And I Won't Be the Same Without Him
I'm a man. He's a man. We live with men. Okay, we've all established that we're men. And there are certain rules among men. Rules about women and friendship and alone time and displays of affection and neediness and everything else. Well, there are rules about that stuff for everybody everywhere, but every group has certain rules that you have to stick to, and, well, that means there are certain rules that we're supposed to stick to. But we don't. We bend them a little. We're confident. We don't have to assert our manhood at one another. Everybody knows David is the world's tiniest Cassanova. Everyone knows that Micky isn't picky about what he dates, so long as it has the capacity to lactate at some point in its life. Everyone knows that Peter is a gentle soul who doesn't chase, but lets himself be chased. And everybody knows that I don't have time to pursue carnal desires, because I have to make sure we keep a roof over our heads and our names in the heads of two bit club owners who can throw us a bone. Everybody knows the score.
So if I can get a hold of Davy's sloppy seconds, great. If Mick has a particularly sleazy moo cow who wants a two-fer, I'm on it. That makes my life that much easier.
And if Peter wants to bait me, well, alright. Lord knows it's nearly impossible to get Davy's girls to look up at skyscraper-me once he's done. And no self respecting woman who actually bathes more than twice a year is going to readily admit to wanting a ménage á trois. But Peter is accessible. And he knows the rules about intimacy and loyalty to the gang and that the guys trump romance every single time. There's nothing to explain. He knows I can't just hold his hand when he brushes it against my thigh. He knows we gotta stick to the sleeping arrangements when the others don't have dates. He knows nobody loves anybody more than the band. He knows all this.
But he's always been the dummy. The ditzy blond who could never get anything right. The one who signed our lives away time and time again and always wound up getting in deep trouble. He was always the one who got everything wrong. So here he goes again. Packing his bags. Hugging Davy. Draping his beads over Micky's wild hair. Cutting his eyes at me. Walking out the door. Ending the band. Tearing down everything we worked for as a unit. Breaking all the rules.
Rules were made to be broken, but not like this. Oh God, Peter. Not like this.