"Absolutely brilliant!" says Lisabet Sarai, author of Incognito and Fire, about Lambda finalist M.Christian's controversial manlove horror/thriller.
He looks just like you. He acts exactly like you. He takes away your job. He steals your friends. He seduces your male lover. None of them can tell the difference. Every day he becomes more and more like you, pushing you out of your own life, taking away what was yours … until there’s nothing left. Where did he come from? Robot? Alien? Clone? Doppelganger? Evil twin? Long lost brother? Then you discover there are still more "yous." Can you be sure you are the real you? And how do you fight to take your own life back?
An absorbing new approach to the question of identity, Me2 is a groundbreaking gay chiller you’ll remember for a long time – no matter who you are, or who you think you may be.
(Despite rumors that this book was written by an impostor - but, rest assured, this is the real 'M.Christian.' Accept no substitutes!)
Chapter
VIII
Me8
"I believe in Jesus Christ, Our Lord and Savior. I believe that He died on the cross for
our sins. I believe He is good,
and in all things. I believe that
Jesus Christ, Our Lord and Savior, fills the hearts of the saved with love and
kindness. I believe He protects
the saved from the enticements of the flesh and the lures of Satan.
"Pastor Ted says that God is in all things, from the smallest to
the largest. 'From the whale to
the flea, from everything to you and me,' he says. That means that whatever we do, we do with the Lord God
Jesus Christ, and since we do it with him we also do it because of him because
the Lord also created all things as well.
"But Satan can be in many things as well. You can see it – you know you can: in
music that talks children into lives of promiscuity and drugs, in movies that
advocate the homosexual lifestyle, in books that corrupt the people who read
them. Satan is everywhere – but
not like Jesus Christ. Oh, no! Jesus is in all the good things in the
world. Satan is there only to pull
the righteous, the innocent, and the weak to his evil power.
"Pastor Ted says that Satan is powerful, but he can be crushed
beneath the heel of the Saved. We
all have the power to do that, if we just accept the Lord Jesus Christ into our
hearts and become clean again, washing away the sins of the world with our
baptism in the faith. Pastor Ted
says that if we understand just how weak Satan is we can live in this tainted
world without fear, but only if we accept and hold Jesus in our hearts every
second of every day – because if we don't then Satan can grow powerful, even
enough to sway those we might all think to be pure and righteous.
"Pastor Ted says that Satan can take many forms. He is the prince of lies, you know. He can pretend to be all kinds of
things. He could even be your
brother, your mother, your father, a teacher, even a fellow Christian, but you
will know him for the lies he tries to tell, for there is
nothing more pure than the undeniable power and love of Jesus Christ.
"Pastor Ted even said that I've seen Satan himself! He did, he really did say that. He said that because the love for Jesus
Christ is so strong in me, I could see right through the illusions Satan spins
in the world, the lies he pulls over our eyes. The moment he told me that, I knew it was true because I've
seen his hand! On ads on
television, in the way some women dress, in the way people talk, even in the
way people pray in church! Because
I have the wonderful love of Jesus Christ in my heart I can see it, I know
where the evil is.
"It all really started after I saw what looked like Pastor Ted
coming out of that filthy shop. You
know the one I mean! When I told
Pastor Ted I might have seen Satan in his guise he told me that I had seen
Satan – that evil very often takes the form of people, even ourselves, to lead
us down the path of temptation and away from the love that is our faith in
Jesus Christ Our Lord and Savior.
"I haven't seen Satan for a long time, though, at least not taking
the shape of Pastor Ted. But I'm
always looking, because Pastor Ted says that if I should ever see Satan again I
should find the real Pastor Ted so that he may drive away the evil once and for
all with the power of prayer and the love we have for Jesus.
"Still, I have been keeping an eye on that store – you know the
one I mean – in case he should come back.
You can never be too careful with filth, Pastor Ted says. Never! You always have to keep an eye on it. A close and careful eye on it. "
* * * *
Oprah smiled, her teeth as
polished and perfect as her delivery.
Across from her was her opposite: shrunken and frayed, the author looked
allergic to studio lights, attention, and applause. His book, held up for all to see, looked bigger, brighter,
and more alluring than the man who'd written the actual words. Oprah said that the book was very good,
using words like "evocative" and "moving" and
"haunting" and "touching" and "stirring" and
"life affirming." The author looked like he'd rather be somewhere
else – anywhere else.
Oprah made him go away, his
absence filled quickly by the roly-poly comfort of Dr. Phil, who began to speak
of a young woman named "Sarah" (not her real name) who had a
boyfriend who seemed to enjoy humiliating her in public. My finger twitched a button on the
remote – a position that was uncomfortable since it was bolted down to the
nightstand – when Oprah didn't go back to chatting about the author, didn't say
that he had a second book – which was very much like the first one, maybe even
better – and Dr. Phil didn't mention, not even once, that the problem with
"Sarah" (not her real name) was that she was involved with a bad
version of her boyfriend, and that she should stand up for herself and seek out
the good one instead of continuing to be abused.
Montel leaned forward, turned
as much toward the audience as the two young black women on stage. "Tell us, Chantel," he said
to the first, "when you first suspected that Darnel wasn't really your
son." Listening, nodding, he comfortably eased her into telling her a
staggered, clipped, sob-hyphened, spitting-pissed, broken-narrative story of
Gordian loops and twists, going from maternity wards to mothers-in-law to lying
social service agencies and then back around to daycare centers and welfare
fraud.
Reaching out, taking her hand,
he let her cry – but not so long as to diminish the liveliness and precious
poignancy of the moment. Reassuring
her, even going so far as to use his other hand to touch her quivering
shoulder, he nicely danced to the next woman with a deft "You're not
alone."
Yvonne, wrinkled on the outside
but smoother in delivery, spat her tale to the host, his audience, and the
coldly watching cameras, cutting through her own knot with a bitter-poisoned
knife dripping with squawks of censored language, stabbing repeatedly at her
hospital and "–them stupid (beep) doctors."
Hope, but in the end another
twitch when Montel didn't offer the suggestion that one of the swapped children
had been crushed under footprint of a lumbering bureaucratic dinosaur but
instead was a duplicate of an displaced original.
A skin color not found in
nature, muscles where muscles had no right to be, eyes glazed with high voltage
zealotry, "800" numbers spinning in and out of frame. "That's right, Tina!"
"What would you say if I said that all it takes is 20 minutes a day?"
"At home, while you drive, or even in the office!" "Success and
confidence can be yours!" "For just three monthly payments of
$29.99!" For all the caramel tanning, the flexing of biceps and thighs,
the brilliantly earnest eyes, I almost didn't notice what they were selling. But then it came through, thanks to
Tina; all it takes is 20 minutes a day at home, while you drive, or even in the
office, for success and confidence can be yours for just three monthly payments
of $29.99 ... they were selling what they were, which was tanned and strong,
confident and determined. I
twitched them away when they didn't offer anything – not even for $29.99 a
month for three months – except being bronzed and strong.
Black was shadows. Black was night. White was daylight. White were all the faces. Was that Bogart? Yes, that was Bogart – doing that
strange thing with his lips, pluming cigarette pointing to a frightened woman,
pushing her retreat with the accusing tip back into the depths of an
upholstered chair. The room was a
hotel, the view out one window a painting of the Golden Gate Bridge. Pleading, she shook her head, her hair
frozen and immobile in 1939. The
crime was hers, the evidence constructed out of scenes I'd missed: there were
frames, there was blackmail, people had been bumped off, people had been rubbed
out, cops had been on the take, someone had almost fallen for it, someone had
been taken in (hook, line, and sinker) but in the end it had all fallen into
place. I twitched it away when
none of the frames, the blackmails, the bumping off, the rubbing out, the cops
taking, the almost falling, the taking in, (hook, line, and sinker) mentioned
anything about twin sisters or skillful impersonations.
A man was running, the camera
struggling for breath trying to keep up.
He went up to, then over, a suburban white picket fence, and I noticed
he wasn't wearing a shirt, so I knew he was a crook. A pair of cops passed the camera. I knew they were cops because they were chasing the man with
no shirt on. The night they were
all running through was flashing, dazzling with pulses of blue, white, and red. The night they were all running through
was crackling with radio noise, rustling from trampled weeds, hoarsely panting
from escape as well as pursuit. The
criminal tried to scale a chainlink fence, but failed: falling backward, he
landed between each of the cops, who dropped down on top of him. Handcuffs gleamed among blue, white,
and red. Profanities beeped,
interrupting the sound of ratcheting steel. I watched until I was sure that he was the only one being
chased, the only one being arrested.
Sixties, maybe seventies. You could tell by the quality of the
film, the colors, the textures, the sound, the music, the lack of wrinkles in
the actors. It was supposed to be
in the future, but a future as seen in the sixties, maybe the seventies: white
everywhere, like the world had been conquered by Formica or European design. Lamps were spheres on arcs of gleaming
chrome, rugs were bright primary colors, televisions were huge, cars looked
like Tylenols moving silently through cities of stock footage skyscrapers. Our hero, wearing a blue jumpsuit, came
home, his pill stopping in front of a round door that hissed open in welcoming. Inside was our hero, wearing a brown robe,
drink in his hand. Our hero and
our hero looked at each other with poorly acted shock, nervous indignation, and
clumsily displayed fear. Our hero
said that one of them must be a duplicate, and our hero agreed. "The trick," our hero then
said, "is to find out which of us that is."
Twitch. Twitch. Twitch. TWITCH. Off, the screen faintly crackling with
static electricity – the only sound in the cheap room except for the very
distant and very faint rush of traffic on the highway.
* * * *
I got here ... somehow. That was obvious because I was there. The card on the door, above
"checkout at 11:00 AM," said Clearwater Motel. You get to a motel by driving, a
supposition I verified by parting the heavy curtains, smelling old cigarettes
and older dust, and seeing my car parked outside.
The bed hadn't been slept in,
the rough bedspread dented by my body where I'd been sprawled while I'd
twitched through hours and hours of daytime tube. Either I'd arrived just after The Today Show, or long before and had passed out without actually
getting between the sheets – or I'd arrived long before The Today Show and hadn't slept at all, just lying there on the
bedspread twitching through show after show, through and past the morning and
up to the moment when the future had arrived, a fraction of an old science
fiction movie shaking me up enough to turn off the set.
Between the heavy curtains and
the bed were bags. Lots and lots
of bags. Most of them from Tommy
Hilfiger. One of the others had
fallen over and spilled, making a flattened avalanche of Sela Ward, Ashton
Kutcher, Debra Messing, Robin Williams, Christopher Walken, Jennifer Lopez,
Leonardo DiCaprio, Scarlett Johansson, and lots of others – all of them under a
big, bold Details headline.
Obviously I'd been shopping.
In the bathroom, I looked at
my face in the mirror. My hair
needed some serious attention. Time
for my hairdresser to work his magic.
Teeth looked okay, so at least I didn't foresee a dentist visit for a
while. Skin, though, was looking a
bit rugged, a bit rough – had to start thinking exfoliants, creams, muds, and
lotions soon.
But even as I did, I scratched
my rough face, my chaotic hair, sucked by clean teeth. Something had changed, hadn't it? Details
and Tommy Hilfiger? The new me
because he'd taken the old me from me – and done better at it than I ever
could.
Yeah, that was it.
But there was something else:
faces swam in and out of my memory, shedding specifics, leaving behind wisps
and tickles of could be, maybe,
and sort of. A glass in my
hand, wine in my mouth. A party? It felt like a party, the giddy chaos,
the ducking in and out of conversation, the bubbling laughter, the skirting of
someone else's drama. Yes, there'd
been a party.
My phone was out of my pocket
and open. My fingers scrolled past
names – or was it punching numbers?
– and then I was listening to the purr of someone's ring.
Pick up, I thought: please
pick up.
* * * *
"Yeah, it has been a long
time. Ages, right. Simply ages. No, just ... you know, thinking about you. No, nothing's really up. Just wanted to hear what's up with you. Really? Cool. That's
wonderful. Did 'what's his name' –
damn, I can never remember his name.
Yeah, that's right. That's
it. Did he ever get his act
together ... he did? You've got to
be kidding! Not in a million years. Who'd have thought that'd happen. Crazy! What? Oh, sure,
I understand. Well, take care of
yourself. Sure, we'll talk again
soon."
With a twitch of my finger the
call ended. With another a new one
began.
"...no, nothing special. Just wanted to see what's up. Really? That's wild. That's
really wild. Me? Nothing special ... nothing worth
reporting ... nothing new... Nothing
interesting. Parties? Did you ask about a party? No, no parties. None. None at all. Sorry,
gotta go."
With a twitch of my finger the
call ended. With another a new one
began.
"...maybe that's where it
was. But I'm sure we've met before. Why the call? I don't know, just to touch base? Yeah, it has been a crazy year. You still doing ... that thing you do? Really? That's fascinating.
Very, very fascinating. Uh
huh. Uh huh. Uh huh. Uh huh. That's really interesting. Me? Nothing, really.
Well, I kind ... how to explain it. Just start? No,
I can't do that. It's just too ...
complicated? Yeah, I guess you
could say it's that. Look, I gotta
run. Sorry."
With a twitch of my finger the
call ended. With another a new one
began.
"...yeah, that's me. That's who I am, right. Why am I calling? Well, you know, just calling to ... look,
you have a minute? Great. It's just that I need to talk to
someone right now. Anyone really. You see there was this party ... a
'party' right, that's what I said.
Well, something happened there.
I can't quite figure out what it was. It really freaked me out and ... I just needed to talk, like
I said. What? Oh, sure, I understand. Bye."
With a twitch of my finger the
call ended. With another a new one
began.
"You're driving? Is it okay to talk? You sure? Well, okay. Yeah,
that's who I am. You're right. Yeah, it has been a long time. Feels like years. Only a few days? You sure? Well, I guess you're right then. Anyway, I just wanted to see how you're doing. Driving? Just that? Oh:
a lot of that. Me? I'm okay, just ... things have been
kind of weird lately. Really weird. Well ... there's someone out there
pretending to be me, and I don't know why or what he wants, and what's worse
he's even better at being me that I am.
Then I thought that if he really wanted to be me, then he can: I'd just
become someone else. What? What did you say? Please, just let me finish ... I
thought that'd be it, right? Just
become someone else and leave this all behind. Maybe even be happier being someone new, but then ... hello? You there?"
With a twitch of my finger the
call ended. With another a new one
began.
"A party! I said a party!
Yeah you should go to a party – everyone should go to a party. Fun? Yeah, you might have fun. But will you please just listen to me..."
With a twitch of my finger the
call ended. With another a new one
began.
"...okay ... Jesus and
Satan, Pastor Ted ... that makes sense.
No, it really does. Thankyouforyourtime."
With a twitch of my finger the
call ended. With another a new one
began.
"...I don't know why I
went shopping again. I just can't
figure it out. Why did I buy even
more clothes...?"
With a twitch of my finger the
call ended. With another a new one
began.
"...I thought about it,
thinking that maybe he was me, somehow, that he's what I'll become sometime in
the future, or maybe the past, that he's come back – or gone forward – to tell
me something. No, I don't know
what. It's just something that
came to me. But the more I think
about it, the less sense it makes, because he'd tell me, wouldn't he? If he really wanted to teach or show me
something, he'd actually try and communicate with me. He knows how I'm feeling, doesn't he? Then why doesn't he? Why
doesn't he?"
With a twitch of my finger the
call ended. With another a new one
began.
"...a party! I said it happened at a party!"
With a twitch of my finger the
call ended. With another a new one
began.
It must have been hours. It had been daylight outside when I
began. It was deep, dark night
outside when I finally closed the phone.
I had made a lot of calls. A
lot of calls. I remember talking about all kinds of
things. Too many things: popular movies, best-selling music, new
hairstyles, best products, hip food, new nightspots, gossip, going up or coming
down celebrities, coolest vacations – and, and, and, and more. So much more. Too much more: I
talked about him, I talked about me, I talked about him becoming me, I talked
about me becoming someone else, I talked about parties – I talked a lot about
parties. I talked about good ones,
I talked about bad ones, I told people to go to parties, I told people not to
go to parties, I may have pretended to be going to a party, I may even have
made up parties, I may have said a lot of things–
I'd talked and talked and
talked to keep my mind from twisting around into itself, to keep myself too
distracted to pick at what had been happening before the party, what I
remembered about the party, what I didn't remember about the party, what I
didn't want to remember about the
party. It had worked. Thank god, it had worked.
Dark means night. Night means sleep. Sleep was good.
Feeling my head swim with
exhaustion, I yawned deep and long – enough to make my jaw hurt. I was too exhausted, too wrung out, too
drained, too damned tired, to think.
I was safe.
Then to bed. The bedspread came down, and I slipped
between the sheets.
But I didn't sleep.
* * * *
I wanted to. I really wanted to. I even began to.
But as my eyes turned into
lead, my arms transformed into stone, my brain started to make its usual
strange leaps and jumps in preparation for dreams, it didn't quite all come
together to spell zzzzz. Instead,
I turned, tossed, twisted around, punched my pillow, ground my hips, coughed,
scratched, farted, rubbed my eyes, and took in very slow and very deep breaths.
I could feel the warm weight
of sleep hovering just out of reach.
Still hanging between dream and awake, my mind sent me the image of a
carpeted vulture circling over my bed, each down stroke of its shag wings
bringing feathery escape just out of my reach.
Angry, I pushed the heavy
covers off and flopped around. Accusing
my pillow of the hideous crime of not being soft enough, I sat up briefly and
punched it two or three times, the impacts making the mattress slam up against
the wall.
As when it had happened
before, I had a solution. Turning
and twisting some more, eventually I found a fairly relaxed position: my face
in a feculent motel pillow, my feet barely touching the bottom edge of the
mattress, one hand under my chest, one hand cupping my dick and balls.
It was an ordinary, everyday,
common, and simple thing. It was
something I'd done a million times before. It was a 'home' thing, a 'safe' thing, a 'nurturing' thing. It was a thing that would make me
smile, wring out tension, and most important, push me from being awake to being
asleep.
Who should it be? My memory had a pretty good inventory:
this guy, that guy, this night, that night, this day, that day, this club, that
club, this boyfriend, that boyfriend, this dick, that dick, this mouth, that
mouth, this asshole, that asshole, this chest, that chest, this ass, that ass
... him? Or how about him? Or him? Or him? Or him? Or him? Or him?
Half erect began to be less
than half erect.
After all, this guy had been
with me, that guy had been with me, this night had been with me, that night had
been with me, this day had been with me, that day had been with me, this club
had been with me, that club had been with me, this boyfriend had been with me,
that boyfriend had been with me, this dick had been with me, that dick had been
with me, this mouth had been with me, that mouth had been with me, this ass
hole had been with me, that asshole had been with me, this chest had been with
me, that chest had been with me, this ass had been with me, that ass had been
with me. Him, him, him, him, him,
him – they'd all been with me: the me I couldn't be anymore, the me that he'd taken from me.
I was new, fresh out of Details and a Tommy Hilfiger bag. I was still picking packing peanuts out
of my belly button.
A cold chill at that, goose
bumps at that, eyes wide open at that, shortness of breath at that.
No, wait... relax, relax, relax. Things were crazy, things were wrong,
things were strange, things didn't make any sense, things were bad – but they
might not be forever.
After all (toss, turn, punch
pillow again) had I been that good? Had my life been that perfect? My job that successful?
He wanted it, that was obvious. Why the fuck he did, I didn't know. But he could have it.
I was the new me: the brand new me. This me didn't have that asshole in his
life, didn't have that fuckhead in his life, didn't have that dickhead in his
life, didn't have that prick in his life, didn't have that idiot in his life,
didn't have that cunt in his life, didn't have that junkie in his life – they
all belonged to him now. And he could have them, too.
Fresh, clean, pure. Face still in motel cotton, I allowed
myself to drift, cut loose from my old self: arms, hands, legs, chests, asses,
faces, hair, voices tumbled through my mind, possible dates, assignations,
tricks, quickies, fantasies, but none of them stayed long enough to become
anything but just transient, ghostly anatomy.
Part of my own anatomy, my
mouth grinned into that motel cotton: too many choices, when added all
together, equaled none.
Stars auditioned for my twenty
minutes of tension to be hopefully followed by wet, sticky release, followed by
much-needed sleep. But even the
leering faces on DVD cases and the names between www and .com didn't bring me
anything but half erect from less than half erect. Stock fantasies of sailors, muscle-men, fashion models,
bronzed gods in Speedos, Toms of many Finlands, hard and vicious Satans in
leather, the top tens of gay porn, the top twenties of gay porn, the top
fifties of gay porn, the Best of the Best Gay Porn, flickered in and out of my
brain, leaving behind a salty smog of possibility, but not enough certainty to
bring me from half to full, let alone on the slick, hard, and pulsing blue-veined
road to actual orgasm.
No, that wasn't the way. Leave it all behind. Look forward, not back. Hissing breath, flop arms, flop legs,
relax, relax, relax – let the drifting thoughts of near-sleep do the work. No thinking, no thoughts, nothing but
what I wanted, nothing but what I needed.
A body began to form,
coalescing, forming, coming together from down deep. It wasn't a Jeff Stryker body, a Ryan Idol body, a Joey
Stefano body, a Lukas Ridgeston body, a Ken Ryker body, a Tom Chase body, or a
Steve Cassidy body – it had elements of them, maybe, but I couldn't tell whose
hand, whose feet, those ass, whose, chest, whose back, whose nipples, whose
thighs belonged to who.
There was something about that
body, even just the thought of it.
My face was warm. A blush,
that's what it was: a tiny shame that the hands, the feet, the ass, the chest,
the back, the nipples, the thighs didn't belong to a popular god – an
acceptable groaning and spurting gay deity.
The embarrassment was a bit of
pepper ground over my libido, a spice of the forbidden. Still red in cheek, but harder in cock,
I let my mind float even further from any acceptable moorings.
The hands were strong but not
from curling weights. They were
quick and flirty, nimble but not tweaky.
Clean, of course: manicured and buffed, polished and smooth. The nails were like mother of pearl,
creamy and iridescent.
The feet were tough, but not
from running marathons. They were
cute and precious, delicate but not fragile. Clean, of course: lotioned and massaged, buffed and velvety. The nails were opal, white and shiny.
The ass was tight, but not so
tight as to crack nuts. Perfectly
balanced between high and low, wide and clenched, big and small, it was the ass
that every other ass had only gotten close to. No hair, naturally: the careful grooming everywhere else
continued down to where back met thighs.
Gleaming and velvety it was an invitation, not a demand; a pillow, not a
burlap sack; a crooked finger, not a clenched fist.
The chest was defined, but not
in steel or cement. Elegantly
sculpted, it showed life, not twelve hours a day in the gym. Furtive and playful, you could trace
this pec, that pec, the six pack, with a lovers slow finger, not have it yelled
at from the top of a boasting pair of lungs the instant a shirt came off.
The back was marble, cool and
silken, not a battleground of bristle or zit. Perfectly formed, you could watch it walk away with a smile,
not a frown. From the nape of the
neck to the twin swells and sweet canyon at the bottom, it was a back as good
and tasty as any front.
The nipples were twin licorice
buttons – a little bit red, a tiny bit black – but not cartoon pencil erasers,
thumbs, or pacifiers. They were
human, real, and inviting: so you knew, just by looking, that lips to them
would make the owner moan with sincerity and loving volume.
The thighs were two strong
pillars of muscle, but not stone or lumber. Ideally formed by dancing, walking, living, and life, they
were for grabbing, stroking, rubbing and feeling pushed up against your own.
Half-hard was now full-on.
Above and below appeared
together. Puzzling, at first, but
not a moment later. It made
perfect sense: cocks are nice, faces are good, but just a face is nothing, only
a cock is zero. Together they make
a smile, combined they make a sigh, put together they make a moan, added up
they make an eruption.
The eyes were blue, azure and
cobalt, cerulean and sky. They
laughed, but not at everything. They
danced, but not to have themselves seen.
They sparkled, but not because they were empty.
The balls were heavy, tan, and
just-rightly hairy. They hung low,
but not like a rutting bull's. They
swung, but not like a pair of silly fuzzy dice. They bounced, but not like they were rubber.
The nose was delicate, impish,
and playful. It swept down, but
didn't droop. It swept up, but not
like a snot's. It was small, but
not like a freakish doll's. It
wrinkled, but not in distaste.
The cockhead was plump,
swollen, and fat. It was high, but
not painfully erect. It was big,
but not so big to keep a mouth away from it. It was long, but not intimidating. It was smooth but not like a Ken doll's. It had personality, but not a crude
one.
The mouth was full, rich,
plush, and silky-smooth. It was
expressive but not laugh-at-everything-stupid. It was sweet but not saccharin. It was wicked without being evil. It was kissable without being slutty.
Full-on was now throbbing.
Come was close, sleep
therefore was close. Thank god,
thank fucking god.
Yes, oh yes. Yes, oh yes. Yes, oh yes. That
was him, that was the one I wanted, the one I always wanted. It was the body I could hold forever,
the face I could look at forever, the sex I could have forever.
There was just one thing: that
body, that face, that cock was familiar.
* * * *
Answers to questions I didn't
want to ask. Bags on the floor? Where had I seen that face before? Where had I seen that body before? What had happened at that party?
No sound. Instead I rolled over, going from face
down to face up. No sound, but my
mouth opened wide. No sound, but
my eyes opened wide. No sound, but
my mind kept going no, no, no, no...
Then I was on my feet and
walking toward the bathroom. Behind
me, I could hear the sheets and cover hiss onto the carpeted floor.
Then I was walking into the
bathroom. My finger was on the
light-switch, but I hesitated. A
thought: I'd gone shopping, between then and now. Bags and bags and bags on the floor. A new look, a new self – a self I'd
hoped would attract him again. Before,
of course, I'd finally realized the who of who
he was had sunk in. Now that I
knew – really knew, in my brain and not down in the throbbing, meaty brain of
my dick – I wanted to throw them out, burn every last shirt, every last pair
shorts, every last pair of pants, every undershirt until there was nothing
left.
I knew it now. Knew what had happened. But I still turned on the light.
He was there, in the room with
me, and just like me he'd been Tommy Hilfiger – because that's who I'd been. Just like me he'd been waiting for the
perfect man; the one he'd always wanted, the one he'd always needed.
He was there, in the bathroom
with me, staring at me with frightened eyes from the clarity of the mirror.
After a few minutes I turned
off the light, making him vanish into darkness.
I never slept: the rest of the
night was spent sitting in the dark, watching the door, waiting for it to open
and for him to be there.
Waiting with my hands balled
tightly into quivering fists.
No comments:
Post a Comment