Rated R for language and m/m sexual implications
He plays over and over in my head like a song or a scene from a movie you just can’t get rid of.
Asleep or awake, it makes no difference. He’s there, occupying my thoughts...my dreams.
He shouldn’t be there. I want him out. Done everything I can think of to exorcise him, but he stays...lingering in the corners of my mind, whispering to me at the most inopportune times in that soft, sultry, gravel and honey voice, and I want him to go on whispering. I want to hear all those things he’ll never really say, and just for that little while I can pretend that things aren’t really the way they are, and that he’s mine.
No one has to know. I’ll keep him here in my head, and we can...
No. No, I can’t.
Come on, knock it off. It’s too insane even for a private thought.
I know who he is. I know what he is. But, Christ, it doesn’t stop me from having these thoughts.
I’ve wanted him for more years than I care to count, and for that many years I’ve denied it, telling myself there was a very fine line between desire and hatred, and I was so close to the edge, that I was simply confusing the two.
It gets harder to believe that every time I see him. He appears every so often, antagonizes me, offers some tidbit of information, then slithers back into the darkness. I don’t know if it’s more accurate to say that he escapes or I let him get away, but the bottom line is that no matter how brief his visit, my whole body vibrates for days afterward, and I can’t stand it. I hate myself.
And I hate him.
I want to hurt him. I want to find him and beat him until I can’t swing anymore. I want to find the words...to say just the right things to break him down and turn him into a wounded, vulnerable child. And then...then, God help me, but I want to hold him in my arms and rock him. I want to kiss him and take all the pain away. I realize I’ve got to be pretty screwed up to be thinking that way, but I can’t help it. It’s the way I feel.
I felt that way when I saw him tonight in the parking garage of the Hoover Building.
He materialized out of nowhere it seemed, taunted me as usual, dropped a few names and places then slipped away too damn quickly.
Maybe it was the car passing by about fifty feet to our left that spooked him. Maybe he would have stayed a bit longer if it hadn’t, and I could’ve...
No.
I would’ve let him go just like I always do. And as much as I want to, I have to admit that I can’t even bring myself to hit him anymore. I started thinking that maybe that’s why he’s recently stepped up the caliber of barbs he delivers. Maybe he’s provoking me...trying to get me to swing at him. Maybe he’s as sick as I am, and he needs the violence. Maybe he saw it as some sort of demented relationship, and he misses it.
That would mean he missed me.
But if he did, why would he go? Why would he pop in and out so quickly and never give either of us a chance to...
To what?
Wake the hell up, would you?
He’s a sneaky, low down, mind-fucking shit who wants no more to do with you than he would that pasty-faced, chain smoking, old bastard he works for. He’s part of this mess for one reason and one reason only. Because it benefits him to be.
That’s it.
That’s all.
Why the fuck do I protect him?
Why do I risk my ass to feed him information when he doesn’t believe a word I say?
I don’t need this shit.
I went to see him tonight. Had some information he could use, and I put my life on the line to do it.
They know that he’s getting his information from somewhere, they’re just not sure how he’s coming by it, and I know he’s being watched more closely.
All the more reason for me to hang around him. I don’t need some trigger happy asshole to start thinking for himself and decide that he’s got to eliminated.
I could’ve told him tonight to watch his ass. For that matter, I guess I could’ve told him that I was watching his ass, but what would be the point? He’d probably go out of his way to ditch me, and I’d wind up with a much bigger problem than the fucking screaming hard-on I’ve got right now.
Fuck him to hell and back.
Why do I let him do this to me? I’m supposed to be the master of mind fuck, not him. Pisser is, he doesn’t even know he’s doing it, which somehow makes it worse.
I knew him before. Knew everything he was going to say, everything he was going to do, but now...
Hardly an insult or threat does he throw my way, and I can’t remember the last time he put his hands on me. I think I’m starting to feel neglected.
Aww, fuck, did I just say that?
Is this what my life’s come to? Sneaking in and out of the shadows, living for a few seconds every few months when I can drop some information in his lap, harass him a bit, then blow back out and wait till the next time...
And how long is this going to go on?
I can’t do this to myself. I should go to him. Walk into his apartment, tie him down if I have to, and make him listen to everything I’ve ever wanted to say to him. What’s the worse that could happen? He’ll laugh at me? Call me a goddamn, fucking liar who’s only looking to use him for God knows what? Beat me after I untie him?
Now, we’re talking...
Or maybe he’ll just kill me and put me out of my misery.
What misery?
I see him, I tick him off, he says or does something to get my blood up, my dick gets hard, and I leave. Go home, jerk off, and I’m fine till the next time.
Or at least the next night.
I want him. Big deal. What red-blooded American male wouldn’t want to feel those lips wrapped around his dick? Or run his fingers through that thick, silky hair...kiss him senseless and watch his eyes turn three different shades of gorgeous. Who the hell wouldn’t want to wrap him in their arms and hold him all night long while he slept...
Jesus. Oh, Jesus. Stop, okay? Just... stop. This isn’t good. Not good at all. He’d be good for a nice fuck, but that’s all. That’s it. Any thoughts beyond that are pure insanity. You got it?
Yeah, I got it.
I got it bad.
END
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