Wednesday, September 26, 2007


Note: This one's pure whimpering moosh. If you're not into mooshy, don't read it.

I can’t do anything until we get in. Rushing through the airport, the baggage in the car, people looking at us, but no one saying anything, just rushing down moving sidewalks and through automatic doors until the last one opens and there’s the car, rushing into it. For however long it will last, the last piece of him for a while.

I’d looked forward to it for months, though I never said anything, or even thought about it directly. But it was there and we both knew it, a room outside of our lives, away from our homes, the old routine, if only for one night it was something. And the day was fine. We were just beaming, like children, like we’d just met, like it was all in front of us. There would be nights in front of us and I lied to myself, just in case it didn’t happen. I lied and told myself we were together again. Because I didn’t want to think about the next day, today, when we take the limo home and there are more months ahead of us before we can be alone again. Alone without a lying phone call or a time limit, when we would have hours together away from ourselves, the pillow fort that we hide in, a sheet over it, reading stories to each other with our flashlights.

Corey’s room was right next to mine so I didn’t have to wait long. I answered the door and he was there, an expression of something in him, his face vexed and hopeful, like mine. Exhausted with want and worry and dread and happiness. I let him in and he hugged me tightly to him, finally time for affection. Finally enough time to feel each other, not a quick fuck in the back seat or a drunk dial early in the morning. We stood for a long time like that in the hallway of my room and I felt like I was falling apart, but I swallowed it down, like pushing ice through a hose. I finally broke it off and made us a couple of drinks. He sat on the bed and wiped his mouth back and forth in his hand.

“Are you happy?” he asked, his voice split in two.

I didn’t answer him, but swallowed again, chasing it with the vodka and cranberry I’d made for myself. I gave him his drink and he drank it fast. We sat next to each other, our shoulders pressed in harshly to one another. His hand, cold from the drink, trailed up my beard and I kissed it.

He backed up to the headboard and I followed him. He turned to his side, pulled me into him and kissed me. We took our time. And it hurt. It hurt like hell. Every millimeter between us stung.

The first thing we do in the limo is raise the barrier. He pushes me down into the seat and takes his jeans off. I take off my own. He falls onto me and sinks his tongue into my mouth. I sit up and push him down instead, lube from my bag drizzled on his asshole and the look in his eyes that I’m avoiding. In the room, we took each other’s clothes off slowly. I felt his skin against mine and I almost lost it again. We lay there, our mouths moving into each other, our legs wrapped into each other, all the things I wanted to say getting packed down deeper into my gut. “I love you,” I said, finally, this little admission sent up to explain everything below. And that hurt enough, letting that pass through.

I unzip my bag in the footwell and put the tips of my fingers over his bottom teeth. Don’t say anything. Just don’t. I don’t want any of that. There’s just no fucking time. We put it off and this is it. When I’m coated and my dick, my sullen brain not affecting it at all, pulses in the air, I concentrate on that. I raise his knees onto my chest and slam into him, he whimpers three little jittery inhales over his teeth like he stepped on something sharp. I add more lube and press on, stanching the pain in my chest that I’m ignoring. I’ll deal with you later.

“I. Shit, Alec, I love you too,” he said, breaking the kiss. He put his fingers in my hair and pressed his cheek into mine. “I love you too. I can’t live without you. I can’t do anything at the work. Can’t do anything at home. I’m faking everything. I’m a fucking wreck and I can’t, shit, dammit, shit, no, I just. I don’t want to do this. I can’t talk to you about this. I just want to lay here with you, okay? I just want to lay here.” And I didn’t know what to do. So I crushed him to me and I closed my eyes and tried to be happy for him. And they came anyway, branding my fucking cheeks they were so hot.

He’s getting into it and I’m looking down at him, my arms wrapped tight around his thighs and I’ve never gone so hard, so reckless, so desperate and angry at him. I feel like slapping him I’m so mad. But it’s not him I’m mad at. It’s that tomorrow he’ll be next to me again. And I’ll have to lie. And I’ll have to get into my car and go home. I’m sweating and thinking about how I’m going to explain it. And I’m mad about that too. And I just want to fuck him forever. And I just want to come. And I want to hate him. The feel of his body on mine, I want to hate that. He grasps his cock, but I slap it away and take it myself, quick and cold.

We spent the entire night awake and quiet like that, broken up only occasionally by a quaking shoulder and a word or two. In the morning, late for the airport and rushing to pack everything, I patted my jacket from the night before.

“I have something to show you,” I said. I opened up my wallet and pulled out my stack of I.D.s, credit cards and such. Between the Nieman’s and the Blockbuster, I pulled out a lunch receipt. “It’s from the day we met. It’s been in here ever since.”

He looked at it and bit his lip. I put it all back.

“Come, dammit,” I say to him. “Come, Corey. Come.” I feel my fingernails graze him a couple of times, but I don’t care. Sweat drips through my eyebrows and into my eyes and I take that sting too.

“Alec, I… Alec. Alec.”

“Shut up. Just fucking come.” My body is pulsing. I’m burning, but it doesn’t matter. And I’m fighting everything. I just want to fight. I hate all of it. His shoulders lift off of the seat and I feel his ass twist and lock on me and he shoots out all over my hand and I’m seething and trying not to think of anything but that. When I stop thinking, my whole body explodes and it’s not enough. It’s not enough to feel his knees in my chest and call his name out. It’s not enough to stanch anything. Because I want last night back. I pull out of him and pick him up and hold him so close to me and he pulls out of it with a squeeze on my knee. We get to my neighborhood. We put our clothes on silently and I kiss him hard before I get out of the car, a squeeze on the hand that’s nowhere near enough.


Cyrano Q said...

Oh fuck, you're good. Oh yes. Very good.


n said...

'all the things i wanted to say getting packed down deeper into my gut'........yes, that's exactly it. I love all the stinging, hurt and pain you describe so well. Thank you

Droplet said...

Thanks a lot, Cyrano and N, means a whole heck of a lot.


Faggot said...

it's not fair.
it's always like you really enjoy torturing your gay characters.
there are plenty of couples living happily together, should i name?

Droplet said...


This couple isn't unhappy because they're gay, this couple is unhappy because they married women. The couple in Grey isn't unhappy because they're gay, they're unhappy because they're brainwashed into thinking everything is black and white, good or bad, and this puts them in the bad side. The couple in Test Your Strength isn't unhappy because they're gay, but because they don't have the balls to go through with it.

The problem with writing a romantic story in this day and age is that it's much harder to keep a couple apart. You can't throw in a relative threatening to cut the fortune away, like Jane Austen could, or have a scheming prince or careless fairy mess things up like Shakespeare could. Gay couples, still under the influence of a disapproving society, have got this market cornered in this day and age. I find it incredibly romantic. Like writing the story of the soldier in the doomed relationship overseas who must give up happiness and go home again and again.

If you're looking for happier gay couples, ones who got over it and decided to get what they want, look to The Party, Part Four, Chef, Laid, You Came In. If you're looking for unhappy straight ones, try Charlie and Bess or The Dragonfly.

Yes, I could have written this as a straight couple who were simply unhappy in their respective marriages, but that would have involved a lot of exposition, and exposition's annoying. And besides, it was time for me to write a gay one. The count's getting skewed.



amy said...

Fuck. You made me cry. That was so poignant. I can't believe how much I care about the people you write about.

Droplet said...

Is it wrong to walk up to strangers and say, "Hey! You. Yeah, you. You know Amy from 24.7 D/S? Shut UP yes you do. Thank you. I made her cry. Yep."? Probably. So I resisted. But damn did I want to.

Bless you,