I remember the first time I recognized the intent behind her eyes. Its strange being wanted. Being seen. There was a long time when I was never noticed. Now I have a boyfriend. Who adores me. Who takes bullets for me and who dies inside when I betray him.

 

And I have a crush. A gay crush. A gay maybe more than a crush. More than a crush...definitely.

 

I remember finding her in the Bronze bathroom. Some redheaded floozy praying at her feet. At least that's how it seemed. If I had been in that same position I would have prayed. I'm not sure if in thankfulness or in fright. She could be a goddess and I her preistess. Willing supplicant to her every whim.

 

I'm not the jealous type. Except maybe the twitches that I get when Xander rubs Buffy's shoulders that way. Except when groupies walk up to Oz after a set. Except when Faith lets random nameless, faceless, meaningless women eat her out in the back of clubs.

 

I'm not jealous of Buffy when she drapes herself all over Angel. When she dances with boys in the way she knows makes everyone look at her. At the way her hips sway. Jealousy doesn't really describe the tingle that runs up my...It happens more these days. The noticing.

 

I notice all kinds of thing. Like how sometimes Cordelia plays up this sweet not so innocent school girl look. With short skirts and knee high sheer stockings. Like how Buffy is so strong that she could hold me down and I wouldn't be able to resist. Like how Faith's breasts always seem to be flowing over the hemline of her shirt. Those little tank tops she's always not really wearing. Her breast in reality are not that large. But when I glance out the corner of my eyes there always seems to be such an abundance of them. Sometimes it seems as if they could fit into my hands perfectly.

 

Sometimes its all too overwhelming.

 

Like when she pressed me up against the shelf that night. In the stacks, in the isolation. I was more frightened than turned on and even more so because of how turned on that made me. The fear. The strength in her arms. How her teeth split my lip in their ferocity. There was sex and desire in that kiss. I felt my virginity being stroked away by her tongue and couldn't for a moment think of how that could be wrong.

 

But I'm taken. And chicken. Can't watch Oz crumple anymore. How do you make the permanently laconic guitarist react?

 

Stab his heart out of his chest and crush it beneath your heel.

 

For now I watch Fatih, watching me. With her impatient patience. I want to make this comparison to her being a tiger...stalking around in the cage, waiting to pounce on her prey. But she's much too gentle, too respectful, too open for that to work. Its more like she's a little child waiting to be loved, but doesn't want the world to know how vunerable she is.

 

Sometimes I want to love her. To protect and hold her. Sometimes I want her to be a tiger and devoure me. Most of the time I can't really tell the difference.