Meet His Future

Story In Progress…

Jared Leto was falling in love and he likened it to being poisoned.  For him, love has always been toxic, but he was becoming addicted to her.  Thoughts of her consumed him.  Though he tried quite hard to push them (and her) away time and again, she invaded his mind.  Took residence in his soul.  He couldn’t shake her.  Couldn’t run far enough from her.  She was in the reflections of the windows in Paris.  Inside a rain drop in Rome.  Underneath an awning, in the form of a ray of sunshine, on a shaded street in Copenhagen warming his shoulders and making him grateful again for this life.

His life, a busy life, became story he needed to tell her.  Something she’d want to write about.  While they were making plans for the future, he was forgetting all about the past.  She was fixing him.  Unconsciously fixing him.  Their bi-coastal love affair was therapeutic.  And Jared Leto needs lots and lots of therapy.

With so much time apart between them, he would forget how she felt in his arms.  But he’d never forget her laugh – always so hearty and free.  She’d guffaw in to the phone, trying to tell a story and getting strangled by hysterics before she could get the words out and he’d stare at the phone waiting for her to recover, annoyed that he couldn’t follow her train of thought and then she’d deliver the last few lines and drop the phone and roll all over the ground clutching her stomach and he’d watch her on the house security cameras he loaded on the laptop before he called her (he liked to see her run around the house looking for her cell, giddy that it was his ring tone) and he would say to himself “I want to marry that girl.”  and she’d pick up her cellphone, apologize and he’d hear a smile in her voice, and he’d check the security camera on his laptop again and he’d see she was twisting the ends of her hair, her nervous tick, and he’d know she still needed his approval and he’d love her even more.

And of course there’s her smile.  Resplendent and honest.  She makes him smile by smiling all the time and when she smiles just for him, his heart lurches forward in his chest like he was hit by a two ton freighter.  That her teeth are not quite straight and their color not quite white, should irritate him.  He hates imperfect teeth. Her tiny mouth didn’t quite suit her head.  There are a gazillion things about her that he hates when part of anyone else he has ever met.  The way the pink of her lips was such a contrast to the pale peach of her skin.  She wasn’t perfect, but she was.  So very perfect. In ways he’d never vocalize. She is moody and has thick hips.  Creases around her eyes and laugh lines.  There is perfection inside her imperfections and he loves her for it all.  For changing his view point.  For taking away the shallow and replacing it with all of her.  Every last inch.  Every last freckle.

Oh, Lord above, he’s in deep.  And he’s scared.  And he’s thankful.  And he’s scared.  She would never pass the tests everyone else would give her.  Thankfully, she doesn’t care about that sort of thing, he tries not to either, but it would always be there.  All those people wondering whats wrong with him and why she’s not someone else….anyone but her.  He’s not enough man to fill the hole inside her soul that years worth of “why you of all people” would wear down.  And he knows this.  And it scares him.

He sat down on their bed and observed the way she slept: her long auburn hair covering the pillow and a portion of her face, twisting this way and that, suffocating her.  Her lips slightly parted, breath sneaking in and out.  Jared liked to kiss her while she slept, influence her dreams in some telepathic way.  He did it so often that he stopped fearing she’d wake because she never did.

He used to worry that her eyes would snap open and she’d catch him at that moment before his lips met hers.  When he was moving in for the smooch.  Too close for comfort but not close enough to be obvious he was just after a kiss. How would he explain hovering over her face while she slept?  That was his worry but he probably wouldn’t have to explain a thing.  She understood him.  All of his idiosyncrasies made sense to her and she, of course, hated some, loathed others but without much tadoo; she accepted them all.  Jared was Jared and not a science experiment or something to tolerate because of his fame.  He was him and that was ok.  More than ok.

Jared leaned over his girl, pressed his lips in to her and relaxed his spine.  This girl is his girl.  This imperfect bundle of blankets and flesh and hair and sticky sweat (she hates air conditioning) loves him too.

This comatose chickie with an apple shaped ass owned him.  He slid closer to her, his boots on the bed, his jacket still zipped.  Spooning her body with his.  Sliding his right leg between hers (where her body pillow used to be).  And she sank in to him, from a twilight sleep she felt him there and she readjusted her position.  Her apple bottom finding the warmth of his crotch, her favorite perch.  Her hand reaching out for his arm to wrap around her. He cradled her before kissing her neck.

His beautiful princess fell back to sleep with him beside her before he could tell her he was home.  Safe and secure.  She didn’t need the words, though he loved to say them to her, she just needed him.  She quickly returned to the depths of slumber where snores are made.  That soft snore would horrify her if she knew.  But she only snored on days he returned from travel, finally able to sleep deep because he was there.  He’d never embarrass her with it, the fact that she snored those nights. His little secret, he liked knowing things about her she’d never know.  Like how she sometimes looked at his shoulder instead of his eyes when she spoke.  How she had a rich vocabulary but used the word “decadent” incorrectly.

At his hotel this morning, he couldn’t sleep.  He wandered the streets.  Too late for criminals; already high or locked up.  Too early for the coffee baristas and school bus drivers.  And he thought about her, about marriage and forever and today and tomorrow and yesterday and the sunrise and the sunset and whether he wanted her there for the rest of his; however many that would be, and he decided he needed her there.  Risk be damned. Insanity, come hither.  This is it.  She…is…it.  This might be suicide.  A death sentence.  Rebirth.  But it’s his now.  Her present.  And he’s going to ask her to stay for eternity. To be his bride.  To risk what they have right here, right now for something bigger than the two of them.  Something the Priests bless and no man should put asunder

….as soon as she wakes up.

  – – – – – – – – – –

He doesn’t think that I know about the kisses. The ones he gives me in the middle of the night while he thinks I’m fast asleep. But I know. It takes all of the strength I have inside me not to whimper in those moments. Or to grab him and pull him down on top of me, disrobe him and make the most passionate and consummate love two people have ever shared.

Those kisses are everything. So soft and delicate. So loving and all telling. His kisses, the ones he thinks are secret, are sacred. They’re what keep me grounded. Let me face another day, another week, with or without him. Sometimes the with is more trying than the without. But he’s worth it. Worth the looks and the pain and the messages that come up in google that call me fat and ugly. The ones that attempt to dethrone me, prove beyond a shadow of doubt that I’m not his girl, I’m just ‘some’ girl. Those days, those days are the hard ones, because I do care what the world thinks. Though I know I should not. But I do. I’m only human. And this human loves that human and that should be that. But it isn’t. Because I’m not conventionally pretty and I eat too many carbs.

I’m human and that’s not good enough because Jared, my sweet sweet human, is a God to so many. Too many. No, not too many. Just too many with big mouths and no filters and endless amounts of empty time they choose to waste on my imperfections. But those girls (and a handful of boys) don’t get to be kissed the way I’m kissed. While I’m fast asleep. While there’s nothing for him to gain by kissing me.

I wish they could understand, these opinionated trolls, that the kisses that soothe Jared’s soul come from me…when all I’m doing is sleeping. That means something. And it should matter. And it should be enough. And it should explain it all. Why I am his girl. The one he dreams about. The one he kisses when I’m fast asleep, because the kisses we share when awake aren’t enough to sustain him. He needs more, more than the daylight hours can provide. More than the million we share as one. He needs more … of me.

These people, these people who don’t recognize I’m a human being with a heart and a soul and feelings, they don’t get it or me or us or this … and maybe they never will. But they’re hurting me. And if he loves me and I’m hurt, you’re hurting him too. Remember, Jared picked me. Or maybe his God did. But he is by my side by choice. Because of love and need and want and desire. You love him so much, respect his decision. Let him love a girl with crooked teeth. Let him love a girl with thick thighs and little feet. Let him love the one he has chosen to love. And be a human about it.

He’s here … for the rest of his life. And so am I, because I love him just the same. If he didn’t give me kisses at 3am, I’d be giving them to him.

If these mouths and those opinions loved him like they purport to, they’d understand I love him too. And that I’ll be good to him. I’ll hike with him. Read with him. Travel with him. Massage his tired back. Puff his pillows. Engage his mind. Challenge him. Make him a better man. I’ll do those things, just the same as they would. Maybe better. Because I love him and he deserves it. Respect. Adoration. Affection and Release. I’ll give it all to him.

Is that the problem in of itself…I am not you?

If that is so, mind your age. We’re all adults here. I’ll share him with you. Share his time. His energy. His love. But you need to promise me this in return, don’t break his heart by talking ill of mine. I’m his girl … and when I wake later and he asks me about forever and to make the kind of promises people in love swear to keep … I will be forever more. And he should never have to worry that you’d hurt me … because you’re his family …isn’t that how the story goes?

– – – – – – – – –

After a few hours of much needed sleep, Jared Leto was at peace as he stared out a window that framed the west side of the Hollywood Hills and sipped from a room temperature bottle of water. The sunrise was impressive, as is often the case. Atomic orange and persimmon rose up from behind the mountains as a Spanish blue enveloped the remains of the sky.

Jared finished his water, placed the glass bottle on the window sill and stretched his arms above his head. His spine realigned and he felt taller as he ran his palm across his stomach and settled his fingertips in to the waist band of his pajama pants.  He returned his eyes to the California horizon.  Home. It’s so good to be home.

Bridget was asleep when Jared came in last night and from her slumber she made only a desultory acknowledgement of his return. He was hungry for her now. His need growing as he turned away from the window and back to their shared bed. She lay there wrapped inside a white sheet and blanket. Her innocence and vulnerability fueling his desire for her flesh. He coveted the feeling of her beneath him. On her back and open wide to receive him deep inside her. Lips parted for his tongue. Hands clenching his biceps as they shared a passion that brought them both to a peak then released them to the sling-shot spirals of ecstasy.

Jared slipped his hand inside his pants and massaged his cock. Long well-versed strokes that felt too good with his woman in the room. He let go of himself and walked back to their bed; his rock hard erection tenting his pajama pants. Jared hoped Bridget would wake and call out to him; a need in her voice that would mirror the one in his heart.  But she stayed still as he made his way across the room.

When he reached their bedside, he climbed out of his pajamas, let them gather on the floor and slid up inside Bridget’s cocoon of blankets and sheets. He laid down behind her and let his eyes roam across the patches of skin that snuck out from beneath her blanket.  Patches of her.  Suggestive samples of the woman he adored.  He loved her skin, freckled but baby smooth. It looked like peach sorbet or a few shades lighter than a sweet apricot butter. Reddened by too much attention from the sun, she must have spent yesterday on the trails. A strip of sunburned skin begged for a smear of aloe.  He thought about cuming on her thighs.  The milky white of his release would have a florescence to it in contrast against her burnt skin.

He moved in closer so that he was cradling her again; careful not to rub against her sunburn. Her thighs felt warm against his skin. Her breaths even and undisturbed. His dick still throbbing with need, he hitched up her pajama shirt to expose a breast…her breath changed as he massaged her and pinched softly at the delicate skin of her nipple.  From somewhere in the space between her dreams, a fantastical reality was calling to her, she moaned quietly in reply.

Jared released her breast and kissed her collarbone as he let his hand dip between her legs.  She parted them for him, awake now and aware of his desire.  “mmm” she said as he circled his fingers in and out of her and tangled his tongue within the folds of her ear.

“I need you …” Jared moaned. His journey inside her, with his long fingers buried deep, reminded him again of how she felt wrapped around his painfully erect cock.  He wasn’t going to last long and that was just fine, Bridget was ready for him now, wide awake and full of want. She revealed her need for him in juices he lapped from his fingertips before he slid her lace panties off, they had been pushed to the side as he explored.

Bridget rolled on to her back and let her knees fall to each side and Jared settled in between with his cock teasing her outer lips and his hips against her buttocks. Their eyes locked as Bridget felt the weight of him atop of her and smiled.  He kissed just beside her bellybutton, at the underside of her breast and along the pulsating veins in her neck before sliding his hands beneath her to lift her hips as he pushed himself inside her slowly.  His purple tip disappearing beneath the pink of her swollen puss-puss.

He paused to let her insides adjust to him, to stretch to accommodate his girth once again. Her softness was wrapped around his shaft.  As tight as he remembered in his time alone with his thoughts and not her.  Slowly, he pulled and pushed himself in and out of her; careful not to hurt her at first, then his strokes became more intense as they kissed and reacquainted themselves; then finally the polite passion of two making love gave way to explosive animalistic strokes inside her.  Fast pounding of flesh against flesh.  Slapping skin.  Pulled hair.  Bitten necks.  And when she came she called his name, then dug her nails deep in his back.  And when he came he couldn’t speak.  He couldn’t see, he could just feel ecstasy envelope him like the rays of the rising sun did the sky and he remembered home and that she was it for him.  And he collapsed on top of her.  His milky white cum coating her cervix instead of her thigh.

– – – – – – – – – –

I missed Jared … big time. His trips abroad always last forever but usually I’m too wrapped up in my own thing to pine too hard for him. But this trip felt different. Like a part of me was missing, not just feeling his absence but an actual loss. A hole in my life. Seriously, when you date a guy like him, you have to be independent (or you’d go crazy the first month) and I am very independent. I have an active social life. An important job. My own hobbies. I’m a full person and I truly enjoy “me” time. But more days that not, while he was away, I found myself feeling quite lonely. Discontent and super sad.

It wasn’t until I caught myself crying in the shower that I realized, I’ve got a problem. So I flew out to see him when the band had a stop in Estonia. We had a dinner after the show and caught up on what I had been missing. Then I returned home sadder than I had been before I flew out there.

My 24 hours with him was simply perfect. He did his routine – radio, tv spot then concert and I did mine – check/respond to emails, put in a reorder for some items the book shop was running low on and I sent 50 snapchats to my besties. I was content. We met a few new people for dinner, toured Estonia in the dark, made love and went our separate ways. But whats that silly saying “Leave your heart in San Francisco?” something like that…well I left mine in Estonia, then it traveled to Russia before back to back nights in Cannes.

I write Jared letters while he’s away, long letters on monogrammed stationary where my penmanship tells as much of a story as the words.  In block letters or cursive I tell him all about every thing he’s missing back here.  Every sunrise. Every kiss.  Yesterday’s customers.  Tomorrow’s plans. Kind of funny when I flip through the letters (I keep them in a shoe box under the bed on my side) I can see my own growth over the months.  How being without him got easier as my heart decided it was better off without him to when it became hard again when my heart decided to join him on the road.  Maybe someday I’ll let him read them.  They’re quite morose at times. More like diary entries than letters to my lover.  But they exist.  If he’s ever curious about when flirting with one of my best customers (who just so happened to be an Oscar winning actor/Grammy winning singer) switched to romantic feelings then unadulterated love.

In case it wasn’t insanely obvious, I’ve got it bad. A yearning inside me that’s beyond my control. A need for him that I can’t quite describe. Love. I’m in love. And I suspect he is too. His lust, not the key but, rather, it’s the more innocent times like when he returns from the road having picked up a book for me in every duty free shop in every airport he’d pass through … and he would have read each of the books, highlighted passages or written me notes in the margins.  Stories within the stories.  Words he needed me to read.  The words other men have said better than he ever would.  But words with the sentiments he would utter if he could find the words within himself.  But they escape him, like the sun escapes the day.

Sometimes, instead of the books, he brings me sketchpads from the little gift shops along the Thames, Seine, Wien and the Volga River that he fills with his pop art doodles.  I have a box of those under the bed on my side too.

Not that presents are a sign of anything more than my existence had a presence in his mind so often that he was compelled to pick up something for me to quiet his brain or satisfy his longing too in every single city; but they sure do make me feel good.  That he wanted me to experience some bit of every one of those cities with him, in the form of a gift shop trinket or a New York Times Best Seller, is romantic.  Maybe he has it bad too?

He just shut off the water in the shower and has to get ready to do some charity appearance at the KROQ studios so I’m going to put this away for the night but I suspect you’ll hear more from me as time goes on.

Wish me luck? Wont you?

Xo Bridget Lovegood

— – – – – – — – – – — –


As Jared drove his unassuming truck through the streets of Los Angeles, he ran lines with himself.

“I’m not going to sing the song until you answer me.” he said with Johnny Cash’s affect “Marry me June Carter.”

Jared adjusted the mirror, slicked back his hair and tasted Johnny’s words on his tongue again. “Marry me June.” he said as he squeezed the ring box on his lap with his left hand.  “Marry me Bridget.” he whispered in his own voice.

Jared slapped on his blinker as the words evaporated in the air. He just missed his turn off and needed to make an illegal Uturn to get back on track.  He peeked over his shoulder, waited for an icy Lamborghini to pass and said softly “Will you …marry me?” The truck screeched in protest as he turned sharply.  Jared’s mind was still elsewhere as he looked for that flower shop he stumbled in to a few weeks ago in the never ending row of shops on Ventura.

He wanted to patronize this particular shop today because of the juju or superstition or just because he didn’t feel like a fool the last time he wandered in there a few weeks back.  A particular shop that was bursting at the seams when he wandered in, with Calla Lilies no church would receive.  No hall would welcome.  A canceled wedding the day before on everyone’s lips.  Big timers big day gone bust.  They practically begged Jared to take the whole lot of them.

He had hemmed and he had hawed before finally sending three arrangements out: his mother, his Emma and his Chloe the beneficiaries of someone else’s misfortune; purchasing a dozen long-stemmed pink Peonies for Bridget, and walking out of there feeling like a really good dude.  A nice guy.  Someone who sends flowers unexpectedly to the girls in his life.

That place, the one he couldn’t find at the moment, made Jared feel calm.

He had hand delivered Bridget’s white paper wrapped pink Peonies to her at her door step that night.  Like a good old fashioned boy.  Made love to her before she put them in water and they made it to the bedroom like a rabbit in heat.

He needed that juju again.  And advice.  From the little woman behind the counter, the one he discovered while filing out the cards for the girls, had been married 47 years before ‘her Ivan’ passed away.  He need the tender faced florist to tell Jared how to start the journey to become Bridget’s Ivan. To school him, mentor him, give him a clue.  He didn’t have many – no, actually he didn’t have any – successful marriages to look upon.  The little old lady with the calloused fingers (too many pricks from long-stem roses) knew something about love.  Something about what it took to be Ivan.

Studio City Blooms?  Where the fuck is Studio City Blooms?  Between Lankershim and what…fuck!

He tried to calm himself with lines again “You have bewitched me, body and soul Elizabeth, and I love, I love, I love you. I never wish to be parted from you from this day on.”  Jared spoke eloquently as he read the neon signs.

Then he grumbled as Rocky “I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind marrying me very much.”

He hopped around the cab as Elaine “Alright Jerome, I’m in.  Maybe we should get married.  Maybe everything we need is right here in front of us.  Let’s do it.”

“Will YOU marry ME?”

“Wanna get hitched?”

“How ’bout I make an honest woman outta ya?”

Every line that tumbled from his lips as he sat in traffic on the Blvd sounded awful, even when delivered with a Southern accent. A Scottish accent.  Like a New Yorker.  Bostonian.  None of these words, other people’s words, were poetic enough.  They were just words.  Words that would change everything. That made their love something bigger than them both.

If he were to ask her, today, tomorrow, someday, this thing, this love of theirs, would become a tradition.  A right of passage.  An expectation.  The next step.  The final step.  Marriage.  It would gnaw at what they have like a bacteria.  Consume it.  Regurgitate it.  Make it weak.

Jared hit the breaks at the last possible second, narrowly missing a fender bender with his beat-up faded-black pickup and a pristine persimmon Range Rover.  Sweat was prickling up along the collar of his shirt.  He stripped away the button up.  Tossed it on the seat behind him and ran his fingers through his hair.  The ring box fell to the floor.  He stretched to retrieve it.  One eye on the road, the other at his feet.  He couldn’t get it … it slipped further from his grasp to a inch from the brake pedal.

Jared couldn’t catch his breath. He was getting hotter – overheating.  He rolled down the window and stuck his head out like a pup.  He swerved to avoid a Honda that materialized out of thin air and launched his truck up the curb.  Where it came to rest on top of a mailpost in front of a little Mexican cafe.

“Fuck me!” he shouted as he slammed the steering wheel with his hands.  He retrieved the ring box from the floor. Brushed off the road dust and tucked it in to the glovebox.

He sat back as chaos swirled around the front end of his truck.  Witnesses.  Storytellers.  Eventually a cop.  Jared pulled his iphone out of his pocket, fumbled to unlock it, slid past Bridget’s name in his contact list and instead dialed Chloe direct “I can’t do it!” he screamed before she had even finished her hello.

“Can’t do wha – oh Jared.” she said.  Sympathetic and completely understanding. An old friend.  One who has been there for all of the other times he just couldn’t do it.  “Calm down.  Are you home?  Want tea?”

“I want…” his voice cracked “To marry Bridget.”

“Ok, so…then marry her.”

“I can’t.”

“You can. And you will. You love her.  And she loves you.”  Chloe sighed and blew out the soy candle by her tub.  She was getting ready to take an indulgent mid-afternoon bath but that would have to wait.  As Jared explained his fears, his reservations and eventually the fact that he was perched on a mailpost in front of Guapo Nacho, Chloe got dressed, set her house alarm, hopped in her car and headed his way.

“You love her Jared.  More than anyone I’ve ever seen you love.” she sighed again. Not entirely sure that was true but certain it was what he needed to hear.  Bridget is good enough for him – and it took  no time at all for Chloe to remind him that no one he has ever brought in to their circle before fit that same bill.  Bridget would always be good enough.

“I know.  I know.  I know.”  he swore

“Just do it Jared. Don’t complicate it.  Just do it.”

“As if it were that easy….”

“It is. You have the ring.  Take a knee and give it to her.”

“It can’t be that simple.”

“It is and it always will be with Bridget.  Remember that.  Keep it simple stupid.”


“Yes.  Simple.”

“Ok.  Keep it simple.”



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