|
He's home. Going through his normal routine. Checks his answering machine—as if anyone important wouldn't just call his cell; flips through his mail, bills probably; gets a bottle of water from the fridge; and plops down on the sofa where he massages his temples for a few minutes. Then he gets up and disappears into the recesses of his apartment. To strip and shower before going out. He hardly stays home in the evenings unless he's expecting a gentleman caller. One of many. At first I thought that it was just that he had a lot of fuck buddies. Now I know better. They're not his buddies. He fucks them and they leave, sometimes within minutes of having had sex. I know because I've seen them gathering up their clothes and storming from the apartment. The ones with balls generally fling some invective in his general direction before they slam the door. The smart ones, the ones who know that he doesn't give a shit, exit quietly while trying to draw a bit of tattered dignity about their shoulders. After they're gone, he paces the apartment like a caged beast, dissatisfied, still hungry. But for what? Some nights he stays in and eats take-out alone. I'd think he was sad but he doesn't seem like the kind of guy to put up with any kind of shit, even from himself. If he were unhappy, he'd change things. So I have to assume that he's happy being a total slut and that the nights he spends alone are a break from the clubbing and the partying and the fucking. Except that I remember the pacing, the furious smoking, the quick shots of bourbon. I have no idea why I care, why I spend valuable time watching him, thinking about him, except that he's… Beautiful, of course, that goes without saying but it's more than that. It's more than the way your eye follows him as he stalks invisible prey in his apartment, although I've found myself watching him walk, watching the space between his thighs. He has the most perfect thighs. And arms. Totally sculpted. He must spend a lot of time in the gym. He has a treadmill that he drags out of hiding and runs on for an half hour at a time. I wonder what he thinks about. Probably about fucking. No, he wouldn’t think about that, he'd just do it. I don't think he really gives it much thought when he's not fucking, when he's not engaged in the hunt. I wish I could see his eyes. I wonder what he's drawing. I've seen him working at that drafting table at all hours of the night. He's like me, a night owl. Blond head bent over a sketch, pencil working furiously. I hadn't noticed him earlier, when I first got home from Babylon. I was otherwise engaged. But once my guest had gone, I was free to wander around the loft. Looking for something to do I suppose. Ended up in front of the window with a double Beam in my hand. Watching him. The blond. Blondie, I call him in my head. Wonder if it comes from a bottle or if it's natural. Doesn't really matter, it suits him. He's so fuckin' pale. I bet his eyes are blue. I can't see them at this distance but I know they are. He's hot. Pretty blond boy with a pretty ass. You can tell from the way
his jeans hang on him that he's got a high, round, bubble butt. Shame for
it to go to waste. And it is going to waste, has been going to waste for
weeks now unless he's meeting someone elsewhere. I doubt it. He's got that
happily ever after look. You just know he's sitting around wondering when
his Prince will come. Maybe he will. Maybe he comes for pretty, little
blond boys cause he never fuckin' came for me. Not that I looked that
hard. Not that I wouldn't have told him to fuck off if Prince Charming had
come. But Blondie, he's just the right type to be swept off his feet.
I wish he'd shut his window. I would shut mine but it's hot as hell in here and the air conditioning in my building is shot to shit. I should have gotten a couple of fans before I came home but I'd been hoping against hope that the super would have fixed the problem. He hadn't. So it's hot and I've got my window open, trying not to stifle in here, and he's over there fucking some guy and the guy is moaning like he's having the best sex ever. And it's been so long since I've done anything other than make the acquaintance of my right hand. God, why can't he shut the window? I know he's got central air in that behemoth of an apartment. I wait. If it's like all the other nights, they'll be done soon and the trick'll be on his way and he'll be in the shower trying to wash the smell of his latest conquest from his skin. After a few moments the trick's moaning rises in pitch and he shouts. He's come at last. Don't know about his host. Must have because within forty-five seconds there goes the trick with his shirt half-buttoned and his shoes in his hands. He ought to be happy, at least he got some action. Maybe now he'll close the window. I get up to go to my drawing board when something catches my eye. It's him. Walking naked to the door. Must be checking the lock. Then he comes back into view but he doesn't go to take a shower, instead, he sits on the sofa and spreads his legs. Wraps his hand around his cock and begins stroking it. I can't move. I watch the play of muscles in his arm and chest as he jerks off. Head lolling over the back of the sofa, he continues to work his meat. And it gets harder and harder. He spits in his hand and continues to pull on the shaft until he comes. Copious amounts of cum splatter the glass coffee table in front of him. As I watch, he leans over and runs his finger through it, tastes it. Smiles. Then he gets up and vanishes. Rushing into my bedroom, I fall upon the bed and tear open my jeans, pull out my cock, and beat off thinking of his dick. I have to find someone soon or I'm going to go crazy. I have no fucking idea why I'm home on a Friday night watching Blondie entertain. He's got some guy in there with him, the first one in a month. That's how long I've been observing him. I was supposed to go out to Babylon with the guys and I had every intention of going but then I came home and caught a glimpse of him carrying in a bag of groceries. He sat it down on the kitchen counter and started unpacking it. Food, wine, candles. For some reason I found this fascinating. Better than Friday night TV. I watched him set the table, put out the wine and wine glasses, fix a salad and two steaks, and then wait. He waited all of five minutes. The guy must have known Blondie would be worth showing up on time for and he was smart enough to appear at the door with a bouquet of cheap flowers. I'm not too impressed with Blondie's taste in guys. This one is short, dark, darker than I am, and even from a distance, he looks unkept. His hair is lank, clothes look like Salvation Army rejects, and I just know he's not wearing the latest boots from Prada. Granted Blondie's no fashionista but, at least, he plays to his strengths. Mainly he's got a fabulous ass. So he wears a lot of tight tees and well-fitted jeans to show off his assets. And he has gorgeous hair which he lets grow just long enough to curl beneath his ears. I can tell by the way Greasy Boy is eyeing him that he's taken with Blondie. The delivery guy shows up so I take a break from watching the proceedings in the apartment across the way. When I've plated my dinner, I start back towards the sofa and stop. What the fuck am I doing? Spying on some twink, watching him eat and make small talk for Christ's sake. What's next? I watch them do it while I eat my sesame noodles? Disgusted, I go to the dining table and turn my back to him. To them. Ethan and I fucked and I sent him on his way. He started in on how much he loved me, how he'd fallen in love with me the moment he saw me at the Institute. Complete bullshit. He might have fallen in lust but love? No way. So we fucked and I let him stay the night but in the morning I made it clear that we were not an item, that we would not be doing this again. He tried to talk me out of my decision but I wouldn't let him. I know what I want. And it's not him. Out of habit, I glance across the street. I don't see him. Him. I guess I should give him a name if I'm going to spend this much time looking at him, thinking about him. He doesn't really look like a John or a Michael or a David or any of those sorts of names, Biblical names. And he certainly doesn't look like a Courtney or Blair kind of guy. He's just him. I giggle. Maybe I should call him Him, capital H, like Him on The Powerpuff Girls. The way he treats his tricks, he could qualify as a devil. And he's hot as hell. Him. Plain, simple. Anything but. Greasy Boy hasn't been back and my esteem for Blondie rises. As does my cock. It's been really hot and he's taken to wearing cut-off jeans around the apartment. Shit, he's got a hot ass. Once he took off his tank top and walked around with just the jeans on. The waist was too big and they basically hung off his hips. You could see where his spine disappeared between his cheeks. It was like watching a road vanish between two hills. I find myself thinking about him at the weirdest times. When I'm at
work, when I'm in Woody's surveying the hand-me-downs on display. I don't
even fuckin' know this kid's name and I'm thinking about him in the middle
of meetings and comparing tricks to him. I guess I need to have myself a
piece of blond boy ass and get it out of my system. I don't usually go for
blonds but, obviously, I've got a taste for it so I may as well indulge
it. You ever feel like someone's just walked over your grave? He came home tonight with this blond kid who looks so much like me he could be my twin. I watched them walk across the room to where his bed is and then I couldn’t see anything else. Luckily the window was closed. I know I didn't want to listen to them fuck. The kid's still over there so I guess he must be some good. I don’t want to think about it so I go back to my work but for some strange reason I keep drawing a tall, slender man with dark hair and eyes. I lay down my pencil. I imagine Him undressing the blond boy and kissing him until the boy's excited. I can see Him pushing the boy onto the bed and then crawling between his legs. Bending over his cock and sucking it until the boy screams in pleasure. Then throwing the boy's legs over his shoulders and fucking him until he almost loses his mind. Trying to put Him out of my mind, I go back to drawing, force myself to do a landscape, losing myself in an enchanted forest. An hour later I take a break and I can't help it, I look towards his place. Nothing stirs. Maybe they're still in bed. Maybe he let this one wrap his arm around
him and sleep against his back. Maybe he's found his Little Boy Blue.
There's this fairy tale, "Rapunzel," and it's about this girl with long hair who's kept in a tower by a witch. But how she got there, that's important too. Her mother was pregnant with her and she wanted some rapunzel from the witch's garden. Some kind of lettuce. She'd sit in her house looking over into the witch's yard and that rapunzel looked so good, she thought she'd go crazy if she didn't have some. Finally, she sent her husband over to steal some and he got caught. The witch demanded he give her his next child. Since he had a house full, he figured why not? So Rapunzel was screwed before she was even born. I can relate. But that's not the point. The point is, some urges are overwhelming. My piece of blond boy ass didn't satisfy. So where am I going to go to
get satisfaction? Am I going to have to go next across the street and
steal what I need too? Little Boy Blue hasn't been back so I guess it didn't work out. He doesn't seem like the relationship type. Okay, he's a slut but they have to know up front what they're getting. I can't imagine Him using some lame-ass line to get into some guy's pants. Not like Ethan used on me. God, he was lucky I was desperate. But now what? I kicked him to the curb and now what? I'm back to watching Him through the window. Worse, I've started having these daydreams where he comes knocking on my door and tells me that he wants me. Yeah, right. I'd have a better chance trying out for the NBA than I would with Him. He doesn't even know I exist. It's not like I know where he hangs out or who his friends are. I've never seen Him outside of his apartment. I've thought about arranging a meeting, maybe waiting until he leaves his apartment, then running downstairs and walking past his building just as he's exiting. And then what? What would I do? What would I say? Ah, excuse me, I've been watching you for over two months now and I want you to fuck me? Is that what I want? And why would he want me? He's a grown man, I'm a college student. He has money and he could have any guy he wants. Why would he want me? Why do I want Him so? If Blondie had been an account I wanted to get, I'd know what to do. I'd come up with this amazing concept, have the Art Department create the boards, and then I'd sell the idea to the company. I'd sell me. I'd come in, dressed to the nines, and give them no other choice but to go with me. Because I'm the best. So why am I fretting over some blond twinkie? Why am I sitting on my fuckin' hands and doing nothing? I could find out which apartment he was in. I could go over there and knock on the fuckin' door and turn on the fuckin' Brian Kinney charm and he'd have his pants down in ten minutes flat. I could fuck him and leave him and get him out of my head. Or could I? I don't like being uncertain. Why do I even think I want him anyway? Because he's got a hot ass? A lot of guys do. Because he's beautiful? A lot of guys are. He could turn out to be some mindless twat and then what? I would walk away. But what if he didn't? What if he turned out to be smart, and funny,
and amazingly talented, and sexy as hell? Then what? Could I walk away
from him then? I got laid off from my part-time job so I need to find another one. There's a sign in the Liberty Diner saying they're looking for waiters. It's not exactly the high-class establishment I was looking to work in but beggars can't be choosers and if I don't get a job soon, I'll have to either beg my mom for the money or choose to live at home with her and Molly. Asking my dad for the money is not an option. Neither is living with him. So the Liberty Diner it is. I go inside and ask to see the manager and they point out this lady to me. If it weren't for the fact that a) she looks like a woman and b) no drag queen would be caught dead in that outfit, I'd think she was a guy in drag. But she's nice, smiles at me during our brief interview, christens me Sunshine, and asks me when I can start. She reassures me about the low hourly wages. "Honey, with an ass like yours, you'll be racking in the tips." Her attention wavers when someone enters the diner. "Hey, Brian, Michael said he's running late." I turn to see who she's talking to and I see Him. "Yeah, I know," he tells her. "He called me thirty seconds ago." And then he notices me for the first time and it's like he's surprised to see me. But we've never met. Only, he looks at me as if he knows me. "What are you—" he asks, cutting himself off. "That's Sunshine, our new waiter," Deb tells him. I smile. "Justin. My name's actually Justin." His name is Brian. Brian. He looks like a Brian. As excited as I am to finally meet him, I want to get out of here. He's too close and I want to touch him but I can't. I can't grab a stranger and kiss him in the middle of the place where I'm going to be working. Wanting to make my escape, I ask Debbie about paperwork and my schedule. "Come in tomorrow afternoon and we'll take care of everything." Saying goodbye, I beat a hasty retreat. I don't even look back to see if he's looking at me as I go. When I get around the corner, out of sight of the diner, I lean against a wall and laugh hysterically. His name is Brian. I almost let it slip. "What are you doing here?" That's what I almost asked him. And then there would have been questions, questions I couldn't have answered. I wonder if he noticed. Justin. That's his name but I bet he'll never be called that in the diner. Least not by Debbie. Sunshine. It fits. When he smiled, it lit up the room. So now, in addition to the nightly peep shows, I'll also get to see him at one of my favorite hang-outs. Which will only make my situation worse. I like his voice. A little deeper than mine, strange, when he's smaller
than I am, younger. I hadn't realized how much younger until we came
face-to-face. He hardly looks like a college student although that's what
he is. "Justin. My name's actually Justin." I've been working at the diner now for two weeks and I've seen Brian almost every day. He and his friends come in to have breakfast or lunch, sometimes dinner. Debbie's son, Michael, is his best friend. And then there's Emmett, a total queen, and Ted, a total bore. That's not quite fair. Ted's… Ted. He can be funny at times but, mostly, he's just a nice guy. Emmett takes over the room when he's there or, at least, he likes to think he does. He wants to be the life of the party even if it's just a party of one. Michael seems comfortable around his mom, something I could never do. Even though my mom says she's okay with my being gay, I don't think she'd want to hang out with me or be around me if I were with some guy. Maybe she would, I don’t know. I suppose I've never given her the opportunity. Maybe I would if I had someone like Brian. Brian. He's the quietest one of the group, hardly ever talking except to whip out a one-liner or to order. He's not shy, he just has a way of tuning people out if they don't interest him. Even if they happen to be his friends. He seems a little harsh sometimes, has a way of cutting someone to the quick but they always forgive him. They laugh it off and go on as if he'd never spoken so I guess that's his role in the group: the asshole. Two lesbians come in with a baby. He looks maybe two-years-old. They make a bee-line for the table where the guys are sitting and the baby holds up his arms to Brian and says, "Dada. Hug." I think I may need to pick my jaw up off the countertop. He has a son. When the toddler's in his arms, I see the resemblance. The same chestnut hair although Brian's has auburn highlights; the same hazel eyes; and the same mouth. "Hey, Gus." Gus. I had a teddy bear named Gus when I was little. The blonde lesbian tells Brian that he could come around sometime to see his son. I guess she's the birth mother. The dark-haired one just rolls her eyes. I guess she's not too fond of Brian. The guys' orders are up so I take them over to the table. Brian looks up and says, "This is Justin. He's new." He points to the blonde, "Lindsay," the brunette, "Mel," and the baby, "and Gus. Say hi to Justin, Gus." "Jusin. Hey." A charmer, just like his dad. He's met the gang, met Gus, now what? I wish he'd been some empty-headed twink that I could disregard in an instant. Instead, he's smart, funny, sweet… and extremely talented. I saw him sketching on his break once and looked over his shoulder at his drawing. Amazing. I lie awake at night thinking about him, wondering what it'd be like if he were lying next to me. Fuck. I don't do boyfriends, I don't do relationships, I don't do commitment. I do guys. One after the other. Never the same one twice. And I don't like small talk, I don't like chit chat, I don't want to snuggle afterwards, I just want to be left alone. Why won't he leave me alone? Why am I sitting here drawing his picture for the twentieth time in a week? Why am I still thinking about him hours after having seen him? Why am I afraid to go to the window and look for him? I tell myself it's because it's wrong to spy on someone but that's not the truth. I don't want to see him in there with some other guy. I don't believe in love at first sight but I do believe in love. I've fallen in love with him. I don't believe in love, I believe in fucking. But I can't fuck him and put him aside. I've fallen in love with him. Brian hasn't been around the diner for days now. When I ask Deb about
him she says he's probably busy at work. He's a partner in this big time
advertising firm in town. Vanguard. I've heard of them. Thought about
trying to intern there in their Art Department. I still might. But then
I'd have to see more of Brian than I already do and I don't know if I can
stand that. Being around him and not touching him is driving me crazy.
I have to stay away from him. I have to stay away from him. I have to
stay away from him… How many pictures can you draw of one man? How many dreams can you have about him? How many times can you wake up hard and wanting him without having him? I want him. I want him. There's a knock on my door and I go to answer it and it's Brian. Before I can say anything he kisses me. Hard. We fall back against the wall and he shuts the door without breaking contact with me. Somehow we move through the livingroom and into the bedroom. If this is a dream, I don't give a shit because it feels too good. It was hot and I only had on a pair of shorts. In an instant he has them open and slips his hands down the back of them to palm my ass. I feel him moan inside my mouth and it makes me shiver all over. He kneads my cheeks, pulling me closer to him so that I can feel how much he wants me, how hard he is. I cup his crotch and it's my turn to moan. I want him inside me. I fall back onto the bed and he undresses, then kneels and pulls off my shorts. Climbs onto the bed next to me and goes down on me. He holds me by the base of my cock and sucks me until my toes curl. My fingers are entwined in his hair and I signal him when I get too close. I don’t want to come until he's in me, fucking me. Which is his idea too. Letting my cock go, he fumbles in his pants and finds a condom. Opens the packet and slips it onto his erection. I hand him a tube of KY and he wets his fingers and eases them into me, one at a time. My back arches as he finger fucks me. When my hole is relaxed enough, he places my legs over his shoulders and pushes his cock past the still tight ring of muscle. "Yes," he says as he slides forward and I hold my breath until he bumps my prostate and then I let it go in a shout. Oh, he's in me. He's in me and he's sliding in and out and he's fucking me and he's making me feel so good I can hardly breathe. I look down and see his cock between my legs and I groan. Jesus, this is so amazing. He leans forward and kisses me, stealing what little breath I have left. But he gives me his and I'm okay. I'm more than okay, I'm tingling all over. I feel like the epicenter of an earthquake is lodged inside my body. I shake, I shudder, and I squeeze him as he fucks me. I raise my hips to meet his thrusts and I tell him how much I love him, how much I love being with him, how much I love what he's doing to me. I know my neighbors can hear the bed squeaking, can hear me crying out his name but I don’t care. I've waited so long for this. He reaches for my cock and strokes it as he pumps me and I start to jerk upwards, fucking his fist. I feel the head and shaft of my dick expand and then I'm coming; my neck and chest are streaked with cum, it drips down his fist as he continues to stroke me. And then he comes. He jabs me hard and goes still as the first spasm grips him. His hips begin to move again and he thrusts against me as he ejaculates. When he's through, he wiped his hand on my belly and pulls out. But
instead of going to shower, he crouches next to me and licks the cum from
my body. As he washes me clean with his tongue, I feel at peace.
I'm curved around his body. He's so small, so fine, so perfect. I hold him in my arms and I kiss the back of his neck, lips nuzzling the silky hair at his nape. I know that soon he'll be asleep but before he slips under, I whisper against his skin, "I love you." He does not turn around, only squeezes the arm that lies across his chest. I love him. Judy Author's note: |