This comes after he's been arrested, beaten, gathered together a number of Owen's friends, and begun to see how things have been working in Palm Springs, lately...and it's got him nervous about what's happened to his uncle...and to his relationship with Tone. Be warned, there is some strong sexual content.
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Just to be clear, I didn’t DIS-believe the story I was hearing about Lemm; I had Uncle Owen’s comment in an e-mail about a guy like that causing him trouble, too. But he’d passed him off as a Mormon loon, not exactly the most beloved of people after what they pulled with Prop 8. Still neither his nor Lemm’s version matched what little I knew about guys like that.
Of course, what I know about guys like that was from my one encounter with a missionary at Gramma’s, while she was visiting Uncle Narden up in Dallas. Two of those guys appeared on her doorstep in the middle of June and went into their little spiel about how great it was to be robots for Jesus, who’d spent those three days of hell in America teaching the Indians how savage and wrong they were, and who all had the potential of becoming God or something, and yap, yap, yap. They were both blond, blue-eyed, tall, trim, clean-shaved, neat nails, simple white cotton shirts over t-shirts with ties, even though it was nearly a hundred out, black pants ironed to a crease. Their shoes were simple and laced and so polished, they almost looked like fired-china. At first, I thought they were brothers.
I wasn’t going to let them in the house, but they were trying so hard to look like they were not wilting from the heat and Gramma’s window a/c had the room cool enough to matter...and one of them had given me such a quick, obvious glance up and down...I opened the door and drenched them with iced tea.
Herbal, no caffeine allowed.
I was dressed in a ratty wife-beater and nylon gym shorts that were on the clingy side, and Glancing Boy’s signal had sent a shot of HORNY into my balls. So as they sipped their tea and gave me their very earnest line of crap, I played up my looks by lounging in this overstuffed chair with one leg over its arm and the other stretched out, letting the shorts lay across my crotch and legs, clenching my ass every now and then, making everything move ever so slightly. Glancing Boy didn’t fail me; his eyes’d dart down to what mattered and then jerk back to mine. And I sent him every signal I could that I was interested.
Of course, we discussed my ankle cuff. I told them it was because I was a pagan-athiest-devil-worshiping drug dealer, and finally asked them if they wanted a snort of something fun. That got them to leave. Together, dammit. Fast. But they did thank me for the tea and a/c as they scrambled out the door. I gave Glancing Boy’s left shoulder a slight squeeze as he exited but figured I’d probably scared him off.
Instead, just before midnight, when I was about to give up on a sketch I was trying to pull together, there was a knock on the door and there he stood. Dressed the same but with hungry eyes and no tie. His breath deep and scared. His lips constantly licked, like a cat would do.
“Do you really have drugs?” he asked.
I just smiled and yanked him inside...and pushed my lips against his and held his body close to mine and felt every nerve in my body fire up as he grabbed me around the waist and slipped his tongue across to mine and...oh...let’s just say, within seconds I found out what Mormon undies look like...and that they’re harder to get off than you’d think. And that they can hide the nicest, tightest body you can imagine. And that when Mormon boys get hungry, they want to eat now, now, now.
So my shirt became a rag as he dove down to bite my tits and grope my ass and cascade his mouth down my belly and slip my shorts to my knees...and start the most intense blow job of my life, well, until Tone came along. But I didn’t let him finish. Instead, I pushed him back on the floor and showed him I knew a thing or do about worshiping a dick. I also found out I love the feel of blond chest hairs on my lips as I whisper my tongue around taut brown nips, and that when you’re a robot with a year’s worth of abstinence stored up, it takes more than once or twice to be completely satisfied.
I wasn’t into being fucked, back then; it was still too close to what had happened in prison. But he never asked, not even when I got really rough with him. All I can add is, he left with the most Zen of expressions on his face, swearing to god he’d come back if he could. He didn’t. I knew he wouldn’t; we’d both built up enough endorphins to last a while.
Then a couple months later, Gramma died, and I was too busy keeping it on the down low so I could keep living in her place and not have my parole officer make me go to a halfway house or something, for supervision. Helped that neither mom nor Uncle Narden ever called. Then a couple months after that, Tone popped into my life...just as I was hitting starvation mode, again. And a few months after that, I was back to control of my destiny.
It’s funny how different it was between me and Tone, the first time. I’d had the same plans for him as with Glancing Boy and played them the same, but he fought back instead of joining in the game. Like he was saying, “You don’t need to fuck around with me to be with me.” But there was also this...this deeper need he had, a need to be a part of someone, and he was fighting it. Those first couple nights, he did what he felt like he had to. It wasn’t hard to tell. But when he came home from that fuckin’ jail, the first time, and saw me and grabbed me, it’s like he was reaching for a life preserver and I was it, and him needing saving saved me. Now I can’t imagine my life without him. Because as pissed off as I can get with him, he also gave me something else to focus on besides hate and anger. He gave me someone to protect. And hold. And love. And need.
At least, that’s how it’d been till the last few months. But lately, he wasn’t fighting me so much as...shit, I dunno – it’s like he’s tolerating me. Accepting my help because he has to and not because it’s best for both of us. It’s like he’s stopped caring. Like he’s settled into some new vision of his life...and I’m not a necessary part of that, anymore.
So Mira’s question drifted back -- why do I stay with him? I still didn’t have a real answer, except this feeling, deep in my soul, that we were one, together. I even told him, he’s my mate. For life. I got no choice in it. So when I get pissed off at him, now, it’s not from mere anger or hurt; it’s more from knowing he doesn’t have that same attachment to me. I thought he did, for a while, but maybe I was fooling myself. Maybe I never will be as much a part of him as he is me, and it cuts deep to have my face shoved in that possibility.
But I can’t seem to give up on hoping it’ll change. Truth is, there’s a corner of me that won’t ever give up on what it wants. I wondered if I could ever explain that to Mira in a way that meant all I wanted it to mean? Probably not. But next time I saw her, at least I’d try.
-------------
Just to be clear, I didn’t DIS-believe the story I was hearing about Lemm; I had Uncle Owen’s comment in an e-mail about a guy like that causing him trouble, too. But he’d passed him off as a Mormon loon, not exactly the most beloved of people after what they pulled with Prop 8. Still neither his nor Lemm’s version matched what little I knew about guys like that.
Of course, what I know about guys like that was from my one encounter with a missionary at Gramma’s, while she was visiting Uncle Narden up in Dallas. Two of those guys appeared on her doorstep in the middle of June and went into their little spiel about how great it was to be robots for Jesus, who’d spent those three days of hell in America teaching the Indians how savage and wrong they were, and who all had the potential of becoming God or something, and yap, yap, yap. They were both blond, blue-eyed, tall, trim, clean-shaved, neat nails, simple white cotton shirts over t-shirts with ties, even though it was nearly a hundred out, black pants ironed to a crease. Their shoes were simple and laced and so polished, they almost looked like fired-china. At first, I thought they were brothers.
I wasn’t going to let them in the house, but they were trying so hard to look like they were not wilting from the heat and Gramma’s window a/c had the room cool enough to matter...and one of them had given me such a quick, obvious glance up and down...I opened the door and drenched them with iced tea.
Herbal, no caffeine allowed.
I was dressed in a ratty wife-beater and nylon gym shorts that were on the clingy side, and Glancing Boy’s signal had sent a shot of HORNY into my balls. So as they sipped their tea and gave me their very earnest line of crap, I played up my looks by lounging in this overstuffed chair with one leg over its arm and the other stretched out, letting the shorts lay across my crotch and legs, clenching my ass every now and then, making everything move ever so slightly. Glancing Boy didn’t fail me; his eyes’d dart down to what mattered and then jerk back to mine. And I sent him every signal I could that I was interested.
Of course, we discussed my ankle cuff. I told them it was because I was a pagan-athiest-devil-worshiping drug dealer, and finally asked them if they wanted a snort of something fun. That got them to leave. Together, dammit. Fast. But they did thank me for the tea and a/c as they scrambled out the door. I gave Glancing Boy’s left shoulder a slight squeeze as he exited but figured I’d probably scared him off.
Instead, just before midnight, when I was about to give up on a sketch I was trying to pull together, there was a knock on the door and there he stood. Dressed the same but with hungry eyes and no tie. His breath deep and scared. His lips constantly licked, like a cat would do.
“Do you really have drugs?” he asked.
I just smiled and yanked him inside...and pushed my lips against his and held his body close to mine and felt every nerve in my body fire up as he grabbed me around the waist and slipped his tongue across to mine and...oh...let’s just say, within seconds I found out what Mormon undies look like...and that they’re harder to get off than you’d think. And that they can hide the nicest, tightest body you can imagine. And that when Mormon boys get hungry, they want to eat now, now, now.
So my shirt became a rag as he dove down to bite my tits and grope my ass and cascade his mouth down my belly and slip my shorts to my knees...and start the most intense blow job of my life, well, until Tone came along. But I didn’t let him finish. Instead, I pushed him back on the floor and showed him I knew a thing or do about worshiping a dick. I also found out I love the feel of blond chest hairs on my lips as I whisper my tongue around taut brown nips, and that when you’re a robot with a year’s worth of abstinence stored up, it takes more than once or twice to be completely satisfied.
I wasn’t into being fucked, back then; it was still too close to what had happened in prison. But he never asked, not even when I got really rough with him. All I can add is, he left with the most Zen of expressions on his face, swearing to god he’d come back if he could. He didn’t. I knew he wouldn’t; we’d both built up enough endorphins to last a while.
Then a couple months later, Gramma died, and I was too busy keeping it on the down low so I could keep living in her place and not have my parole officer make me go to a halfway house or something, for supervision. Helped that neither mom nor Uncle Narden ever called. Then a couple months after that, Tone popped into my life...just as I was hitting starvation mode, again. And a few months after that, I was back to control of my destiny.
It’s funny how different it was between me and Tone, the first time. I’d had the same plans for him as with Glancing Boy and played them the same, but he fought back instead of joining in the game. Like he was saying, “You don’t need to fuck around with me to be with me.” But there was also this...this deeper need he had, a need to be a part of someone, and he was fighting it. Those first couple nights, he did what he felt like he had to. It wasn’t hard to tell. But when he came home from that fuckin’ jail, the first time, and saw me and grabbed me, it’s like he was reaching for a life preserver and I was it, and him needing saving saved me. Now I can’t imagine my life without him. Because as pissed off as I can get with him, he also gave me something else to focus on besides hate and anger. He gave me someone to protect. And hold. And love. And need.
At least, that’s how it’d been till the last few months. But lately, he wasn’t fighting me so much as...shit, I dunno – it’s like he’s tolerating me. Accepting my help because he has to and not because it’s best for both of us. It’s like he’s stopped caring. Like he’s settled into some new vision of his life...and I’m not a necessary part of that, anymore.
So Mira’s question drifted back -- why do I stay with him? I still didn’t have a real answer, except this feeling, deep in my soul, that we were one, together. I even told him, he’s my mate. For life. I got no choice in it. So when I get pissed off at him, now, it’s not from mere anger or hurt; it’s more from knowing he doesn’t have that same attachment to me. I thought he did, for a while, but maybe I was fooling myself. Maybe I never will be as much a part of him as he is me, and it cuts deep to have my face shoved in that possibility.
But I can’t seem to give up on hoping it’ll change. Truth is, there’s a corner of me that won’t ever give up on what it wants. I wondered if I could ever explain that to Mira in a way that meant all I wanted it to mean? Probably not. But next time I saw her, at least I’d try.
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