Me2: Chapter 8

As part of a huge - and much needed - marketing push, I'm going to be serializing a few of my all-time favorite books ... starting with the (ahem) rather infamous novel that I may or may not have actually written: Me2

"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.

Me2: Chapter 7

As part of a huge - and much needed - marketing push, I'm going to be serializing a few of my all-time favorite books ... starting with the (ahem) rather infamous novel that I may or may not have actually written: Me2

"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 VII
Me7

"They used to think it was a big circle, a loop, you know?  Around and around, all the way to the end, then back again – like that.  But that's until they got to know more about the way it all works.  Last I heard it was actually like a piece of paper that's rolled out then put back together but with different sides at the end.  Mobius strip, it's called.  So even though it's a real thing, in three dimensions, it's also only two, because if you follow it all the way around you come right back to where you started from, but not the way you'd normally think about it.

"Funny how they use paper to talk about it.  People in a thousand years won't probably understand what the hell we were talking about.  I can see them now, scratching their heads – if they even have heads anymore – and wondering what we meant by paper, and creasing and folding ... stuff like that.

"But that's the way they explain it now.  I also heard how they think it ends, how everything ends, really.  One is that it all just stops.  It all runs out of power ... the suns, black holes, all of it.  It just keeps going out and out, expanding but there's not enough out there for it to collect back together, right?  Out and out until everything's broken up into grayness.  Everything.  Just gray.

"I think that's fucking depressing, actually.  But there's others who think that there is enough matter and stuff that it won't just keep going and going, that sometime way off in the future it's going to stop and then get sucked back together.  They thought this wasn't going to be the way, but then they found this new kind of matter.  It's really weird.  You can't see it, but it has to be there, right?  But they found it – don't know how – and now a lot of professors and doctors think that because of it the world, universe and all, won't just keep going.  So it stops, right?  It stops and then because of this dark matter it'll start to pull back, shrink until everything's this big, then this big and then so damned small you can't see it – just like it was at the beginning again.

"Then something happens.  Maybe it gets so damned small and tight it can't get any smaller, so it has to explode again.  Another big bang right?  So it begins all over again.

"I like that, you know?  That it just keeps going, over and over again.  Out then in, bang to bang.  But time's like that strip, right?  So even so it goes around and around it also passes itself by, so things kind of repeat.  That's also kind of cool, you know?  That what was around before is still here, just passing us by – or layered on top of us.  Screw your eyes up and you could maybe see what happened before, just before our bang, the time before.  Maybe that's why we feel that deja vu thing – that it's just us passing the universe that was the last time, just bleeding through.

"I have this friend, a real stoner, you know?  But he's also kind of deep in his own way.  I told him about all this and he goes off and starts talking about how it also could explain a lot of other things.  Like history repeating itself, because it really does.  There's an echo, see, that plays in the background and sometimes it just gets so loud we can't help but follow right along.  Like a groove on a record that gets worn deeper and deeper each time it goes around.

"Shit.  There's something else people might not understand in a few years.  Records ... miss 'em sometimes, you know?

"But this friend of mine also says that's also what ghosts are.  That the world gets thin sometimes so what was before then comes through.  Or maybe it's the future that's coming through.  Or both.  He also said something else ... and this really freaked me out.  I mean really freaked.  Like I couldn't sleep that night.  You know?  Really disturbing.

"He said ... well, he said that it might be that we just think we can't remember each cycle.  He said that it might be that the people we think we are, are made up of each of these 'run-throughs,' that we didn't really have minds, that we were just robots going through the motions, because that's just the way the world works.  But, because we've gone through it so many times, we think we're getting close to being really conscious.  It's the repetition, the echoes, that causes it.

"But what got me is that he also said we might not really be there yet, that we have a few more cycles to go through.  We might just still be machines going through the motions but we wouldn't know it.  We'd never know it.  Creepy, huh?

"I thought about it a bit more.  I also thought that sometimes there might be a problem, like things might repeat too many times and so there's a ... I don't know, a tear, a rip, shit like that.  Paper again, right?  But it might happen, and when it does, something really weird might happen, like something from a long time back might get here, or we might fall back to a few bangs ago.  I don't know what it'd look like, but it could be really freaky – so freaky we might not know what it is.  We might never know what it is.

"In the future they might know all about this.  Big foreheads or no foreheads, something like that.  But then possibly the future is the past, so maybe we did know, but for some reason we aren't sharing it.

"Gives you a headache, doesn't it?"

* * * *

"Maybe you'll have a good time."

One, two, three, four – it didn't look like a Lexus neighborhood, but there they were, one after another, on the right as well as the left side of the street: points of smooth luxury in an area that seemed more comfortable with affordability – either that or lots of people were getting a giggly thrill out of crossing the line and parking in an area more suited to Toyotas or Hondas.

My Volkswagen was neither a completely left or a totally right machine, not a Lexus or even a Honda, and so was suitable for the area.  That didn't put me at ease, but at least it didn't ramp up my already jittery nerves.  The bees in my knees, the wasps in my ears, the spiders tap-dancing up and then down my back didn't need any more nervous encouragement.

"Maybe you'll have a good time."

I didn't want to be there.  A possible parking place – between the expensive fire-hydrant red and the faded status of a filthy Civic – but I passed it by, not wanting to risk a tow or a ticket and feeling down enough without a WASH ME contact humiliation.  Another was close by – sandwiched between the driveway of a heavily shaded ranch-type monstrosity and a pristine SUV – but I kept on driving, not wishing an angry homeowner's raving insanity at blocking his drive or the infection of being too close to a politically incorrect vehicle.

Face it: I didn't want to stop.

Ah, there it was: I didn't want to stop – catch the lean on the "I"?  The 'me' that was still rolling around in my head, the old 'me,' the failed 'me,' the crappy 'me,' the disappointing 'me,' the abandoned 'me,' was the 'me' that just wanted to keep circling the block until my tires went bald, then flat, and the engine went completely dry.  That 'me' loved parties, itched to throw myself into the chattering, laughing, glowing pool of a good get-together: "Did you hear?" "How didn't you know?" "Ohmigod!" "I can't believe that!" "Never in a million years!" "That's something else" "Who'd have thought it!" "So like him" "Saw that coming" "Can't believe he did that" "Like we couldn't tell" "That's fine – for him" "Talk about dating down" "Someone's still reading from last month's issue" "I know!" "Mee-ow!" "You'd think he'd take the hint" "I tried to be nice" "Did you see what he was wearing?" "Did you see what he was driving?" "Did you see who he was with?" "That’s not what I heard" "Girlfriend, you’ve got to pay attention to those kinds of things" "What a bitch!"

But that was before my neck got a stabbing lightning-bolt of pain from looking over my shoulder: was that him?  Was that him?  Was that him?  But that was before my back got a crushing cramp from duckng down: what does he want?  What does he want?  What does he want?  But that was before my eyes roasted in their bitter juices from not sleeping: why’s he better?  Why’s he better?  Why’s he better?

Twisted, bent, sore, the last thing I wanted to do was go to a party.  I was scared of what I’d become: "Will you look at him?" "Someone needs to crawl under a rock" "Can’t believe he came out here looking like that" "Choo!  Choo!  Here comes a train wreck!" "Girlfriend needs to go home" "Shoot me if I ever look that bad" "Troll seeks bridge, money no object" "God, I hope he’s hung – 'cause he ain't getting it any other way, and then with the lights off"

Calm down.  Take five.  Breathe in.  Breathe out.  Get a grip.  Relax.  Let go.  Loosen up.  Lighten up.  Unwind.  Settle down: that was the old me.  The new one was freshly shaved, showered, powdered, manicured, preened, producted, clipped, styled, shopped, and carefully assembled by Tommy Hilfiger.

The new me loved parties more than ever.  The new me was full of green-springy life, brilliant hope, frisky play, pearly wit, satin-smooth flirts, tough-ass slaps, and razor-sharp darts.  The new me was bright and beautiful, starchy and fresh-from-the-box, a me ready to knock packing peanuts off his shoes and strongly stride out into the spotlight of "how have you been?" "You look fabulous darling!" "Long time no see!" "Fabulous!" "You're giving me the vapors" "You look good enough to eat" "Bravo!" "Fathers lock up your sons" "Way to go, girlfriend" "Fabulous!"

Goodbye me.  Hello me.  Time to live again: Time to try again.

Still that voice in my ear, the one at the end of the invitation: "Maybe you'll have a good time."

It was the only party I'd heard about – even though I doubted anyone there knew me.  Open call and all that.  But I was still going.  If anything just because the old me wouldn't have.

Besides, I might have just that: "a good time."

* * * *

Digest people, at least.  Architectural (thank god), not Reader's: the door swung open on the first ring (no knock) and there was a tight hall expanded with silver-framed mirrors, burgundy walls adding to their Latin dimension.  The opener was swarthy, a charcoal-brazier tan, mesquite-dark hair, eyes like dots of mole sauce on fine white linen.  Once I heard a feline acquaintance – a hissing and spitting little twink with a fondness for drawing blood and wrapping himself in old boyfriends' cashmere – call people who liked Latins "bean queens" and even though I was known to smile while cutting my own share of vicious wounds, I did not grin at that.  A better term was added to my dictionary by a ripped, flexed, buff, oiled, and toned friend who told it while eating far too many corn chips with far too much salsa as he eyed – and was eyed back by – our South American waiter: "A Latin Lover."

That the man who opened the door fit this description was evident, that he was already claimed was the same.  A minute later a this-side-of-young and that-side-of-old intellectual appeared from a connecting room and put his arm around him.  "So glad you could make it," the leather-patched tweed coat said with a grin.  The light from carefully recessed lamps dazzled me with the reflections from his tortoise-shell glasses.

"Wouldn't have missed it," the new me said, full of life and flirt.

Did I know him?  Was he the one who called?

Leading, they brought me from the hall into the living room.  Mexico continued, filling the corners with lumpy, heavily glazed terra cotta pots, hanging heavy iron chandeliers from the ceiling, radiating everything from bulbs copying candles in black metal sconces.  On the tables – of which there were quite a few – were tablecloths that looked like shawls stolen from prostrating Catholic mothers, their knees sangria-red with the stigmata of crawling to see the Virgin of Guadalupe.

It was a good room, clipped out of a quality publication and made real.  It made me feel comfortable to be in it, style by association, and crave to hold my own corn chip and look at ease.

The place was busy, full, almost packed: my appreciation of the place was intermittent, glances between turning torsos, ambulating arms, nodding noggins.

"Hey, there." Urban look, black pants, black shirt, heavy steel in the ears, goatee below pale lips.  Hair a color not found in nature, or in anyone bottle of dye (try three, maybe four, mixed up).  Belt something Rambo would hang himself from.  On his feet, combat boats, like thick-shelled venomous beetles.

"Hey!  Good to see you," the new me said, all cool and collected.

Did I know him?  Was he the one that called?

A toast was raised to me, the drink Kool-Aid bright and full of as much fruit as ice, in a glass that looked cut from the bottom of a cheap wine bottle.  The toaster was a Hawaiian eye: shirt that needed to be adjusted for vertical hold as well as Red/Green tint, shorts that were way too short, sandals that showed off tanned-to-begin-with feet, but then recently burned.  His face, too, had gone from golden-brown to crispy, and his hair was toasted to the point of being broken enough to cut your hand.

The new me nodded back to him, all warm and cheery.  Did I know him?  Was he the one that called?

Next to him, tracking from the drink to what it was doing and then to whom it was doing to, was a queen.  Eyelashes, lipstick, rouge, hair, dress, shoes, nails – all applied with a skill and diligence that made real women hiss "bitch." He was a thin one, fine about being between the two, as opposed to some who might have giggled into their perfumed hankies at tricking the unwary.  A caterpillar as well as the butterfly, he could fly as well as inch along the nearest branch.  After the track, he smiled and blew me a pink bubblegum kiss.

Two fingers to my own lips I passed the same back, the new me all relaxed and comfy.

Did I know him?  Was he the one that called?

A drink was passed over, the same brightly colored and cold combo the Man from Maui was still sipping.  Sangria, that was it: the decor immediately traveling a few thousand miles to the right, landing in Madrid rather than in Acapulco.  Did that mean the professor's partner was a Spanish Fly, to be catty, or a Spanish Dancer, to be less so?  A sip made the fluttering in my mind still, quieting the stupid question.  I was there.  I was at a party: a chance to begin again, to grow into a brand new person.  Another sip, and with it a thought about it, the drink, and myself, the drinker: it was good, and this new me liked drinking it.

"Maybe you'll have a good time."

So far so good.  Yes, so far – only a few minutes, so good – nothing to complain about.  A third sip and I felt a few previously unknown knots of muscle begin to loosen.  They all seemed to be nice people: grins wherever I looked, the bodies of the same all casual, contented, at ease.

Contented, casual, at ease, and so far (oh, yes) I was as well.  There was absolutely nothing to complain about.  If anything, it was worth celebrating.  I'd almost forgotten what it felt like, being contented, casual, at ease.  I might not have known everything about this new self, but I did know that this new me liked it.

Sipping and mixing, I found myself accidentally rubbing elbows (literally) with an outdoorsman.  Tanned and rough, frizzled and calloused, denim and well-worn boots, he looked like Half a Dome, a class-six climb, an up-at-dawn, six-mile hike, a fifty-pound backpack, a kayak, or a scuba tank.  Out of our bump, he flashed me a strong, toothy grin, eager, it seemed, to tell of his latest perilous adventure hundreds of miles from the nearest Internet connection.

From this I drifted away, further into the party, but not before returning my own version of his smile; the new me assured and confident.

Did I know him?  Was he the one that called?

"Maybe you'll have a good time."

A rocker ("Righteous, dude!  "), next season's model ("Well, that's what they're saying this year"), a sneering sexfiend ("...  just before I fucked him in the ass"), a sticky meth freak ("If you got the bucks I know where we can score"), a jolly Santa ("Hohohohoho"), wit ("the only thing worse than not being talked about..."), and my mind swam, my thoughts did the crawl, my brain frantically performed the butterfly – and I needed to piss.

Retreating, one half of the hosts, the Intellectual, touched me arm, asking if I was okay, if there was anything he could help me with.  I must have mumbled something ... something about what had been happening because he told me about theories, science, loops, and time.

Not understanding a word he said, I finally managed to escape and stumble off to relieve the one pressure I could.

* * * *

The bathroom was a little boy's version of the main room: burgundy walls, ferns, decorative baskets, and mirrors framed with hammered silver.

After washing my hands in a mosaic sink, I glanced up from the bits of tile and glass to see my eyes (no bags), hair (needed a trim, but okay), teeth (needed a bit of cleaning but okay), and skin (pretty damned good) in reflex and even though the eyes, hair, teeth, and skin were familiar, the person they were part of was someone I didn't immediately recognize.

Bit of brains in the eyes, a tad of stylish in the hair, a touch of good humor in the smile, health and stamina in the glow of his skin.  He seemed like a nice enough guy.  Cute but not precious.  Sexy without being sleazy.  Clever without being trite.

The new me.  I liked him.  More important, I could see where other people might like him.

The mirror, though, also brought up a ghost: the spirit of the last few days.  Somewhere he was out there, walking around in my old shoes, doing my old job, living in my old space, making my old friends laugh, making my old lovers come.  What was he?  Who was he?  What did he want?

Reflections: maybe he was me, but a me that'd gotten bounced here, a self that was somehow tweaked or twonked, or shifted, or twisted, or warped from his native world to a place that already had me in it.  Maybe he was a slightly different me, one that was me but with a little something extra, a tiny 'whatever' that'd made him better suited for the slot I thought I'd, been ideally filling.

Whatever.  Let him have it.  The old me had been good, or so I'd thought.  Now, though, looking at my new and improved character in the mirror I didn't miss myself at all.  This was a good thing, a chance to become a new person, with new hopes and new potentials.  He was the past, he was a bad memory, decisions I shouldn't have made, regrets better left unsaid.  Now I was fresh and clean, spotless and full of potential.  Lots of good things could be in my future.

And so, after drying my hands and winking at the sexy devil in the bathroom mirror, I stepped out into the chattering party to see what kind of good things my new life had to offer.

* * * *

"Did you hear?" said the Latin Lover when we found ourselves away from the main gaggle.  When I said that I hadn't, all the time trying to catch his deep mahogany eyes, he replied: "How didn't you know?" When I said I had no idea how I couldn't have known, moving closer all the time, working my way to an accidental touch, he answered: "Ohmigod!" When I laughed at his indignation I thought seriously about simply putting my hand on his shoulder – but then didn't.  There was warmth, certainly, but he wasn't what I wanted.

"I can't believe that!" said the intellectual as he refilled my glass.  When I said that it was the god's honest truth, all the time trying to look deep into his bright blue eyes, he replied: "Never in a million years!" When I said I had no idea how I couldn't have known, inching nearer all the while, making my way to an inadvertent contact, he shot back: "That's something else." When I chuckled at his disbelief I honestly played with the idea of just putting my hand on his hip – but didn't.  There was a heat there, obviously, but he wasn't what I wanted.

"Who'd have thought it!" Urban said when we found ourselves on the couch together.  When I said that it was all totally true, as I made a move to lock my eyes with his deep brown ones, he replied: "So like him." When I said I had no clue who he was talking about, sliding down the fabric toward him, he zapped back: "Saw that coming." When I giggled a bit at his dismissal, I truthfully entertained the fantasy of simply placing my hand on his thigh – but didn't.  There was clearly interest from him, but he wasn't what I wanted.

"Can't believe he did that," said the Hawaiian eye as we both stepped out of the living room.  When I answered that I'd been completely truthful, as I edged nearer to him, he replied: "Like we couldn't tell." When I said I had no answer as to why he couldn't tell, stepping so our bodies were just about touching, he countered with: "That's fine – for him." When I chuckled at his catty comment, I pondered just kissing him – but didn't.  There was a very positive vibe coming off him, but he wasn't what I wanted.

"Talk about dating down" said the Queen as we stood by a picture window looking out onto a tropical back garden.  When I answered that I knew what he was talking about, as I eased up next to him, he replied: "Someone's still reading from last month's issue." When I agreed that I might be a little out of touch, moving ever-so-nearer, he affirmed with "I know!" When I laughed a bit at his playfulness, I thought seriously about just grabbing his ass – but didn't.  There was a hunger between us, but he wasn't what I wanted.

A rocker ("You're righteous, dude!"), next season's model ("You've really got potential"), a sneering sex-fiend ("I could fuck you in the ass"), a sticky meth freak ("If you can score, I'll suck you"), a jolly Santa ("Hehehehehe"), wit ("...  you know what they say about a big dick."), and my mind swam again, my thoughts did the crawl again, my brain frantically performed the butterfly again – and once again I needed to piss.

Having a choice was wonderful.  No, it wasn't wonderful, it was fantastic, glorious, spectacular, incredible and ... well, it made me something I thought I'd never feel again: happy.  Yep, having a choice was wonderful, but trying to decide ... it wasn't unpleasant, but it was confusing.  I barely knew who I was, what I was all about, let alone what I liked – and the kind of man I liked to do it with.

Puzzled, confused, distracted, I wandered deeper in the house, hoping my body's memory (because it certainly wasn't in my bubbling brain) would remember which door was the one to the bathroom, I pushed the door I thought was the right one.

Partial darkness, just enough for me to see more Spanish colors, shapes, textures, and elements – but not the ones I'd seen in the bathroom.  As the door closed behind me and it became pitch as in 'pitch black,' I fumbled for where I thought the switch was.  Instead, I hand grazed smooth fabric and then the whisper of bare skin.

No, not the bathroom.

"Sorry," I stumbled around, the words squeaky and childish in shock and embarrassment, trying to turn, to find the way out.

"Wait," came a voice, one husky and heavy, and with it a quick touch to my shoulder, my hip, my thigh, and even my ass.

I did – I waited.  I hesitated, slowing down from my exit, and he said: "Good." Then he said something else, something that made me stop completely: "Maybe you'll have a good time."

* * * *

His hands went back to my shoulders, this time with a firmer rubbing of my unconsciously tensed muscles, massaging to where my shoulders lead to my back and then down ... down to where my pulse was already making my pants far too tight.

His hands went to my chest, caresses to my pecs, down along the miniscule swell of my stomach, a mischievous tickle to my belly button.

His hands went back to my hips, this time with strong grips to my corded physique, a tug forward that brought me up onto the balls of my feet and then stepping forward – so off balance I had to put out a hand to stop myself.  A hand that made contact with the flat, ripped plane of his own trunk.

His hands went to my arms, contacts delicate as well as determined down from upper to lower, and then from lower down to my wrists.  Each movement of his own fingers, each sensual gesture of his own hand, sending tingles mixed with goose bumps with a touch of shiver up and down my body – and not just where he was touching.

His hands went back to my thighs, this time with much more determination.  Confident and eager, he kneaded rather than just touched, rubbed rather than tickled, squeezed rather than just poked, and with each knead, rub, and squeeze I got hotter and hotter and hotter still.

His hands went to my ass, both hands reaching around to grip, then clasp, then clench them both firmly.  In answer, I gripped, clasped, and then clenched: a dialog developed between what he was saying with his fingers and how I was responding with my cheeks.  The translation was simple.  He: I like this.  Me: So do I.

Then we were kissing, hot breaths becoming hotter breaths when shared – and we shared (oh lordy, we shared) for what seemed like ... well, a really long time.  Metaphors, similes, and awkward and forced observations are for when you're cold, thoughtful, and contemplative, and I was not.  No, I was – we were – hot, primitive, and urgent.  And it was good.

Then we were hugging, arms and legs wrapped around arms and legs in a knot of please don't let this stop.

Kissing and hugging, me very aware of his hard cock, he no doubt aware of mine, I couldn't help but think two things: who was he and please don't let this stop.

Then it was time, a kind of mutual turn-on schedule: breaking the kiss with a soft, wet pop of moist suction, he carefully, precisely, tortuously, began to slide down my body.

I was still standing, but now he was kneeling.

Yes, you know what happened next. 

No, you don't know what happened next.

In the darkness, the bell chime of my brass Tommy Hilfiger buckle being undone.  In the soft, warm, darkness, the raspberry of my steel zipper fly being undone.  In the black, the rustle of my pants being loosened.

In the gloom – no sound.  But a sensation, a feeling: his mouth swallowing my very hard cock.  Sounds simple, direct, doesn't it?  But it was anything but.  The Latin Lover, the Intellectual, The Urban, the Hawaiian Eye, the Queen, the Rocker, The Model, the Sex Fiend, the Meth Freak, the Santa, or the Wit knew what he was doing – knew exactly what he was doing: the right amount of tongue, the correct application of lips, the perfect usage of throat, the ideal performance of teeth – each and every one a seductive coaxing of sweat from my skin, moans from my throat, tremors from my muscles, and come from my cock.

No, not yet – I thought, trying to think of anything but baseball.  I mean, trying to think of baseball instead of the superb job the Latin Lover, the Intellectual, The Urban, the Hawaiian Eye, the Queen, the Rocker, The Model, the Sex Fiend, the Meth Freak, the Santa, or the Wit was doing with my dick.  The problem was I didn't know anything about baseball – or at least I hadn't found out yet if this new me even liked baseball – and the only thing I did know, with absolute certainty, was that the Latin Lover, the Intellectual, The Urban, the Hawaiian Eye, the Queen, the Rocker, The Model, the Sex Fiend, the Meth Freak, the Santa, or the Wit was a master of the blowjob.

So what to think about?  How to distract myself from the excellent performance the Latin Lover, the Intellectual, The Urban, the Hawaiian Eye, the Queen, the Rocker, The Model, the Sex Fiend, the Meth Freak, the Santa, or the Wit was giving my cock?  I had to think of something ... anything, or it would be over too soon, the play concluded too fast, the fun finished too early.

There was a problem.  I was fresh, unblemished, clean, and spotless: I was new, too new to have anything that wasn't still tainted by my old self, the one that had been stolen from me.

My cock began to sag.  I'd thought of something better – no, worse – than baseball: that being new could be good, but it also meant that I was empty, shallow, and hollow.  The Latin Lover, the Intellectual, The Urban, the Hawaiian Eye, the Queen, the Rocker, The Model, the Sex Fiend, the Meth Freak, the Santa, or the Wit was sucking a cock – but whose cock was he sucking?

No.  In the dark room I shook my head, cleaning away the storm thoughts.  No.  This was a good time, a great time.  I might not have a past but I had a huge future.  Tommy Hilfiger shirt, Tommy Hilfiger pants, Tommy Hilfiger socks, and Tommy Hilfiger underwear, and the rest for me to pick and choose.

And a great guy was giving me the best blowjob of my new – or even my old – life.  It was good.  It was damned good.

Fuck baseball.  I decided right then that whoever I was – I sure as hell didn't like, or care, about baseball.  Blowjobs, though ... that was another matter.

A great matter.  A fantastic matter.  A glorious matter.  A matter that in a matter of minutes pushed out every doubt, every hesitation, every falter out of my mind – and then in a shake from my feet to the top of my head, a quake from one hand to the other, a rattle all up my throat and out my mouth, a roll all along my spine, what I'd kept bottled up came squirting out and into his mouth.

My strings were cut, my bones jellied, my heart fluttered, my knees failed, my eyes rolled, my jaw twitched, and I fell backwards.  Luckily, the door was behind me, so when I did, something stopped me going from standing to sitting in a painful, and worst of all, embarrassing collapse.

After a time – how long I had no idea – my senses switched back on.  First was taste, and with the taste a smile that what I was tasting was my own come, a sweet gift of his kiss after sucking me off.  The next was sound, known because I could hear our ragged breathing.  After sound was touch, announcing itself in the weight and texture of him curled up in my arms.  After that was smell, the room redolent with salt from sweat, and best of all salt from come.

The last was sight.  As the room had been lightless, it was the longest to come back – it took as long as our time together for my eyes to adjust to the black.  Adjust they did, enough for me to look down and see what my other senses had told me: that in the gloom I was sitting down with my back against the door, a very dim glow leaking down where its paneling met the floor, my lover curled up in my still-shivering arms.

He wasn't the Latin Lover, the Intellectual, The Urban, the Hawaiian Eye, the Queen, the Rocker, The Model, the Sex Fiend, the Meth Freak, the Santa, or the Wit.  Nope, he was better than any of them.

He was exactly what I'd wanted: what I'd always wanted in a lover.

One last logical thought: funny, isn't it, how you never recognize your own voice.  Recorded, or on the phone.