead pressed to mine. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing Jonny?!?”

The girl is screaming by now and you take a moment to turn over to her and scream at her to fuck off, how very noble of you. She follows your orders because you don’t really mess with someone that has people pinned into walls and four different types of red on the skin of their faces.

You’re fucking scary when you’re angry, Thom.

But I’m not afraid of you. I just look you in the eye until you let go of me and then I double up, my hands dramatically gripping my stomach and a scream of pain is hanging in the air above us as you follow me to the filthy ground, a look of horror on you face.

"Jonny, Jonny?!" is all you manage to say out of your shock and you grab me in your arms and move my hair away and then it's one of those moments that in real life last only half of a second but in our minds we see them in slow motion, because we already know how they will change everything, perhaps forever, because in our minds we are already regretting them. But I have no time for regret now, I need to be focused and sharp as I take advantage of your absolute vulnerability to flip us over and watch the worry in your eyes turn into complete amazement, shock and then rage, just pure rage, and then-

then you struggle.

God how you struggle, using your nails and teeth like a trapped animal but I'm stronger and I manage to somehow pin you beneath me. I try kissing you but you only struggle more, cursing me and the day I was born and I look around us to find something, anything that would help me calm you down, I think I can see blood now but I don't know if it's yours or mine and then my eyes spot your tie, of course, your tie! It's hanging around your neck, loose enough so I can easily take it off and try using it to tie your slender wrists together.

At first, when you realize what I'm doing you just stare at me amazed and your struggle dies out. But that blessed silence goes on for a mere second and then it's all teeth and curses again so I just cover your lips with mine, not in a kiss yet but just in a firm notation that you're mine now, that you don't have a choice, that you should give up the struggle.

But you're Thom Yorke, and you're the most stubborn person I know, and somewhere deep inside I do know that you won't give up so easily. It's when you bite my lip and I taste blood (I know it's mine now) that I decide to shove my hand down your trousers and to my surprise you're fully hard, I smile against you as you try to wriggle yourself away from me with not much success. I am stronger, Thomas.

I stroke you and I can almost feel your inner struggle, the part of you that is still hurt, still angry with me is making you move your head away from mine and a breathy "Stop" is all you manage because the other part of you, the one that has been wanting this for years now is taking you over and making you move against me in need, flutter your eyes shut in pleasure and bite your own lips. You want this more than anything, I can tell.

Your neck is exposed to me now and I lean down and lick my way up to your ear and then I whisper that I'm sorry, that I want you and that I never meant to push you away and as I confess my need for you I'm stroking you even harder and you allow yourself to completely collapse in front of me, you let go and you moan my name and kiss me back and neither of us care anymore that we're surrounded by cigarette ends and empty beer bottles and it's so messy and beautiful that I feel myself laughing against your lips. You shiver, moan, and then you come in my hand so I untie you and I let you wrap your arms around me.

We both look like we've survived a plane crush, our clothing torn and our skins red with teeth marks and scratches but it doesn't matter now, that I can lean over and kiss your bruised lips and whisper in your ear:

"Thom Yorke, you are a fucking bastard."